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Chapter Text

“Albus, you cannot be serious.”

The shelves of the office trembled slightly, making the silver, whirling instruments resting upon them dance a small jig, and Fawkes the phoenix shifted warily on his perch near the starry ceiling at the threatening thrum of magic that was emanating from the man seated in front of Albus Dumbledore.

“I assure you, I am. Although I do appreciate practical jokes and pranks in the appropriate settings and occasions, I fear that this time is not either one of those.”

Severus Snape stared at the Headmaster, trying to convey his frustration through eye contact alone because if he feared that if spoke again, he would only be able to snarl the most colourful of words and phrases that were flying through his mind.

Dumbledore’s keen, blue eyes looked firmly back at him without a moment’s hesitation.

“There is no one else more suitable for this job than you, Severus; you are experienced with the Dark Arts, not to mention being the youngest Potions’ master of the century, and your three years as Harry’s professor has surely given you some insight into his learning habits.” With a swish of his purple robes, Dumbledore rose from his chair to his full height. He did not glare or scowl or snarl; his twinkling only intensified slightly, but the mere magical energy radiating off of him would have made a man lesser than Severus back down immediately. “It is a matter of utmost importance that I can only entrust to you.”

Severus only narrowed his eyes at Dumbledore’s words. He managed to resist the urge to begin pacing the office, but the drumming of his fingers on the mahogany desk between himself and Dumbledore betrayed his restlessness.

“I do not see why the boy specifically would require extra training. He has always managed high grades in Defence Against the Dark Arts, despite the inattention and ignorance he displays in his other classes. His potion’s grade, however, is abysmal.”

There was muttering from the portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses that adorned the walls at that before they hastily dropped back into a false sleep again. Phineas Nigellus, who never bothered with pretending, smiled smugly. The two wizards ignored them all.

“Only more reason to add Potions lessons to his summer schedule. Harry could use the extra assistance.”

There was a glimmer of fury in Severus’ dark eyes now as he snapped, “and have him blow up the entire house? Ah, but we will have already killed each other within the first hour!” He threw up his hands with a sneer, his anger bitter in his mouth.

“You once promised me—”

“Do not play the guilt game with me, old man.”

Dumbledore forged ahead with the apathy of an avalanche, his voice patient yet firm, “—promised me that you would do anything within your ability to protect the boy for her.”

Despite Dumbledore saying nothing that he had not expected, Severus stiffened, his fingers stilling on the desk before he dragged them over his face with a short sigh. Damn it. Dumbledore always won the guilt game.

“Protect, not tutor,” he bit out sharply. “Perhaps if you would enlighten me with the reason why you are hoisting the child upon me for the summer, I would be a fraction more amenable to this plan.”

With a slight smile that would have come off as smug to Severus if he had not known any better, Dumbledore sat back down in his plush chair, folding his wrinkled and age-spotted hands upon the desk before him. “As of now, I’m afraid that I have little but inferences to go off of for my reasonings. You of all people would know most surely that Lord Voldemort will return soon,” Severus’ left arm twitched with a small twinge of pain, “with the help of the servant who undoubtedly fled back to him at the end of the last school year. Harry must be better prepared for when Voldemort inevitably reaches his full strength again.”

Something like dread coiled at the back of Severus’ mind at that last statement, but he did not let it show. “Potter is only a child. No matter how adept he may become at Defence, it would make no difference to the Dark Lord’s power.”

The Headmaster tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “It is not only Voldemort who may pose a threat to Harry in the future. Though their master has retreated, his loyal followers are still out there, biding their time, and I have no doubt that they may wish Harry harm as well.”

Severus’ scowl deepened; he knew that Dumbledore was right, though he did not like that at all.

“You must trust me, Severus. This is necessary. Harry may be reluctant at first, understandably so, but in the end, this will be for the best, and perhaps you will both learn something new by the end of the summer.” Dumbledore then had the audacity to smile wryly at Severus from across the desk.

Severus wanted to shake the older wizard by his plum-robed shoulders, but he resisted the temptation and merely nodded stiffly as he rose from his chair, all the fight drained from him. “I shall do it on one condition. During his lessons, I must make use of one of your precious artefacts that I can acquire nowhere else.”

There was a knowing glint in Dumbledore’s eyes now as he stroked his silvery beard. “You may burrow it for the duration of the boy’s stay, but I’m sure you understand what comes with it.”

“It is no loss of mine to experience those side-effects,” Severus insisted. “Without that—that thing, I doubt whether I would be able to tolerate Potter’s presence for longer than a few minutes.” He calmed himself with a deep breath, resettling his emotions, and putting up his mental walls again. “I shall make the needed preparations. When shall I collect Potter?”

“In a week’s time. You may expect a letter detailed with further information sometime between now and then, but for now, I wish you a pleasant evening,” Dumbledore said cheerfully while fresh flames roared to life in his fireplace at a flick of Severus’ wand.

Still too incensed to respond with anything further than another curt nod, Severus stepped into the now emerald-green fire, and the last thought on his mind as the whirling darkness of the Floo enveloped him was fucking hell.

———

Harry was having a great summer, all things considered. Sure, Uncle Vernon did bruise Harry’s arm a bit when he was shouting at him for trimming the hedges wrong, but at least it was where he could cover it up easily with a long-sleeved shirt, and yes, his nightmares were still as vivid and terrifying as ever, but after a few days at the Burrow, they were becoming far less frequent, and in the vicinity of adult magic-folk like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, he was able to do silencing charms on himself before bed without worrying about breaking the law.

Now it was a warm late afternoon, and the Weasley’s garden was still speckled with confetti, and a few balloons drifted lazily around the overgrown bushes. Harry had never had a better birthday.

Ron had gotten him a muggle self-defence book (“You might as well get good at duelling the muggle way, too!”); Hermione had bought him a book of famous quidditch techniques and fun facts; he had received some homemade toffee (“It might stick your teeth t’gether a bit, but it’ll melt after an hour,”) and high quality chocolate from Hagrid and Lupin, who had also delivered him a wand holster from Sirius (“He wanted to come himself, but you know how that might go…”).

Hagrid and Lupin had left after the cake-cutting, and Fred and George were trying to charm the confetti into a colourful whirlwind while Ginny and Bill watched. With Mrs. Weasley occupied with transfiguring the decorations back into cutlery, Mr. Weasley and Percy running after the gnomes, which had taken the opportunity, while everybody was distracted with the celebration, to steal a dozen eggs and an egg basket from the chicken coop, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the grass under an old apple tree with their plates of birthday cake in their laps.

“I wish every summer could be as nice as this,” said Harry, laying on his back while Ron stuck flowers and bits of grass in his hair. “If the Dursleys knew I was going to be this happy here, they’d never have let me stay for the rest of the holiday.”

Hermione was trying to pull out the grass in his hair as fast as Ron was sticking it in. “Ron, this is not how a flower crown looks—Next summer, you two can come visit my family! My parents would love to meet you both.”

“They’re…dentists, right?” Ron pulled a face, wrinkling his freckled nose. “Stick their fingers into people’s mouths and stuff?”

“Have you never been to the dentist before? They check the health of your teeth to make sure you don’t have cavities or need braces.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve never been to the dentist either; I’ve never had to.” A dandelion tickled his ear as Hermione threaded its stem into his ruffled hair. “Maybe our magic makes it so that we don’t get cavities?”

“Oh, I wish there was some kind of health class at Hogwarts! There must be so many fascinating biological differences between muggles and magic-folk, like our self-healing that can occur with natural magic, and our overall increased level of pain-tolerance and resistance to damage—”

“Harry, why’d you have to get her started?” Ron groaned in mock-annoyance and chucked a handful of grass at Hermione, who brushed it off with a laugh before throwing a few tufts back at Ron. Harry closed his eyes, feeling content with the world; his best friends were teasing and play-fighting with each other behind him, and the drowsy garden was still full of afternoon sunshine.

He was about to say something when the tell-tale hum of a powerful and familiar magical signature entered the garden. Harry shot upright, his tousled black hair still covered in flowers and slips of grass, as Dumbledore strode cheerfully down the garden path towards the apple tree, and upon seeing the dark figure accompanying the Headmaster, Harry’s bright mood plummeted. This can’t be good.

Finally, Ron and Hermione stopped their grass-throwing and stood up as well, eyes wide at the sight of Professor Snape standing extremely out of place next to a flourishing garden bed. The Potions master looked as if he was regretting his turn to the light side.

“Good afternoon, children, and happy birthday, Harry,” Dumbledore greeted them with a pleasant smile.

Harry could only nod, petals drifting onto his shoulders as he did.

“I apologise for the sudden intrusion into your party; it seems that my owl got lost along the way. Here,” Dumbledore held out a slightly muddy and windblown looking envelope to Harry, who took it nervously. “Please read this now. Ms. Granger, and Mr. Weasley, could you kindly allow us some privacy?”

Ron and Hermione bobbed their heads mechanically and hurried away, taking the crumby plates and forks with them. Harry, Dumbledore, and Snape watched them rush inside to join Ginny, Fred, and George at the kitchen window, where they were all blatantly staring, before Dumbledore turned to Harry again, who became distinctly aware of how stupid he looked as more blades of grass fluttered down onto his shirt.

He warily opened the envelope and drew out a letter that read:

Dear Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet drive,

I hope that you have been having an excellent summer, but I must inform you that, due to some foreseen complications, you will be spending the remainder of your holiday being tutored in both Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts. It is not so much of a matter of your grades as your safety and well being, which are of utmost importance.

Your teacher and temporary guardian is Professor Snape, who has very generously accepted this plan.

Snape did not look like he had generously accepted. He looked as if he would have rather kissed Argus Filch, but Dumbledore hadn’t given him that option.

You will reside at his residence at number 13, Spinner’s End, Cokesworth, until the start of the school year.

Harry’s stomach dropped into his shoes as he re-read the words temporary guardian and Professor Snape over again to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He wished he was only hallucinating.

Professor Snape and I shall collect you at four o’clock in the afternoon on the 31st of July. Please have your trunk packed and ready to go.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards

Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot

Grand Sorcerer

What the hell was what Harry thought and what he wanted to say, but the only thing he managed to splutter was, “WHAT?”

Snape muttered something that sounded like, “I regret this,” but Harry had only eyes and ears for Dumbledore, who was still smiling placidly as he took the letter from Harry’s shaking hands.

“I hope you understand why this is necessary, Harry. Do not worry—you will still be able to contact your friends through fire calls and letters, but of course, much of your time will be dedicated to studying and practicing with Professor Snape.”

I’m dead. Aunt Petunia finally got me with her frying pan the day I got back, and I’m dead in hell right now. WHAT THE HELL. “Professor, I don’t understand—why do I have to go? And why HIM?” Confusion and indignation were battling it out in his head, and his hands were damp with sweat as he balled them into fists at his sides.

“Oh, believe me, Potter, I am not overjoyed at this arrangement either,” Snape growled darkly from behind Dumbledore, “and you are also not the only one being kept in the dark about the true purpose of this plan.” He shot the Headmaster a resentful look that the older wizard cheerfully ignored.

“Can’t I at least know why…?” Harry asked hopefully, but the almost-apologetic way Dumbledore tilted his head at Harry extinguished the last spark of hope in his heart.

“I’m afraid that you two will just have to trust me,” the Headmaster replied. “All will be revealed…eventually. Harry, this will be a very beneficial experience for you. I recall that Defence is one of your best subjects, yes?”

Harry stared wordlessly at Dumbledore. The audacity of the man to say that spending the remainder of Harry’s summer with Snape would be beneficial for him rendered him temporarily mute.

Dumbledore continued in his serene voice as if Harry’s world wasn’t collapsing on top of his head. “I would stay longer, but I really must be heading off now. Professor Snape will be waiting for you at the Weasley’s fireplace, so if you would kindly pack your trunk, my boy, we will be parting our ways.”

Harry nodded listlessly. He hurried past Dumbledore and Snape into the house where Ron and Hermione followed him up the many flights of stairs, peppering him with questions. Ginny and the twins had disappeared.

“What did the Headmaster say?”

“What’d Snape want? The hell’s he doing here—?”

“Professor Snape, Ron! Oh, Harry, is he taking you away? Is it about the Dursleys?”

“Bet he has a potion that needs ‘flesh of Boy Who Lived’ or something.”

“Ron!”

Harry burst into Ron’s bedroom where his trunk was laying open on the floor, and as he started chucking his few belongings scattered around the room into it, he elaborated to his friends.

“Dumbledore says I’ve got to live with Snape ‘til school starts. Says I’ve got to learn more Defence and Potions.” Harry tried to usher Hedwig into her cage, but she flew to the top of his head and started picking out the remaining tufts of grass with her beak. “Ow! Hedwig, c’mon! He says I can still write and stuff.”

“Ooh, you’ll learn loads!” Hermione gasped as she and Ron helped Harry slam his trunk shut.  “Maybe he’ll teach you advanced techniques for Potions.”

“‘Mione, you should go instead,” said Ron with a smirk. “Put on a pair of glasses, and draw on a scar. Snape wouldn’t tell the difference!”

“You’ll tell us what you’ve learned by the end of the summer, right?” Hermione asked eagerly, ignoring Ron.

“If he’s still alive by then.”

“Ron!”

Harry laughed hollowly. He carried his trunk and Hedwig’s cage—she had refused to leave her perch on his head—the feeling of impending doom increasing as he descended the stairs with Ron and Hermione bickering behind him.

Snape and Mrs. Weasley were waiting in the living room in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Weasley made to hug Harry, but she seemed to decide against it with Hedwig still nestled on his head.

“Now, be on your best behaviour for Professor Snape, dear, and study hard,” she told him firmly, brushing a daisy from his shoulder. “I expect you over every Sunday for dinner, you hear? Severus, you must come along as well—”

From behind his mother, Ron made a disgusted expression.

Harry would have laughed if not for the lump of ice lodged in his throat, and he almost choked when Snape gripped his shoulder with a cold hand. Harry resisted the urge to flinch away. If the touch had been from anybody else, it would have been reassuring; from Snape, it was unsettling.

“I’m afraid I must decline that generous offer, Molly. Albus has greatly emphasized the strictness of the regimen that Mr. Potter must adhere to for the rest of the summer; it would not do for him to become too relaxed.”

“Oh, every other Sunday, then. I’ll fight Albus on it if I must! We’ll see you soon, Harry.”

Snape nodded stiffly, and with that, Harry found himself being steered into the fireplace with his trunk in tow after the Potions master had thrust a handful of Floo powder into the fire. Hedwig finally deemed it fitting to enter her cage, and Harry clutched it with white-knuckled hands as his view of Ron and Hermione’s nervous waves was devoured by the roaring green flames.

Harry would have fallen out of the fireplace if not for Snape’s tight grasp on his shoulder. He looked around warily, shifting Hedwig’s cage around in his arms, and he found that the house was far from what he had expected; instead of the dark stone bricks of a dungeon, the walls of the living room were of a pale olive green wallpaper, faded with age, and lacy cream curtains fluttered by the dusty windows. On the right of the living room were two doors; the closest was shut, and the other was open to reveal a neat bathroom.

Snape stepped into the house, wordlessly beckoning Harry to follow him to the opposite end of the room and through a set of sliding glass doors that opened automatically to a sitting room where another coffee table sat between two identical leather sofas. Past another door in the sitting room was a long hallway that had wallpaper sickeningly familiar to the pale beige of the Dursley’s house. Harry shuddered at the sight of it.

They passed the doorway to the kitchen and went up the flight of stairs at the end of the hallway where there was yet another corridor on the right side of the second floor. They passed three doors until Snape stopped at the very last one at the end of the hall. He turned to Harry, who was unsurprised to see his face set in a familiar glower.

“This is your room. The door across leads to the bathroom available to you. I would advise you to avoid the second room from the stairs, unless you wish to die from dust inhalation, and to avoid the first room from stairs, as it is my room, unless you wish to die from painful and prolonged suffering at my hands.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry quickly. He still remembered how furious Snape was at the end of third year when Sirius had escaped, and he had no desire to see how angry Snape would be at Harry if he dared to look into the first room.

“Dinner is at eight, which is in,” Snape cast a nonverbal tempus with a flick of his wand, and bright numbers flickered into being above his wand tip, “three hours and 33 minutes. Breakfast is also at eight, and lunch is at one. Do not make excess noise or mess, and do not forget that I am your Professor, not your house-keeper. Despite how the rest of the world may have celebrated your disregard for the rules as well as general recklessness, I will not.”

Harry nodded stiffly, trying to arrange his face into something that wasn’t a frown and failing. Hedwig gave a loud hoot and shuffled inside of her cage, her amber eyes trained on Snape.

Snape glared darkly back at Harry, ignoring Hedwig, his scowl deepening. “You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Professor’, Potter.”

So this is what the next few weeks are going to be like, Harry thought bitterly.

“Yes, sir,” he gritted out as he imagined bashing Snape on the head with his trunk.

Snape narrowed his eyes before he finally left with a dramatic flourish of his dark robes. Harry did not move from his spot until Snape had disappeared down the stairs, then he pushed open the door to the room with a frustrated sigh.

On the immediate right to the door was a screen that obscured the neatly-made bed from the doorway. At the foot of the bed was a chest of drawers about waist-height that Harry heaved his trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto before opening the cage to let the owl out. She shook out her wings before flapping onto the top of the bookshelf in the other corner of the room where an oak desk and chair stood, encompassed neatly by a circular, navy-blue rug. The walls were painted a robin’s-egg blue, and the dull cream carpet made Harry’s footsteps almost noiseless as he opened the door by the bookshelf to reveal a small walk-in closet.

“At least it’s not a dungeon, right, Hedwig?” Harry asked the snowy owl as he got to unpacking his trunk. Onto the desk went his school books, quills, and ink, and into the drawers went his few non-Hogwarts-robes clothes.

Hedwig hooted sleepily in reply from her perch on the bookshelf.

“We just have to survive…five weeks in this place.” Five weeks. That sounded like a century. He flopped onto the royal blue bedcover and sighed. If I survived 11 full years living with the Dursleys, I can survive five weeks living with Snape, he thought grimly to himself.

With quite some time to kill, Harry got to work with writing a letter to Sirius about his new predicament.

Hi Snuffles,

I hope you’re doing okay, wherever you are. Thanks for the wand holster! It fits perfectly, and it’s nice to not have to keep checking my back pocket for my wand.

I wish you could’ve come to my birthday party, but it’d be too dangerous. Something crazy happened at the end—Professor Dumbledore and S̶n̶a̶p̶e̶ the greasiest Professor showed up. I don’t know if I should say who, just in case this letter gets intercepted by somebody. It wouldn’t look good.

They told me that I have to stay with him and get tutored in Defence and Potions for the rest of the summer! HIM! I can’t believe Dumbledore would do this, but he’s got to have a really good reason. He said that he can’t say yet. Not even S̶n̶ slime ball knows.

I’ll do my best to learn and not go crazy.

Stay safe out there!

Harry

After sealing the envelope and sending it off with Hedwig at the window in front of the desk, Harry stretched wearily before checking his watch. 7:54. He groaned and left his room.

As he walked down the hallway towards the stairs, he steeled himself, gritting his teeth determinedly even as every fibre of his being screamed their reluctance. It’s just dinner. Dinner with the professor who hates your guts. Completely normal. With each deliberately slow step Harry took on the stairs, his agitation grew until it became so suffocating that there was a slight blurriness to his vision as he walked through the doorway into the kitchen.

On the right side of the room was a typical white-and-red checkered kitchenette complete with sinks and cupboards, while the far left corner hosted the rectangular dining table that was backed by two bookshelves pressed up against the wall in an L shape.

Harry’s stomach gave a weird twist at the sight of Snape levitating a large pot of beef-and-vegetable stew onto the table, which was already set with cutlery for two, along with a dish of sliced bread. The whole scene was so absurd that he felt a strange compulsion to laugh, which he immediately stifled. The last thing he needed was Snape to think that Harry was laughing at him.

“Are you going to remain standing in the doorway for the entirely of dinner?” Snape’s curt voice cut through Harry’s haze of confusion, and he shook his head indignantly as he hurried to seat himself at the table in the chair against the bookshelves.

This is so normal, Harry reminded himself as he served himself stew. This is one-hundred percent normal. This is real and not some insane dream. He was still struggling to comprehend that he, Harry James Potter, was currently eating a dinner of beef stew and bread with Severus Snape, who had discarded his usual set of dark, imposing robes for a white dress shirt and black slacks, making everything even more unreal; Harry had been certain up until now that Snape would and could only ever wear the colour black.

Harry did his best to finish a small bowlful of soup and a slice of bread, despite the surreality of the situation, but his already small appetite had abandoned him the moment he had entered the kitchen. Snape’s presence didn’t help matters either, although the man was working through his meal as if Harry wasn’t there.

Having fully given up on trying to finish the last of his stew, Harry made to carry his dirty dishes to the sink, but before he had even left his seat, Snape seized his wrist. Harry flinched so badly that he almost dropped the bowl he was holding, his heart pounding as he stared apprehensively at Snape, who still had his wrist in a death grip.

“Is my cooking not to your princely standards, Potter?” Snape asked coldly.

“No, sir—it’s perfectly fine.” Harry tried to pull his wrist out of Snape’s hand, but to no avail. “Professor, could you let go…?”

“Do explain why you have eaten less than a toddler’s portion,” Snape sneered, ignoring Harry’s last sentence. “If you are hoping for dessert, you are sorely mistaken—”

“I’m just not hungry, sir. I—I had too much birthday cake.” That was a lie; Harry had eaten the least amount of cake he could have without appearing rude or ungrateful, but he doubted whether Snape would believe him if he had explained that he had never gotten used to eating full meals because of the Dursleys.

Snape narrowed his eyes slightly, but he relinquished his hold on Harry’s wrist. “Leave your dishes in the sink, and then sit back down.”

Harry did as he was told. His stomach felt as though he had consumed rocks instead of stew.

“This is your weekly schedule.” Snape slid a sheet of gridded paper across the table to Harry, who scanned it quickly. “Mondays and Thursdays are dedicated to Potions, while Tuesdays and Fridays are for defence against the Dark Arts. On Wednesdays and evenings, you will turn your focus to your schoolwork, which is undoubtedly untouched.”

“Hey, I’ve done some of it!” Harry protested. “I’m almost finished my Charm’s essay—”

“Oh, my most sincere of apologies—I had mistaken you for a student who was nothing short of inattentive, ignorant, and unwilling in every class of mine that he attended.” Snape banished his own dishes to the sink with a sneer. He gave a complicated wave of his wand, and the sponge and bottle of dish soap jumped to action, washing the dishes by themselves.

Harry was so distracted by that bit of magic that the sting of Snape’s insult was forgotten, at least until the Potions master snapped his fingers in Harry’s face.

“Inattentive, as I said.”

Harry glowered at him, but Snape continued smoothly, “I expect you asleep no later than 10:30 and awake no later than 7:30 in the morning.”

“And if I stay awake ’til 11?” Harry asked through gritted teeth. “Who said that you could give me a bedtime?”

“The Headmaster appointed me as your tutor and temporary guardian, as the letter you read just this afternoon stated quite clearly, but, as it seems that it has already slipped out of your tiny mind, I will repeat the sentiment again: there is little in your life that I can’t dictate while we are forced to cohabitate under my roof.” Snape didn’t smirk, but something in his coal-black eyes glittered maliciously as he spoke. Harry tried not to shudder as he glared back at the Professor, who leaned back in his chair. “You are dismissed for the evening, Potter. I would suggest making use of the shower; your intelligence may be that of a barnyard animal’s, but there is no need for you to look the part as well.”

Harry swallowed the burning rage in his throat and nodded stiffly before leaving the kitchen as fast as he could without looking like he was fleeing. Several choice words and phrases flew through his mind as he reached his room, specifically words that Ron would agree whole-heartedly with and Hermione would gasp at.

Wishing ill on Snape, Dumbledore, Voldemort, the Dursleys, Peter Pettigrew, Draco Malfoy, and Snape again, Harry stomped into the bathroom with his pyjamas (one of Dudley’s old T shirts that the hem of which still reached the top of Harry’s knees despite a year or two of wear, and shorts that Aunt Petunia had found in a second-hand thrift store when Harry was nine. They were oversized then and somehow remained that way even four years later) and his toiletries.

To Harry's surprise, there were brand-new bottles of shampoo, hair conditioner, and body wash sitting on the small shelf in the shower, and a large, white towel along with a smaller facecloth were draped over a rack beneath the window.

Harry patted the towel, pleased with its softness, but doubt made him withdraw his hand with a wary look around himself. Snape’s really letting me use this stuff? But it’s so nice…

There was no sign that this was actually Snape’s own bathroom that Harry had accidentally wandered into; there weren’t any other items on the sink, in the bathtub, or in the cabinet when Harry scoured the bathroom, and Snape had definitely said that “the door across leads to the bathroom available to you.” With a resigned shrug to himself, Harry took his shower.

At the Dursleys’ house, Harry was never allowed to shower for longer than 15 minutes at most or to use any nice shampoos or body soaps like Dudley, and now, he almost expected to hear a familiar hammering at the door accompanied by Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice, but as his fingers wrinkled and the mirror grew foggier and foggier, he remained undisturbed. After he put on his pyjamas, he brushed his teeth with his hair wrapped in his towel; he couldn’t find a hair-dryer anywhere. He dried it the best he could and resigned himself to sleeping with damp hair.

Harry nudged open the door, holding his day-clothes in his arms, and immediately collided with the Potions master. Stammering apologies, Harry took a swift step away from Snape.

“Sorry, Professor—I swear, I didn’t use more water than I had to—and I’m sorry for walking into you—”

“Cease your babbling, Potter,” Snape barked impatiently, and Harry flinched. Damn it, already in trouble within 12 hours of arriving here. He glanced at the hallway and wondered if it was worth running for it, but Snape was effectively blocking most of the doorway. Escape wouldn’t be an option.

“I am aware that you sent your owl out earlier this evening,” Snape continued after a moment’s pause.

Oh no. No-no-no. Is that against the rules? Did I really mess up?

“Sorry,” Harry blurted out at once. He gripped his bundle of clothes tighter, trying to hide how his hands were trembling. “I should’ve asked if I was allowed—”

“I said cease, Potter!”

Harry braced himself, hunching his shoulders so as to better stand against a blow, but the slap he was expecting never came. He opened his eyes to see Snape raising an eyebrow at him.

“You are allowed to let your owl out,” Snape said slowly, watching Harry carefully, his tunnel-like eyes narrowed slightly. “I only meant to inform you that the netted screen in the window is enchanted to allow owls and other flying familiars through without the night cold or any insects into your room, so as to ensure that neither of us will be abruptly awoken by your bird bashing its beak against the glass of your window.”

Oh. “Um…thank you.” Now that his spark of anxiety was thoroughly extinguished, Harry felt only embarrassment and a distinct awareness of the water dripping from his damp hair onto his shirt.

Snape turned on his heel, muttering something under his breath as he stalked down the hallway, and Harry rushed into ‘his’ room and shut the door as quietly as he could. After carefully hanging up his clothes in the closet, he flung himself onto the bed with a groan. Even with his head shoved under a pillow, he could feel his face heating up. You better hope that Snape didn’t notice you flinching like an idiot. Yeah right, Snape the slimiest, nosiest git. As if he wouldn’t notice!

Scowling, Harry turned off the lamp at the side of the bed before properly laying back underneath the blanket. It wasn’t even ten, but after the confusion and chaos of the day, it was as if sleep had been waiting in ambush to seize him the moment he closed his eyes. The last thought that swam across Harry’s mind was that his hair had dried strangely quickly.

Chapter Text

Breakfast was only slightly less awkward than dinner had been. Harry had stared owlishly at his plate of scrambled eggs on toast, trying to comprehend that his Potions Professor had made scrambled eggs for him, until Snape had snapped him out of his reverie.

“Would prince Potter prefer an omelette instead? Or perhaps he would rather have a buffet, as well as the choice between a silver or gold set of cutlery.”

Harry scowled and picked up his fork. “I could make my own breakfast,” he muttered, not looking at Snape.

“And burn down my kitchen? I think not,” was the sharp reply. Harry wanted to retort that he’d made breakfast for the Dursleys since he was old enough to turn on the stove, but he reminded himself that he did not want an argument with Snape first thing in the morning, so he busied himself with finishing his piece of toast.

Snape had already finished his breakfast, and while Harry was trying to eat more of his, Snape disappeared somewhere in the house. It was a good fifteen minutes before he returned again. Harry wondered what he had been doing, but he decided that it was too risky to ask.

Once all the dishes were in the sink and under the supervision of the animated cleaning supplies, Snape led Harry into the yard through the door that was across the sitting room in the entrance hallway. It was a large, rectangular space, surrounded by a tall stone wall that not even Aunt Petunia could peer over. In the corner, near the door, was an old crab-apple tree surrounded by a patchy flowerbed of lavender and heather, and along the stone wall were raised beds of plants that Harry vaguely recognized from his Herbology book. The far end of the yard was occupied by a squat greenhouse that was a riot of colour and foliage inside and rivalled even the Hogwarts’ greenhouses.

Harry was tempted to take a look, but he wasn’t sure if he would be allowed to, so he reluctantly turned to Snape, who had already drawn his wand as well as a rather long scroll that he was reading from.

“I am going to read off a list of spells that a student of your age should already have some knowledge and experience with, and you must express your level of proficiency with it.”

“…Yes, sir,” Harry replied curiously. This was nothing like what he had expected; he had guessed that Snape would have immediately started firing hexes and jinxes at him without warning.

Snape cleared his throat before beginning, “Brachiabindo.”

“Er…Professor Lupin showed it to us when he had to bind a grindylow’s knees together, but I’ve never tried it.”

“Locomotor Wibbly.”

“That’s the jelly legs jinx, right? I’ve used it before.”

“Flipendo.”

“Knockback jinx. Learned it from Professor Lupin.”

“Petrificus Totalus.”

“Full body-bind. Classic from first year."

“Waddiwasi.”

“Projectile jinx. I remember when Professor Lupin used it on Peeves!”

By the time Snape reached the end of the list, Harry was growing more nervous. He could already hear the scathing remarks and anticipate the cruel comments from the Potions master. ‘Potter, your defence knowledge is absolutely abysmal, truly the worst of the worst. I’m astonished that you’ve managed to survive three years as a wizard with this level of ignorance.’

Snape cleared his throat again, and Harry awaited the verbal abuse that…never came.

“Adequate. We will work through this list of spells unfamiliar to you until you have reached proficiency with each one.”

Harry stared at Snape, who looked only slightly irritated. He didn’t seem any different physically; he was still dark haired, sallow faced, hook-nosed, and wearing his usual black teaching clothes, but this couldn’t be Snape. Snape would have rather thrown himself into a pit of acromantulas while wandless than pronounce anything about Harry ‘adequate’.

“Professor, are you alright? You’re not sick, are you?” Harry asked, continuing to squint at Snape, as if whatever disguise this not-Snape was wearing would fall apart if he focused hard enough.

“My health is none of your concern, Potter.” That was more like Snape, but without the usual accompanying sneer, it fell short. Harry remained unconvinced, but he mentally shrugged. Well, if he wants to be less of a git for some reason, then so be it!

“Now, we shall begin with the invisible binding jinx. It is pronounced Bra-chi-ah-bind-oh, and this is the accompanying wand movement.” Snape brandished his wand through the air, and Harry hastened to copy him. “Curve your last loop higher; you are going to attempt to bind a chair, not a piece of string.”

“Like this, sir?”

“Yes. Do not neglect the emphasis on the first downwards slash either.”

It was the strangest lesson of his life, though not because the contents were anything unusual; Snape had Harry practice pronouncing the spell and the wand movement before he allowed him to try it on a chair that he had transfigured from a twig, which was about the same routine in a Charms lesson from Flitwick, or a Transfiguration lesson from McGonagall, but the lack of unnecessary insults, jibes, and jabs at Harry threw him off guard. Snape was still exacting, stern, and sometimes cold (“Potter, desist in your staring, lest you have decided to attempt to bind me instead of the chair, which, I assure you, is still beyond your capabilities,”) but after having suffered through three years of Potions lessons with the man, Harry decided that this level of tolerance was unreal for him.

By lunchtime, Harry had gotten the hang of both the binding jinx and the projectile jinx, and it was a sigh of satisfaction that he followed Snape into the kitchen with. If only he acted like this at school, then maybe three-quarters of Hogwarts wouldn’t have such a miserable time in Potions, Harry thought as Snape set down the re-heated beef stew from the previous evening.

As Harry speared a steamed carrot with his fork, there was a prickling on the back of his neck that told him that he was being watched. He chanced a glance up to see Snape, whose own lunch was untouched so far, staring at Harry with his brows furrowed in an expression that wasn’t annoyance but something that Harry had never seen on the Potions master’s face before.

“Despite your less-than large breakfast, you have only served yourself barely half a bowl of stew. Why?” Snape asked.

Harry glared at his carrot, not wanting to meet Snape’s keen gaze; he had always had the impression that Snape could read minds just by staring people in the eyes, and what was in his mind at the moment would probably land him three days without dinner if Snape read it. None of your damn business—why the hell do you care? And just when I thought this day was actually going alright—

“I cannot read your mind, Potter,” Snape snapped, proving to Harry that he, in fact, could. “I would prefer an answer by way of speech and not eye contact with vegetables.”

“I just don’t eat a lot, sir. I don’t get hungry much—” with a slight wince, Harry recalled the countless nights spent sleepless in his cupboard, clutching his old blanket around himself, and trying to ignore the hollowness in his stomach, “—and I’m not that hungry now. It’s nothing to do with your cooking.” He stuffed the carrot into his mouth, wishing hopelessly that Snape would just drop the subject.

“Be that as it may, it is no wonder that you are both shorter and thinner than other children your age; you are consuming just barely the amount of food to keep you alive. Accio nutritive draft.”

There was a pause, and then small vial of dull orange potion whizzed into Snape’s outstretched hand, so fast that Harry hadn’t spotted it before Snape was handing it to him.

Harry turned it over slowly in his hands. It did have a small label that read ‘nutritive draft’ in cramped writing, and Harry wasn’t able to recognize a spiked potion anyways, but still, he didn’t trust something from Snape.

“It isn’t poison, and if I had wanted to poison you, I would have done so quite easily with your toast this morning,” said Snape with an exasperated frown when Harry continued hesitating. “It will provide you with the nutrients you need that you are currently unable to consume through proper portions of food.”

“Oh—thank you, sir.”

Uncorking the vial, Harry drank it as fast as he could, expecting bitterness on his tongue, but it only tasted and had the texture of extremely bland oatmeal. Snape took the empty vial and Banished it with a quick movement of his hand.

“You will have one vial a day with your lunch until you are able to stomach more food on your own.” With that, Snape finally began his meal without another glance at Harry.

Feeling slightly less on-edge, Harry continued his, but curiosity and doubt ran through his mind like chickens on fire. Why would he give me that potion? Did Dumbledore tell him something? …What is up with Snape today?

“I am supplying you—” Harry jolted upright in his seat; he had not expected Snape to speak again, “—with nutritive potions because, as your temporary guardian, your health and wellbeing has been entrusted to me. That includes your diet.”

“So you can read minds!” Harry exclaimed.

Snape looked as if he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He scoffed, “I did not have to; your confusion was written plainly across your face.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“There is no such thing as mind reading, even in the wizarding world. However, there is a branch of the Mind Arts that allows the user to ‘look’ into the mind of another—”

“That sounds like mind reading,” Harry insisted. He didn’t think Snape would like it if he grinned openly, but he couldn’t help some amusement slipping into his tone.

Pressing his fingers into his temples, Snape replied irritatedly, “Perhaps to one as ignorant of the Mind Arts such as a child like yourself, it may seem so. Legilimency is a complex subject that few have mastery of, and it is not anything as simple as the muggle concept of mind reading.”

Before Harry could ask what the hell Legilimency was if not mind reading, there was a muffled crash and yell in a different room of the house, and Harry jumped instantly to his feet, his heart pounding and his eyes wide. A burglar—? No, what muggle could get into a wizard’s house…? A wizard burglar? Or Voldemort—?!

Snape also stood, drawing his wand as he did. “Stay here,” he ordered quietly, stalking out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance at Harry.

The last thing Harry wanted to do while there was a possible intruder in the house was stay, but he hadn’t yet discovered what Snape might do if he broke a rule or disobeyed him, so Harry remained at the table, listening for any sound of breaking furniture or hurled jinxes and hexes. However, he didn’t have to wait long before Snape returned, a scowl fixed on his face.

“Mr. Weasley attempted to fire call you, but he was greeted with my fireplace wards, which sent him back to his own fireplace. If you would care to reassure him that you are alive, that may prevent any future disturbances of the peace.”

“Oh—yeah, alright—I mean, yes, sir,” Harry amended quickly at the deepening of Snape’s scowl. He followed the Professor through the sitting room and into the living room, where he knelt down in front of the dull green embers of the dying fire .

The idea of sticking his head into the Floo and leaving his body unattended with Snape was an unpleasant one, but Harry had no choice as Snape called out, “the Burrow,” before unceremoniously shoving Harry’s head through. His head was enveloped by a warm darkness for a moment before the Weasley’s living room swam into view through the flames, which tickled slightly against his chin.

Ron and the twins were all sitting cross legged near the fireplace, and they immediately scooted closer with happy cheers at the sight of Harry, who grinned at them.

“Harry, you didn’t send a letter or anything, so I thought Snape had already pickled you,” said Ron with a sigh of relief. His freckled face was still streaked with soot, and his eyebrows were  faintly singed, no doubt courtesy of Snape’s wards.

“Nah, I’m alright. It’s weird—Last night, he was as usual, which is to say a real git, but he’s been strangely…” Harry paused while trying to think of the right word. Not horrible? Less awful than usual? Not-nice-but-not-mean? “…Okay. He’s been okay this afternoon.”

“What, so he’s only set you two hundred lines instead of five hundred? ‘Snape’ and ‘okay’ are antonyms, Harry,” said Fred (or George).

“I think we ought to get him a thesaurus,” added George (or Fred). He poked Harry’s nose cheerfully. “He’ll need to learn all the synonyms for bad, mean, and unfair to properly describe living with ol’ Snape.”

Harry sneezed, almost hitting his head against the stone floor of the fireplace. “Really, I’m not kidding! I thought he’d live in a cave or something, but the house is really nice, and the bathroom I’m using has got brand new soap and towels and stuff.”

Ron made a face. “Maybe Dumbledore brainwashed him. Or he’s making a real effort to stifle his hate for you so he doesn’t kill you in a ‘duelling accident’.” He made air quotation marks with his fingers. “Hermione would go haywire, asking about what you’ve learned so far, if she was still here. She’s out with Ginny in the field past the village now, making flower-crowns or something.”

“Tell her I’m alright,” Harry said hurriedly. His knees were getting stiff from kneeling in front of Snape’s fireplace. “Listen, I should go—send Pig over with a letter sometime, would you? Hedwig’s off delivering right now. And don’t fire call again; Snape might set the wards to slice your head off or something.”

After a chorus of farewells and well-wishes from Ron, Fred, and George, Harry regretfully withdrew his head and reemerged in Snape’s living room. The man himself had been sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace, reading a thin, leather-bound book, but upon Harry’s return, he stood up.

“We have enough time left in the afternoon to begin your practice with the tickling jinx, as well as shield charms.”

By the end of the lesson, Harry’s sides were sore from laughing; Snape’s jinxes overpowered his shields most of the time, leaving him clutching his stomach in a fit of uncontrollable laughter as he was tickled. Snape had watched with his arms crossed impassively as Harry struggled to perform the counter-curse to the tickling jinx on himself, but eventually, Harry gotten the hang of the Protego charm.

Dinner was a tense affair. It seemed that whatever good mood Snape had been in since the morning had worn off, and he was sniping at Harry just as usual. Strangely, that brought Harry some relief; he’d rather Snape be predictably mean than mysteriously tolerant.

———

“Tomorrow we shall begin with Potions, which you will undoubtedly make a mess of.”

Harry stiffened in his chair at the desk in his room. Snape loomed over him, scrutinizing the parchments and open books covering the desk, dark eyes narrowed with determination to find anything to pick on Harry for, but Harry was determined to not let him have the satisfaction of making him talk back.

“The fire-making spell Incendio was created in 66 B.C., not 58, Potter.” Snape tapped the offending date with a sneer at Harry, who tried not to scowl and settled for a silent glare instead. “If the Headmaster knew that your literacy was as poor as your potions’ skills, perhaps he would have had me teach you how to tell the difference between six and five, and six and eight.”

“I just misread the dates, that’s all,” Harry muttered, busying himself with crossing out the date so as not to have to look at Snape. “The textbook uses a small font.”

“Anything will do to excuse the Boy Who Lived’s ignorance, I see. Perhaps if you applied yourself to subjects outside of defence against the Dark Arts with similar vigour, your work would be less appalling.”

Still not looking at Snape, Harry tried to continue with his essay, but the anger that burned in his throat made it impossible to grip his quill without his hands shaking. Did he come in here just to jeer? I just want to do my homework!

“If you’ve nothing else to say, I’d like to return to my essay,” Harry gritted out, turning a page of his Charms’ book with unnecessary force.

A cold hand wrenched Harry’s head around by his jaw, and he found himself being forced to look into the depths of Snape’s obsidian eyes. Despite his heart palpitating in his throat, Harry stared obstinately back, trying not to betray the fear that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped by twenty degrees.

“I have informed you previously that you will refer to me as sir or Professor, Potter.” Snape’s voice was a cold hiss like that of a Basilisk’s, and Harry tried not to flinch at the venom in his words. “I will not tolerate any disrespect.”

When Harry hesitated as he tried to summon his own voice, Snape dug his pale fingers deeper into Harry’s cheek with a sneer. “Must I repeat myself?”

“No—no, sir.”

Apparently Snape had completed his evening quota of bullying, because he then released his hold on Harry, who slumped back into his chair, wincing as he felt the marks on his face where Snape had seized him.

The Potions master left the room as silently as he had entered it, though he slammed the door shut behind him. Harry flinched, reminded horribly by the times Uncle Vernon had done the same before he locked Harry in his bedroom. He ran to the door, fearing the worst, and when it opened easily, he let out a sigh of relief before he shook his head furiously.

It was completely irrational to think that he’d be locked in here, not when he had lessons to attend to in the morning, Harry told himself as he got ready for bed, his essay completely abandoned.

God, why’d he bother acting like the vague idea of a not-mean teacher all day if he was just going to come in here and snap at me at night? Too tired to further question the strange problem that was his Professor, Harry hid himself under the blanket, and he was soon asleep.

———

He was scrubbing the floor of a dungeon similar to the ones at Hogwarts, but it was also Snape’s living room and the Dursleys’ kitchen at the same time. Aunt Petunia, who was holding a mop, was looking at Harry with the expression that a cat regards a caged canary with.

“Harry, since you’ve been so good, your uncle and I have decided to sign your school permission form,” she said, handing a slip of paper to Harry, who took it warily.

The paper read:

St. Brutus’ Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys

Harry James Potter is going to live with Professor Severus Snape for the rest of his natural life. Professor Snape will teach him how to read minds. Harry will finish his Charms essay.

____Vernon Dursley___

__Petunia Dursley_______

____________________

____________________

“Sign it, Harry,” said Ron. He was eating a bowl of beef stew. “Then I’ll get Snape to sign it, too.”

“What? But I don’t want to live with Snape!” Harry tried to protest, but Aunt Petunia brandished the mop threateningly.

“Why not? He’s been so good to you, cooking you meals, letting you into his home, teaching you. So many other children would be happy with what you have. Why can’t you be grateful?” Aunt Petunia’s voice, already sickly sweet, turned poisonous as she circled Harry. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you be normal? Oh, we tried to make you normal—to make you good. But not even beatings can get that freakishness out of you.”

Harry scrambled to his feet, backing away from his Aunt, but he quickly collided with the stone wall of the dungeon. “I’m not signing it,” he insisted firmly, even as she advanced on him, and his stomach twisted in fear. “You can’t make me sign it!”

Her hazel eyes gleamed with a cruel joy. “I can’t, but he can.”

Snape was walking towards Harry from the end of the hallway of dull beige wallpaper, his black boots clacking menacingly against the dungeon floor with each step he took. “So, prince Potter is unhappy with his living quarters? Perhaps a castle or a palace would just barely suffice.”

Fingers crept around Harry’s throat as he was frozen to the spot in horror, a slight pressure forming under his jaw and against his Adam’s apple. There was nothing he could do; his limbs stayed locked in place at his sides, and not a word escaped his sealed lips. He was going to get strangled in a dungeon that was also Snape’s living room and the Dursley’s kitchen both at once, and nobody would be able to save him.

———

With a gasp, Harry tried to jump out of bed, but the tangled blanket that he had somehow wrangled around his neck and shoulders while he slept caught his foot, and he tripped to sprawl across the rug, panting.

What the hell was that.

Harry rolled onto his back, still breathing heavily as his heart thudded painfully against his ribs. After a few tense moments of nothing but silence, Harry finally relaxed. At least I haven’t woken Snape up. Last thing I need right now is him charging in here demanding an explanation for why I’ve disturbed his beauty sleep. With a huff, Harry dragged himself to his feet, got his wand from the top of the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed, and casted a Tempus.

6:48 AM.

Damn it. No point in going back to sleep. Sighing, Harry sat at the desk, turned on the lamp, and started to complete his Charms essay.

Chapter Text

The only good thing that’s happened so far today is Hedwig coming back, Harry thought grumpily as he chopped fire-salamander tails.

After he had finished his Charms essay, the snowy owl had soared gracefully though the enchanted netting to land on the desk, a letter tied to her leg that she held out proudly for Harry to take. While he scratched Hedwig’s head, Harry read the reply that Sirius had sent him.

Harry, I’m glad to hear from you and even gladder to hear that you’re okay despite living with the slimy git!

If he does anything horrible to you, tell Dumbledore immediately. I trust the old man, but sticking you with sir grease-a-lot all summer? He’s got to have a brilliant excuse for that.

I’m doing alright myself. Of course, I can’t tell you exactly where I am—but it’s a popular muggle vacation spot, I’ll tell you that. When I’m my ‘fluffier self’, I get offered a lot of sausages and biscuits, so it’s pretty easy going. I’m being careful of both the Ministry and animal control. One day I’ll tell you how I almost got adopted by a muggle family back in my Hogwarts’ years—if it wasn’t for your father, I’d probably still be stuck with them.

It’s getting a bit harder for me to come by paper and ink of any kind now (won’t even tell you how hard it’d be to wrangle a bird in this form, thank God for your Hedwig) so don’t worry if I don’t reply for a while.

Get ol’ snippy with a stinging hex ‘accidentally’ for me, would ya?

Snuffles

Sirius’ upbeat message buoyed Harry’s spirits through breakfast, but once he was steered into Snape’s office and instructed to brew a plant-growth enhancing potion, it was as if he was back at Hogwarts in a Potions lesson. Snape had already berated him for not powdering his spine of lion fish finely enough and for mistaking shrivelfig juice for rose oil despite the two liquids being almost the exact same shade of purple-crimson.

Harry was seriously considering doing his best to grant Sirius’ request.

Now they had just had their lunch (Harry choking down another vial of nutritive potion with his cup of tea), and Harry was continuing his progress with his potion. Snape had mysteriously disappeared into some other room in the house a minute earlier, and he had yet to return.

He slowly stirred the slices of salamander tail into the concoction, which turned from the bright orange of a sunset to the dull red of dried blood after a few moments, to Harry’s relief.

This really isn’t so bad without Snape and Malfoy sneering at me every ten seconds. Harry squinted at the instructions Snape had given him by way of drawing them out with his wand so that the words floated in midair on the wall behind Harry’s cauldron. Stir counter-clockwise twice. Potion should be issuing copious amounts of steam. Then add half-cup of water.

Stirring as instructed, Harry watched as the wine-red potion began to cough up clouds of steam that dampened his hands and stirring-rod. He took a beaker from a nearby shelf, and muttered, “Aguamenti,” to send a small stream of water into the glass.

Harry carefully poured the correct measurement of water into the cauldron, struggling to keep his grip on the glass that was now slick with the steam, and he quickly set it down before he could drop it.

Potion should be a more translucent red. Add three drops of phosphoric acid while wearing dragon-hide gloves. Allow to stew for half an hour.

Having donned his pair of gloves, Harry allowed exactly three drops into the potion, but it was difficult to handle the bottle while wearing the clumsy gloves, and before he knew it, there was a quiet splash.

He had dropped the entire bottle in his cauldron.

“Shit.”

The cauldron trembled violently, and Harry slammed a cauldron-cover onto it before running out of the office as fast as he could, pulling the door shut behind him.

There was a muffled sort of spitting sound that sounded like an angry Crookshanks’ hissing from behind the door. After a few moments had passed, Harry reached to open the office door with trembling fingers.

“Potter. What are you doing?”

Harry jumped a foot into the air, his heart hammering as he whipped around to see Snape advancing on him.

“Professor—I may have…accidentally dropped the whole bottle of phosphoric acid into the cauldron—I swear, I didn’t mean to, my hands just slipped because of all the steam, and my gloves—” Harry pressed himself against the wall, remembering vividly how this was all going very similarly to his nightmare; all that needed to happen next was for Snape to start strangling him. “I’m sorry, I swear it was an accident!”

“Did you come into contact with the acid or inhale large amounts of it?”

Harry blinked. “W-what?” The question startled Harry; he had expected Snape to start yelling or even shaking him. Maybe he was about to do both at the same time.

“You foolish child, excessive phosphoric acid intake is extremely harmful, even for magic-folk. Did you come into contact with the acid or inhale large amounts of it?” Snape repeated again, a spark of urgency in his voice instead of only annoyance.

“No—I think I’m fine; I got out before the potion did…whatever it’s done.” Harry tried to edge around Snape, but the Potions master grabbed him by the shoulder, turning Harry’s head this way and that with a hand. “Um. Sir, what are you doing…?”

“No visible skin irritation, and eyes appear normal,” Snape muttered, half-to himself, ignoring Harry’s question completely.

It was rather annoying to be prodded around like a rag-doll, but Harry didn’t feel entirely averse to being fussed over, strange as it was to be receiving such attention from Snape. He could count the number of times he had been checked for injuries by an adult other than Madame Pomfrey on one hand.

Snape must have deemed Harry unscathed, for he straightened up, releasing him.

“Seat yourself here. I will assess the consequences of your mishap,” he said shortly, and he entered his office without another word.

Harry stumbled over to the forest-green sofa and collapsed upon it with a sigh. Somehow, Snape hadn’t exploded at Harry for possibly ruining his office and one of his cauldrons and almost poisoning himself with phosphoric acid. He had even looked him over for injuries. This must be the calm before the storm, Harry thought darkly, but why would Snape care if I’m hurt? Does he think I’ll run to Dumbledore or something?

There was a clattering sound from within Snape’s office. Harry jumped upright immediately, taking a step away from the door from the added sound of Snape cursing loudly. Memories of Uncle Vernon’s drunken swearing growing louder as he approached Harry’s cupboard flashed through Harry’s mind, and he found himself backing further away from the door, every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action in the case that he needed to flee.

Just as Harry was wondering whether he should sneak away or not, the door to the office opened.

“Potter, come here.” Snape’s voice betrayed no emotion, which frightened Harry more than if he had been openly angry.

Warning bells and sirens blared in Harry’s head, but he did as he was told without thinking. The office looked exactly the same as when Harry had fled from it, but the cauldron lid was on the floor, and the table that Harry’s cauldron had been sitting on had a large splotch of something green-and-brown on it.

“What do you have to say for this, Potter?” Snape asked, tilting his head at the splotch on the table.

Harry’s stomach sank. He looked down at his shoes, not wanting to see Snape’s expression as he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

There was a horrible pause where Harry waited for anything he expected to happen—Perhaps a raised voice or a heavy blow, but there was nothing but stillness and silence.

“Look, you idiot boy,” Snape said impatiently.

Harry looked, and he saw that the green on the table was a large patch of moss that had sprouted from the wood. “D-does that mean I got the potion right…?” he asked tentatively, glancing at Snape.

“Your accidental addition of more phosphoric acid than the dose required created a potion that was more concentrated than what the recipe would have produced. Although it came with the unexpected risk of your own health and safety, your potion is not a complete and utter failure, to my great surprise.” Snape set the cauldron cover back over Harry’s cauldron of potion, which had settled to a deep scarlet colour, before Vanishing the moss off of the table. “Your next Potions lesson will be spent learning how to dilute the effectiveness of this potion to the recipe’s standards.”

“You’re not angry?” Harry dared to ask. “I, um—I thought that I’d be in trouble for making a mistake, sir."

Snape folded his arms over his chest with a slight frown and narrowing of his eyes, regarding Harry with a mild glare. “Your ineptitude and incompetence with holding potions while wearing dragon-hide gloves and general clumsiness is to be expected for a student of your age and skill level. But make this same mistake of dropping a full bottle of something more reactive or rare, such as dragon’s blood, and you can be sure that I will be angry.”

Harry squinted at Snape. Here was this strange tolerance again. He couldn’t imagine the potions Professor being this accepting of Harry’s mistake if it was in the Potions classroom, or if it had been someone like Neville who had made it. Perhaps being in his own house made Snape less volatile? But that didn’t explain his return to his usual self in the morning and evenings.

He longed to blurt out, “Why are you acting so weird?” But he settled instead for the reply of, “Yes, sir.”

Snape dismissed Harry with a wave of his hand.

Back in the privacy of his room, Harry flopped onto the carpeted floor, staring at the ceiling. Snape was getting more unpredictable by the day; he had been in his “weird mode”, as Harry had taken to calling Snape’s periods of tolerance, for the whole afternoon the day before, yet today he was bitter and cutting as usual from morning to noon. It was only after lunch when he had seemed to enter his weird mode again. Maybe it’s to do with the times he just vanishes off into the house. It’s only for ten or fifteen minutes at a time—What could he be doing?

Hedwig fluttered from the top of the bookshelf to amble over to Harry as he lay on the carpet, hooting curiously as she approached. Harry stroked her head, turning over the clues in his mind. Bet Hermione could find out. But that’d be a weird letter to write—hey, Snape sometimes isn’t so condescending and mean, and his inconsistency is freaking me out. Any idea why he’s like this? Hedwig nibbled on Harry’s finger before she hopped onto his head to preen through his hair.

“Thanks, Hedwig,” Harry muttered into the carpet. The snowy owl clicked her beak contentedly in reply.

———

Harry wanted to get a cup of water, but it wasn’t really a cup; it looked like a beaker without any of the measurements written on it, and he couldn’t fill it in the kitchen sink because there was a lion fish in it. If he tried to reach for the tap, the fish would threateningly flare out its venomous spines, so Harry looked around for his wand to use the Aguamenti charm instead.

Before he could check his pockets (he didn’t have his wand holster on, for some reason), Uncle Vernon lumbered into the kitchen, his moustache rippling with rage at the sight of Harry, who backed away nervously.

“What are you doing, boy? You’re not allowed in our kitchen,” Uncle Vernon rumbled, shaking a salami-sized finger at Harry. “You don’t get to be in the kitchen.”

“But this isn’t your kitchen,” Harry said, confused. It was clearly Snape’s kitchen, with its pale green walls and neat kitchenette space, but the furniture had been moved around; there was a cauldron instead of a cabinet next to the sink now, and the dining table had four chairs, not two.

“What do you know? You’re just a foolish child. You don’t know anything.” With that, Uncle Vernon crossed the room in a single step, seizing Harry by the collar of his shirt.

Harry tried to fight back as he was dragged towards the cauldron, but the glass (or beaker) he had been holding slipped from his hands and shattered into a million pieces on the mossy kitchen floor.

Uncle Vernon bellowed like a bull, and he raised Harry up as if he weighed nothing before dropping him into the cauldron, which had swelled to the size of a cupboard. Before Harry had time to jump back out, Uncle Vernon slammed the cauldron-cover onto the cauldron, trapping him inside.

In the cold and darkness of the cauldron, Harry gasped for air; his lightheadedness made his vision blur tilt, and there was a high-pitched ringing in his ears that intensified into shrill screams that went on and on…

———

Harry flinched awake. His skin was clammy with sweat, and his heart still raced in his chest as if he had been running for his life. With a groan, he realized that it had been Hedwig screeching. Now the owl was flapping her large white wings over his face, hopping around him in a state of agitation.

“It’s okay, Hedwig—I’m fine, I’m okay—It was just a dream,” Harry told her, reassuring her as much as himself. He sat up from the carpet, hugging himself with a shiver. It had been the usual strangeness of a dream combined with an old memory that he had forgotten…

He was as young as seven years old, locked in his cupboard in the evening heat of August. Harry remembered that he had been in the garden all day, weeding for Aunt Petunia, and he hadn’t had much time nor the opportunity to get a drink of water, but now it was midnight, and he was locked in his cupboard, his throat burning with thirst.

Somehow, after a few wretched hours of restless sleep, he had woken up outside of his cupboard. Back then, he had no idea how he had gotten himself out, and knowing that he would be in trouble no matter what he did afterwards, Harry had quickly drunk a cup of water before Uncle Vernon found him in the kitchen and dragged him back into his cupboard. He hadn’t struggled; he had been far too exhausted to protest.

Hedwig hooted loudly, shocking Harry from his memories in time to leap automatically to his feet upon hearing approaching footsteps from the hallway.

Snape burst into the room, his wand drawn and his eyes alight with malice, but he halted at the sight of Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with Hedwig at his feet.

“S-sorry, Professor—Hedwig just wanted my attention. I, um, didn’t have any treats for her,” Harry lied quickly.

“That was all?” Snape asked slowly, his gaze roving over Harry’s hair, which was flat to his head on the side that he had fallen asleep on.

Harry nodded quickly, hoping that he didn’t look too bleary-eyed.

“If your owl is prone to express her desire for treats by screaming, I would suggest getting owl treats delivered, or I will charm her into silence.”

“I’ll get them delivered, sir. I think it’d be…inhumane to put a silencing charm on her.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry for another moment before he said shortly, “Dinner is in twenty five minutes. See that you are less disheveled for it.”

Harry nodded wordlessly again, and the moment Snape left, he let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, girl, but there’s no way I’m telling Snape about that nightmare. I’ll get you some treats for real, alright?” Hedwig ruffled her feathers in an irritated way, but she accepted Harry’s proffered arm as a perch.

Just as Harry began rummaging in his trunk for a pack of owl treats, he sensed the enchanted window netting letting in another owl, and before he could turn around, he felt what seemed to be a feathery tennis ball ricochet off his back.

“Ow! Oh, hey, Pig!” Harry held out a finger to the tiny owl, which had an envelope tied to his leg.

On Harry’s shoulder, Hedwig hooted haughtily to Pigwidgeon as if she was reprimanding the other owl for his over-enthusiasm.

After depositing both birds on his desk, Harry settled himself in the chair to read the letter. After his wreck of a Potions practice and his nightmare that still shook him to his core, the words of his friends were the most beautiful things he had ever seen in that moment.

Hi Harry!

I hope you’re still alive and healthy when you get this letter. Hermione says that of course you’d be alive if you’d be able to get the letter, but who cares, really. You get my point.

Mum’s determined to have you over for Sunday dinner this weekend. I guess she doesn’t think grease-head’s cooking is very good. What’s it like? I feel like he’s the type to boil everything.

Ron’s scratchy handwriting was suddenly overtaken by Hermione’s neat yet cramped script.

HARRY. Tell me everything you’ve learned! Has Snape showed you the Cascading jinx yet? I’ve been wanting to know how the logic and theory of it works, but none of our books go into it deeply enough. Can you ask him about the antidote to the

Hermione’s lettering trailed off into a smear of ink. Ron had undoubtedly taken the parchment back from her.

I already told her that you’d tell us all about your lessons on Sunday, but no, she still goes on and on! We should’ve saved some Polyjuice potion from second year, then you and Hermione could swap, and you’d both be happy.

Really, I wouldn’t know what’s worse—being stuck with Mr. Scowl over there, or being stuck with Percy! You know how he works for the Ministry now? He keeps going on about his boss, Mr. Crouch. He practically worships him. Any longer and they’ll be announcing their engagement. On Sunday, don’t mention a thing about the Ministry unless you want your ears talked off, that’s my advice.

Hermione’s handwriting returned.

Percy also keeps mentioning something about Hogwarts, some kind of special event that’s supposed to take place this year… At least, that’s what we’ve inferred from all of his vague clues. I couldn’t find anything in ‘Hogwarts, A History’, so I really have no idea.

It may be something like the Art Contest of the Houses in ’35. According to ‘Hogwarts, A History’, there was an art contest in each of the four houses with the winner’s piece being the House flag for the second half of the semester. It was all student voted, and the entries could be done anonymously, so of course the winning pieces were…things that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t approve of, I’ll put it that way.

Ron’s writing crept in with another attempt at taking control of the parchment (Harry, Hermione won’t let me describe it so I’ll draw one of the flags for you), but he must have been warded off by Hermione, as it was she who closed off the letter.

Honestly, I’d send my own letter with Errol, but I don’t think he’d make it to wherever P̶r̶o̶f̶e̶s̶s̶ Mr. Samuel’s house is, so I’ve got to share with Ron.

Take care,

Hermione & Ron

Feeling significantly better about himself and life in general, Harry cast a tempus. 7:52. He sighed. He’d get to writing back after dinner, he decided as he stood up and stretched his arms with a yawn before trudging out of the room.

———

I’m so glad to hear from you guys.

Today was a real mess, sort of? I added too much phosphoric acid in my plant-growth enhancing potion, and the dungeon lurker thought I’d inhaled a bunch of it. I thought he was going to explode at me, but he didn’t. At least my potion still worked in the end.

I think the bat’s less likely to say no if Mrs. Weasley asks us over for dinner, Ron, so if you could ask her to ask him, that’d be great. His cooking is actually good. Nothing comparable to Hogwarts’, but he’s decent at it. We had a lamb pie tonight.

We might get to the Cascading jinx eventually, but next lesson, I’m to practice the tripping jinx. Not on him of course, but he’ll probably have me trip myself. I had to do the tickling jinx AND the counter-spell on myself today already!

Hermione, maybe if you compliment Mr. Crouch in front of Percy, he’ll let you use Hermes. Just an idea. The art contest thing you mentioned sounds cool. If Dumbledore was reminded of it, he might want to try hosting it again. He was probably around when it first happened, right?

Cheers,

Harry

In the light of the morning, Harry tied the scroll to Hedwig’s leg, fearing that Pigwidgeon wouldn’t be able to handle another delivery so soon, but the tiny owl had determinedly grabbed onto a corner of the parchment in an effort to do his part as well, to Hedwig’s obvious disgust.

Harry watched the two owls soar lopsidedly (Pigwidgeon kept pulling the letter in a different direction than Hedwig, who was beginning to screech at him) over the roofs of the neighbouring houses with a pang of loss in his chest; he had appreciated their friendly company for the few hours that they had both roosted in his room. Now it was only him and Snape in the house again, at least until Hedwig’s eventual return, which Harry was looking forward to more than anything.

As Harry brushed his teeth in the bathroom, he glanced up at himself in the mirror that hung above the sink, and his eyes widened in surprise at what he saw; his scar stood out plainly against the pale skin of his face, and there were dull shadows under his eyes.

He looked about as tired as he felt, which was very.

It had taken him a long while to fall asleep in the night, and when he did, his dreams were confusing and muddled, full of quills, pieces of parchment, and instructions that danced in front of him. He woke extremely early in the morning, feeling as though someone had first chloroformed him and then used him as a punching bag, so instead of trying to go back to sleep, he sat at the desk to write the letter to his friends. That had cheered him up slightly, but it wasn’t enough to stifle the gloom that settled in his mind at the thought of another day with Snape.

During breakfast, Harry struggled to prevent himself from falling asleep in his bowl of porridge. Snape looked as if he’d had a lovely night’s rest, which Harry begrudged him for.

At least it’s a rest day, Harry reminded himself as he stared at his piece of toast. No duelling. Just homework. Like that’s any better.

“Have you completed your Charms essay?” Snape’s strangely mundane question made Harry look up confusedly. The Professor seemed as if he didn’t even care about what Harry’s response could be; he was looking at the Daily Prophet on the table next to him with a detached expression.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, wondering where Snape was going with this.

“Is your owl still in your room?”

“I sent her off with a letter this morning, sir.”

“What was your nightmare about?”

“It was some weird thing about—” Harry stopped talking abruptly. He glared at Snape, who had turned his gaze to Harry, a spark of interest aglow in his dark eyes.

You sneaking bastard, Harry thought as loudly as he could.

“It was nothing, sir. I just fell asleep after the Potions lesson, had an odd dream, and got woken up by Hedwig,” he said slowly, still glowering at the Professor.

“Clearly it was nothing if your magical familiar deemed it appropriate to wake you,” Snape retorted. “Do not underestimate the intelligence of neither myself nor your owl; that bird has been nothing but well-behaved since she entered this house with you, a striking juxtaposition to her owner, might I add. She must have sensed your obvious distress and sought to wake you in the only way she knew of. So, what was your nightmare about?”

Harry longed to spit out “why do you care?” but he doubted that Snape would appreciate the tone. “I don’t see why it’s anything you should be worried about, Professor.”

“A wizard’s magical ability is closely tied to his health, physical and mental. As you are already stunted in growth as well as lacking the proper nutrition of a child your age, I see no reason to allow you to be magically drained any further.”

“I-I’m not stunted!” Harry protested. “I’m just…short.”

Snape arched an eyebrow at him. “I was in the same year as your spoiled prat of a father at Hogwarts, and I can tell you that he was much taller than you when he was your age, and your mother at the age of twelve matches your current height perfectly. Twelve.”

“Okay, okay. So you’re not going to let me ‘be magically drained any further’? How? Is there an antidote to nightmares or something?”

“There is a potion called Dreamless Sleep, but it can become highly addictive with daily usage. We will use a more…conventional solution.” Snape slid a simple leather bracelet across the table, which would have been entirely average if not for the just-barely detectable hum of magic that brushed against Harry’s fingertips as he picked it up.

Harry noticed that Snape was wearing a matching one on his left wrist as he crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair while he continued, “When you inevitably have another nightmare or enter a state of extreme emotional distress, I will be notified by way of my own bracelet. Once you put that on, only I will have the ability to remove it from you.”

“But—Sir, I don’t want you to be…disturbed because of me,” Harry muttered. He turned over the bracelet in his hands, avoiding Snape’s gaze. “What if it wakes you up in the middle of the night?”

“That is the point, Potter. As drugging you nightly with Dreamless Sleep would do more overall harm than good, this is your only option. I would rather be woken by the harmless buzzing of a bracelet than the screeching of your owl or, Merlin forbid, your violent thrashing about.”

“I thrash about?” Harry asked, mortified.

“That was an exaggeration with the purpose of emphasizing my point.”

“Oh. Alright.” He slowly slid on the bracelet, which automatically matched itself to his wrist size the moment it slipped past his palm. “Sir, I still don’t understand why you’d want to be bothered with waking me up from nightmares. You could just silence Hedwig or put a silencing charm on my whole room or something.”

“To use your own words, ‘I think it’d be inhumane’. Despite how irritating, incompetent, and irrational you may be and how much I would rather have a colony of Jarvey infest my house than you, you are still my ward, and I am still your temporary guardian. You will not suffer unnecessarily in my house. Now, finish your breakfast.” Snape gestured at Harry’s porridge.

“Yes, sir…What’s a Jarvey?” Harry dared to ask as he picked up his spoon again. Snape was being practically slightly-less morally grey with insisting that Harry wear the bracelet, and Harry wasn’t about to let another question go unanswered while Snape still seemed vaguely approachable.

“A magical creature that resembles what Muggles know as a ferret. They are capable of human speech but are only able to utter short and rude statements.”

Harry imagined a horde of ferrets following Snape around the house, insulting him every other second, and he tried not to laugh aloud at the thought. After he finished his porridge, he put his dishes in the sink where the sponge and soap were already hard at work, then he made to leave the kitchen for the corridor.

Before he could even reach the doorway, Snape spoke up again. “You may bring your homework to the living room. I will be working in my office.” He rose from his chair, folding the Daily Prophet neatly as he did.

Harry would never have imagined the Professor to want him somewhere other than his own room on a rest day, and he couldn’t fathom why.

“…May I know why, sir?” Harry asked, tilting his head curiously at Snape.

Snape scoffed, “You are not confined to your room; I have never stated that your access to the other rooms of the house was limited or prohibited. Fine, do your work wherever you wish. Disturb me only if your life is in mortal danger, or it will be.” He swept out of the kitchen and into the sitting room without even a glance in Harry’s direction.

The Dursleys would sooner gift Harry a solid gold cauldron than allow him to do his homework in their living room, so for Snape to even suggest the idea of his own volition to Harry was entirely unexpected.

He probably just wants me within convenient hexing distance, Harry reasoned as he hurried into his room to grab a few unfinished assignments at random. Snape’s a good wizard, but he can’t get at me easily if I’m so far away in the house. He went downstairs again and set his books and writing supplies down on the sitting room table, which was close enough to the office to run for help, but also nearer to the hallway than the living room, just in case he had to make a bid for escape.

Harry settled himself on one of the leather couches with his Herbology textbook propped open on his knees, resigning himself to a quiet day of reading and writing.

It was a strange, stiff kind of calm for another day in Snape’s house, Harry reflected in the late evening when he was pulling on his pyjamas. With Harry sitting silently in the sitting room and Snape shut up in his office, Harry managed to get through the outline of a Herbology essay on the Alihotsy tree before lunch with little difficulty. It really wasn’t that hard when he wasn’t struggling to read by moonlight alone or had Snape looming over him, jeering over every minor mistake. He was beginning to see how Hermione always got her summer work done weeks before the start of the school semester; it was fascinating to learn about magical plants and fungi when the average muggle-world plant was not sentient and not man-eating.

Lunch had been silent and swift. Harry ate his sandwich and drank his vial of nutritive potion, and Snape had skipped the meal entirely. After dinner, Snape had seated himself in the living room armchair with a large, dusty novel. Harry didn’t exactly want to be in close proximity to Snape, but he had moved to the living room after lunch, and he wasn’t about to retreat to the sitting room again just because of the Professor.

They hadn’t exchanged a single word, insulting or otherwise, which was a monument to Snape’s developing ability of being able to stomach Harry’s presence, until Harry realized that night had truly fallen outside of the window behind the sofa. He had muttered a quiet, “good night, Professor,” before hurrying out of the room with his books and papers in his arms.

Laying back in his bed, Harry stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking sleepily to himself that if every day with Snape was so quiet, he could get used to living with him after all.

Chapter Text

It had been almost an entire week since the first rest day, and since then, Severus had found himself relying less on the ancient artefact that he had burrowed from Dumbledore. He had expected to have to make use of it just to keep himself sane when Potter so much as spoke, but the boy was nothing like how Severus had anticipated.

Now that Severus had the boy under the same roof as himself and often in the same room while he read and Potter did his homework, he was forced to recognize that Potter was generally as quiet as a mouse and of a similar temperament as one for the most part; the boy flinched at sudden movements and sounds, kept his head meekly bowed and his shoulders often hunched inwards, and was diligent in cleaning up after himself.

Severus had once believed the brat to be James Potter reincarnated, but now his entire view of his enemy’s son was turned upside down in the most humbling way imaginable.

He is so much more different than his father than I could ever have imagine, Severus had thought musingly one late afternoon, half-annoyed at himself as he peered over his novel at Potter, who had been sitting on the sofa, fully immersed in a worn copy of Intermediate Transfiguration.

When Severus had received a letter from Molly Weasley on Saturday that invited both him and Potter to supper on Sunday, he had only partially relented; on Sunday, he sent Potter through the Floo to the burrow alone. The thought of having dinner surrounded by people who either liked him out of colleague professionalism or disliked him with the spite and hate that only students could muster for their least favourite Professor, made him shudder. Three hours later, Potter had returned with an armful of food containers stuffed to the brim with leftovers and a happy smile shining stupidly on his face. It was only tiredness that made him sneer only half-heartedly at Potter that evening, Severus had told himself later that night while he stared restlessly at the ceiling above his bed.

It was only his annoyance with Potter’s inability to read the potions instructions clearly that made him quietly send out an order form for self-correcting glasses, Severus had reminded himself as he watched Potter try on his new glasses, gasping excitedly as he saw the world in sharp detail for the first time, but as the Potions master sat at his desk, quill hovering over a letter he was supposed to have finished an hour ago, he found himself wondering what kind of aunt Petunia Dursley was, to have neglected to update the prescription of her nephew’s glasses for so long. It definitely was not concern nor worry that made him furrow his brows as he recalled the immediate reaction of the boy when he had stumbled into Severus in the doorway of the bathroom that second night, he assured himself irritably. He simply found it odd how the boy had instantly cowered back, bracing himself as if he was expecting to be slapped across the face, that was all.

Really, it was only expected of a guardian to be writing a letter to the Headmaster to inquire about Potter’s life with the Dursleys. Anyone else in his position would be doing the same thing, Severus thought firmly as he dipped his quill into the ink pot resting on his office desk.

He finished penning his name at the bottom of the parchment and threw down his quill with a sigh. Casting a Tempus, he saw that it was just a quarter to one in the morning. His letter to the Headmaster had taken him almost two hours write, the majority of which Severus had spent agonizing over whether he should even bother with it. Folding up the parchment into a neat memo, Severus strode over to the fireplace in his office, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the jar resting on the mantle, and threw it into the fire, which instantly turned a jade-green.

“Albus Dumbledore’s office,” he muttered before tapping the memo with his wand. It leaped into the air of its own accord and soared right into the Floo fire, which swallowed it instantly.

Standing upright again, Severus made to stretch his arms, but he was surprised by a loud hum from his bracelet. He had charmed it to vary in volume depending on the severity of Potter’s distress, and it seemed that the boy was particularly perturbed tonight.

Severus rushed out of his office. By the time he had begun to ascend the stairs, Potter’s owl had started screeching loudly. Damn it. The Potions master quickened his pace until he was practically sprinting down the hallway.

He wrenched open the door to the room at the very end of the hall and rounded the screen that obscured the bed from the door to find the boy in the throes of a nightmare, muttering and groaning slightly as he shifted uncomfortably under the blanket. His eyes were screwed shut, and his mouth was twisted into a grimace of fear.

The snowy owl, which had finally quieted upon seeing Severus, was perched on the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. She watched with wide yellow eyes as Severus attempted to rouse Potter by patting his shoulder and calling his name, and when that failed, he resorted to shaking him, though none too gently.

“‘M sorry, Uncle,” Potter mumbled almost inaudibly, shrinking away from Severus’ touch, and the man stopped, his hand shifting to hover just over Potter’s scrawny shoulder.

In his moment of hesitation, true worry bloomed, unbidden, in the depths of Severus' cold heart, although he did not realize it in the moment, so distracted with the boy’s words was he. What about his Uncle could make Potter—Potter, who had faced the Dark Lord on the back of a man’s head when he was eleven, killed a Basilisk to save his friend’s sister at the age of twelve, charged into the Shrieking Shack to confront an escaped convict from Azkaban just a few months ago—so…afraid?

Potter moved again, this time to curl in on himself as he whispered, “…out. Let me out.”

Severus completely froze. “Let you out of where, Potter?” he asked, dreading the reply.

“… cu’board. Let me out the cu’board…”

The cupboard. Surely not…Surely not even a woman as bitter as Petunia would… Severus shook himself slightly, forcing the thought out of his mind. Left with no other options and being completely out of his depth, Severus made a split-second decision and pulled out his wand to perform a particularly bright Lumos. He held it over Potter’s face, watching the boy with bated breath.

After just another moment, Potter’s eyes fluttered open only to immediately slam shut again.

“P-professor?” He sat up, shielding his eyes with a hand.

Severus swiftly ended the charm with a nonverbal Nox. “The bracelet alerted me to your distress. I attempted the more traditional methods of waking you, but none sufficed,” he clarified.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the stripe of moonlight that slipped from between the drawn curtains, but Severus could tell that tears were making their way down Potter’s pale face. Merlin help me. This is beyond my abilities. Wanting to give the boy time to compose himself, Severus made to leave to fetch a calming draught, but as he rose to his full height, he did not miss the slightest of movements that Potter had made with his hand, as if he had wanted to reach out to Severus.

“…I will get you a calming draught,” Severus said into the silence.

Potter nodded numbly, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He was avoiding Severus’ gaze as though he was ashamed of what he had done.

The overwhelming majority of Severus’ mind was yelling at him to leave the room, to take his time fetching the calming draught so as to give the boy time to gather himself, but a tiny part of him, one that had shrunken and shrivelled from neglect and lack of use, flickered to life and told him to simply Summon the potion, and so he did. The small vial whizzed into the room after just a few moments, and Severus handed it to Potter, who accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

You could leave now, snapped the exacting and doubtful part of his mind. You should leave now. This is not your place, not the place for a spy, an ex-Death Eater, a murderer. You cannot afford to care. Severus ignored them. After Potter handed back the empty vial, he moved to seat himself on the low chest of drawers, and Potter’s owl obligingly hopped away across the bed to perch on her owner’s knees instead.

“Th-thanks for coming, Professor,” Potter said softly after a moment. He stroked the owl with a trembling hand. “I didn’t think you would—” He fell silent again, a dull flush creeping up his tear-stained cheeks.

“I have not given you reason to believe that I would not uphold my part of the agreement.” Severus raised his wrist where the bracelet was snug against his sallow skin. “Why did you think that I would not have come?”

“You could have lied about it.” Potter held out his wrist to his owl, which tilted her head at the strip of leather with a quiet hoot.

Severus paused again, his conflicting thoughts whirling in his mind as Potter resumed his petting of the owl. This is James Potter’s son, the dark part of his mind reminded him stubbornly. The reckless, arrogant, too-good-for-rules brat. But with only the faint outlines of his worst memories, the usual surge of anger and loathing that would have risen within him was insignificant to the concern for the boy in front of him, so his thoughts changed tactics to appeal to logic instead. If the Dark Lord or any of his other followers ever discovered—You’ll be as good as dead the moment he returns. It’s too dangerous to care. But damn it, someone needs to know. Merlin, why must it be I?

“Have past experiences with adults proven that most would do such a thing to you while you are in a vulnerable state such as now?” Not exactly subtle. Severus cringed internally as he waited for Potter’s reply.

“I guess you could say that…? My Aunt and Uncle would’ve lied. Actually, they wouldn’t have offered to wake me in the first place,” Potter muttered, half to himself.

“What would your relatives have done instead?”

Potter finally looked up at Severus, albeit warily and with a touch of nervousness, as if the Professor was going to lunge at him in any second. His green eyes gleamed like embers of a dying fire. Like his mother’s, the tiny part of Severus reminded him swiftly, and the last bitter thoughts faded away like melting snow from springtime sun.

Flashes of memories that were not his slipped into his mind; memories of raised hands, shrill voices, the kicks and jeers of schoolyard bullies, and so many nights in a cramped, dark space. Severus severed the momentary connection, apprehension sending a chill down his spine despite the warmth of the summer night.

So that was his childhood. His life.

“They never find out about my bad dreams…Once I yelled out in my sleep, and Uncle Vernon just hammered on the door of my—my room to wake me up,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“While I was attempting to rouse you, you were muttering about a cupboard, to be let out of one, to be precise. You addressed your Uncle Vernon.”

Potter’s eyes widened with mortification before he hid his face in his hands, his shoulders hunched. The owl hooted mournfully again, butting the top of her head against the boy’s arms.

Severus allowed the silence to stretch out uncomfortably (mostly because he was unsure of what so say) until Potter at last replied in a muffled voice, “Before they got the first letters from Hogwarts, my bedroom was the cupboard—the cupboard under the stairs.”

Something in Severus snapped; cold fury and burning hatred filled him in equal measures as he slowly processed the boy’s words. How could they do that to—to a child? How dare she treat her own sister’s son that way? The air was suddenly tense with Severus’ magic, and he clasped his hands together to prevent them from shaking with rage. Potter had pressed himself against the headboard, regarding Severus with an expression that was somehow even warier than the previous.

“And after the letters?” Severus managed to ask whilst keeping his voice level, though he could not help his tone developing a sharp edge to it as he spoke.

“Well, I think they realized that whoever wrote the letters knew that I was living in the cupboard, since the letter was addressed to it…and I wouldn’t have fit after another year, anyways, so they had me move to Dudley’s second bedroom,” Potter said quietly. He patted his owl absent-mindedly, drawing shapes in the blanket with his other hand. “It was nice to have a bed with a big mattress and headboard and everything.”

Albus knows. He knew and has done nothing this entire time. Eleven years! How did I ever delude myself into believing that the boy was a spoiled prince— Determinedly stifling the anger still simmering inside him for the sake of not startling the boy again, Severus stood. “I trust that you will manage on your own for the rest of tonight, now that you are sufficiently calm,” he said evenly. “Do you require a sleeping draught?”

“No—no, sir. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Professor…thank you.”

The snowy owl seemed to sense that Potter was going to lay down, for she fluttered up onto the top of the screen and looked beadily at Severus, who paused in the doorway. He felt that he ought to speak, but yet again, he had no idea what to say, so he nodded silently and left, shutting the door quietly behind himself.

Once he was in the privacy of his own bedroom, Severus first casted a Silencing charm on his room, ensuring that Potter would not be disturbed. Then he spat out a stream of the most colourful curses that he could muster, clutching his head in his hands.

Trust Albus to dump a neglected Boy Who Lived on the damn Death Easter who caused him to become an orphan in the first place, Severus thought viciously as he collapsed into his desk chair. What do I know of comforting children after waking them from nightmares? Merlin knows that for some Hogwarts first years, I’m a source of them! He dragged a weary hand over his face, swearing under his breath again. Although he longed to Floo directly to Dumbledore’s office to confront the man directly, he doubted whether he would be able to control his temper when faced with the Headmaster on zero hours of sleep.

If his reply to my memo is full of his usual vague waffling, I’ll curse my next one to bite off his fingers. With that last vindictive thought, Severus dragged himself to his bed, and he fell asleep fully clothed on top of the blankets.

———

Dear Severus,

I was pleasantly surprised to see in your letter your inquiries about Harry’s quality of life with his relatives, as you are the first who has thought to question me about such matters, and perhaps not the first that I expected to have thought to.

I find it truly inspiring to hear of how much you are beginning to truly care for your ward, and it warms my heart to know that you care enough to voice your concerns to me directly, but I am afraid that I haven’t much to tell you.

Harry’s relatives may not be the best people, but it seems that they have raised him to be a quiet, studious boy, and one who is loyal to his friends and those who he cares about, as well as kind and helpful to all who need it. His other teachers have informed me in the past that he isn’t regularly neglectful of his homework, and that he always does his best to follow instructions exactly. Where else could he have been taught such good behaviour but his aunt and uncle’s?

Once, near the end of his first school year, Harry asked me whether if he could stay at Hogwarts for the entire summer. I believe that it was merely the excitement of having an entire new world at his fingertips, one that he had barely gotten to know over the course of the school year, that drove him to request such a thing, and of course, I regretfully informed him that no such thing was possible.

Apart from that small request, Harry has told me nothing that enlightened me on his life with his relatives.

Your new interest into the boy’s home life is commendable after the years you have spent harbouring a deep prejudice for him, and I only hope that you will be able to continue to look past those old grudges and see Harry for himself. Goodness knows that you have held on to those memories for long enough!

All the best,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards

Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot

Grand Sorcerer

Severus read and re-read the letter over and over again, the anger of the previous evening rising within him in a different form; instead of being only furious, he also felt outraged that Dumbledore had taken his few simple questions asking about Potter’s living conditions with his relatives into an emotional letter that had somehow left the senile old man with the impression that Severus actually cared about the boy on a personal level.

The Headmaster had finally lost it if he thought that whatever concern Severus had for the brat was not purely from his role as Potter’s temporary guardian, Severus thought firmly as he shut the letter away inside one of the drawers of his office desk.

Dumbledore was perhaps the most brilliant wizard of the century, there was little doubt about that, but his love for trying to see the best in people had blinded him to how Potter had really been raised by the Dursleys. He was quiet so as to keep himself hidden, studious at Hogwarts because the non-magical world had only shown him harm, and loyal to his friends because perhaps they were the first that he had ever had before his eleventh birthday.

The kindness he showed towards others? Severus was sure that kindness was what the boy had rarely ever been offered before he entered the gates of Hogwarts, so he gave what he had never received himself.

And Potter’s behaviour in class—Severus almost winced as he remembered Potter cowering away from him, his arms twitching as if to jump to cover his face if need be, as Severus snapped at the boy’s failed potion. At the time, he had assumed that it was natural for a student to shy away from him; he was the terrifying dungeon-bat after all, but it was different when Potter had done it.

Severus knew that now. Had that been two years ago or one?

You’ve done it too often to remember exactly, a cold voice from the back of his mind informed him. Who do you think you are, pretending that you care, after so many years of tormenting him—

Mcgonagall had once shared to Severus the amusing tale of how Potter had become seeker for Gryffindor in his first year at Hogwarts, but recalling the details of the story now left Severus with a horrible, hollow sensation in his stomach.

“Potter looked absolutely miserable when I told him that we were going to see Wood. I have no idea what Wood did to make the boy so nervous at the mere sound of his name; as far as I was aware, they had never met before I introduced them,” she had said with a sigh of bemusement.

Severus of three years previous had rolled his eyes and replied with something scathing, but now he cursed quietly, his brow furrowed as he stared at his desk with a blank gaze. Wood…Did he think that Mcgonagall was going to…? Good Godric—! How is it that Mcgonagall, his Head of House, for Merlin’s sake, missed all the signs? How is it that I am the one to be the first to notice?

But Severus already knew the answer to that question. His own childhood was not so dissimilar to Potter’s, it would seem.

He sighed.

It was now almost a quarter to eight, so Severus begrudgingly pulled himself out of his slump of misery and readied himself for the day before heading downstairs into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Today’s would be toast, sausages, and eggs done sunny-side up. Potter had gradually begun to consume larger portions of food, but his weight gain so far was slow and only just noticeable. For a moment, Severus considered finding a book on nutrition in case that there was anything else that would help Potter, but he banished the thought from his mind with a scowl as he Summoned the egg carton out of the cabinet.

He was already supplying the brat with nutritive potions. Anything else would be for the likes of Molly Weasley or Madame Pomfrey, not Severus Snape.

At eight o’clock, Potter seated himself at the dining table, where Severus was already reading a newspaper, with a shy, “good morning, Professor”, that the Potions master replied to with a stiff nod.

Severus glanced occasionally at Potter while they ate, and he was almost pleased at what he saw; there were faint shadows on the boy’s face, but his eyes were bright and alert, and there was a healthy flush to his cheeks. He ate slowly but more than he usually would have, which was a good sign of increased appetite. It seemed that despite his nightmare, he had somehow had a good night’s rest, to Severus’ surprise.

He had been looking for too long; Potter met Severus’ gaze with a guarded expression, but the Potions master unconsciously gleaned the boy’s emotions from the surface of his mind, despite his attempt at nonchalance. Embarrassment, unease, and suspicion whirled against Severus’ mental shields until he turned away the foreign emotions and ended the connection.

“Did you rest well?” Severus asked shortly.

Potter nodded hesitantly, looking down at his glass of milk. He sipped at it before elaborating, “Um—sir, you really don’t have to ask.” There was a steely note in his voice, and Severus narrowed his eyes as Potter continued swiftly, “Dumbledore said that you’re my Defence and Potions tutor for the summer; you don’t have to pretend like you care like—like you’re Madame Pomfrey or something.”

Severus shut his Daily Prophet with a snap of newspaper, all satisfaction for the boy’s health gone in an instant to be swiftly replaced by frigid severity. “I am not and will never be anything like ‘Madame Pomfrey or something’,” he said coldly, regarding Potter with an icy expression, “and you have already been informed, on multiple occasions, that, as I am your guardian, it is my responsibility to ensure all aspects of your health, mental and physical. Must I repeat that again or perhaps assign you the statement to write a hundred times so that there is any chance of you managing to remember it for longer than five minutes?”

“Well, still—it’s not like Dumbledore’s popping in on evenings, asking if I’m sleeping alright or if I’m eating enough, Professor!” Potter stared back as Severus, his voice rising in his indignation. “I don’t get why you don’t just do the bare minimum; Dumbledore wouldn’t know!”

“It is Professor Dumbledore, Potter—And what is the bare minimum if not giving you nutritive potions daily and waking you from your night terrors? Would you rather I let you stay in your current state and allow your magic to deplete as your health declines with it?” Struggling to keep his temper under control, Severus forced himself to sit back down in his chair; he had stood up without realizing it. “With your nightmares preventing you from the required hours of sleep for a growing adolescent such as yourself and your history of inconsistency with your diet, you are hardly the picture of health,” he added cuttingly in a tone that could almost resemble a calm one. Almost.

Potter had been unconsciously pressing himself into the back of his own seat, and he seemed to grow aware of that fact; he relaxed minutely, averting his gaze from Severus’ to stare down at his own hands, which were balled into tight fists in his lap. “I-I don’t know, sir,” he muttered. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but he shut it almost immediately.

“You were going to say something else,” Severus remarked coolly.

Potter scowled. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader, sir?”

“I saw you open and then close your mouth, so unless you were merely doing so for your own amusement, you were going to speak, but you changed your mind at the last moment.”

“Okay, okay—I was going to say that it’s just…really weird…Imagine if your Professor, who you hate and who hates you, woke you up from a nightmare and then started asking about how your life with your family is like.” Potter glanced up at Severus, who was staring wordlessly at him. He seemed to take that as an allowance to continue with, “and combine that with how in the past week, your Professor has been acting like the past three years of his sneering at you for your Dad never happened—”

“Enough,” Severus said shortly, and Potter fell silent immediately, shrinking back into himself. “I…understand how this arrangement has been entirely alien to you,” he dragged the words out through his gritted teeth, “but rest assured that I have not quite forgotten all of our interactions throughout the past three years.”

“…Sure, sir.” Potter squinted at Severus as he had done often during their first Defence lesson. There was more on his mind, Severus was sure of that, but the boy did not vocalize his thoughts any further.

“It seems that this discussion has concluded.” Severus waved his wand with a muttered incantation, and their dirty dishes flew to the sink where the sponge had been dancing about impatiently. “Today’s lesson shall be your completion of the energizing potion that you began last session.”

They headed to Severus’ office where Potter’s cauldron full of milk-white potion had been stewing on the table. After Severus had re-charmed the instructions into the air above Potter’s cauldron, the boy started his work, and Severus deigned to watch and occasionally correct his progress from his desk.

At the start of the lesson, Potter had taken off his sweater, for the over-long sleeves were becoming a hazard, and now he was one of his huge, faded shirts, the sweater forgotten on a nearby shelf of ingredients. Severus felt a pang of annoyance at the sight; of course the boy’s pitiful excuse for family dressed him only in hand-me downs far too large for him. He needs new clothes. Perhaps on the next rest day, I ought to take him— He shook his head slightly, scowling at the list of Hogwarts Infirmary potion stock that he was meant to be checking over. The idea was completely absurd…

Potter’s cauldron jumped like how Severus had expected it would; the potion was in the last and most volatile stage of its completion.

Over the clinking sound of jars and bottles trembling on the shelves from the impact of the heavy cauldron landing on the table again, Severus suggested, without looking up from his list, “Add another Leucrotta hair. Your potion should be jumping twice as often.”

“Yes, sir,” came the quick reply, and Severus heard the sound of Potter rushing around the shelves in his search for the jar that held the ingredient.

Potter’s cauldron jumped again. As it crashed down onto the table, there was a sudden sound of shattering glass, a loud sizzle, and the smell of something burning. Severus leaped to his feet as Potter gave a cry of shock; the bottle of Lobalug venom that had been sitting placidly on the shelf above Potter’s sweater had been dislodged from the jumping movement of his cauldron, and the bottle had broken over the article of clothing. The fabric was now darkening and twisting in upon itself like a piece of paper set on fire.

Severus whipped out his wand, muttering a steady stream of all the protection, resistance enhancement, and acid-shielding charms that he knew, as well as attempting to Summon the venom from the fabric back into the bottle, which he had instantly repaired, but it was all to no avail; the sweater was now a blackened, mangled mess, and a small patch of the shelf below it looked as if someone had spilled ink onto it, if ink could corrode wood, that is.

The cauldron made to jump for the third time, and Severus jabbed his wand at it to freeze it. He and Potter both stared at what remained of the sweater until the boy finally spoke.

“…Sorry for wasting up the whole bottle of…whatever that was, sir,” he said dully, not looking at Severus, who resisted the urge to declare the incredulousness he felt at Potter’s subdued words.

“It was no fault of yours that made the Lobalug venom fall,” Severus instead told him firmly. He levitated up the empty bottle and Scourgified it of the remaining venom before setting it down on the shelf again. “But you would do better to keep your clothes in a safer place while working with possibly corrosive ingredients and solutions,” he added dryly. “That sweater is now safe to touch but completely beyond repair.”

Potter picked up the  mess of blackened fabric, looking almost mournfully at it. “It was my favourite sweater—my only sweater, really,” the boy sighed quietly, turning it over in his hands. “Well, except for the ones Mrs. Weasley sends me every Christmas, but I’d look like a bit of a narcissist if I went around wearing a sweater with the first letter of my name on it, wouldn’t I?”

“Indeed…” Severus was doing some quick thinking, and in the time that it took for Potter to dispose of the remnants of the sweater, he had come to a sudden conclusion.

“Prepare yourself to leave,” he told the boy, who blinked in surprise as Severus strode past him, out of the office, Summoning his overcoat as he went.

Potter scrambled after him, a puzzled expression on his face. “Er—to where, sir? What about my energizing potion?”

“To a Muggle shopping centre. You have worn those old hand-me-downs for long enough. Your potion is currently frozen, and it will stay as it currently is, until I unfreeze it.”

They had reached the front door. Severus checked for his wallet in his overcoat and his trouser pockets before resorting to Summoning it while Potter dithered nervously.

“But I haven’t any Muggle money, sir—unless ATMs can convert galleons and sickles into pounds—and what if we’re recognized? Well, I guess Voldemort wouldn’t be hiding in a clothing store because he’s gone now, but it seems like anything is possible—”

Severus aimed his wand at Potter’s face, but the boy jumped out of the way with a yelp. “Professor!”

“I am going to cast a glamour over first you and then myself to change our appearances slightly,” he said impassively. “And do not trouble yourself over the money; I will be paying.” He muttered a few incantations under his breath, and Potter’s hair instantly turned a dull-blonde, and his nose lengthened slightly. His scar did not disappear entirely, but it faded until it was almost undetectable unless someone squinted hard at it. Severus turned his wand on himself, changing his black eyes into a watery blue shade, and his overall facial structure grew more squarish and boxy as his hair sprouted streaks of grey and parted on the right side of his head.

“Woah…” Potter breathed, looking intently at Severus’s new face, his eyes widening before he seemed to realize something, and he backed away, wary again. “Wait, why are you doing this, sir? You’ve already gotten me these glasses, and you didn’t let me pay for them either.”

“I got you those glasses to decrease the chance of you misreading the instructions I give you and possibly creating a toxic chemical reaction that might kill us both by accident.”

“Okay, so I needed the glasses! But my clothes are fine…They’re just not the right size, that’s all,” Potter insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Would it reassure you if I told you that my only motivation is to see you dressed in something less ragged?” Severus arched an eyebrow at Potter’s faded shirt and baggy trousers. The boy’s face reddened faintly as he scowled at the Potions master. “You have the appearance of a hooligan.”

“Alright, alright…”

Severus opened the door, and they exited the house for the street. The dingy neighbourhood was quiet under the warm sun of the early afternoon, and they saw not another soul as they walked until they passed the edge of the Severus’ wards. Potter shivered as the magical barrier washed over them with a faint hum.

“Hold tightly to my arm.” Severus held out his arm to Potter, who stared at the proffered limb in bewilderment. The Potions master stopped himself from rolling his eyes before adding, “We will be travelling by Apparition, which is, to use a Muggle term, like ‘teleportation’. It allows of-age magic-folk to Apparate to locations that they have visited in person. As you are not yet of age and without an Apparition license, I am taking you by side-along Apparition. Do not let go of my arm, lest you wish to be Splinched. Splinching is the accidental loss of limbs or other body parts during faulty Apparition.”

Potter paled significantly, shuddering with a grimace, and he gripped Severus’ arm tightly with both hands. With a faint pop, they Disapparated.

Severus had been used to the unpleasant sensation that accompanied Apparition for years, but Potter looked as if he was struggling to keep himself from vomiting all over the small alley that they had Apparated into.

“I-I’m fine,” he muttered after a few seconds spent doubled-over and clutching his stomach.

They left the alley for the shopping mall on the other side of the road. It was a grand building of impressive glass display-cases, colourful walls lined with posters and advertisements, and linoleum tiled flooring in a checkerboard of black and white. As it was the late morning on a weekday, it was not overly crowded, but there was still a steady trickle of shoppers heading in and out of the entrance. Severus had visited it a few times to browse the bookstore on the third floor in search for more muggle novels to add to his collection, so he had only seen the fronts of the many clothing shops.

Potter followed Severus closely, constantly turning and twisting around to get a better look at everything as they ascended to the second floor on a crowded escalator.

“I’ve never been shopping in a Mugg—er, in a shopping centre like this before,” he admitted to Severus when the man had asked him what store he would prefer to buy from, “so I’ve really no idea…I’ll be fine with anything, sir.”

Upon reaching the second floor, which was filled with clothing stores galore, they went into the first shop that they saw. Potter picked out a few things and protested when Severus insisted that he choose a jacket, raincoat, and gloves along with the sweaters and shirts that the boy had already decided on. Eventually Potter relented, although he grumbled all the way to the register.

“Do not worry yourself about the money,” Severus said impatiently when Potter blanched upon reading the price written on the receipt after they had left the shop with Potter’s purchases packed neatly into two bags.

“But it’s so much stuff…and it’s so expensive,” the boy muttered ruefully. He shifted the bag in his arms around, peering in at the items. “Can you at least let me pay you back in mag—um, in other money?”

“Absolutely not.” Severus tried to steer Potter into a shoe store, but he found him standing stock still, now glowering at Severus over the top of his shopping bag.

Cursing internally with his patience beginning to run thin, the Potions master seized the boy’s arm and dragged him not-so-gently into the shop, out of the way of the other mall-goers. Immediately, an overeager employee started to approach them, but one dark glare from Severus sent the young man back-pedalling.

“Explain your childish behaviour this instant,” Severus demanded, looking coldly down at the boy, who was still glaring at him. Damn it, I should’ve changed his eye colour. He was reminding Severus of Lily far too much in the moment for Severus’ comfort.

“Why are you really buying all this stuff for me? Don’t lie to me, sir—I don’t think you really care if I dress like a hooligan. There’s got to be some other reason.”

Severus did his utmost best to keep his temper from getting to him as he gritted out, “I am your guardian, temporary or not, and contrary to what you have previously experienced, guardians provide things called clothes to their wards. Your old clothes are several sizes too large for you and threadbare in multiple places.”

“I’ve got clothes now. What’re we doing in a shoe shop?” Potter asked petulantly with an infuriating glance around at the shelves of sneakers and trainers surrounding them.

Breathe… If you strangle him, the Muggle police will be involved…Breathe deeply…You do not want to be known as the man who strangled the Boy Who Lived… Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did. “You need new shoes as well. It is my responsibility to get you things you need. That is all.”

“What, so if I needed a yacht, you’d get me one?”

It was as if the brat was trying to push Severus’ temper to the boiling point on purpose, and it was working extremely well.

Severus wanted nothing more than to have the shouting match that Potter seemed so desperate for, but a shoe store in a Muggle shopping mall was definitely not the appropriate place for such a thing. For one, there would be too many witnesses if he really did decide to strangle Potter, and for another, it would be embarrassing.

“We are not having this discussion here,” Severus hissed, looking around. The same employee had been watching curiously from the other side of the store, all the while sidling closer. Severus glowered at the man.

He stalked out of the store, not bothering to check if Potter was following him, and into a shadowy corner of the mall nearby that other shoppers were avoiding. Severus had already set multiple charms to deter curious muggles and deafen eavesdroppers, including his own Muffliato, by the time Potter caught up.

“I have impressed upon you multiple times by now the fact that, because I am your guardian, I will get you the things that you need, so what is it that drives you to such aggravating behaviour?” Severus growled, folding his arms across his chest. “Potter, why do you aim to provoke me unnecessarily? You are more mature than this, I am sure of that. Or are you trying to prove that you are more of a childish brat than I have come to expect?”

Potter stared daggers back at Severus, but he seemed to have been rendered speechless for a moment. The shopping bag he had been holding was down at his feet.

Suddenly, he exploded with both words and movement; pacing frustratedly around the dimly lit corner, he gestured wildly with his hands as he blurted out, “I-I just don’t get it—WHY is it you who cares so much? The first thing you did when you saw me at the welcoming feast in my first year was scowl at me, and then in my first class with you, you said some rubbish like, ‘Fame isn’t everything, Potter,’ while I was just trying to take notes! You hate me—or at least, you hated me before, so why do you even pretend to care now?

What, is it so you can take it all away eventually when I mess up in Defence, maybe accidentally blow up your office in another Potions accident, or—or anything! Why do you care? Not even the Dursleys cared! Why—why didn’t my aunt and uncle—”  Potter fell silent. He stopped his pacing, staring at the floor as his thin frame trembled.

The tension that stretched out into the silence that followed was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife, and Severus did nothing to dissipate it. He only waited expectantly for Potter to be the first to speak again.

Eventually, Potter muttered, “Sorry, Professor.”

“You idiotic child,” Severus said simply. Then he did something he would never have imagined himself doing voluntarily—He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Potter flinched slightly, as he always did when he was touched, but after a moment, he seemed to relax; his posture became less stiff, and he leaned into Severus’ hand slightly.

Never before had the Potions master done something so gentle, and he would have instantly regretted his action were it not for the change in Potter’s demeanour. It seemed that that touch was what he needed to calm down.

“Your aunt and uncle are disgusting examples of some of the worst in humanity,” Severus told the boy quietly, his muted tone hiding the anger that burned in him at even the thought of the Dursley family. “Whatever they feel towards you is no fault of yours.” Severus paused to consider his next words before continuing, “I am not going to act as they do.”

Potter finally looked up at Severus. His green eyes, ever familiar on his glamoured face, were filled with such a clear want to believe the man’s words, but there was something distrustful and wary still lingering in their depths.

Severus let his hand fall from Potter’s shoulder, and he ran his other through his grey-streaked hair with a regretful sigh, leaning back against the wall. “I may be your least favourite teacher, and you are still the most insufferable child I have ever had the displeasure of ensuring the health and safety of, but I am your guardian for the summer, and guardians do not abuse their wards.”

“I-I never said that you would!” Potter spluttered, paling slightly. “It’s just—”

Severus continued as if the boy had not spoken. “I am also not going to ‘take it all away’, as you put it. Depriving teenagers of their newly purchased clothing is not a beloved past-time of mine.”

Potter squinted at Severus as if he was struggling to decide whether the man was being serious or not. “I feel so very reassured,” he said dryly.

“Drop that attitude,” Severus replied shortly but without any sharpness in his tone. “I believe that we have spent long enough in this corner. Are you going to continue to fight me tooth and nail while I drag you to that shoe shop, or will you come quietly?”

Potter boldly responded by way of a roll of his eyes, picking up the shopping bags as he did, and he led the way back into the rest of the mall. They made a swift purchase of a pair of trainers for Potter, the same employee from earlier eyeing them suspiciously all the while, before stopping at the foodcourt for a lunch of sandwiches for the boy and a bun to go with Severus’ coffee.

Severus sipped at his drink, grimacing slightly at the taste; it was far too sweet for his liking. Potter was consuming his sandwich with great enthusiasm.

“I suspect that after a few more days, you will no longer have need for your nutritive supplements,” Severus commented, sliding a vial across the table at Potter, who downed it without hesitation and with only a slight wrinkle of his nose to show his distaste for the potion.

“I’ll be glad of that,” Potter admitted as Severus tucked the empty vial into his pocket. “Er—thanks for giving me with that stuff, sir. I know that it’s your job as my guardian, but really, I would’ve gotten my appetite back anyways; I always do after a few weeks back at school. You chose to make it easier for me, so—so thanks for that.”

“Any other competent adult in the same position as I would have done the same,” said Severus dismissively. He was beginning to feel the prickles of discomfort in the back of his mind, and despite his efforts to ground himself, he was becoming distracted by his thoughts. A month ago, you would have had him scrubbing cauldrons for that irritating eye-roll alone. Severus Snape, you are truly becoming soft. With a flash of anger, he was reminded of words written in Dumbledore’s slanted hand: I find it truly inspiring to hear of how much you are beginning to truly care for your ward.

He stood abruptly, gripping his cup of coffee with white-knuckled fingers, casting a quick glance at his watch. 1:24. “Our glamours will wear off soon, and we have already stayed here long enough.”

Behind Severus, he heard Potter scrambling to his feet, the paper of the bags rustling in his arms as he hurried after the Potions master, but he did not bother to look back. He had been far too charitable this afternoon, and as they headed towards the entrance of the mall, to the cramped alley that they had arrived in, Severus was reinforcing the steel walls around his heart and mind with cold efficiency.

By the time Potter had settled himself on the living room sofa with his homework (they had given up on Potions for the day), their glamours had worn off, and Severus was about the enter his office again when Potter made to speak.

He turned to Potter with his head tilted questioningly, and the boy immediately turned a delicate shade of red.

“It’s nothing, Professor,” he said hurriedly, but as Severus locked eyes with him, the Potions master deliberately brushed along the surface of Potter’s mind, so lightly that Potter would not notice, and he immediately regretted it. I thought he was going to—no, don’t be stupid—to stay—you idiot—stay and read like before—

Severus nodded stiffly and turned to his office, shutting the door behind him with a nonverbal spell. After muttering a Silencing charm, he sat down in his chair, propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands before swearing loudly for the second time that day.

Good Godric, he thought bitterly, what am I doing?

Chapter Text

After over two weeks had passed since he had been on his Firebolt (he’d ridden it at his birthday party in a quick game of three-a-side Quidditch with Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny), Harry was itching to get in the air again.

He had finished most of his homework already, more than he usually would have been able to get done at this point in the summer break, and the mind-numbing act of opening a textbook, reading the necessary chapters, and writing down the answers was starting to get to him.

It wasn’t that Harry thought that Snape would snarl at him for asking to go flying—that seemed rather uncharacteristic of him now for some inexplicable reason— but the man had been so distant as of late that Harry wondered if he’d ever get a chance to ask. During lessons, Harry was always distracted with learning the new material or preventing his cauldron from imploding, and during meals, Snape would hide himself behind a Daily Prophet and pretend that Harry didn’t exist. In all the hours between, the man was inside his office doing who knows what, and when Harry went to knock, he sensed layers upon layers of do-not-disturb and Silencing wards on the door. He decided that he didn’t want to know what Snape would do if he was disturbed when Harry was not in mortal danger.

Snape’s new behaviour gave Harry a strange ache inside of him that he didn’t quite understand. He had thought that perhaps after all that had happened since he had first stumbled out of Snape’s fireplace, he might see more of the Professor, but it wasn’t as if he was expecting the man to be reading him bedtime stories every night. He just thought that Snape’s sudden avoidance was odd; that was all. It didn’t bother him a single bit.

But there was only so much time without flying that Harry could take, so one Saturday morning, just after breakfast, Harry readied himself in the living room to ambush Snape, who was in the bathroom.

Strangely, he was feeling slightly nervous about it, despite all of the reaffirming thoughts he was deliberately thinking. I produced a corporeal Patronus when I was thirteen. I killed a basilisk when I was twelve. If I’ve done all that, I can definitely ask Snape if he’ll let me go flying. But what if he just—Stop it. That’s not going to help!

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Harry jumped to his feet as Snape immediately bee-lined for his office.

“Professor—!” Harry exclaimed loudly. For a horrible fraction of a second, he thought that Snape would completely ignore him, so it was a sigh of relief that he breathed when the Professor turned to face him.

“I was wondering if, um—if I could go flying, sir,” Harry continued hopefully. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as he waited on pins and needles for Snape’s answer. The man was regarding him with a closed off look, but the crease that was developing on his forehead betrayed some of hint of expression.

“You are aware that this is a muggle neighbourhood, Potter,” said Snape after a moment of silence. “It may not be very populated, but you would definitely be seen.”

It didn’t sound like Snape was saying no, so Harry pressed on, a tiny bubble of hope rising in his chest. He tried not to sound too eager as he replied, “Well, maybe if there’s a charm to make me and my broom invisible for a bit—”

But Snape was slowly shaking his head, frowning to himself. “There is the Disillusionment charm, but that could be too dangerous; you could incapacitate yourself, and I would be unable to find you before the charm wore off.” He fell silent again, brow furrowed.

Harry’s bubble popped. He couldn’t stop his shoulders hunching in disappointment, and he sat gloomily back down on the sofa again, propping his head up with a hand, his elbow digging into his knee.

The Potions master didn’t seem to notice, as he continued quietly, “However, I do know of an empty meadow that is off the beaten path enough so that Muggles rarely find it…and I am almost caught up with the stock of pain-relievers…” He seemed to have come to a final conclusion, for he turned to Harry. “Prepare to leave in five minutes. We will be Apparating.”

“Great! Thanks, Professor!”

Harry leaped out of the room, resisting the urge to laugh out loud with joy. He was up the stairs in a few seconds, and he burst into his room, startling Hedwig, who hooted reproachfully at him from the top of the bookshelf as he unbuckled his Firebolt from his trunk.

“Be good, alright, girl?” He reached up so she could nibble his finger as a goodbye before racing out of the room again.

Snape was waiting at the open front door when Harry rushed down the stairs towards him. He was dressed in a grey linen shirt and black slacks, having abandoned his robes as he always did on rest days, and looked perfectly Muggle. Harry, who was wearing a new red sweater and brown trousers, always looked like a Muggle, so Snape’s shrewd glance up and down his outfit was entirely unnecessary.

They left the house, Harry determinedly not skipping every other step despite the elation inside him that made his heart soar. He could practically feel his broomstick thrumming with the happy pulse of his natural magic.

Not even the discomforting sensation of being squeezed through a narrow tube, known as Apparition, could curb Harry’s enthusiasm; the moment they appeared, he straightened up, willing his stomach to stop churning horribly, and was about to throw a leg over his broom when Snape suddenly grabbed his shoulder.

“Not so fast,” he said sternly, frowning at Harry, who had flinched in shock, all of the wild energy draining out of him like water through a sieve. Snape began muttering enchantments under his breath as he waved his wand in wide, arcing movements.

Harry took the opportunity to take in their surroundings, and he almost gasped at what he saw; they were standing on a great, hilly meadow that rose and fell into the far horizon, where the purple-grey peaks of jagged mountains broke the clear blue of the sky. On the other end, Harry could stand on his tiptoes to see the outskirts of the town, and he wondered vaguely which grey neighbourhood there had they Disapparated from.

There were groves of birch trees nearby, their silver branches swaying slightly with the summer breeze, as well as a single oak tree that towered over the top of the hill. Harry waded through the knee-high, sun-yellowed grass, holding his Firebolt carefully so as to not drag its tail against the stalks, to step into the shadow of the oak, and, leaning back, he could see the crown of the tree far above him through a tangle of thick brown branches.

There was the sound of rustling grass behind him; Snape was making his way over to Harry.

“I have set up anti-muggle wards all around this hilltop,” he said, fishing a book out of his pocket. “It is unlikely that any will approach, but it is possible.” He transfigured a nearby twig into an armchair and sat down in it with his book propped up against his knee. “Do not attempt anything that may result in your bones being broken, and if you feel nauseous, sun-burnt, dizzy, or feverish, get down at once.”

“Yessir,” said Harry quickly, so eager in his desire to fly that he would have agreed to sell his left kidney to Snape if it meant that he could get into the air faster..

Snape sighed. “Go on, then.” He dismissed Harry with a wave of his hand, turning his gaze to his book.

Harry took a running start from the cool shadow of the oak, the lush grass lashing against his legs as he ran until, with a last burst of energy, he reached the sunlight where he jumped onto his broom and shot up, up, up into the bright sky with a loud whoop of exhilaration.

The wind was whistling through his hair, whipping it mischievously around his face, and the sun was warming his skin with a golden touch. Harry hadn’t felt so free for so long.

Underneath him, the hills faded into a mounded sheet of rippling gold-green-brown, and Harry could see a small brook flashing and shining in the sun as it wound its way between the fields and pastures. He did a loop around the top of the oak tree, daring to brush his fingers along the rich green leaves as he urged the Firebolt faster and faster, and then he peeled away to dive down along the top of the hill, slowing slightly so that the grass touched his heels as he zipped around the fields.

Harry managed to pluck a daisy as he flew past a patch of wildflowers, and he slipped it behind his ear with a grin as he remembered Ron and Hermione sticking dandelions into his hair on his birthday.

How’d Snape come to know a place like this? he wondered idly, soaring up into the air again. The mental image of the Professor skipping through the meadow with a flower crown and his signature scowl sprouted in Harry’s mind, and he laughed aloud with the absurdity of it.

Although he hadn’t had practice with complicated flying manoeuvres since the school term had ended, Harry managed a few consecutive loop-the-loops, a spiralling nose-dive, and an almost-perfect ninety degree turn that had made his head spin.

He was beginning to really feel the heat that bore down oppressively from the afternoon sun above, so he tied his sweater around his waist, feeling very thankful that he was wearing a white T-shirt underneath, and zipped downwards to glide lazily above the hill where the cool gusts of wind carried the delightful smell of fresh ferns and pine needles from the forests in the distance.

———

Severus had read barely a page of his book in the first half-hour of Potter’s flight.

As the boy dove and rose, soared and glided, twisted and turned above the hill, Severus watched with bated breath each time the reckless brat performed yet another bold move, and his heart would skip a beat whenever Potter did a particularly steep dive towards the ground. The Potions master would tense up, aiming his wand at the boy and his broomstick, a slow-falling charm or a levitation spell on his tongue, until Potter pulled out of the manoeuvre with a yell of pure joy, and Severus slumped against the back of his chair again, cursing internally.

He had never liked the thought of flying, and his first experience with a magical broomstick did nothing to dissuade his distaste for the sport, and of course, as the Head of Slytherin House, Severus was forced to attend the school Quidditch matches, plastering a smirk onto his face whenever the green-clad team of snakes scored, when really, he wanted to be back in his dungeon, browsing through a book with a cup of tea.

But when Potter let out that first whoop of happiness, Severus begrudgingly recognized that perhaps the sport was good for something other than the unnecessary breakage of bones as he watched the boy soar through the flashes of sky visible through the boughs of the oak tree, though he would rather drown himself in his own cauldron than reveal that to anybody.

Against Severus’ better judgement, his own mood brightened slightly as he listened to the sound of Potter’s clear, blissful laughter above the tree. It was pleasantly cool beneath the oak, and the magnificent view of the hills and woods surrounding them would have warmed even the most sullen of souls.

Perhaps this frivolous outing was what both of them needed after so long in the house, gruelling over defensive charms or bubbling cauldrons and pretending that neither cared—

With a slight shake of his head, Severus frowned to himself. He stared at his open book without reading a single word as unwelcome thoughts trailed through his head. Look at you, Severus, regretting your neglect of the boy so much that you take him flying. You are pleased that he is happy again. Whatever happened to your reputation as the most feared teacher at Hogwarts?

No, he had not been neglecting Potter, but he was determined that when it was time for the boy to return to Hogwarts with to his friends, they would still be nothing but a bitter Professor and his least favourite student. If they were anything but that, it would not only compromise Severus’ position as Dumbledore’s secret spy in the case that the Dark Lord returned, but it would also be mortifying. Only keeping distance from the boy would ensure the best result for all involved.

Yet Severus could not help but feel less disdain towards Potter than he originally had felt at the start of the summer, and it was both perplexing and disturbing to look at the son of James Potter and feel anything other than malevolence or spite.

It is only because of the absence of those memories that I feel differently, Severus reasoned to himself with a slight frown. There is nothing more to it than that. Then he remembered that it was a weekend—he never put his memories away on weekends or rest days—This can’t be it…I still hate the boy, don’t I?

Severus tried to tap into the well of hostility that he always specially reserved for the brat, tried to pull up some of his usual contempt or seething hatred for Potter, but to his surprise, he found only a prickle of annoyance and mild indifference.

Damn it. It was easier before Potter had that nightmare about his brute of an uncle…

Now Potter had returned to skimming the top of the hill, brushing the grass with the tips of his fingers, and, feeling too weary and confused to think on the matter any further, Severus finally deemed it safe enough for him to start properly reading his book, hoping that it would distract him from his whirling thoughts.

———

Harry’s skin on his face and arms was tingling slightly when he finally glided to a smooth stop in front of Snape at the foot of the oak tree; he knew that he’d been in the sun for far too long, but he didn’t care. For a few blissful hours, the thrill of flying had driven every single plight and worry from his mind, and that was worth a faint sunburn.

One glance at Harry had Snape striding over to him, his faced creased with frustration as he grabbed Harry and pressed a palm to his forehead for a moment. Harry stiffened at the unfamiliar touch.

“Foolish boy, you’re as pink as a boiled shrimp,” Snape muttered. He pulled out a tin of something from his pocket, and Harry took the opportunity to sidle out of the man’s reach.

“Really, Professor, I’m fine—I’ve been burned loads of times, but I’m always alright after a few hours,” he assured Snape, who scowled at him. “A bit of sun won’t kill me.”

Snape took a step forward, and Harry took a step back, wondering how mad Snape might be if he tried flying away on his Firebolt.

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Snape held out the tin so that Harry could clearly see that it was labelled Sun-burn Relief. “This is a balm that will prevent further skin irritation,” he said slowly and deliberately. “I am going to apply it to your face because you are unable to see what parts of your face that you may miss during application. Are you in agreement with this next course of action, or must I put you in a full body-bind?”

“Okay, fine—I’m in agreement, sir,” Harry sighed, and Snape approached him with a smear of the slightly-translucent balm on his thin fingers.

Harry stood stock still, bracing himself with his eyes shut tight, but he found himself relaxing slightly under Snape’s unexpectedly light touch; the Potions master worked efficiently yet gently as he wiped the mint-scented ointment onto Harry’s face. The balm was cool and soothing on Harry’s skin, and he sighed at the relief.

“Why do you always insist upon resisting aid that is offered to you freely?” Snape asked quietly. Out of surprise, Harry blinked open his eyes to glance warily at the Professor, whose brow was furrowed in concentration.

“I guess…I’m just not used to used to being offered it, sir?” He closed his eyes again as Snape dabbed some more ointment onto his forehead. “Well, unless it’s Madam Pomfrey, but that’s ‘cause it’s her job, and usually when I end up in her hospital wing, I need her help pretty badly.”

“And outside of Hogwarts?”

Harry shrugged, fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater. “Like I said before, I heal up from sun-burns pretty fast, sir, and burns in general.”

“A wizard’s natural magic often makes up for what they do not have available to them; for you, it is apparently medical attention.” There was a slight sharpness in Snape’s tone, but it seemed that it wasn’t directed at Harry, so he didn’t tense up as he usually would have. “You have  been burned before?”

“Yeah—yes, sir. Had an accident with the stove top.” That sounded normal, right? Loads of kids accidentally burn themselves in stupid ways. A stove top isn’t anything out of the usual. Harry neglected to elaborate on the fact that he had been six at the time and cooking breakfast for the Dursleys.

Snape seemed to sense that he was leaving something out, but the man didn’t press him any further, which Harry was secretly grateful for. He didn’t need the Potions master pitying him.

Once Snape was satisfied with his application of the balm, he handed the tin to Harry, who busied himself with spreading the stuff over his arms as Snape undid the anti-muggle wards around them.

They Apparated outside of the wards around Snape’s house, reappearing with the usual quiet pop. Harry was still not yet used to the whole ordeal, and it was on wobbly legs that he followed after the Potions master while holding his broomstick as inconspicuously as possible, just in case a Muggle was watching.

“Professor, you said that Apparating only works if you’ve been somewhere in person—so have you been to that meadow before?” Harry asked as they reached the derelict yet familiar neighbourhood. He squashed down the thought of Snape skipping on the hilltop that kept trying to return to his mind, along with a huff of laughter.

Snape was silent for a while, his expression unreadable, before he finally replied, “In my childhood, I visited it once with a friend and her mother. It was in the summer.”

Harry tried to imagine what Snape might have looked like in his youth, but that was as difficult as trying to picture a young Dumbledore. He was still struggling with it when they had reached the house.

———

“Your lavender is not nearly as finely cut as it should be,” Snape remarked critically from his desk without looking up.

It was Tuesday, which meant potions, which meant that Harry was stuck chopping, dicing, slicing, stirring, extracting, pouring, and measuring in Snape’s office while the Professor did his own work at his desk.

Harry managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he continued his cutting of the stalks of lavender, making sure that they were closer to Snape’s high standards this time. His potion was going fairly well for his second attempt of the day—he had put far too much peppermint oil in on his first try, and his nose itched from just thinking about it—and he was hoping that it would be his last.

It had been disappointing to return to Defence and Potions as usual after that exhilarating Sunday on his broom, but at least he and Snape had settled into a strange state of cease-fire; the Potions master only occasionally implied that Harry’s intelligence was that of a snail’s, and Harry stopped trying to provoke Snape into punishing him. Still, he sometimes found himself wondering when he would do something wrong, and then it would all come crashing down, so perhaps it might be best if he just got into real trouble on purpose because at least it would happen on his own terms.

Harry swept the pile of cut lavender into his potion, which slowly turned a baby-blue colour, to his great relief. That colour, as well as the relaxing fumes wafting up from the cauldron, signified that his Calming draught was almost complete.

Three stirs counter-clockwise…wait thirty seconds for final colour change…

Harry paused, waiting with bated breath as his glasses fogged up slightly from the steam, until at last his potion deepened into the rich azure hue it was supposed to be. Carefully, he ladled some into a vial and hurried over to Snape’s desk to hand it over for inspection.

The Potions master held it up to the light for a moment before he stated simply, “Acceptable. In fact, it is of slightly higher quality than the messes that you usually create.”

“Thanks, Professor,” said Harry, chancing a small grin at Snape, who looked impassively back. “Could I start early on the Shrinking solution, sir?”

“You surprise me, Potter; I never would have imagined a time where you request permission to begin brewing a potion before it is necessary. And the answer is no. Go write a letter to your friends or do whatever other frivolous things you do to amuse yourself.”

“I did that yesterday, and I’m still waiting for an answer, sir…I don’t have anything else to do.” Harry returned to his cauldron and began transferring the potion into a large bottle.

Snape narrowed his dark eyes at Harry. “Do you mean to tell me that you have already completed all of your schoolwork? That is the second surprise of the morning. Perhaps you shall demonstrate your hidden skill for opera singing next,” he said sarcastically.

“But I’ve only got my Transfiguration and Potions essays to finish, Professor,” Harry protested. “Wait—could I do some baking?”

Although Harry didn’t exactly have a sweet tooth, he had been wanting to have something sugary for a while, but he would rather have thrown his Firebolt into a vat of Lobalug venom than ask Snape to make such a thing.

The Potions master paused as if taking the time to process Harry’s words. “Baking, Potter?”

Harry shrugged. “But I don’t know if you’ve got any icing sugar or cake flour, so I guess that’s out of the question,” he sighed.

He stoppered up the bottle of Calming draught and held it out in the palm of his hand. Snape summoned it nonverbally across the room before placing it on the shelf next to his desk to join the rest of the potions Harry had managed to brew.

“Then we shall go buy the ingredients you need.”

———

If somebody had told eleven year old, fresh into Hogwarts Harry that in a few years he would be in a grocery store scanning the isles for cake flour and vanilla extract with Snape at his side, he would have thought that they had lost their minds. Even now as they waited awkwardly for the cashier to ring up their purchases, Harry still could hardly believe that what he was experiencing was real and not just some wild dream.

“I am putting a degree of trust in you to not ruin my kitchen,” Snape had told Harry firmly before he retreated into his office again. “Do not prove me wrong or you will be brewing nothing but leech-pickling solution for the rest of your Potions lessons. I am likely going to be busy in my office until the early evening, and when I enter this room again, it had better be whole and not on fire.”

As if I’d be so clueless as to do that, Harry thought exasperatedly as he vigorously whisked together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.

Cooking for the Dursleys was never enjoyable—nothing to do with them was anything close to even tolerable—but Harry always felt a tiny spark of pride at his ability to cook and bake almost anything if he had a recipe for it; pies, roasts, broths, soups, tarts, cakes, and even a beef wellington that Aunt Petunia had demanded of him for one of Uncle Vernon’s work parties. He had been working in a kitchen since he was old enough to reach the countertops.

The kitchen was soon filled with the delicious smell of the vanilla cupcakes, and Harry sighed contentedly as he pulled the tray out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool while he mixed the icing. On a whim, Harry decided to separate the finished icing into multiple bowls, each for a different colour; he had something rather artistic in mind.

He only hoped that Snape wouldn’t take it too seriously.

There were no mishaps or shake-ups until Hedwig somehow got out of Harry’s room and into the kitchen, where he spent a while trying to get her out before she put her foot in the icing on accident. Eventually, he succeeded, and he carried the disgruntled bird back upstairs, firmly shutting the door after her.

At last, Harry set the finished cupcakes decorated in colourful icing with a few sprinkles to match on the dining table, the pleasant sensation of satisfaction and pride at his work warming him all over. Sure, some of the faces were a bit crooked, and not everybody got the privilege of eyebrows, but it wasn’t too bad, and at least they’d all taste the same. It was much nicer baking than he’d ever done at the Dursleys; there was nobody shouting at him here, and the sponge and dish soap were happy to oblige when he’d carried over the pile of batter-stained bowls and measuring utensils to the sink.

Now, to wait. For some inexplicable reason that he chose to stubbornly ignore, Harry hoped that Snape could be lured out of his office for a cupcake or two.

He definitely didn’t care if Snape liked his handiwork or not. Not a single bit.

After just a little while, Harry heard the sound of footsteps, and in the next moment, the Professor entered the kitchen, his eyes scouring the room before finally landing on Harry and the plate of cupcakes.

“You’ve finished your work early, Professor?” Harry asked innocently.

Snape ignored his question and picked up the cupcake that had a pale face, head of dark hair, and black dots of icing for eyes. “Am I to believe that this was made in my visage?”

“Yes, sir—all of my Professors get to be a cupcake. I was going to do one with Fang on it, to match with Hagrid’s,” he gestured at a cupcake with a bearded blob of icing on it, “but I ran out of brown, so I decided to do Professor Dumbledore instead.”

Slowly, Snape bit into his cupcake, and Harry, upon realizing that he had been staring at Snape for the man’s reaction, hurriedly took a bite of his own. It was soft and fluffy, and the icing managed to be sweet without being also overly tooth-rotting.

“Not terrible,” said Snape after he had finished it. “Where did you learn to bake like this?”

“Dursleys’. Whenever there was a school bake sale or some work gathering for Uncle Vernon, I had to get busy.” Harry spoke as nonchalantly as he could, but his hand shook slightly as he reached for a cupcake with a vaguely Professor McGonagall-ish face of icing on it. “And I wasn’t lying when I said that I could make my own breakfast, sir! I’ve done an English breakfast every Sunday for the Dursleys since—” He cut himself off and stuffed the entire cupcake in his mouth, looking away from Snape, who suddenly seemed far too intrigued.

“Since when, Potter?”

Harry chewed for as long as he could, annoyed at himself, before swallowing to mutter at the table, “Since I was six, I think. I won’t burn down your kitchen, sir.”

“Yes, I see that now.” Snape leaned forwards slightly, his arms crossed on the table, and eyes narrowed slightly. “I find your wording interesting. ‘For the Dursleys’.”

With a scowl, Harry looked up at Snape. The man was doing the Awkward-Silence tactic to make Harry elaborate, complete with stony face and interrogation posture, and, unfortunately for Harry, it was working as well as it usually did; he could practically feel the words climbing up his throat and onto his tongue until he couldn’t hold them back any longer.

“I wasn’t allowed to have any of it, sir,” he blurted out quickly. “The English breakfast, I mean—it’s not like they starved me; I’d get a bit of toast and cheese.”

When Snape spoke again, his voice was low and dangerous, but nothing in his face, even in his coal-black eyes, betrayed any other sign of emotion. “And your other meals…?”

Harry glanced at the bookshelves around him, which had started to shudder slightly from the Professor’s natural magic, and back to Snape before he replied nervously, “Lunch was ‘bout the same thing. Sometimes, when I got all my chores done and Aunt Petunia was satisfied with what I’d done or my Uncle had a good day at work, I’d get a bit of their dinner. Professor, really, it’s fine—I survived my first eleven years, so I can get through the rest of my summers with them ’til I’m of age.”

“Yes, you have so far succeeded in the impressive feat of surviving your relatives. I am sure that that is entirely unconcerning and completely normal,” Snape hissed. Harry flinched involuntarily, and at once, the thrum of Snape’s magic stopped; the bookshelves fell still. The Potions master looked as if he was either ill or about to yell.

“That’s just how it is, sir,” said Harry warily. “Dumbledore says I’ve got to stay with them every summer, at least for the first couple of weeks, and I will. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go—I don’t want to leech off of the Weasleys every break.”

Silence reigned for a few moments, then Snape stood abruptly from his chair.

“I must return to my work, now,” he said stiffly. Before he left the kitchen, he added off-handedly, “…Your baking skills far surpass what I would expect from a boy of your age.”

Harry stared after the Potions master, his mind in a whirl. Why does Snape ask about the Dursleys, then just leave so suddenly? And did he just give me a compliment? Feeling slightly bewildered yet pleased at the same time, Harry covered the plate of cupcakes in a dish and put them into the refrigerator for later before he went upstairs to start on his Potions essay.

Chapter Text

Stretching his arms tiredly, Harry glanced at the clock resting on Snape’s desk. He had been practicing Transfiguring rocks into different kinds of metals since lunch, and it was now ten past four.

As it was a Thursday, the schedule declared that it was a Defence day, but Harry had worked through so many of the spells on Snape’s list that he had been assigned Charms and Transfiguration work just to keep him busy while Snape tended to his greenhouse in the backyard. 

Harry concentrated as hard as he could, muttering the incantation while performing the complicated wand movement, but the pebble sitting on the table in front of him remained stubbornly as it was.

“Oh, c’mon,” he sighed at it, picking up the pebble and tapping it on the table in his frustration. “Turning granite into gold wasn’t this hard!”

“Talking to inanimate objects, are we, Potter?”

Harry jumped, startled, as Snape entered the office in a brisk walk, waving his wand; a panel   in the corner of the room behind his desk slid aside to reveal a doorway.

“What’s in there, sir?” Harry asked curiously, leaning over to take a peek as Snape hurried into the room. It was dark inside, but he could make out the outlines of shelves upon shelves of jars, bottles, vases, boxes, and cases filled with what looked like Potion ingredients, although he didn’t recognize any of them.

The Potions master seemed to be checking for something amongst the shelves. “Rare and expensive ingredients. Some are sensitive to light, and others may shrivel at the slightest touch of cold, so they must be kept in a dark and stable environment.” He hurried out of the office without shutting up the storeroom, and Harry returned to what felt like his hundredth attempt at Transfiguring the pebble into a piece of silver.

After a few minutes, in which Harry somehow managed to turn the rock into an iron horseshoe, Snape rushed back into the office again with a jar full to the brim with a thick, yellow liquid, thumping it down onto the table Harry was working at.

“Find a space for this inside the storeroom,” he ordered hurriedly before summoning a much larger jar the size of his torso, grabbing a pair of dragon-hide gloves, and running out of the room again.

“A ‘please’ would’ve been nice,” Harry muttered to himself as he picked up the filled jar and heaved it into the darkness of the small room. The space beneath the shelves was crammed full of old boxes, rolled-up rugs, empty burlap sacks, and random balls of twine and rope, and almost all of the shelves were already so lined with bottles and jars that it looked as if one nudge would send a whole line of things crashing to the floor.

After a long while of squinting around in the darkness, Harry noticed a pile of boxes in the corner that looked as if they were solid enough to place the jar of strange liquid on. Something just behind the box was emitting a soft glow.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking. He put down the jar, looked around the boxes, and found a strange stone basin that seemed to be full of a milky light that moved constantly like smoke. It wasn’t very large or very heavy, as he discovered when he picked it up to place it on a less rickety box. If Harry looked into the mysterious light at a certain angle, he could see glimpses of what looked like the grounds around the lake at Hogwarts.

Curiosity seized Harry in a vice-like grip and wouldn’t let go; he hoped that Snape would run back into the office so that he could ask him about it, but something told him that the Potions master would be occupied with that massive jar in the greenhouse for a while…

The basin was practically calling to him, murmuring his name, and suffusing the shadowy storage room with a beautiful pattern of light…

Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.

As he moved without thinking of it, some part of Harry’s mind remarked, far too late, that he was making a terrible mistake, but he was already leaning down, shutting his eyes against the bright glow, and sinking headfirst into the basin.

———

His surroundings bloomed into being around him like splotches of watercolour paint on wet paper, the environment so vivid that Harry wondered if the basin was a portal to Hogwarts, at least until he saw what seemed to be fifth-year students milling lazily around the lake. A group of girls were wading in the shallows, laughing loudly, while others sprawled on the soft grass with bottles of pumpkin juice.

Nobody noticed Harry at all, which reminded him horribly of the time he had seen Riddle’s memory from his diary in second year.

But if this is a memory…then it must be Snape’s!

He looked around and immediately spotted a tall, thin, and pale boy with almost shoulder-length hair that could only be the fifteen year-old Professor.

Harry sidled up to young Snape, who was reading a scroll intently as he walked along the path from the castle down to the lake. It was bizarre seeing the Potions master’s facial features on a face that was distinctly not-Snape-like at all; without two decades worth of forehead creases and sharp lines around his mouth, and with a softer edge to his gaze, he looked like any other kid.

As they passed a group of boys lounging in the shade of a tree near the edge of the lake, one of them called out to Snape.

“Oi, Snivellus!”

Something about the voice was strangely familiar to Harry—He turned and stared at a roguish-looking boy who could only be his Godfather, Sirius Black. Sitting stock still against the trunk of the tree was a significantly less scarred and greying Remus Lupin and a baby-faced Peter Pettigrew. On Sirius’ other side was the younger version of a man that Harry had only ever seen in a photo album and an enchanted mirror…

Harry experienced confusion and delight in equal measures at the sight of James Potter, his father, for a split second before he realized what was going to happen. Snape whipped around with his wand pointed right at Sirius’ face, but before he could utter a spell, James cried “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew out of his hand in an arc, landing on the grass. Harry began to slowly back away, feeling sick to his stomach and wishing that he could stop the memory, but he was helpless to do nothing but watch as Snape toppled to the ground from an Impedimenta from Sirius.

By now, almost every student around was watching, a few with apprehension and most with amusement and interest. Many were edging closer for a better look.

“How’d the exam go, Snivelly?” asked James, flashing his white teeth in a smile that was more of a sneer as he and Sirius advanced on Snape.

“I was watching him, his nose was touching the parchment,” said Sirius viciously. “There’ll be great grease marks all over it, they won’t be able to read a word.”

As the people watching laughed, Snape made an attempt to get up, but the jinx was still operating on him; he was struggling, as though bound by invisible ropes.

“You—wait,” he panted, staring up at James with an expression of purest loathing, “you—wait!”

“Wait for what?” said Sirius coolly. “What’re you going to do, Snivellus, wipe your nose on us?”

Trying to ignore the sound of Snape swearing and the crowd’s mocking laughter, Harry looked around desperately for a way to leave the memory, but there was no conveniently placed lever or switch or turn-off button; he was stuck. It seemed that the only way out would be to wait for the memory to end, just like with Riddle’s diary.

Now Snape’s mouth was filling with pink bubbles of soap, and he shook his head wildly as if trying to spit out the foam while James, Sirius, and the other students, who had come near to watch, laughed as if the whole scene was a twisted comedy show. Harry wanted nothing more than to leave, vomit, or both at the same time.

But a girl was storming up from the lake, her fiery red hair shining coppery-gold in the afternoon, shouting, “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Harry was stared in shock as she stopped between Snape and the other boys, mind gone completely blank in bewilderment.

His mother was defending…Snape?

“All right, Evans?” James turned to her with one of his hands ruffling his hair in a way that he no doubt considered charming.

Lily regarded James with an expression of great dislike and disgust. If glares could burn, Harry’s father would have turned into a pile of ashes.

“Leave him alone,” she repeated. “What’s he done to you?”

“Well…it’s the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…”

Many of the surrounding students laughed, but Lupin seemed to be determined to focus on nothing but the book in his hand, and Lily only continued to glare coldly at James.

Harry’s heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he barely noticed what his mother said next. This can’t be real…My father wasn’t—he wasn’t—but there was no ignoring the truth; he had seen his Godfather insult Snape, completely unprovoked, before he and James attacked Snape two versus one.

I need to get out of here, Harry thought frantically. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough… He balled his hands into fists at his side, shutting his eyes tightly closed.

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid,” Lily snapped.

Harry tried to imagine the darkness of the store room enveloping him, and the musty smells of the shelves of potion ingredients. There was a flash of light, and he resisted the instinct to open his eyes—there was another flash, accompanied by roars and cheers of laughter.

He imagined the slight chill in the room, and the sensation of standing on a smooth floor instead of uneven turf.

“Let him down!”

“Certainly,” said James.

There was a flicker in the memory around Harry; the warm sun bathing him in light grew cold for a moment, and the sounds of the memory paused before resuming a second later. Now he knew that whatever he was doing must be working. He renewed his efforts, forcing himself to think of nothing but the dark, dusty storage room filled with forgotten boxes and precious ingredients.

“There you go. You’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus—”

“I don’t need—” the memory shifted again, more significantly this time “—help—from her!”

Harry wrenched his head out of the basin, gasping in shock, and stumbled backwards. He managed to catch himself before he collided with the shelf behind him, but his knees could barely support him. He sat shakily down on the floor, trying to process what he had witnessed.

If Snape found out that Harry had seen that—he would be out the door before he could apologize, if he was lucky. If he wasn’t…well, the Potions master hadn’t really punished him for anything yet, but despite all that Snape had said about caring about Harry’s health, Harry still couldn’t put it past the man to not curse him into a hundred pieces.

A horrible chill that was caused by something other than the coolness of the dark storage room crept up Harry’s spine and sank deeply into his flesh. He had really messed up this time.

He and Snape had been living together rather—well, not exactly amiably, but they had managed to co-exist in the same house and regularly in the same room without inevitably ending up in a shouting match—and Harry had just gone and thrown it all out the window by snooping into Snape’s hidden, do-not-touch-anything, and full of fragile stuff room while the Professor was occupied. Even worse, he had stumbled into seeing a horrible memory from the man’s youth, something that the man undoubtedly wanted to keep away, all because he couldn’t keep himself from looking at something that was none of his business.

No wonder Snape had stuffed that memory into some strange stone bowl and forgotten it in the storeroom.

Guilt coiled heavily in Harry’s stomach, and he shuddered as he stiffly got to his feet, hugging himself. There was no way he was going to tell Snape what he had done…The only option left would be to try to pretend that he hadn’t done anything at all and hope that Snape wouldn’t find out.

I never saw anything. I’ve been trying to Transfigure that pebble into silver this whole time. I don’t even know what this stupid basin is, Harry told himself firmly as he put the basin back where he had found it before he crept out of the storeroom and back in front of the table where his rocks and metals still stood. By now, the iron horseshoe had turned back into a pebble again.

He was just about the mutter the incantation when Snape entered the office, levitating the huge jar, which was now full of the same yellow liquid as the other that Harry had put away, behind him. Harry startled slightly, and he tried to force his face into a nonchalant expression while his hands trembled at his sides.

“You’ve been working on that same rock for quite a while now,” Snape commented as he sent the jar into the storeroom, shutting the panel behind it with a flick of his wand.

“Er—I don’t know why it’s harder than the gold and steel ones,” said Harry as casually as he could. “What was that yellow stuff, sir?”

“It is the sap of a rare relative of the Mimbulus mimbletonia. While the Mimbulus mimbletonia uses its sap as a defensive mechanism to deter predators, the plant in my possession excretes the sap once a month to attract pollinators.” Harry tried to look interested as Snape rambled on about the uses of the sap when he was really trying to quell the cold ache of guilt in his heart.

“…not much is known about the side effects of overconsumption of the sap, but it can be used as a substitute for corn syrup in recipes—Potter, are you feeling unwell? You look rather pale,” Snape said suddenly, reaching out to feel Harry’s forehead, but Harry side stepped him.

“I’m fine, sir, really! Just, uh, wondering if Hedwig’s back yet.”

“Hm. You have spent enough time practicing for today. Go check for your owl.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, feeling secretly thankful. He wasn’t sure if he could stand the pressure for any longer. He hurried out of Snape’s office and practically sprinted towards the stairs, ignoring Snape’s half-hearted reprimand of his running in the house.

It wasn’t until he reached the privacy of his room that Harry fully relaxed with a weary sigh. The sight of Hedwig and Pigwidgeon perched on his desk only momentarily lifted his spirits; he was now occupied with the fear that Snape would find out sooner than later, and it was only a matter of when.

He was so deep in the depths of his anxiety that he didn’t realize that Hedwig had an envelope for him until she lifted the leg that had the letter tied to it and clawed at him with it, clicking her beak impatiently.

“Ow—! Oh…Thanks, girl.” Harry took the letter and read it while petting Hedwig absent-mindedly, grateful for the distraction from how awful he felt.

Hope you’re doing alright, Harry!

To answer your question about the theory behind the Herbifors Charm, it’s really a kind of Transfiguration, according to A Hundred Spells for Every Occasion. It’s rooted in the Herbivicus Charm, which rapidly grows plants.

Unfortunately I can’t try it out for myself while I’m at home or I would have more advice for you, but the book states that it helps to concentrate not on the plants but on the body part that the plants are growing out of. Don’t worry if it takes a while! It’s apparently pretty advanced for our year; I’m surprised that Mr. Sandman is teaching you it, but that must mean that he thinks you’re able to handle it!

It’s very quiet on my end, I’m afraid. I’m getting a bit better at knitting now, so that’s something. You can expect to receive a knitted hat for Hedwig soon—I’m not sure that she’ll like it, but you never know.

Take care,

Hermione

The second Harry set down Hermione’s letter, Pigwidgeon began to fly in excited circles around his head, hooting shrilly. Harry caught the tiny owl with all the skill of a seeker and untied the letter from Pigwidgeon’s talon before him releasing again.

Harry! How you’ve been?

I can’t wait for you to show up on Sunday. Mum’s planning on making meat stew with garlic bread, it’ll be great!

Fred and George accidentally burned up one of the rose bushes yesterday. I think they were trying to test out some joke product of theirs, but they made a mistake. It was fun hearing Mum yell at them. She went on for ages, and then Dad tried to let them off a bit easier, so she lit into him too.

I’m struggling on that Charms essay. Do your pal a favour and send over the answer for how the Locomotion charm was developed, yeah? I guess one plus of staying with Scowl-face is that you’ve probably got all your work done already. Bet that’s never happened before now, haha.

Cheers,

Ron

By the end of the letter, Harry’s stomach had unclenched marginally, but there was still a prickle of anxiety at the back of his mind that just wouldn’t go away.

It would be a while until dinner; he could write responses back to both Ron and Hermione before then, and so, he set to work, trying not to let his thoughts slip away from his writing, lest he dwell too much on what he’d seen in the basin.

———

This had to be the most stressful dinner since his first evening here, Harry thought miserably as he stared into his shepherd’s pie. The prickle of anxiety had grown into a sharp barbed wire of dread that seemed to grow with every second he spent at the dinner table in front of Snape, who had been watching him subtly ever since Harry had sat down.

“Potter.”

Harry looked up so quickly that he cricked his neck in the process. Wincing slightly, he met Snape’s gaze.

“You have been unsettled since this afternoon,” the Potions master continued, narrowing his eyes as he spoke. “Do you require a Stomach Soother or perhaps a Headache Reliever?”

“No, no—I’m alright, sir. Just a bit out of it today,” Harry lied, hoping desperately that Snape didn’t notice how sweaty his hands were as he gripped his fork and forced down a bite of pie.

“If you need a potion, I will not hesitate to give you one.”

“Thanks for the offer, sir.” Harry began to eat as fast as he could. If he could just get out of this kitchen, which seemed so much smaller and more suffocating than when he’d first entered it, and into his room—

“Slow down, you foolish boy, before you choke. I will not have the Boy Who Lived suffocating to death on my watch because he neglected to pace himself during dinner,” Snape said sharply.

Harry managed to swallow his last mouthful of pie before asking, “Isn’t there a spell to unblock airways, sir?”

“I was only exaggerating, Potter. It is certainly a relief to see you consume your dinner with such enthusiasm when you were only staring at it a minute ago.”

“Er—my appetite came back..?”

“Did it? How…curious.” Snape gave his wand a brisk wave, and their dirty dishes flew over to the sink.

Usually, Harry would have excused himself, bid the Professor goodnight, and returned to his room for the evening, but he felt the faint crackle of Snape’s natural magic in the air; he wouldn’t be leaving this table just yet. Suddenly, his stomach felt as if it was made of stone—the cold, grey stone of the Pensieve—and the hair on the back of his neck rose up.

Snape’s hands were clasped on the table, and he was staring right at Harry, who wanted nothing more than to look away, but he found that he couldn’t move a muscle. He was pinned like a mouse beneath the shadow of the ever-nearing hawk.

“You’ve been hiding something from me,” Snape said in a soft, quiet tone. Harry would’ve preferred it if he was shouting; at least that was familiar and predictable. This was dangerous.

“What makes you think that, sir?” Harry managed to ask, though his voice quavered right in the middle of his sentence.

“You are a very poor liar, Potter. What have you done?”

Harry shrank back in his chair, his heart beginning to race at the sharp gleam in Snape’s eyes; though the Potions master’s face was stony and unemotional, there was no hiding the cold fury that burned in his dark gaze.

“Sir, I haven’t done anything,” Harry said quickly.

Snape’s eyes narrowed again, becoming black slits in his pale face, and he leaned slightly forwards. “Allow me to give you a second chance to rectify the terrible mistake you are making. What have you done?”

Most of Harry wanted to spill everything out until there was not a single thing left unsaid, and he knew deep inside that that was the safer option, the right option—but something else, something from years where asking questions, speaking up, and telling the truth left him bruised, hungry, and in pain, told him to lie, because…

He just couldn’t trust Snape to believe him. 

“Nothing, sir.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Harry’s chest was so tight that he had to make an effort to draw breath, and the magic in the air thickened until it was a summer’s heat, pressing down on him until his skin tingled with feverish warmth.

Then—Snape slapped a hand against the table, which rocked with the force, and leaned forwards on his palms. His magic gave a fierce thrum that sent a jolt up Harry’s spine, and Harry flinched away, heart hammering in his chest.

All thoughts fled from his mind, memories of how Snape had woken him from his nightmares, taken him clothes shopping, and helped him apply a balm for sunburn replaced by the oh-so familiar times when the Professor had snarled and snapped at him for minor Potions class mishaps to breaking the Statute of Secrecy at the start of his second year.

He had been far too complacent in this house and with Snape; somehow, he had almost forgotten how fearsome the man could be, and that was clearly a horrible, horrible mistake.

It made the terror that clutched him now even more of a nasty wake-up to reality.

“Damn it, Potter! It would have been easier for the both of us if you just told the truth, but as always, you insist upon making this as difficult as possible,” Snape hissed. “We both know that you are lying.”

It was too much. Harry jumped out of his chair, intending to try to make a bid for escape, but Snape was rounding the table, cornering him against those God-forsaken bookshelves. With Snape bearing down on him, white faced and the very definition of rage, and the feeling of his back pressing painfully against the shelves, Harry couldn’t stop the burn of panicked tears from rising up his throat, into his eyes, but he refused to shed them now.

“If you had simply told me the truth from the start—”

“You’d be mad anyways!” Harry burst out. His voice was shaking from the alarm coursing through him. “You—you wouldn’t have believed me!”

“Oh, but we would never know that, would we? It’s far too late now. I will give you the illusion of choice, perhaps that will loosen your tongue. You can tell me what you did…or you can tell me what you did. What will it be?”

Harry shook his head furiously, mouth set in a firm line. He was sure that if he tried to speak, he would actually start crying.

“Look at me, Potter,” Snape barked. Harry shut his eyes, flinching again as Snape let out a frustrated sigh. “You foolish child. I would rather not use this last resort…but considering your unwillingness to simply cooperate…”

A hand tilted Harry’s head up by his chin, and he opened his eyes in shock to see the tip of Snape’s wand pointing at him.

“Legilimens.”

Harry was frozen in place again; it was as if he were paralyzed, stuck staring into Snape’s black eyes, but he could also see flashes of his own memories passing through his mind’s eye until the scroll of memories stopped right in front of the one of the storeroom and the basin, and then it was as if a curtain had been drawn over it, obscuring the memory from Harry’s view.

The grip on his jaw was careful, deliberate, at first, but as seconds passed, Snape’s hold on him tightened until it was almost painful, and Harry wanted to shrink back with fear. He had his wand, but even if he managed to break out of the terrified trance that he was in, he would only be in even more trouble if he actually hexed Snape.

Only a few tense moments later, the connection finally severed, and Snape released him. Harry slid down the bookshelves to the floor, shaking all over with both fear and cold; at some point, Snape’s magic had dissipated, leaving the room as frigid as ice.

He didn’t dare to look at the man as he whispered hollowly into the silence, “I’m—I’m sorry, sir—I k-know I shouldn’t have looked…I don’t know why I did it—”

Snape slipped his wand up his sleeve, but that slight movement made Harry recoil against the shelf, and he saw the Professor stiffen before he turned and…left.

The sharp sound of Snape’s footsteps against the tiled floor faded into the dull creaking of floorboards as he went through the sitting room and living room, until there was the faint noise of his office door shutting with a click of finality.

Harry sat on the kitchen floor for a minute, waiting for Snape to return, because surely that quiet exit had been only a ruse to lure Harry into a false sense of security before the Potions master came storming back with a jinx on his tongue, a poison in his pocket, or a belt in his—

He wouldn’t do that, a tiny voice whispered in the darkness of Harry’s mind. You know that he wouldn’t. Why did you lie? It faded away, but its words still lingered after its disappearance.

Why did I lie?

On trembling legs sore from being cramped into a corner for so long, Harry stood. He felt drained of energy and so numb that he could barely feel his own fingers.

His time spent writing replies to Ron and Hermione’s letters full of harmless fun seemed years ago.

Somehow, he dragged himself out of the kitchen, into the hallway, up the stairs, and into his—no, it was never his—room where he shut the door before collapsing against the wall at the side of the bed, hugging his knees to his chest in the darkness. After what he had done, the lies he had told—He didn’t deserve the human comfort of a mattress.

———

Severus’ wand shook slightly in his hand as he touched its tip to his forehead, sending the memory back into his mind. Usually after taking his memories back from the Pensieve, he would tense up with the some of the same anger and pain that he had felt in those horrible moments, but this time, he barely even twitched in his seat at his office desk.

It was not as if he had not expected or perhaps even anticipated for Potter to discover the Pensieve—the boy had always been too curious for his own damn good, whether it was about the philosopher’s stone or the chamber of secrets—but Severus of a month ago had expected himself to be enraged at Potter’s audacity and disrespect, and Severus of now…There was no burning anger in the palm of his hands or in the cheeks of his face beyond a slight flush, which was lessening with every second that passed, nor the sharp prickles of hate that would have barbed his tongue. There was only a subdued taste of bitterness in his mouth.

With a tired groan, Severus sunk back into his chair, running a hand down his face as he tilted his head up to stare blankly at the ceiling. He knew that his anger at Potter was merely only simmering beneath the surface of his mind and that he might have given way to it if not for the tiredness in his bones.

The brat had meddled with something that was obviously to be left alone, but it was not as if he had enjoyed viewing Severus’ memory, to the Potions master’s slight surprise. In fact, when Severus had delved into Potter’s mind and watched it from his perspective, he could sense the boy’s shock and mortification as he witnessed what his father and Godfather had done.

No, Severus was not truly angry, at least not at the moment. He was—there was no other way to put it—disappointed in both Potter and, strangely and unexpectedly, himself.

Idiot boy—if he had only told the truth…Hah, as if you’ve given him enough reason to do that! Almost only three weeks pass, and you expect him to trust you? You’re as foolish as he is. What a mess you both are; a nosy brat and a bitter old bastard.

Severus clutched his head in his hands, long fingers digging into his black hair, his mind in a whirl of self-disgust and self-doubt. He needed to hear another’s thoughts on the matter before he went insane.

The hour was approaching eleven o’clock, the street outside of his office’s window barely visible only by the pale light of the moon and the pinpricks of silver in the night’s fabric that were the stars, but if anyone could be counted upon being awake late at night was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and it was his advice that Severus needed. After he threw a pinch of Floo powder into his fireplace and muttered, “Albus Dumbledore’s office,” Severus stepped into the flames and emerged into the familiar room.

The light cast by a singular candle danced on the richly decorated walls of portraits and shelves of instruments and baubles, illuminating one side of Dumbledore’s old, wizened face as he sat in his chair, a novel open in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other. He looked up with a smile at Severus and gestured to one of the old and comfortable armchairs by his fireplace.

“I can’t say that I’m not slightly surprised to see you here so late at night, Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly, setting his book on the desk as the Potions master took a seat on the very edge of the armchair. “Something must be the matter with Harry for you to come so suddenly and without notice.”

Severus usually would have resented Dumbledore’s assumption that his hurry was for Potter’s sake, but he was too troubled and weary to care, and the old man was right, in any case.

“He found your Pensieve where I had hidden it in my storeroom and witnessed one of my memories,” Severus said tiredly, tapping a finger against his leg in his agitation. “He did not mention it to me, of course. I suspected him of hiding something when he began behaving oddly, more on edge, much more quiet than usual. I confronted him, and he stubbornly denied his having done anything wrong, so I—I Legilimized him.” At that, Dumbledore stiffened slightly, and he took a measured sip of his drink as Severus barrelled on, his voice growing louder and slightly shaky as he continued, “You know that when we discussed my usage of the Pensieve, I had thought that he might find some…vindictive satisfaction in seeing my suffering at his father’s hands, but he seemed—he seemed distressed, Albus, and when I retracted myself from his mind—Do you know the first thing he did? He apologized. James Potter’s son apologized.”

Unable to sit still in the armchair any longer, Severus jumped to his feet and began pacing the office with his hands clasped behind his back to prevent them from shaking.

“Then when I put away my wand, he flinched and cowered like a frightened dog that expects the sting of a whip. After that—I left for my office, wallowed in my misery, and then…here I am.”

Severus stopped in front of the Headmaster’s desk, breathing raggedly from the sudden loss of the fervour with which he had spoken before, his head hung low as he muttered heavily, “Perhaps…I was too harsh with him; he may never trust me again, if he trusted me at all in the first place.”

His trust…Why do I care for Potter’s trust at all? he wondered dully. Since when did I care about anything to do with Potter beyond his safety?

There was a tense pause where the weight of Severus’ words hung over the dark office, and the only sound was of the crackling fire in the hearth before Dumbledore stirred his cup of hot chocolate and remarked softly, “You have changed, Severus. You are vastly different from the man I knew, who, a month ago, stood where you stand now and burned with rage at the thought of taking Harry into his home.”

Severus frowned impatiently, willing Dumbledore to simply get to the point already, old man.

“Although I only know all that you have told me about this entire situation, I am sure of one thing for certain: you must be patient with Harry. In his fourteen years alive, which seem so few compared to ours, he has already gone through so many trials and tribulations, and so he may find it…difficult to rely on figures of authority.”

“You have no idea what he has been through,” Severus snapped. “He has suffered—” He hesitated before continuing sharply, “It is no right of mine to tell you. So what am I to do, Albus? Apologize? I doubt whether I—whether I could bring myself to look him in the eyes!”

“Sleep on it, then,” Dumbledore suggested mildly. “I trust you not to do anything rash, but you cannot deny that a good rest makes even the most sour and surly slightly more reasonable. I believe I recall many a schoolyard dispute of yours that might have been resolved peacefully after an evening of restful sleep had passed.”

“This is a matter more serious than that, Albus, but…I will keep your words in mind—” Severus’ bracelet, which had been humming almost unnoticeably since he had left his house, gave an insistent buzz against his wrist.

Dumbledore looked curiously after it as Severus turned on his heel towards the fireplace. “My boy, is that one of those Charmed things that was so common with new parents in the—”

“I must return immediately, Headmaster. Goodnight.”

———

White liquid-light that moved like clouds of pale smoke surrounded Harry. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the shadowy walls of the Dursleys’ kitchen through the misty light, but he couldn’t be back there. He was supposed to be in Snape’s house for the rest of the summer. He wasn’t going to be sent back there, but he must have been…

Why? What did I do? Harry thought confusedly. There must have been something he was forgetting. Forgetting…Remembering…Memories. Snape’s memory. I saw Snape’s memory.

Suddenly, the hulking figure of his Uncle Vernon loomed out of the liquid-light-smoke, standing over Harry with an uncharacteristically jovial expression on his moustached face.

“Just tell the truth, boy—Harry. It’ll be the best for everyone if you do!”

Harry shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about what he had seen.

“Come now, we’re your family!” Uncle Vernon chuckled, and at his side, his wife rose out of the mist. The smile she wore was usually for Dudley when she wanted to convince him to eat “just one more vegetable, okay, popkin?”

“We won’t get mad, we promise. We won’t hurt you. Telling the truth is the safe thing to do, and good boys who tell the truth get to have dinner!”

Still, Harry continued to shake his head, even as the familiar claws of guilt dug into him, and his heart began to race.

Aunt Petunia tilted up his head with a gentle touch, looking down at him with that same simpering smile, and Uncle Vernon was grinning from behind his great moustache, laying a meaty hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Just tell the truth,” they said in perfect sync. “We won’t hurt you. We’re your guardians, after all.”

Hesitantly, Harry opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he realized that he was holding the cracked pieces of the strange stone basin. His relative’s smiles instantly twisted into cruel sneers that radiated malice, and Uncle Vernon’s grip on his shoulder, which was almost reassuring before, turned into a vice-like manacle, freezing him in place.

“You foolish child, we knew all along!” he roared and seized Harry by the neck, dragging him into the mist. As Harry struggled fruitlessly in his uncle’s grip, his vision blackened along the edges, and his throat seemed to close up, rendering him unable to draw breath—

His body collided painfully with a wall, and Harry gasped in pain. Uncle Vernon had thrown him into Snape’s store room, which seemed so much darker and more cramped than before. There were still shelves of ingredients, jars, and bottles along the walls, but there were other things too; his old blanket, crayons, and dog-eared picture books…

He was back in his cupboard again, and this time, he had learned his lesson.

———

Harry flinched awake. His body ached from falling asleep in a sitting position on the floor, but it was the painful pounding of his heart and the tightness in his chest and throat that he paid attention to. Panting heavily as tears began to trickle down his face, Harry tried desperately to pull himself together, to breathe, but it was as if he was stuck in Apparition, being squeezed so hard that he might pop at any second.

One horrified thought pushed its way to the front of his panicked mind. The bracelet—Snape—Harry didn’t know if the man would even come, but he was sure that he didn’t want him to.

Through hiccupy gasps for air, he pulled at the slip of leather with hands trembling so hard that he could barely grip it, leaving pink stripes on his wrist where his nails scraped the skin, but it was no use; the bracelet wouldn’t go further down than his palm, no matter what he did.

The door to the room creaked open, hurried footsteps rustled on the carpeted floor, and firm yet gentle hands were holding his wrists apart, and a quiet voice filled with something like concern was speaking to him.

“Potter, stop. You need to breathe, you can breathe.”

It was dark in the room; the screen blocked most of the light from the open doorway, but Harry could still make out Snape’s pale face through the gloom and his tears. He tried to wrench himself out of the man’s grip, twisting his tear-streaked face away with a choked cry.

“You can do it—It may not feel that way, but you can—”

Harry shook his head fiercely, biting his lip so as not to start sobbing. He didn’t deserve Snape’s help, so why was he here?

“You stubborn—” The Potions master sighed exasperatedly and let go of Harry’s wrists to pull something out from his pocket. “This is a hybrid of Calming draft and Dreamless Sleep. Drink it.”

The vial was held out to him, but Harry refused it determinedly, even as his breath hitched in his throat while tears continued streaming down his face, staining his shirt. Searing cold and burning heat flashed through him at the same time, shaking him down to his core. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone in his anguish.

Snape cursed under his breath, and Harry flinched, bringing his knees up to his chest and curling in on himself.

“Why—no…Harry. Why do you not want to take the potion?”

The sound of his first name in Snape’s voice was so strange that Harry was shocked into a response.

“I—I d-don’t deserve it,” he managed to choke out. “I-I’m sorry I looked—looked into your m-memory…”

“I could not care less about that damn memory right now,” Snape insisted. “What you don’t deserve is to have a panic attack on the floor. Drink the potion.” He tried to push it into Harry’s shaking hands, but Harry shoved it away at once without even a single glance at it, not that he would have been able to see it clearly; his vision was blurring with both tears and panic.

“No—no! I l-lied to you—I shouldn’t have—”

“Harry.”

Again, the unusual use of not Potter but Harry lifted the boy out of his fit of panic enough for him to find the energy to look Snape in the eyes. The anger and disgust Harry might have expected was absent from the Professor’s unyielding gaze.

“In the morning, we will talk about this, I will listen to what you have to say, and I will not be angry. Now, drink.”

Snape uncorked the vial and passed it to Harry, who took it with shaking hands. The potion glimmered green in the faint light of the doorway, which passed through the screen and striped both wizards with bars of yellow against the blackness of the unlit room. The green promised comfort and relief—things that Harry didn’t believe he deserved.

“Drink it, Harry,” Snape said softly. He clasped his hands around Harry’s, raising the vial to Harry’s lips for him. “It will help.”

Through his choked sobs, Harry managed to gulp down most of the peppermint-tasting potion. It was comfortingly cool against his throat, which was raw from his cries, and each small mouthful was like the mercy of water after a month spent parched and dry. After a few moments, the shudders that once ran through his body ceased, his racing heart began to slow, and he realized how exhausted, emotionally and physically, he was, as his eyes, slightly red from all his tears, stung with tiredness.

With a broken sigh of relief, he slumped against the wall, letting the empty vial roll out of his limp hand and allowing sleep to slowly swallow him up.

“‘M sorry, P’fessor,” he muttered drowsily.

After a moment’s pause, Snape reached out and cupped the side of Harry’s face with a hand, and Harry melted into the soothing touch, shutting his eyes. He doubted whether anybody had ever touched his face so delicately before. He didn’t want that comforting feeling to ever go away.

“You have already apologized enough for today, Harry.” Snape spoke so quietly that, through his muddled brain, Harry almost didn’t catch his words, but he smiled faintly at the sound of his first name.

As he drifted off, he felt the warmth of being lifted into the bed with a blanket tucked carefully around him, but he didn’t see the deft hand pick up his glasses from the floor and place them onto the chest of drawers. There was a soft exhalation of breath, and again, the gentle brush of a hand against his cheek, and Harry finally relaxed fully in the depths of his dreamless sleep, feeling at ease and cared for.

Chapter Text

Harry tried to take as long as he possibly could to get downstairs for breakfast. He stood for a while in the shower, staring at the wall, then dressed himself excruciatingly slowly, and went down the stairs a single step at a time.

After the literal nightmare that was the day before, the last thing he wanted was to talk to Snape about it. For goodness sake, he had completely broken down in front of the Professor and sobbed his eyes out like a little kid, all because of a stupid nightmare about the Dursleys.

Malfoy would shed tears of joy if he found out, Harry thought bitterly as he dragged his feet down the hallway to the kitchen.

Snape was already seated at the table with a mug of tea and a half-finished bowl of porridge in front of him, his usual Daily Prophet laying folded up and untouched to the side. He looked up at the sound of Harry’s approach with a neutral expression.

“I trust that you rested well?” he asked mildly as Harry sat down.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry stiffly, pulling his bowl towards himself.

Snape glanced at him shrewdly before resuming his own breakfast. “Eat. Then we will talk.”

Harry stared into the mushy grain of his porridge, not feeling hungry at all, but he made an attempt to force some of it down despite the fact that he felt as if his stomach had dropped out of him in the night while he had slept.

His nervous thoughts weren’t helping matters either, making him so distracted that he didn’t realize that he had entirely forgotten about his toast until he had stared at it for at least a minute.

Is he going to tell the Slytherins about all this? Maybe he’s just been gathering material to blackmail me with this entire time—and how did my mum know him? Is he going to bite my head off for seeing that memory—No, he said he wouldn’t be mad, and he doesn’t look angry…He didn’t seem angry last night when I— Countless questions were crowding in his mind, but whether Snape wouldn’t snap at him for asking them, or even answer any…He wasn’t completely sure.

Snape’s voice startled Harry out of his worry-induced daze. “To make this exchange efficient, we are going to take turns asking the other questions. Only when the asked has answered the question in its entirety and conveyed all necessary information for context can he ask the other a question. Are you amenable to this?” He crossed his arms, slightly raising one eyebrow at Harry, who nodded hesitantly. “Very well.”

Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, Harry made to speak, but Snape instantly interrupted him. “No, this is not time for you to agonize and apologize again. I have heard enough of that. Ask your question.”

“How’d you know what I was going to say—and I am sorry!” Harry protested indignantly, choosing to ignore the frown on Snape’s face. “I’m sorry for lo—”

“Enough. You have proclaimed your guilt and regret before, and it would be a waste of our time for you to continue blathering on about how much remorse you feel. Now, ask your question.”

“Okay—yes, sir,” said Harry, still feeling slightly confused at Snape’s dismissiveness. “So, um…How’d you see into my memories yesterday?”

Snape paused slightly before replying, “That was Legilimency. I have mentioned it and the Mind Arts to you before; it allows the user to peer into the mind of the opponent and view their memories, and it can also detect what the opponent is feeling at the moment, if their thoughts and emotions are strong enough. I had no desire to use it on you, but you gave me no other choice, except perhaps to force a truth serum down your throat, which is against the law…”

At that last part, Harry shuddered, and he asked quickly, “So could anybody can learn to read minds?”

It seemed to take Snape a great effort to not correct Harry on his calling Legilimency “mind reading”, but he only sighed and continued with a hint of exasperation in his tone. “It takes years of study to become even barely proficient at the Mind Arts. I was taught Occlumency, the skill of shielding one’s mind, by my mother, and Legilimency by Albus Dumbledore.”

That only made more questions spring up in Harry’s thoughts, but he felt that it would be unfair to ask another before Snape had had his first turn, so he only nodded for the Professor to go on.

“What was your nightmare about?”

Harry debated on how much to tell Snape. He didn’t want to say too much, but the man had stated that all necessary information had to have been conveyed in order for the turn to finish… “It was like an old memory and a dream mixed together, sir…My aunt and uncle were telling me to tell the truth and that they wouldn’t hurt me if I did, then I was holding the—the stone basin thing, but it was broken.” Harry paused, trying to gauge Snape’s emotions to check for the tell-tale signs of building rage that he was so familiar with, but Snape remained stony faced and impassive, so he continued hesitantly, “…Then my uncle shut me in your storeroom, but it was also kind of…my cupboard.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Elaborate on the ‘old memory’ part.”

“Once, when I was seven…or eight, my cousin broke a jar by accident and pretended that he didn’t do it. My Aunt Petunia found it and told me to tell the truth, like in the dream. I said—said that I didn’t know and that Dudley had the jar last time I saw it. Well, she didn’t like that; she doesn’t really think that he’d do something like that.” Harry shivered involuntarily at the memory, his throat tightening slightly around his next words. “Uncle Vernon shut me in my cupboard for a while. T-they didn’t believe me.”

There was a moment of quiet where Harry swallowed, willing himself to relax so as to not start hyperventilating at the kitchen table of all places, and Snape seemed deep in thought, until the Professor broke the silence. “Ask your second question.”

Harry thought for a moment before one question that had been waiting idly ever since he had come out of the stone basin rushed to the front of his mind. “Why did my mum defend you from my dad? Not that she shouldn’t have…I was just wondering if you knew her—”

Something flashed in Snape’s black eyes, and for a second, Harry had the sudden impression that the man was in pain, but in the next, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“I did. We were friends throughout our childhood; she lived in a neighbourhood not far from this one,” he said slowly, as if deciding the weight of each word on his tongue before he said it. “She was the friend who brought me to that field one summer.”

Of all the possible reasons for his mother’s defence of Snape in that memory, Harry had not anticipated this to be the truth. His mind went completely blank in shock, and he could only stare mutely at Snape, who shifted slightly in his seat before continuing, “After we were sorted into different houses at Hogwarts, we maintained our friendship until…”

He paused, a bitter frown curving his mouth as he looked away. “Back then, Slytherin was as filled with blood purists as it is now, and I was as impressionable and foolish as any young snake…The thought of being magically superior to those of muggle relation was particularly attractive—Of course, I have regretted my turn to the Dark for so many years now, but nothing can undo the past.”

There was a slight ringing in Harry’s ears as his thoughts rushed through his mind like a river through a canyon; he was still trying to comprehend the fact that his mother had been childhood friends with Snape of all people. How’d they even meet—? And Snape used to be a ‘blood purist’… Wait, my mum grew up near here? And does that mean Aunt Petunia knows Snape too—But if they were friends, then why…He decided to put that last question away for later.

“Could you please tell me about her, sir? Not now, but…some other time, maybe?” Harry asked tentatively, not sure of what the answer would be. To his relief, Snape nodded.

“If that is all you have for your turn of questioning…Why did you decide to look into the Pensieve?”

“Pensieve?” Harry parroted confusedly before he realized with a start that it must be the name for the strange stone basin of memories. “Oh—Er…I was curious, and I couldn’t stop myself from looking. I-I know it’s a garbage excuse, Professor, and I really am—” He fell silent and stared at his empty plate to avoid Snape’s gaze.

“The Pensieve is an ancient artefact used to hold memories for the user to view freely and reflect upon them more easily.” Snape spoke easily, as if he had not heard a word of what Harry had just said. “While the memories are inside of the Pensieve, the user cannot remember them in detail in their own mind, but they are able to recall the vague idea of them. I borrowed the Pensieve to make use of that side effect.”

“Who owns it then, if you borrowed it?” Harry asked, tilting his head curiously. He couldn’t imagine something as mysterious as a Pensieve being in just any shop, even a magic one.

“Albus Dumbledore, but it is really the Hogwarts Pensieve. It is for the Headmaster or Headmistress’ use.”

“And—so without the memory of…um, that memory—that’s why you were acting differently?”

Snape nodded. “Memories cannot be kept within a Pensieve for too long, or they will be more difficult to place back into the user’s mind, possibly resulting in mental trauma and warping of the memory. I only made use of the Pensieve during our hours of Defence and Potions for that reason.”

“Oh…” So Snape’s weird mode was just him without that memory of my dad—Harry couldn’t think of anything else to say to that. “I think it’s your turn now, sir.”

Snape leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as he looked expectantly at Harry. “I am out of questions for the moment. Take this as an opportunity to ask me the rest of your’s.”

“…So you’re not going to tell anybody about any of this, right?”

With a low sigh, Snape asked dryly, “and why would I do that? Why would I ask you about your relatives, nightmares, and nightmares about your relatives—such private and sensitive things—only to spill your secrets to others?”

Harry shrugged. “It’d make the Slytherins pretty happy to hear how the Dursleys treat me.”

“Potter, despite what our interactions previous to this summer have led you to believe, I am not so horrible of a person as to reveal any of what you have told me to others on a simple whim or for some twisted satisfaction—and if you believed me capable of such a thing, why did you and why do you continue to offer up such vulnerable information to me whenever I asked?”

“Well—” His brain short circuiting, Harry struggled to string his reasoning into a coherent sentence.

He wasn’t sure at what point in time he had begun to trust Snape enough to tell the man about his life with his relatives, but it could have been after that first nightmare Harry had had while wearing the charmed bracelet, when he had been surprised that Snape had kept his part of the deal and woken him up at all…Then, it had been so atypical to what Harry had thought of the scathing and stern Potions Professor that it had shocked him into speaking into those silences that Snape often let stretch out.

Still mulling over that memory in his mind, Harry settled on replying hesitantly, “…well, because you said that you’re my—my guardian for the summer—You acted like a guardian, and guardians aren’t supposed to be horrible.”

“Correct, now you can rest assured knowing that I am not going to ever be ‘horrible’,” Snape deadpanned before becoming serious again, regarding Harry with a slightly weary look. “Have you another question?”

Harry debated on that for a moment, thinking about the question that he had been keeping in the back of his mind since the start of their strange, turn-based conversation. It seemed a bit abrupt or perhaps even too personal, but he just had to know—

“…Do you still hate me, Professor?”

The Potions master stiffened in his chair, and Harry hoped that he hadn’t done something wrong by asking that question. He almost thought that Snape wouldn’t answer it or just declare that their session of twenty questions was over, but, to his slight surprise, the man replied, though he spoke slowly as though the words were being dragged out of him by force.

“In the past, I did hate you because of your close resemblance in appearance to your father, but now—I do not dislike you.”

Harry couldn’t help frowning skeptically, and Snape heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m serious, Potter. Although it pains me to say this, I admit that…” he paused to scowl for a second before continuing on, rushing through his speech as if he couldn’t get the words out fast enough, “that my previous attitude towards you was unjustified. I had assumed that you were just like your father, but I was wrong…You are your mother’s son as much as you are your father’s, and in some ways—you are quite like her.” He fell silent, looking stonier-faced than ever.

After having heard that he had his father’s bravery, loyalty, and courage for his whole life, it was comforting to be told that he was similar to his mother, albeit a bit strange to hear it from Snape, and again, Harry didn’t quite know how to react, so he just nodded wordlessly.

Fortunately, Snape picked up the conversation again before it could fall into an awkward silence, sitting up straighter and taking on a more business-like posture. “I believe that we have enough of our questions answered. Now, let us speak of your punishment for literally diving headfirst into a magical object that you had never seen before and without knowledge of whether or not it was harmful.”

Harry winced, the heat of shame making his face flush slightly. But why not punish me for lying too?

“I would prefer if you would not lie to me again in the future, but in that particular instance, you were not lying out of malice or other ill-intent; I will not punish you for that,” said Snape immediately.

“Hey, how d’you do that?” Harry said indignantly. “You didn’t even cast the Legili-lens spell!”

“It is pronounced Le-gil-i-mens, and a skilled user of the Mind Arts may be able to unconsciously skim another’s mind by way of meeting their gaze…”

“You’ve been doing that this whole time—?”

“You will complete a set of one hundred lines of the sentence,” Snape continued unsubtly, “‘I will not meddle with unknown and possibly dangerous magical objects’. You have the rest of today to finish this task.”

One hundred lines! Harry nodded resignedly as Snape Banished their dirty dishes to the sink.

“Come, you will do your work in my office.” Snape beckoned Harry to follow him, and they left the kitchen. After supplying Harry with a roll of parchment, quill, and ink bottle at the table where the cauldrons usually sat, Snape began his own brewing at his desk, while Harry set to work on his lines.

Although it was tedious work, it was made much better by the fact that the office was warmed by wide shaft of sunlight pouring through the window, making everything it touched golden, and soon the sounds of Snape dicing, slicing, crushing, and cutting ingredients, the soft bubbling of the cauldron on his desk, and the quiet scratching of Harry’s quill on parchment filled the room.

Harry took a short break to shake out his hand, which was already beginning to ache, and he watched Snape curiously as the man worked. Usually Snape’s facial expressions were somewhere between a disgruntled scowl or a complete mask that let nothing show, but at the moment, he seemed relaxed as he stirred his potion, sprinkling in bits of unknown herb into the cauldron, and he waved his wand to summon just the right ingredient from the shelves with purposeful grace. It was so obvious that this was something he was skilled in and perhaps truly enjoyed, which made his questionable teaching habits even more confusing to Harry.

“Professor…did you consider a different career before you became a teacher?” he asked, carefully watching Snape to gauge his reaction.

He seemed unconcerned by the sudden question; he continued with his brewing as he replied easily, “I was set to become a Potions master, but when the Headmaster offered me the post of Potions Professor at Hogwarts after… It was a deal that benefitted us both,” he finished shortly.

“Who do Potions masters brew potions for? Or are they just for selling, like in a potion shop?”

“Some take commissions for on-demand brews, and others do create their own stores, but I, like many others, was going to be hired by Saint Mungos.” At Harry’s blank look, he added, “Saint Mungos is a magical hospital. They require a steady supply of pain relievers, Skele-grow, blood replenishers, numbing draughts, anti-venoms, antidotes…”

Harry wondered why the thought of a magic hospital was so alien to him; there was Gringotts, a magic bank, so it would make sense for them to have other public institutions as well. Perhaps there was also a mage’s movie theatre or library somewhere hidden from muggle eyes. What would a magical movie even look like? He drifted off into that vein of thought for a while before Snape spoke again, snapping him out of his mental wandering.

“Why the sudden curiosity in this subject matter? I have never heard you take particular interest in career paths and potions before.”

A slight flush made Harry’s face warm up as he deliberated on replying honestly, but from the piercing stare Snape was eyeing him with, it wasn’t as if he had another option. “I was just wondering, sir, and I don’t mean to offend you—You clearly like potions a lot, and you’re a potions expert…but you seem to really hate teaching it, so I was thinking about why you would become a Professor.”

“The details of the deal I struck with Professor Dumbledore left me with little choice,” said Snape, a trace of bitterness in his otherwise monotone voice. He unscrewed a jar with more force than necessary as he continued, “A decade later, I still have little patience for students and the trouble that comes with them…as you have experienced first-hand.”

Harry frowned slightly as he wrote down a few more words of his lines. “I think students would make a less trouble if you had a bit more patience,” he said quietly.

“I do not, and I doubt whether I will suddenly gain some in the time between the present and the beginning of the school term.”

“Well…my potions got a lot better when you stopped snapping at me, so maybe if you didn’t pick on us about everything—”

In case that he had gone too far, he sneaked a nervous glance at Snape, who had merely rolled his eyes as he measured out some glittering silver powder. He didn’t seem particularly offended by Harry’s remark; in fact, he spoke lightly with no trace of the previous prickliness in his tone when he replied, “Potter, how could you even imply such a thing? That would damage my reputation as the most feared teacher at Hogwarts.”

“Would that be so horrible?” Harry put his arms on the desk to make a rest for his head as he idly watched Snape tap off the excess powder back into its bottle. “Do you like knowing that most of the school doesn’t like you…?”

“It is nothing new to me,” was the dry response. “Perhaps the thought would be uncomfortable to you, as the Boy Who Lived, but not to me.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at that, looking sideways at Snape as he leaned his head into his shoulder. “In my second year, everybody thought I was Slytherin’s heir and that I was petrifying people! Maybe you didn’t notice, sir, but it was the whole school that whispered about me and sneered at me then, not just the Slytherins, and that rumour wasn’t even true at all. Me being the Boy Who lived didn’t matter, and any other kid in my shoes back then wouldn’t have had a good time either.”

There was a slight pause where Snape turned to regard Harry with a peculiar expression; it was as if he was seeing Harry for the first time.

“I see…” he said slowly after another moment. “…I rescind my previous statement, but, again, I care little if others see me in a good or bad light, and I have never thought of myself as a good person. In any case, it is more beneficial to me for meddling students such as yourself to keep away.”

“That sounds lonely, sir,” Harry muttered. He really couldn’t imagine Snape being social with anybody, much less anything close to being friendly, but something must have made Harry’s mother decide to be friends with him.

Harry’s curiosity loosened his tongue again before he even realized what he was about to say. “How—how did you become friends with my mum?”

Snape froze momentarily at his desk, his measurement of powder poised above the cauldron for a split second before he dumped it in, a glimmer of regret flashing in his black eyes as he stared into the potion, avoiding Harry’s searching gaze.

“When we were children, I witnessed her using her natural magic on a flower and showing it to her sister, your aunt. Upon my telling her that I also had magic, we became friends. She was very curious about the magical world, and I answered her questions as well as I could have.” Snape didn’t move for another moment, until he snapped out of whatever reverie he had been in when he was speaking to carefully stir the potion.

“I guess Aunt Petunia wasn’t very happy with you,” Harry mused. “She doesn’t like magic.”

“She has been that way since her youth, then. I recall the word ‘freak’ being one of her preferred terms for mages.”

It was strangely gratifying to hear that his aunt had always been hostile towards magic, for it proved that it was no fault of Harry’s for her treatment of him, and it was certainly bemusing to hear it from Snape. Harry imagined Aunt Petunia calling full-grown Snape a freak and the Professor’s possible retaliation; he smiled slightly at that but turned his head to hide it from Snape.

“Do you still remember what kind of questions she asked you? My mother, I mean—”

Snape gave the cauldron a tap with his wand, heating up the contents, before he replied, “A few have left the deepest impressions in my memory… She was interested in the existence of magical plants and animals; she once asked if werewolves and vampires were real, and when I informed her that they are, that led to a fresh onslaught of questions about their biology and living habits… Once, in the winter time, she asked if Santa Claus was real, and she was astonished to learn that he does exist.”

“Wait, WHAT?” Harry jerked upright, staring at Snape, who looked back with an amused tilt to his head. “Santa’s real?”

“Correct, though as far as I’m aware, Saint Nicholas has been enjoying a quiet retirement with his wife for some years now. He was last seen in America—in Florida, I believe.”

Harry ruminated on the fact for a while before he said slowly, “Is the Easter rabbit real too, then?”

“Of course not. What a ridiculous idea,” Snape replied. At Harry’s slack-jawed stare, he added wryly, “Do you really find it so difficult to believe that a human-sized rabbit that hides chocolate eggs once a year for children to discover does not exist?”

“In the same world as mages who can teleport, read minds, and Transfigure rats into teacups? Yes.”

Snape gave an exasperated sigh, and Harry grinned sheepishly at the absurdity of it all. “We have strayed off of the subject enough,” said Snape. “Have you any other questions at the moment?”

Harry thought for a moment before he began to shake his head, and then he stopped himself in the middle of the action.

“…Will you think about what I said before, sir?” he asked hesitantly. “About having more patience with students.”

Snape poked the cauldron with his wand again, a slight crease on his forehead indicating that he was perhaps troubled by the idea. Harry watched him carefully stir the potion a few times, each movement deliberate and purposeful.

“I will consider it,” said Snape, eventually. “Now, the sound of your quill has been absent for too long. Get back to writing.” He spoke shortly, but Harry knew that from the lack of sharpness in his voice that Snape wasn’t really irritated at him, so he grinned faintly to himself as he returned to his lines without complaint.

Chapter Text

Usually Severus’ visits to the Headmaster’s office made him the bearer of ill-tidings and bad news, so it was a welcome change to arrive in the warm room lit by the late morning sun with something good to say. This time, it was Dumbledore’s request for an update on Potter and not Severus’ need for advice that brought the Potions master to the uncomfortably squashy armchair in front of Dumbledore’s mahogany desk.

Severus informed Dumbledore of what had transpired since he had last been in the Headmaster’s office, although he deliberately left out the explicit details of Potter’s panic attack, as well as their little questioning session of the morning after that stressful night; that was something too private to share, even with the man who had known him since he had been a student himself. Now, he finished his recounting of Potter’s Defence and Potions lessons so far.

“Thank you for the report,” Dumbledore said graciously, tapping the teapot on the tray between them with his wand so that it obligingly tilted itself into the air to pour into his cup. “I am very pleased with Harry’s progress, as well as happy to hear how you two overcame that little hiccup involving the Pensieve.”

“It was more than a hiccup. It is incredible that neither of us lost our minds from the stress,” Severus muttered, stirring his own cup of tea with more force than necessary. His cup’s handle tightened reproachfully around his hand at that, and he scowled, releasing it.

“Surely, you exaggerate, Severus—Though I do admit that I did not expect you to handle the aftermath with such grace. Forgive my bluntness, but you have never been one to tread carefully around your students, even in…sensitive situations, and especially not for Harry.” Dumbledore smiled wryly at Severus, taking a sip of his drink.

“I’ve only ever made three students cry in my thirteen years of teaching so far, and those incidents were years ago,” protested Severus half-heartedly. “One was entirely beyond my control…I was not made aware that that one first year had a fear of vampires, or perhaps I would not have worn my cloak to that lesson.”

“Ah, that brings back memories. It was Mackenzie, a Hufflepuff, I believe. Yet you cannot blame her either; your fashion sense is rather dark.”

“You speak as if your’s is any better.” Severus tilted his head at Dumbledore, whose robes were a rich, peachy pink and bedazzled with gold detail. Dumbledore only shrugged cheerfully back, smoothing out a crease in the fabric as he did. “In any case, I can tread carefully when the situation demands it of me—and I am no monster; it would have been inhumane to not at least offer a potion to the brat.”

“Of course you aren’t, and it was not my intention to imply that you are. I am merely pleasantly surprised at the positive outcome of this whole ordeal. Now, you said that Harry has become quite proficient with the majority of the defensive spells?” When Severus nodded wordlessly, Dumbledore smiled slightly. “That is excellent, but the boy must have some duelling practice as well…I believe that Molly would be amenable to her son and Harry duelling together; it would benefit him as well.”

“The youngest Weasley boy?” Severus narrowed his eyes slightly as he considered the idea. “Potter may outclass him in skill so far that Weasley would not be good for anything other than target practice.”

Dumbledore took another sip of his tea before replying, “You underestimate the previous Defence Professors, Severus. Though it is true that Harry may be more skilled than him, Ronald Weasley is not incompetent, and I see no other feasible option, unless you would duel Harry yourself. Now, that would make Harry the target practice.” His blue eyes twinkled cheerfully at Severus, who found himself without a retort to snap.

“Fine—but take it upon yourself to inform Molly, and I expect a fire call from either you or her before noon. I must make Potter aware of this change in schedule,” he said wearily, before he made his leave by way of the Floo.

Potter was predictably ecstatic at the news that he would be spending the rest of the Defence days practicing with his friend at the Weasley residence, and the bright grin on the boy’s face gave a sense of ease to Severus—it was the happiest he had seen Potter since the day he had brought him to the hilltop meadow to fly—but he determinedly refused to let even a hint of it show, wresting an expression of discontentment onto his own features when it was time to depart for the Burrow after lunch.

They were greeted by Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, who had the day off since it was the weekend, Weasley junior, and the twin terrors. Although Mrs. and Mr. Weasley were welcoming and cheerful as they invited Severus and Potter into the living room, Severus could practically feel the dislike radiating off of the Weasley children, but to be fair, he was going to soon be throwing stinging hexes at one of their youngest, so their irritation might have been warranted.

Though it was Sunday and not a Defence day, Severus had decided to take Potter to the Weasleys prematurely so as to gauge Weasley’s proficiency in Defence before they started duelling each other the next day.

As Severus had expected, Weasley was not nearly as skilled as Potter; his shield charm was much weaker, and it faltered after only a few strong hexes, earning the grumbling redhead a sting to his shoulder, but after that quick test, Severus concluded that Weasley would be more than just target practice for Potter.

“Just barely acceptable,” he had declared at the end of the test, looking sternly down at Weasley and Potter, who had both flopped down into the grass. “Get up—It’s Potter’s turn to try your shield, Weasley.”

“Can’t I get a break? It’s not easy keeping up a shield charm for so long,” Weasley grumbled and rubbed at his fading stings with a scowl at Severus, who met his gaze evenly, unfazed by the familiar complaints of irritating adolescents.

“More reason for you to practice at it. Now, I will not repeat myself again. Get up.”

With more under-the-breath complaints from Weasley, both boys got to their feet and stood a few paces apart on the wide lawn, their wands drawn and Weasley’s shield up. Weasley’s shield did not give as easily to Potter as it did to Severus’, which was fortunate for him, since Potter was firing just about every jinx he knew at it, to Weasley’s dismay.

As the sun crawled down from its perch in the bright blue sky, some of the other Weasley children peered out from the windows of the upper floors of the Burrow to watch the practice; Severus could hear their amused chatter as Weasley’s shield faltered under Potter’s hex, and the boy ducked another spell with a yelp.

“That is enough for today. You two will begin duelling tomorrow.”

Weasley dropped his shield with a dramatic groan of relief, which Potter mimicked jokingly, and the other Weasley children, along with Granger, rushed into the garden to surround Potter and Weasley. Severus left them to their chattering, slipping silently indoors to further discuss the planned duelling lessons with Weasley senior.

———

Although Severus had no evidence as to how the old man had done it, he had a hunch that Dumbledore had some part in Molly Weasley insisting Severus join her family Sunday dinner with Potter and the Granger girl. She resolutely refused to take no for an answer, so here he was, sitting at the end of a magically enlarged trestle table that was not yet loaded with dishes, with Arthur Weasley in the seat next to him in the overgrown, half-garden, half-orchard that was the Weasley’s backyard. They, along with the two eldest Weasley sons, were watching the children’s game of three-a-side Quidditch in the bright late-afternoon sky above the yard.

Potter and the Granger girl were shooting after one of the Weasley twins, who was currently in possession of the old, wrinkled leather ball that was the Quaffle, and Severus grimaced slightly as the other twin and the younger Weasleys all dove after them, hollering at the top of their lungs. There was a momentary scuffle in the sky until Potter flew off, holding the Quaffle under an arm with a wide grin on his face, while his friends turned to pursue him with new whoops of laughter.

At least one of us is enjoying himself, Severus thought dryly.

“I never took you for somebody who cared about flying, Severus,” Mr. Weasley spoke up from Severus’ side. He smiled lightly as Bill egged on the flyers while Percy frowned disapprovingly, crossing his arms.

Severus did not scowl, but his tone was nothing close to Mr. Weasley’s amiable one when he replied curtly, “I assure you, my only interest in it at the moment is to ensure that Potter’s bones remain whole and unbroken.”

“Ah, well—I wouldn’t worry about that…The boy’s a natural flier, and the other kids don’t play rough.” When Severus’ grim expression did not change, Mr. Weasley added, “Please do relax; we really are happy to have you here, Severus. When you and Albus arrived at Harry’s birthday party, I admit that Molly and I were…confused to see you…”

“A reasonable reaction. It is to my regret that we arrived unannounced.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Owls get lost, that’s just how it goes sometimes. Anyways—It’s quite nice to have Harry’s guardian over at last, because we, er—have some questions that we were wondering if you’d—”

The children had flown quite high now, growing level with the rickety rooftop of the Burrow, though their shouts of laughter still reached the watchers below; both men paused as a particularly loud yell interrupted the last of Arthur’s words.

Severus tilted his head keenly at Mr. Weasley. “That entirely depends on the question.”

Mr. Weasley first glanced rather furtively around them before leaning in slightly towards Severus.  “Has Albus told you anything about Harry’s relatives?” he asked in a low voice.

Taken aback by the strange question, Severus paused before answering in a similarly quiet fashion, “He has told me nothing. Is it a matter of your concern?”

“Er…I’m sure you may recall the—the flying car…how Ron and Harry flew it to Hogwarts two years ago…” Mr. Weasley smiled feebly as a faint flush crept up his neck.

“Vividly so. They were seen by seven muggles, were they not?” Why on earth does that absurd incident have anything to do with Potter’s relatives? Severus shifted forwards as well so as to better hear what Mr. Weasley had to say next.

“Well, yes—and Ron had flown it before he and Harry took it to Hogwarts… He and the twins went and got Harry from his aunt and uncle’s with that same car in the summer of that year, and out of the blue, I remembered Molly telling me about something Fred or maybe Ron had said when they arrived with Harry and the car…something about bars being on Harry’s window.”

The horrible chill of those last words made Severus repress a slight shudder; the warm evening suddenly seemed cold and unwelcoming.

Bars…Those despicable people put bars on their nephew’s window…?

He forced himself to appear unaffected—it would not do to let on too much—as he replied coolly, “Perhaps Mr. Weasley junior was exaggerating to emphasize his need to perform an impromptu kidnapping.”

With a subdued wince, Mr. Weasley said quickly, “Molly and I thought that at first as well, but it’s just too…concerning to forget now, and we were wondering—since you’ve had him with you for some of the summer already…if you’ve noticed any—any signs that something’s wrong…?”

“I doubt that I have noticed anything that you would have missed,” Severus lied easily, though internally, his sense of discomfort was growing with each passing second. “Potter has only been under my roof for three weeks, whereas you have undoubtedly hosted him for longer than that time over the past summers. To me, he has been the same irritating child that I have ever had the misfortune of teaching.”

Mr. Weasley seemed to relax by a minute fraction, but concern was still etched into the lines creasing his freckled forehead. “Alright—Thank you, Severus, and if you see anything unusual about Harry…perhaps Albus should be made aware of it,” he suggested quietly.

“He will be,” said Severus darkly.

Before he could begin to dwell on what he was to do with this new information on Potter’s life with his relatives, and before Mr. Weasley could ask him what he meant, the sky was suddenly full of shrill screams and yelling. Severus sprang to his feet, dimly aware of the other adults doing the same around him, and looked up, wand in hand, just for his heart to stop at the sight of Potter plummeting from his broomstick.

“Arresto Momentum!”

The boy’s fall to earth slowed enough for Severus to rush forward and catch him in his arms while Bill Weasley grabbed hold of the broomstick, and the other children all landed safely, though clearly in various states of fear and shock, as Severus laid the surprisingly conscious Potter on the grass.

“What happened?” Severus asked immediately, kneeling down by Potter’s head to better inspect him for possible signs of injury.

Potter would have seemed as usual if not for the fact that his complexion was growing slowly and inexplicably redder, as though he were in a sauna and not the Burrow’s back garden, and he blinked blearily up at the people around him, brow furrowed in confusion. When he made an attempt to sit up, he winced, put his head back down, and shut his eyes with a groan.

“…I dunno, I just got a bit dizzy all of a sudden up there, and I guess I—I lost my grip.”

Mr. Weasley, like Severus, must have sensed that something was obviously wrong, for he declared quickly, “I’ll go get Molly. She’ll know what’s with him,” before rushing away up the garden path.

“Looked like you slipped, mate. Scared the shi—er—the heck outta us!” The youngest Weasley boy patted Potter’s shoulder with a shaky hand, and Potter smiled weakly in return.

“If Oliver had seen that, he’d’ve fainted too,” one of the twins remarked.

"I didn't faint," grumbled Potter, from the ground.

“Yeah, I can hear his reaction now. ‘Oh, Merlin—there goes Gryffindor’s seeker! How’ll they win without me and Harry?’” the other added.

Severus frowned at the casualty with which they spoke, as if their friend had not almost become a crumpled heap in their garden just barely a minute previously. Granger began scolding them for their inability to take the situation seriously, but Severus hardly heard a word of it. His attentions were still mostly focused on Potter, whose state appeared to be worsening; his eyes were still shut tight in apparent discomfort, and his face was now so red that it resembled the crimson Quaffle, which had rolled away into a nearby flowerbed, forgotten by the players.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps through the grass behind Severus, and Mrs. Weasley came rushing over with an expression of motherly concern on her face and her husband trailing unsurely behind her.

“Move, you lot, move! Give the poor boy some space.” She shooed her children out of the way before kneeling down at Potter’s side, tsk-tsking under her breath as she felt his forehead. “Describe how you feel, dear.”

Potter grimaced, his lips twisting into a frown. “It’s like—like my head is full of boiling water…and my eyes are kind of achy.”

“He seems to exhibit dizziness as well,” Severus told Mrs. Weasley, who hummed thoughtfully.

“Sounds like sun-sickness, but kids don’t get that after they’ve gotten their shot, or at least not as bad as this…Bill got it when he was younger and forgot to wear his hat while gnome hunting.”

“Shots? Like vaccines…?” Potter asked, his words slurring slightly as he spoke. “There’s magic vaccines?”

Severus shared a disturbed glance with Mrs. Weasley before he turned back to Potter to reply, “Magical children are vaccinated around the age of six for dragon pox, ague, mumblemumps, sun-sickness and the like…Would I be correct in inferring that you have not received any of those vaccinations?”

“Yup. ’S not like I knew ‘bout those until right now, and the Dursleys definitely didn’t. Not like they’d get me the shots if they did.”

A spark of anger for Potter’s sake flared in Severus at that last muttered statement, but he tamped it down; now was not the time to dwell on the disgraces that were Potter’s relatives.

“I will inform the Headmaster and Madam Pomfrey so that you can get the necessary shots when the semester begins, but for now, it’s bed rest for you. Can you stand?”

With a great effort, Potter managed to get to his feet without toppling over, and with the support of Weasley and Granger, he was able to totter through the garden and up the steps to the house, where Bill Weasley handed over Potter’s broomstick to Severus, since Potter was unable to do more than stay upright and conscious.

“Do fire call if you need anything, Severus, and get better soon, Harry.” Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly as she patted Potter’s shoulder affectionately. “Just get some rest, and your magic will be right as rain again!”

The boy nodded blearily in response, wobbling on his feet as he stepped to Severus’ side in the living room fireplace, and Severus had to pull him close to keep him from spinning off into the void once the Floo fire was lit.

After Potter’s friends bid their goodbyes, Mr. Weasley threw a pinch of glittering black powder into the fireplace and set it alight with his wand (Severus’ hands were occupied with Potter and the broomstick). Once the embers had roared to life with the bright flame, Severus said clearly, “Spinner’s End,” and the emerald fire enveloped them in a flash of heat and colour. As the whirl of inky blackness swooshed around them, Potter began to sag at Severus’ side, leaning heavily against him. It was fortunate that their stop appeared in the next moment, as Potter fully collapsed onto Severus as they both stumbled out of the fireplace and fell clumsily onto the living room carpet, Severus narrowly missing the corner of the coffee table with his head as he did.

“Godric help me,” he muttered, standing up and brushing soot off of himself before turning to Potter, who was still laying bonelessly on the floor next to his broomstick, one sneaker-clad foot still in the hearth, which was now luckily free of fire. “I assume that you are too dizzy to walk.”

Potter made an unintelligible noise and did not attempt to get up. His eyes were shut again, and it seemed that he was drifting off.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m going to pick you up now.”

There was no response other than a slight shifting of the head which could have been a nod, so Severus knelt down to carefully ease the boy into his arms, holding him as one holds an injured animal, which is to say, as gently as possible.

Unsurprisingly, it was not difficult to carry Potter, as he was about as compliant and heavy as an over-large basket of laundry. His head, with its ruffled mop of black hair, drooped to rest against Severus’ shoulder as the Potions master ascended the stairs, and occasionally a frown of discomfort disturbed his otherwise slack and relaxed face, though the heat of his fever burned hot enough to be felt by Severus through his own robes.

Potter’s room was not as cluttered and messy as Severus would have expected from a boy of his age, though the man did side-step a few stray pieces of parchment and crumpled notes as he carried Potter to the bed in the corner of the room. The large snowy owl, which had watched Severus enter the room from the top of the wardrobe through her narrowed eyes, fluttered noiselessly over to perch on the top of the bedstead, observing Severus pull the blanket snugly around her owner.

Severus removed his glasses—the glasses that he himself had ordered by owl delivery for the boy—folded them carefully, and placed them on the chest of drawers at the foot of the bed. Absent-mindedly, Severus brushed some of the wild hair that had fallen over Potter’s face out of the way, revealing the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The sight of it made Severus wince bitterly; it was his fault that Potter had that mark of the killing curse in the first place.

If he knew…he would hate me more than ever. Strangely, that thought, which he would have accepted easily a month ago, gave him a rather melancholy feeling, but he pushed it to the back of his mind and turned his attention back to Potter.

It seemed that he had fallen asleep; the red flush of his face was still obvious, though it did not hide the softness that came naturally to the expressions of someone asleep, and his breathing was slow and even. As Severus watched over the boy, something that could only be described as affection flickered deep within the dark caves of his cold heart, and the unfamiliarity of the emotion abruptly snapped Severus out of the preoccupied daze he had been in.

From the bedstead, the owl gave a low, almost judgmental hoot at Severus, who found himself frowning at the bird.

“I am only doing this because I must,” he told it defensively. Immediately afterwards, he scoffed to himself. Talking back to an owl. Perhaps I am ill as well. With only one last look back at Potter, Severus left the room, mentally noting the potions that would help the boy recover from his illness. Pepper-up, Hydrating Draught, Soothing Solution…Tsk, I’m out of essence of catmint, aren’t I? He sighed, thinking of the tedious process of extracting the essence, but then again, a quiet evening spent brewing was not the worst thing in the world.

———

It was around half-past eight when Severus entered Potter’s room again, levitating a tray of a bowl of chicken soup and the vials of potion behind him as he shut the door. Potter’s owl was absent; no doubt she had left through the enchanted netting on the window to scour the neighbourhood for prey. Potter was still laying down, but as Severus set the tray down on the chest of drawers, he dragged himself into a sitting position, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

“How do you feel?” Severus asked quietly, feeling the boy’s forehead. He seemed to have done that a lot over the past few weeks. It was still quite warm to the touch, but Potter’s face had become slightly less red in the time that had passed. Potter slumped into Severus’ palm, shutting his eyes again.

“Like somebody beat up my head in my sleep,” he muttered in reply after Severus had moved his hand away, “but the water’s not boiling so much anymore.”

Still rather out of it then, Severus thought privately. Wordlessly, he offered Potter the two potions from the tray, the glass vials tinkling as they clicked against each other when Potter accepted them with a murmur of thanks. It was a sign of the strange new trust between them (or of how dazed Potter currently was) that Potter did not hesitate for even a heartbeat before downing the potions one after the other with only a vague grimace afterwards.

“What were those?” Potter asked, passing the empty vials back to Severus and leaning back against his pillow, eyes half shut with drowsiness.

“An altered version of a Pepper-up designed to combat fever quickly, and a Soothing Solution.”

A thin trail of steam began issuing from Potter’s ears, and he felt them curiously. “Explains that, I guess…”

Severus passed him the bowl of chicken soup on the tray, but Potter only stirred at it half-heartedly.

“Sorry, sir—I’m not really hungry right now,” he admitted with a sheepish glance up at Severus, once he had realized that the man was still watching him.

“Then I’ll leave it here for when you are.” Severus took back the tray and cast a simple warming charm on the soup to keep it from becoming cold before he placed it back on the drawers. “Do not neglect it entirely—You will need more than just a night’s rest to recover from sun-sickness.”

“Yessir.” Potter saluted the Potions master solemnly as he settled himself under the covers again. “But…what’s sun-sickness?”

“It is a term used to describe the exhaustion of one’s magical core under the expending of it to both use magic and protect the body against the elements, namely the sun in your case, but it can also occur from the cold.”

“How come I got a sunburn that day you let me go flying?” Potter interrupted, frowning slightly.

“Usually the core can use itself to passively prevent trivial things such as the common cold, bruises, minor headaches, and sunburns, as well as increasing the rate of general healing, all without depleting too much of one’s natural magic, but when the core is also being used up by spell-casting…” Severus gestured vaguely at Potter, whose ears were still quietly emitting steam. “There is a shot that bolsters the magical core specifically against weather and other sources of stress induced magic depletion…It was remiss of me to assume that you had somehow received it, despite my knowledge of your muggle-upbringing.”

Potter shrugged easily. “S’not your fault…Mr. and Mrs. Weasley didn’t notice either…I’ve got to tell Hermione all that stuff. You know, ‘fore you and Dumbledore showed up on my birthday, we were talking about natural magic and healing stuff…Er—is this steam going to stop any time soon?”

“In half an hour or so, perhaps.” Speaking of things that the Weasleys have noticed—or failed to… “There is something I must ask you to elaborate on.”

Unease crept into Potter’s expression, furrowing his brow and tinging his face redder than ever as he slid further beneath the blanket until it was right up to his chin. He looked warily up at Severus, hesitation clear in his gaze.

“…What is it? I swear, I haven’t gone snooping in that Pensieve thing again.”

“No, it’s nothing about the Pensieve—which I have returned to the Headmaster, for your information.”

“Really?” Potter squinted at Severus. “…Why?”

“It seems that I have no need for it anymore. But you have pulled me off topic—While you and your fellow flight fanatics were fooling around in the sky this afternoon, Arthur Weasley inquired about you to me; he asked if I had noticed anything concerning about your behaviour. I told him that I had not, but it seemed that he and his wife had reason to believe that, in the summer before the semester in which you and Mr. Weasley junior flew that ridiculous car to Hogwarts, there were bars on your window at the Dursley residence.”

As Severus spoke, the anger that had burned hot inside him when he had first been informed by Mr. Weasley began to simmer again, and it was with a great effort that he kept it from reaching his voice, which he deliberately kept low so as not to make Potter more nervous.

It was a moment before Potter replied in a rasp of a voice—caused by his condition or emotion, it was not possible to tell—that Severus had to lean in slightly to hear, “Yeah. They didn’t want to send me back to school. Didn’t let me put Hedwig out, ‘cause they thought that I could—I could send for help with her.” While he spoke, he was sinking even deeper into the blankets, and his last words were muffled; the only bit of him left out from underneath the royal blue bedcover was his ruffled black hair.

“What else did they do? Or—did not do?”

Potter made a pitiful sound and shook his head vigorously. With a slender hand, Severus peeled back the cover obscuring Potter’s face, but the boy stubbornly refused to meet his gaze and instead turned onto his side to face the wall.

“You needn’t say more than what you want me to know.”

After a pause, where the only sound that pervaded the silence was the faint rustle of cloth as Severus shifted at the edge of the bed, Potter asked quietly, “You won’t tell anyone, sir?”

“No, never—to do so would be an intrusion on your privacy and a breach of your trust. I assure you, unless it is your wish for me to, I will not tell anybody what you have told me.”

There was a creak of the mattress as Potter moved to lay on his back again, his eyes resolutely shut. He seemed to steady himself with a deep breath before he murmured, “… B’fore then, I didn’t get much to eat, but that summer…I thought they were goin’ to let me starve to death. My Aunt and Uncle had a—a cat flap put on my door. S-so they wouldn’t have to let me out to eat. I dunno what would’ve happened if Ron and Fred ’n George didn’t come get me.” The hands clutching at the folds of the bedcover were trembling slightly, knuckles white despite the faint red flush that was still apparent on his arms and face, and Severus suddenly had the unfamiliar urge to rest a hand upon the tightly clenched fingers.

Perhaps it was some vaguely paternal instinct that had simply been dormant through his entire career as a Professor until this moment, or only from a desire to help soothe Potter in some way, but whatever it was confused Severus, making him momentarily unable to move with indecision. Yes, he did care about the boy—he begrudgingly recognized that now—but to show it in such an open act of…affection? Was that what this feeling was?

As a half-hearted compromise, Severus settled for awkwardly patting Potter on the shoulder instead as he replied, “If you had not arrived on the Hogwarts express, undoubtedly a member of the staff or a letter would be sent to contact you.”

Potter did not shrink or stiffen from Severus’ touch; in fact, he seemed to relax underneath it, sighing softly as he did a quick glance up at the Professor, his gaze flitting away as though he were afraid to look Severus in the eyes for longer than a moment.

“Have kids not shown up at the start of school before?”

“Never while in my time as a Professor, but…in my sixth year, I did not make it onto the train.”

Potter stared at Severus, all nervousness gone in his curiosity. “Really? …Why?”

“My mother passed away at the end of the summer. I was too preoccupied with organizing the funeral as well as my grief to realize that the semester had begun.” Severus intended to keep his voice smooth and unaffected, but he could not help the slightest tinge of sorrow from colouring his tone. “My father drank himself into a stupor each evening, and he was either unconscious or at work during the day, so he was of no help to me.”

Potter paled slightly, despite the fever still burning faintly beneath his skin. “Oh, I-I’m sorry, sir,” he said awkwardly, fiddling with the blanket as he spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Severus said dismissively. “On the evening of the train’s departure, I received a letter from Professor Dumbledore that my head of house would be arriving to take me by side-along Apparition to Hogwarts. At that time, it was a man called Professor Slughorn, who was head of Slytherin.”

“I don’t think the Dursleys would be happy if any Professor showed up on their doorstep looking for me,” Potter muttered with a shudder. He hesitated momentarily, casting Severus another shy look before he stated quietly, “But I’d rather you come get me than Professor Mcgonagall…”

For the first time in quite a while, Severus’ mind was entirely devoid of a reply to Potter’s statement as something soft and warm flickered inside his chest at the meaning behind those simple words. Again, his thoughts stuttered to a halt as his brain worked furiously to process the foreign emotion that he had not experienced regularly for literal years, and now, because of this self-sacrificing, good-natured Gryffindor, he was going to have to get used to it?

“And why would that be?” Severus managed to say, deflecting back at Potter, who blinked with the abruptness of the response.

“Well—you could probably look more muggle-y than her…The Dursleys don’t like magic-folk fashion. But maybe Aunt Petunia would recognize you…I guess she wouldn’t be pleased either way, then.”

“In any case, you needn’t worry yourself about that any longer—Professor Dumbledore would never allow them to keep you from attending Hogwarts, and perhaps if you informed him of the way your Aunt and Uncle treat you, you may never have to return to them again—”

But Potter was shaking his head on the pillow, a bitter smile on his lips. “Sir, I’ve thought ‘bout doing that before, but I really haven’t anywhere to go, even if Professor Dumbledore said yes. Sirius said that he had a house, but he’s on the run…I don’t want to take up space at the Weasley’s…Don’t think Professor Dumbledore’d let me stay at the Leaky Cauldron by myself every summer, would he?”

There was one place that Severus wanted to suggest—but no, Potter would not want to stay; even the thought of that was be ridiculous, impossible…yet Severus still allowed himself to consider, for a brief moment, what it would be like…

“Professor? You still in there?” Potter’s amused voice snapped Severus from his wondering. The boy was grinning boldly at him, having clearly found his absent-minded silence humorous, and crimson blotches coloured his cheeks as he smiled.

“Alright, enough from you.” Severus rolled his eyes, shoving the idea into the back of his mind—It was something that he would surely find swimming back to the forefront of his thoughts when he himself lay in bed that night.

He felt Potter’s forehead again, relieved at the significant decrease in temperature, as well as the absence of steam from the boy’s ears, since that was a sign that the potion was properly getting to work in reducing the fever. Potter sat up again as Severus made his leave, pulling the chicken soup towards him.

“Goodnight, Potter. If you experience any sudden discomfort or other unexpected changes in your condition, I am only down the hall.”

“I thought you said that I’d die a painful death full of suffering by your hand if I knocked on your door,” Potter said cheekily from behind the screen.

Severus sighed. “I suppose I can make an exception for tonight. Goodnight, Potter.” He shut the door carefully behind him, though not before a sleepy “Goodnight, sir,” slipped through.

In his own bedroom, Severus shed his dark teaching ensemble and dressed in his nightclothes. Once he had settled himself at his desk with parchment, quill, and ink, he began composing a letter to Dumbledore in regards to Potter’s missed vaccinations, but after a good part of half an hour spent staring blankly at the few words he had written down, he gave it up and instead slumped back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as he lost himself in his thoughts.

Even if Potter had some place to go during the summer, when Hogwarts was not an option to him, Severus was unsure whether or not Dumbledore would agree to allow the boy to leave the safety of the Blood Wards around the Dursley residence; after all, those were in place because of Lily’s sacrifice, and there was no stronger protection against the Dark Lord, other than perhaps the Fidelius charm, which would be problematic on a muggle household.

It was also likely that Dumbledore simply might not take the matter seriously and brush it off. The man was certainly one of the most brilliant wizards of his time and undisputed in his power and wisdom, but he was also able to be blindsided by his confidence in a family’s bond. Any family’s.

If Severus was to present a case against the Dursley’s guardianship of Potter, he was going to need physical evidence that was so solid that it could not possibly be denied.

There was one thing that matched that strict requirement, but whether or not it was legal, Severus was not entirely sure, though that was unimportant to him at the moment. The mere thought of Potter returning to that household, where he would be neglected, abused, and scorned by the people who were meant to care and provide for him, made Severus’ natural magic flare up in his anger, shaking the panes of the window in front of his desk slightly.

He took a shuddering breath in an effort to calm himself; this was a matter that he must consider rationally, but despite that fact, his old bitter thoughts from the part of himself that still harboured a dislike towards both James Potter and his son, which Severus had assumed he had shaken off since the incident with the Pensieve, began to whisper darkly in his mind.

Inform Albus of all that he needs to know and then wash your hands of the boy…It is no concern of yours where he may go after this summer—You should not care this much for him; if—no, when—the Dark Lord returns in his full power, with his followers on the prowl again, you will both be in danger if he discovers your true loyalties—Within the Blood Wards is the safest place for him outside of Hogwarts… No matter how many wards and enchantments you put on this house, it will never be safe enough—

Severus buried his face in his hands with a tired groan, his treacherous thoughts circling his mind like sharks around a body, and he fought to lock them away behind his mental shields before they convinced him of something that he would regret, but it was too late.

The seeds of self-doubt had been planted, and now, the he was unsure of what to do. Leaving the letter to Dumbledore still unfinished on his desk, Severus strode to his bed and collapsed upon it, hoping for the relief of sleep to quiet his mind, but it was in vain.

After an hour of restless tossing and turning while conflicted with guilt and uncertainty, Severus fell asleep at last, yet even in the world of dreams, he was unable to find solace. At least in the morning, when he would awake to a hesitant knock on his door, Severus would not remember the familiar green eyes narrowed in anger at his betrayal from his dreams….

Chapter Text

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, clutching the blanket tightly as his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. His forehead felt as if someone had poked it through with several needles, and it had been that burning pain that had shocked him awake. He’d had an odd dream, and it was slipping away from him the longer he tried to remember it, but strangely, he felt that it was about something important that he ought to know…

As he scrabbled for his wand and casted a tempus (3:43), the dream slowly came back to him in mismatched parts.

A huge snake slithering on a dusty rug. A dark, unkempt room that had muggle paintings and old furniture in it. An old man, who had had to walk using a cane. Two other men; one of them had been Pettigrew, and the other—Voldemort. Voldemort wanted to kill Harry and was plotting to do so. That was nothing new, but what made Harry afraid was the mention of an unnamed servant, one who was still loyal to Voldemort and apparently more courageous than Wormtail (which wasn’t exactly a high bar to reach, admittedly).

Harry’s scar gave another sharp twinge of pain, and he winced, patting it nervously. It was never good when his scar stung like that; the last time it had done so was when Voldemort had been close by, but surely, that couldn’t be possible now…

The window was always kept open to allow Hedwig through the enchanted netting, which she must have flown through at some point in the night, because she was perched on top of the wardrobe, sleeping soundly. Harry peered out of it at the dark, dingy street below and the rows of dull, grey houses that stretched on through the neighbourhood. He couldn’t imagine Voldemort striding along the litter-lined road with his wand out and crimson eyes narrowed in his search for Harry amongst the rubbish piles and old washing-lines, but he still didn’t feel much calmer.

Would Snape be angry at him if Harry knocked on his door to tell him about his odd dream? Harry hadn’t even been affected by it enough to activate the charmed bracelet; it sat placidly on his own wrist, its magic hum barely noticeable.

It had seemed important enough to warrant the disturbance of the Professor’s rest, but now, Harry wasn’t sure. He had already caused enough trouble for the man by getting sick and needing potions to recover, and now he was going to wake him up like a little kid just because his scar hurt.

With a sigh, Harry steeled himself before creeping out of his room and down the hall to Snape’s door. It wasn’t his sun-sickness making his legs wobbly anymore; now it was the irrational fear that Snape would snarl at Harry for waking him up so early in the morning.

Before he could change his mind and turn back around, Harry knocked lightly on the wooden door, and he held his breath as he listened intently for sounds of movement inside the room. After a few seconds, there was the soft rustle of footsteps muffled by carpet approaching the door and a click of a lock being switched.

Snape opened the door, squinting at Harry, who felt a spark of relief at the fact that the Potions master didn’t look too irritable for someone who had been woken up before the sun had even risen. The usual shadows beneath his eyes were darker, and his grey nightshirt was creased, as if he had been moving around in his sleep.

“Sorry for waking you up, sir, but I’ve, er—I’ve had a dream about Voldemort. Well, more of a vision—I swear, it wasn’t a normal dream; my scar started hurting because of it,” Harry said quickly, hoping that he didn’t sound too pathetic.

Fortunately, Snape seemed to take him seriously; his brows knitted together on his pale face, and worry glittered in the depths of his onyx eyes.

“…Come along then,” Snape muttered, walking past Harry into the corridor. “Tell me the details of your dream over a warm drink. Do you prefer lavender or magnolia tea?” 

“I’ve never had either, so I don’t mind which,” said Harry bemusedly as he followed Snape down the stairs and to the kitchen.

It was early enough in the morning that, although it wasn’t completely dark outside, the sun hadn’t even begun to rise on the horizon, so there were still a few nocturnal insects dancing outside the kitchen window in the pale light of a nearby flickering streetlamp. Harry watched them idly, propping his head up on his hands with his elbows on the dining table, as Snape set about making tea. Soon the room was filled with the pleasant herbal scent of lavender, and Snape and Harry were sitting across from each other, nursing their cups.

“Describe your dream as vividly as you can,” said Snape, after he had taken a measured sip of his tea.

Harry frowned slightly as he tried to recall the dream from the start; it was already growing blurrier in his mind’s eye. “Well, it started off with an old muggle man…I think he worked at this big old house, because he had the keys to the back door—Anyways, there someone in the house using the fireplace, and he saw it from the window; that’s why he went in…He was eavesdropping at the door to the room with the fireplace…”

Snape listened carefully as Harry explained what else had happened in the dream, his stony expression barely shifting no matter if Harry was speaking about Voldemort drinking Nagini’s venom-milk or about whatever plans the dark wizard had in mind having to wait until the Quidditch World Cup was over. The first change in Snape’s face was when Harry mentioned that he was apparently vital to Voldemort because he was going to ‘be of use’ to the dark wizard; Snape’s already pale complexion drained even further of colour, and he gripped the handle of his cup tightly as he raised it to his lips again.

“…After that, Voldemort—He had Wormtail turn his chair to face the old man, and the man started screaming—There was this flash of green light…and then I woke up.” Harry ended his retelling quietly, not looking at Snape. A chill had suddenly stolen through his body, making him shudder all over, and he hurriedly wrapped his hands around his cup of tea to get some warmth back into them.

“The old man,” he began again, but he had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat before he could continue. “…H-he’s dead, isn’t he?”

After a moment of silence, Snape replied shortly, “Yes. The Dark Lord has always considered muggles as expendable…Does your scar still pain you?”

Harry had winced at Snape’s word choice, and he shrugged silently in reply, staring into the dull orange depths of his lavender tea without seeing it. He was still struggling to comprehend the fact that an innocent man’s life had been snuffed out instantly, without mercy or reconsideration from the murderer, and the dull aching of his scar was surely nothing to the pain of whatever spell had been used to kill the old man.

“Do not dwell too long on what you saw. There was nothing you could have possibly done to save that man, and the killing curse inflicts no pain upon the victim.” Snape’s low voice reached Harry like sunlight through murky water, vaguely muffled and faint.

“If I’d just let Sirius kill Wormtail…Pettigrew wouldn’t’ve been able to find Voldemort again to keep him alive,” Harry muttered dully, almost half to himself, “and in my second year, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened—Ginny got possessed and dragged down there and almost killed because Riddle wanted to kill me. Ron got hurt too, from the enchanted chess set we got past in first year, when we could’ve just stayed out of that trapdoor…It was my stupid idea to go after Quirrel.”

To his horror, the tell-tale warmth of tears was beginning to prickle hotly behind his eyes, and he hurriedly wiped at them before finishing shakily, “If I hadn’t done anything, fewer people would’ve been hurt. It’s—it’s all my fault…”

The perfume of the lavender was no longer floral-sweet. Now it was almost sickening, and Harry pushed his cup away, unable to stomach it. At the same time, there was a slight movement at the edge of his vision; Snape’s arm had twitched at Harry’s words, seemingly involuntarily, as if he had made to reach out to Harry but decided against it at the last second.

“It most certainly is not, Potter.” Snape gave a faint sigh before he continued firmly, “You may have made reckless decisions that endangered both you and your close friends in the past, but even I can see now that you have never done them out of nosy curiosity, selfishness, or hunger for attention. Your intentions to protect the philosopher’s stone were pure, and Ronald Weasley sacrificed himself of his own will in that game of chess. Your choice to attempt to bring Pettigrew into custody was a logical one that would have given Black the evidence for his name to be cleared, if the operation had succeeded—Potter, look at me.”

Harry slowly did so, hesitantly meeting the Potions master’s pitch-black eyes. Snape’s gaze was even and unwavering. Steady. Reassuring.

“The Dark Lord was the one to take advantage of Ginny Weasley’s misplaced trust in his possessed diary, and if what Professor Dumbledore told me is factual, it was Lucius Malfoy who slipped it into her possession in the first place. Not you. The actions of that genocidal murderer are not your fault. I repeat, it is not your fault that the Dark Lord wants you dead and would do anything to accomplish that goal of his.”

Maybe that last part wasn’t that reassuring, but the guilt and self-blame that made Harry’s stomach feel like stone had been dissipating as he processed Snape’s words, and he was no longer on the brink of spiralling down a dark pit again.

“What are we going to do now, Professor?” he asked after a stiff pause.

Snape arched an eyebrow at him. “Well, you are going straight back to bed. It is still far too early in the day for you to remain awake, not when your magic is still recovering from your bout of sun-sickness.”

“Okay…but will you tell Dumble—er, Professor Dumbledore about my dream?”

“Yes, I will inform him in a letter.” Snape drank the rest of his tea in one go and Banished their cups and the teapot to the sink. He rose from his chair, and so did Harry, with a stifled yawn. “Do you require a Hydrating draught, Soothing Solution, or any sleeping tonic?”

Harry shook his head wordlessly, focusing his energy on keeping his eyes open. Now that he had told Snape about his dreams, it was as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders, and tiredness was pulling at him in the absence of stress and nervousness.

They made their way to the second floor together, where Snape held open Harry’s door for him but didn’t come inside himself.

“If your scar pains you again or if you experience any negative effects—”

“Yes, sir, I know…You’re only down the hall,” Harry smiled sleepily at the Professor, who would have looked as impassive as ever if not for the possible hint of amusement in the lines around his mouth. “I’ll try not to oversleep, but…no promises.”

Snape waved a hand dismissively at that. “That would be understandable. Magic recovery can take a toll on one’s energy levels. I will see you in the morning, Potter.”

“It is morning, Professor.”

“Alright, go back to sleep.”

Snape shut the door on Harry, but not before the boy glimpsed a flash of a smile on the man’s face, and Harry grinned to himself as he got back into bed.

If not for what had already happened between the two of them that summer— Snape waking Harry from his nightmares, making sure that he had new glasses and clothes, the Pensieve incident, and the illuminating questioning that had followed afterwards—Harry would have found the thought of Snape dispelling his self-doubt and self-blame completely ridiculous, but now…

Now, he found it comforting that the Potions master had cared enough to do so.

———

“So Wormtail found his way back to You Know Who?” Ron asked in a tone of mixed shock and revulsion.

Harry slumped against the apple tree in the Weasley’s backyard with a sigh. “Yeah. I guess Trelawney’s prediction at the end of third year’s going to turn out all right after all…Voldemort’s going to come back stronger than ever.”

Though it had been a fine duelling lesson—Snape had only had to correct Harry’s stance twice and Ron’s three times—and the sky was brilliantly blue and sunny as ever, a personal raincloud seemed to have taken upon itself the job of dampening Harry’s spirits; just talking about his dream again made him uncomfortable.

Ron flinched at the word ‘Voldemort’, casting Harry a reproachful glance as he spoke again. “Wish she could’ve been more specific, like why not just say all the important details? Like date and time, how much stronger is he going to get…”

“…I’m pretty sure that prophecies don’t work that way.”

“That’s ‘cause they’re stupid. Look, let’s not worry about it too much. Trelawney’s been wrong in the past. Don’t you remember that load of tosh she said at Christmas? Something about whoever gets up from their seat first will die first—and nobody’s dead!”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” But it wasn’t a real prediction, not like the one she did at the end of third year—Harry kept that point to himself. Ron was his best friend, but he just couldn’t understand how important it was to take both Trelawney’s prophecy and Harry’s dream seriously, so Harry changed the subject. “Hey, I think Snape’s done talking to your dad; we’d better get ready to duel again before he can call us ‘lazy hooligans’ again.”

“We just started our break five minutes ago,” Ron grumbled as he got to his feet alongside Harry, “and I swear, I’ve still got a bruise where I fell on my back from your Pretrificus Totalus last time.”

“Sorry, mate, but you could’ve dodged it,” Harry grinned unapologetically.

“Harry, you’d Leg-lockered my legs together, I couldn’t’ve dodged if I’d tried! Next time, you’re going to be the practice dummy for a spell.”

They made their way to the open patch of grass that they had been using as a duelling ground, but before they could resume their usual positions facing each other, Snape beckoned them from the porch of the Burrow, where Mr. Weasley was waiting, smiling brightly.

Harry looked to Ron for an explanation, and the redhead complied. “Oh yeah, I forgot—I asked Mum and Dad if you could come to the Quidditch World Cup with us. Guess we’ll see what Dad says ‘bout that…D’you think the dungeon bat will even let you go?”

After having spent most of the summer with Snape, Harry wasn’t used to regarding him in an unpleasant light again, and he had to stop himself from frowning at Ron for his jibe—though admittedly, in comparison to the Ron’s dad, who was dressed in his usual colourful but patchy robes, Snape looked about as friendly as a manticore, what with his black slacks, grey dress shirt, and an unpleasant expression on his face.

“It’s looking like a no,” Harry muttered.

They halted in front of Mr. Weasley and Snape, both boys tense with anticipation. Harry could see Ron breathing deeply next to him, as if he was preparing to burst out with indignation for Harry’s sake if Snape were to refuse.

Deliberately, Harry turned, made direct eye contact with Snape, and thought, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me go to the World Cup, as mentally loud as he could.

Snape must have heard it, because his gaze seemed to become more exasperated than usual.

“Harry, we’re so pleased to say that…we’ve got extra tickets!” Mr. Weasley announced cheerfully, completely unaware of what passed between Harry and Snape. “It’s fortunate that I’m acquainted with Ludo Bagman, I helped him from a spot of trouble—an incident with a rogue lawn-mower, it was attacking muggles left and right—Anyways, we’re so happy to take you and Professor Snape along with us to the Quidditch World Cup.”

Harry said, “Thank you very much,” at the same time that Snape protested, “Now, when did I agree to—” and Ron cheered and slung an arm around Harry’s shoulder, almost knocking him off balance.

But they were all cut off by Mr. Weasley, who insisted firmly, “It’s no trouble at all, really.” He fixed his gaze on Snape with a heavy emphasis on the really. “Top box seats, a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

“A waste of a ticket,” Snape insisted, frowning as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Offer it to anybody else, perhaps someone who actually cares for Quidditch.”

“But it’s the World Cup!” Harry spoke up. “Professor, it’d be great to have you there with us.” Harry ignored how Ron was staring at him with his mouth wide open in shock. He would have to explain to his friend later…

“I would be incredibly out of place there for multiple reasons,” said Snape, from between his teeth, though it seemed that he was refraining from being outright impolite. “Arthur—I would rather discuss my coming to the World Cup with your family in private.” He shot a shrewd look at Harry and Ron.

Mr. Weasley gave in with a sigh. “Oh, alright. Off you go, boys. We’ll call you over when we’ve finished our talk.” He and Snape headed into the house and to Mr. Weasley’s small office space, shutting the door firmly behind them.

After a few seconds, Harry and Ron slowly crept over to the door to listen in. Fortunately, both wizards seemed to have forgotten to make use of any anti-eavesdropping charms, so invested in their argument were they. Absurdly, the whole scene reminded Harry of when he and Dudley were eavesdropping on his aunt and uncle about Harry’s first Hogwarts letter (though he didn’t know that was what it was at the time), and he had to fight the urge to laugh.

“…any of my colleagues hear of me in Potter’s presence at something like the Quidditch World Cup—”

“Severus, do you really believe that they would do something about it?” Mr. Weasley’s voice was low and tinged with a hint of nervousness, but he kept it steady as he continued determinedly, “In any case, is Harry not more important than that? You heard him, he would be so happy if you were to join us, and so would we.”

Ron screwed up his freckled face at that, forcing Harry to muffle another laugh behind his hand.

Snape didn’t respond for a short while, and when he did at last, his usually even tone betrayed a shakiness that was so faint to the unfamiliar ear that it could have been easily missed, but Harry, after having spent so much of his summer listening to the same indifferent, baritone voice, caught it immediately.

“Albus believes that the Dark Lord will return, and when he does—I must return to my old post, no matter what. I cannot risk it.”

“…But you don’t want to disappoint Harry, do you?”

Snape didn’t reply.

“Severus, I’m not unobservant; I can tell that something has changed between you and the boy.” Mr. Weasley heaved another sigh, and there was a slight creak of the floorboards; he must have stepped closer to Snape, for his voice quieted even further. “Don’t deny it now. If it’s clear to me, then it’s very clear.”

Another silence followed, in which Harry held his breath as though if he even breathed, he would miss whatever the Potions master was about to say next.

“You are…not incorrect.” Snape paused, clearing his throat stiffly. “If I am to come along, then I must change my appearance. Adjustment charms, perhaps.”

“You could go redheaded, blend in with my family… The children could call you ‘Uncle Jack’ or the like.”

“They would hate that. My presence would disturb them, and I understand why.”

“They’ll get over it,” Mr. Weasley said simply, “and when the match begins, they won’t even notice you.”

“The whole thing would be extremely illegal, and if I am caught—”

Mr. Weasley chuckled softly. “Firstly, you won’t be, and secondly, don’t act as if neither of us have done some things that edged too close to the line that the law draws in the sand.”

“Edged? I have crossed it before,” Snape scoffed, but he didn’t sound as if he was so opposed to the idea anymore. “Alright. I’ll come, but only for Potter’s sake.”

“Good. Here, I’ve got the details about the Portkey time, date, and location around here somewhere…”

As the rustling of papers filled the office behind the door, Ron silently dragged Harry away, through the living room, up every single flight of stairs, until they reached his room at the top of the house, where he firmly shut the door behind them before turning to Harry.

“What the bloody hell was my Dad talking about, with you and Snape?” he demanded, sitting down on his bed and staring at Harry.

“Er—it’s a bit of a story,” said Harry sheepishly. He had kept both Ron and Hermione mostly in the dark about how he and Snape were beginning to get along, and now it was finally time for him to address it, to Ron at least. “You know how I kind of mentioned how Snape was less of a git than usual in the fire call I had with you, Fred, and George after you’d been spat back out your end by Snape’s wards when you tried fire-calling?”

“Yeah…” said Ron slowly. Pigwidgeon was pulling at the hem of his sweater, but he ignored the owl, his focus placed entirely on Harry.

“Well, he’s not a git anymore.”

Harry explained most of the events that had transpired between him and Snape, leaving out the more personal and sensitive details such as the exact memory that he had seen in the Pensieve, as well as his panic attack that had followed in the evening. As he talked, Ron’s expression morphed from concernedly intrigued to angrily confused to genuine worry. When Harry finished, Ron looked as if lobsters were crawling out of Harry’s ears, which is to say, blankly shocked.

“Are you sure that that’s not Fred and George’s long lost triplet playing a serious prank on you?” Ron asked eventually, after he had regained some of the colour in his face. “I mean—Snape. Being not a git? Being anything close to even nice? Harry, you’re not barmy, are you?”

“I thought that he was sick or something after the first Defence lesson, it was so weird,” Harry admitted. He petted Pigwidgeon absent-mindedly, and the tiny bird hooted with delight. “But nope, he’s still Snape.”

“Maybe you ought to ask Hermione to cast an anti-Disillusionment charm on him, just in case—Oh, we’ve gotta tell her when she comes for the Cup—Let me do the honours this time, I wanna see her reaction.”

Ron’s relatively mild reaction reassured Harry—he had been expecting his friend to start yelling, swearing, or both at the same time—and he grinned as Ron went on about how Hermione was going to be upset that Ron had finally found something out before she had.

“But, blimey, mate, why didn’t you tell us about your nightmares? You shouldn’t’ve had to go through them alone before Snape of all people did something about them.”

“I didn’t want to wake anybody else up, so while I was here, I used Silencing charms on myself before bed…and it’s just—I’m not twelve anymore, I shouldn’t be waking anyone up just because I had some bad dream.”

Harry’s voice shook slightly, and suddenly, Pigwidgeon’s tawny brown feathers were the most captivating thing Harry had ever seen; he stubbornly stared at the little owl, not meeting Ron’s searching gaze.

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron bluntly, surprising Harry into looking up in indignation. “Don’t you say that about yourself! With all you’ve been through already—those damn Dementors and those…ugh—those bloody giant spiders, and that huge snake, and seeing You-Know-Who’s face on the back of Quirrel’s head—your nightmares are probably ten times worse than anyone else’s. You better quit it with those charms. They’re not doing you any good, and I don’t care if you wake me up.”

“I haven’t had any for a while, but…thanks, Ron. Thanks for caring.” Though Harry really did trust Ron with his secrets, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, he didn’t mention how his nightmares were usually of the Dursleys, not of Basilisks, Dementors, or any other magical beast…

Ron shrugged simply, reaching over to pet Pigwidgeon as well. “Aw, well, that’s just what friends do. Now I think Dad and Snape have blabbed on long enough, let’s go bother them.”

They went down the stairs after Ron had chucked Pigwidgeon out the window with a short letter to Hermione about the Quidditch World Cup, meeting Ginny and the twins on the way, who all joined Harry and Ron on their journey back to the living room where Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, and Snape were standing around the coffee table.

“It’s all settled,” Mr. Weasley announced cheerfully to the room at large. “Professor Snape is coming to the World Cup with us, along with Harry and Hermione.”

Fred and George did an impressive job at twisting their facial expressions from horrified to neutral-but-slightly-pained in a split second, and Ginny didn’t even blink, either from surprise or how much she didn’t care. Ron, who had already accepted the outcome, only nodded stiffly.

Snape was stony faced as ever. “I look forward to it,” he said, clearly without meaning it.

———

“Are you having trouble with your knees again, Uncle Edgar?” One of the twins—even after five years of being the Potions Professor of those two menaces, Severus still could not tell them apart—ducked under Severus’ arm and slung it over his shoulder, and the other did the same with his other arm. “We’ll help you up all these rickety stairs, Uncle Edgar!”

From a few steps ahead, Potter choked on his laughter.

During the Portkey ride, Potter had gripped his arm so hard that, combined with the whirling of the Portkey, Severus felt that it was going to be torn off. It was loud and crowded on the campground, it was even louder and more crowded in the stadium full of hollering Quidditch fanatics and bright lights, and he had been glamoured to look like a Weasley. Blue eyes and ginger hair did not suit him.

Severus was not having the best of times.

Before he could wrench himself out the twins’ grip to snarl at them, Mr. Weasley pulled them off of him.

“Fred, George! Behave yourselves,” he chided them, but the two redheaded ruffians only crowed with amusement and raced ahead on the stairs, their vividly green Ireland scarves fluttering in their wake. Arthur gave Severus an apologetic look as they scaled the steps side by side. “I’m truly sorry about those two, Se—er—Edgar… I suppose your appearance has relaxed them too much to you.”

“I’ll survive,” Severus replied dryly. “It’s better than everybody else being unable to enjoy themselves because of my presence.”

They reached the top box and found their seats after Mr. Weasley performed a quick headcount (which was made difficult by the twins, who kept switching places and pretending to be other Weasley relatives). Severus could have sighed with relief once he found that he would be sitting between Potter and Bill Weasley, nowhere near the two notorious pranksters, who had been forced to sit by their father, away from any other potential victims.

As more people filed into the box, talking, arguing, taking bets, greeting each other, and donning their newly purchased Ireland or Bulgarian merchandise, Severus remained on edge, alert for any signs of something off. When Lucius Malfoy entered with his wife and son in tow, looking haughtily down his nose along the Weasley’s row of seats, Severus thought for a moment that he would be discovered, but the senior Malfoy only sneered at him with a quiet comment about how a new Weasley popped up each time he had the displeasure of meeting them, which Minister did not catch, despite being right next to him.

The game started with bellowing and roars from the crowd as the two teams zipped around the huge field, illuminated by the hundreds of lights that shone in the crowd, and Severus had thought that he would lose his hearing by the end of it, but he managed to tune the noise out slightly with the use of Occluding and the experience he had gained from spending years dining in Hogwarts’ Great Hall during the noisiest of feasts.

At some point in the game, when the Bulgarian team’s seeker had performed an extremely risky move involving a steep dive, which was apparently called the Wronski-feint, Severus thought that he had seen a flash of something from the corner of his eye, but when he looked to the row of seats behind Potter and company, there was only the nervous house elf that Potter had mistaken for another, trembling in the chair with her hands over her large, bulbous eyes.

When the victorious Irish team entered the top box with the glistening, golden Quidditch World Cup held aloft in their hands, the noise reached its peak; all of the Weasley group except Severus were hollering and clapping as loud as they could.

If not for the wide smile across Potter’s joyful face and his eyes aglow with exhilaration, Severus would have rather never come at all.

The whole group trooped back to their tents, tired from screaming and cheering along with the rest of the crowd but also content and satisfied. Severus settled himself into the corner of the dining table with his mug of tea—Potter had tried to give him a hot chocolate, but the Professor had to retain some of his dignity somehow—while the others chattered on about the game.

So this is what a happy family looks like, Severus mused as he watched the the Weasleys, Potter, and Granger discuss the match, arguing light-heartedly about the rules of Quidditch and the final outcome of the game. Though the atmosphere was warm and pleasant, and the sounds of other excited fans conversing and celebrating outside the tent suffused it with a bright energy, the sense that he was still extremely out of place, despite appearing on the outside just like another member of the Weasley family, crept into Severus’ chest, dampening any good mood he could have had.

Severus was glad when Mr. Weasley decided that it was time for everybody to shut up and go to sleep, and he offered to stay up a little longer while the others slept.

“Whatever for, Severus?” Mr. Weasley asked quietly, following Severus to the entrance of the tent. “It’s late; you ought to be getting rest too.”

“The triumphant mood of the campsite may encourage reckless behaviour, and…it is best to be on guard for anything.”

“Hm, alright, but don’t keep awake for the whole night.”

Severus nodded in response and exited the tent without another word. The night air was cooler than inside the stuffy tent, and the stars glimmered in the dark sky, which was occasionally lit by the colourful sparklers sent up by the groups of people still celebrating the Irish’s win. Severus conjured himself a chair from an abandoned tent peg, content to keep an eye out as he finally relaxed.

———

Something magical rippled through the campground like a wave of heat through open air, and as the joyous cheers and drunken singing quickly turned to cries of shock and terror. Ministry workers were rushing all over the place, some shouting fire-extinguishing spells and others—others were sending stunners and hexes.

A tent had been set alight in the distance, and hooded figures were visible against the bright glow of the fire. As the flames licked hungrily against the summer-dry grass, Severus leaped to his feet, adrenaline rising within him, and burst back into the tent.

With a wave of his wand, he filled the space with light momentarily to shock the others awake. “We need to get out of here, immediately. A fight has broken out, and tents are catching fire.”

Mr. Weasley was on his feet at once, pulling on his cloak as he urged his children awake. “Get up, Ron—Harry!” As the twins eagerly pulled Potter from his bed and wrestled the bleary-eyed boy into his own jacket, Mr. Weasley charged out of the tent, no doubt to wake his daughter and Granger, who were in the other tent.

Severus chivvied the rest of them outside, and Mr. Weasley appeared out of the darkness with the girls.

“The Ministry is fighting back, but they need aid,” Severus told him swiftly, glancing around them as he did; people were running out of the campsite, children clutching their parents, and shop vendors holding onto their unsold merchandise as they ran.

“Let’s go help them—Percy, you stay with the children. Get into the trees, and we’ll come get you all when it’s over,” said Mr. Weasley grimly, and Bill, Charlie, and Percy nodded.

The Weasleys rushed off, but before Severus joined them, he turned to Percy.

“Do not get any of them killed.”

Then he hurried off, his cloak snapping behind him as he strode through the scorched and trampled campground, through the tents, burned and barely singed alike, keeping his eyes peeled against the blackness of the night for those familiar hooded figures.

Spotting a few Ministry wizards throwing offensive spells and jinxes in the distance, Severus  headed around them, circling to where their spells were landing to see a couple masked wizards bracing themselves against an old cobblestone well, firing curses of their own back at the Ministry.

They were not acting as true Death Eaters, or at least not veteran ones—they lacked the brutality, for one thing; true Death Eaters would have been sending Killing curses in every direction to incite even more fear and panic—but the sight of them enraged Severus nonetheless; to attack right after the conclusion of a massive magical sporting event when the area was still crawling with Ministry workers…That was arrogance on another level.

Severus sent a stunner at one of them, and a shocked yell told him that he had hit his mark, so he jumped out from behind the collapsed tent that he had hidden himself behind and slipped right into the flow of a duel.

It was over in a few seconds; after it was clear that Severus was the more efficient fighter, the hooded wizard Disapparated with his unconscious companion.

Ignoring the grateful yells of the Ministry, Severus moved on. It was difficult to make his way through the rush of panicked people, and often he was forced to douse a young fire before it could devour another tent, and then he stepped over the damp ashes.

There was a larger fire in the distance, and it was that which Severus made his way to, his hurried footsteps muffled by clumps of charred wood, ashy debris, and the pieces of torn fabric strewn about on the ground. Silhouetted by the roaring flames, a large crowd of hooded mages stood cackling and jeering, pointing at something floating up above them. A few Ministry fighters and other mages seemed to be attempting to reason with them, to no avail.

Severus looked up, and the disturbing sight stopped him dead in his tracks as a sudden chill made him shiver even underneath his thick cloak.

The muggle campground keeper, his wife, and their children were floating in midair, still dressed in their nightclothes and mercifully unconscious, though the bruises and scrapes on their bare faces and limbs were evidence to their captor’s roughness and cruelty with them. Their heads lolled limply on their necks, and they dangled like rag dolls so high above the ground that if they were dropped from that height…

It was a sight far too familiar to Severus for comfort. How many other innocent muggles had he seen strung up in the air in that fashion, as if they were only lifeless scarecrows or mannequins? How many had he himself toyed with, to appease his fellows as the Dark Lord laughed and laughed, his high-pitched voice ringing out over so many scorched and ravaged villages?

Severus slammed his Occlumency shields into place as he strode towards the gaggle of other non-hooded wizards. He could not afford to slip into old memories—not now, not here.

Charlie Weasley was one of the mages, and he was arguing in a hushed tone with a Ministry wizard.

“What if they start attacking in the middle of the spell? The casters’ attentions would be broken, and then the muggles may just fall to their deaths. We need more mages on stand-by.”

“And we have no time to wait,” the other wizard retorted darkly. “We need to begin as soon as possible, before this gets even more out of hand! We never anticipated so many of them…”

Charlie looked as if he was about to reply, but in the next moment, he spotted Severus, and relief seemed to wash over him. He waved Severus over urgently. “Pro—Er, Uncle Edgar! We need you on standby to protect the spell-casters.” In a quieter voice, he explained, “They’re going to try to take the muggles from those masked mages, and the rest of us need to be on guard against retaliation.”

“Any other relatives you’ve got hidden around this campground, Weasley?” The Ministry worker asked dryly. “No? Well, I suppose he’ll do.”

“Of course,” said Severus, with another glance up at the floating muggle family, and he gripped his wand tighter in his hand. “It would be sensible to prepare to cast a Slow-falling charm as well.”

After a quick murmured discussion between the Ministry and the other mages, the trio of designated spell-casters began to chant under their breaths, aiming their wands at the muggles in the sky. So far, the mages attempting to negotiate with the hooded mages were distracting them, but they were bound to notice their control slipping eventually.

Slowly, the four muggles began to drift closer to the ground, nearing the Ministry’s turf, and masked faces began to turn, yelling out in rage. When a hurled jinx just barley missed the muggle woman, Severus and the other mages began firing curses and hexes of their own, making sure to cast a few occasional shielding charms on the spell-casters as they did.

The fire hissed as spells of all kinds coloured its flames rose red, electric blue, bright purple, and blinding white, and the campground was soon aglow with the flashes of spell-work and magic once more.

Severus shot off multiple binding jinxes in quick succession, catching some of the hooded mages by surprise, and he had to dodge a few Stunners and Impedimenta as well as cast Shields for his fellow duellers who were too occupied to do so themselves. He had not fought like this for a long time, but his movements were no less rapid, and his pulse throbbed in his throat with a fervour that he had almost missed; the thrill of the fight and the heat of the battle made him feel alive.

More hooded figures were disappearing, either running off into the dark or vanishing with loud cracks, bringing their Stunned accomplices with them as the other wizard Severus had duelled did, but when the sky burned with green light, they all cried out and Disapparated before the others could even question why.

The muggles were finally rested safely on the ground, but nobody had eyes for them at the moment; people were yelling in fear and shock all around Severus again, and it was suddenly clear.

A skull of green smoke with a slithering snake for a tongue was emblazoned onto the night.

Potter.

Somehow, Severus felt that the boy had something to do with this. Without another thought, he raced away in the direction of the trees, ignoring the shout of Charlie from behind him.  His chest was suddenly too tight, leaving him only able to draw shallow, uneven breaths, and his thoughts were all in a whirl, his mental shields forgotten in his panic.

If—if he’s injured or worse—No, that would be improbable, unlikely, impossible, not with his friends and capable mages around—Unless…No, no. He must be safe, he must be—

It had been a mistake to leave Potter and the other children with that other Weasley boy. Severus knew that now. He should have remained behind and sent Percy off in his place, no matter how strange it may be for the boy and his friends.

With each second that passed, his blood ran colder in his veins, and his breath grew more ragged as he entered the forest, muttering “Lumos,” as he did, scanning the trees for any face that he recognized. Tight-knit groups of people looked warily at him as he ran along the well-tread trail through the trees, but Severus spared them no more than half a second’s glance before he continued on.

From a little way up ahead, he heard high-pitched sobbing, the pleading cries of some pitiful creature. It sounded like a house elf.

Emerging through the ferns and shrubbery, Severus blinked in the light of several other Lumos directed at him. He scowled, holding up a hand to block out the light as Mr. Weasley came rushing up to him.

“Oh, put your wands down!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s my cousin—He was off helping the Ministry.”

The other mages lowered their wands, and Severus saw Potter, who seemed unharmed (the tightness in Severus’ chest dissipated at once), though a little ruffled and nervous; the other children, who all appeared equally scruffy and shaken; Percy, who paled significantly at the sight of Severus, Bill Weasley, Bartemius Crouch, Mr. Diggory, and several other Ministry mages all stood around the crumpled elf on the ground.

“What has happened?” Severus asked into the quiet.

“Harry, Ron, and Hermione got separated from Percy in the crowd, and they heard whoever cast the Dark Mark. Amos found Mr. Crouch’s elf with Ron’s wand—with the sign of the spell in it!”

The elf’s sobs echoed around the clearing in the tense silence. Severus did not need to be told to know that she must have been laid off by Mr. Crouch.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat uncomfortably before he spoke again. “Well, if the case if closed, I think I’ll take my lot back now. Amos, if my son could have his wand back…?”

“Oh, right, of course—” Mr. Diggory handed over the wand.

As the whole group began to head towards the campsite, stumbling over tree roots in their tiredness and talking amongst themselves about all that had happened, Severus subtly pulled Potter to the end of the procession so that they would not be easily overheard.

“Are you alright? Were you caught up in the fighting at all?” Severus asked quietly, scanning the boy’s face.

Potter rubbed carelessly at the few pale scratches he sported on his arms, undoubtedly caused by the bushes and saplings of the forest that they had walked through. “I’m fine, sir, and so are the rest, so don’t snap at Percy, please…but what about you? There’s soot all over your clothes.”

“Seeing as you are not dead, Percy Weasley will not become a subject of my ire—and my well-being is none of your concern, though in any case, I am also fine.”

“None of my—?! The last time I saw you, you were charging right at the people who’d set tents on fire and put defenceless muggles up in the air!” With a frustrated sigh, Potter ran a hand through his hair, not looking at Severus.

The same movement would instantly elicited a sneer from Severus of a month previous, but now, he recognized that it was a way for Potter to vent some of his emotion, more of an unconscious fidget than a deliberate action.

“I just—I was…” Potter made an unintelligible sound of annoyance at himself. He frowned up at Severus, as if it were the Potions master’s fault for his inability to get his words out. After another second of verbal struggle, he muttered, “…I was worried about you, okay?”

A fourteen year-old boy—and his ward, no less— had been worried for him? Severus was inclined to rolling his eyes at the very idea, though, secretly, he was conflicted between feeling a faint warmth that Potter had been thinking of his safety, and frustration that the boy had cared in the first place. It seemed that, despite Severus’ best efforts, faltering and inconsistent as they were, since the Professor found it harder and harder to keep Potter at a safe distance from himself—It seemed that they were both becoming attached to each other.

“Worried? Whatever for?” Severus hid his emotions behind a sharp scoff. “Potter, I have been tutoring you in Defence against the Dark Arts twice a week for almost five weeks now, and you doubt my capabilities still?”

“I know, I know it was stupid,” Potter snapped shortly, quickening his pace slightly so that Severus had to lengthen his stride to match his speed. His cheeks were visibly pink in the white light cast by Severus’ lit wand tip.

Instinctively, Severus’ own temper flared at the boy’s curt response, and he had to force it down before he retorted with something that he would regret, reasoning with himself in his head. You fool—Clearly, he’s upset, and anger will get this nowhere.

After a moment’s tense silence, Severus said as carefully as he could, “I did not mean to diminish your feelings. In fact, it was…benevolent for you to have thought of me, for lack of a better word…Though you should not have had to worry.”

Potter did not immediately reply, but he seemed to become less stiff and standoffish at Severus’ words, and his steps gradually slowed to their usual pace again, his burst of burning energy having run out.

They were nearing the Weasley tent now, and the rest of the group were speeding up in their want to reach the comforting warm light of its innards. Severus sensed that the boy wished to say more, so he simply stayed silent to allow him time to speak up on his own, unprompted and unprovoked.

“Why did those hooded mages attack?” Potter asked at last as they stepped past an abandoned tent that was still smoking slightly. “What was the green skull for?”

“I have a measured guess based on past experiences, but it would be best if I shared that with the others inside; the information is rather sensitive.”

Potter glanced around warily, as if he expected to see eager eavesdroppers peeking out from behind tent posts. “…Alright.”

The others had already gone inside the tent, the faint chill of the night air dissuading anyone from waiting too long for the two stragglers, and all around them, families were attempting to repair or charm the soot off of their own tents as Ministry workers flitted about, inspecting the damage and shaking their heads at the wreckage.

Severus debated on not saying anything else at all and allowing the silence to stretch on, but he felt that he ought to add something, especially after Potter’s admission of something so… personal.

In the end, his sense of obligation won.

“And just for your information,” Severus lifted up the tent flap as he spoke, to allow Potter to enter in front of him, “…I was also worried about you.”

Potter halted in the entrance of the tent, half in and half out, his face turned slightly away from Severus and bathed in the golden light of the burning lamps inside the warm space. There was a small smile on his face, though whether that was his reaction to what Severus had said or simply because Weasley was coming towards him with a mug of re-warmed hot chocolate, the Potions master could not tell.

———

“Wish they’d found whoever conjured the Mark,” said Bill, wrapping a conjured piece of bandage around his bleeding arm. “I mean, it’s obvious that the elf didn’t do it.”

“How did she get Ron’s wand, anyways?” asked Charlie, looking curiously at his younger brother.

Weasley flushed slightly, the tips of his ears turning as red as his hair. “I couldn’t find it on me when we’d gotten into the forest, so I figure I dropped it somewhere when the crowd started shoving ‘round us.” He took a large gulp of his hot chocolate.

Potter shifted beside his friends on the rug around the coffee table around which the other children were all seated. “I’ve got a better question…What’s the skull thing, and why’d everybody start panicking even more at the sight of it?”

“It is the Dark Lord’s symbol,” Severus replied the same time as Granger said, “I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s mark!”

“Sorry, Professor,” she said sheepishly with a quick glance at him. “…I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”

“‘Course you did,” one of the twin terrors said quietly, and Granger crossed her arms with a hmph.

Severus continued unaffectedly, “He and his followers would cast the Dark Mark into the sky when they had killed. Its purpose was to create fear and paranoia.” He kept his voice as steady as possible—the atmosphere in the brightly-lit tent had already become sullen and anxious without his own apprehension about the subject seeping into it—but he could not stop a familiar cold from settling into his bones as his own memories of his past experiences with the Mark drifted into his mind’s eye.

If these people came to know of what I’ve done, the heinous crimes I’ve committed—If Potter knew…Merlin help me.

Mr. Weasley chose that moment to speak, his voice tearing Severus from his darkening thoughts. “In those dark days, it was everybody’s worst fear to be coming home, seeing the Dark Mark floating over your house, and knowing what you would find inside…” He shuddered, clasping his hands tighter around his mug of tea momentarily.

Weasley asked warily, “Why’d whoever conjure it if nobody was killed, then…?”

“Nobody knows, but the Death Eaters Disapparated the moment they saw it,” said Bill as he readjusted his bandage. “That didn’t help us much; nobody was able to catch and unmask any of ‘em before they got away.”

“I doubt whether or not they were actual Death Eater members,” Severus said as Potter asked, “What’s a Death Eater?” before immediately stammering out an apology, eyes wide with abashment.

Severus shook his head dismissively; it seemed that he was getting interrupted often that night, which was reasonable, seeing as the children were practically shaking with questions and anxiousness, especially Granger, who listened intently to it all.

“That is what the Dark Lord’s followers called—call themselves. It could be that the hooded mages we saw sowing havoc tonight were some of them who have managed to keep out of Azkaban.”

Perhaps Albus was right…Tonight’s carnage, and Potter’s recent dream—no, it was a vision—Perhaps the Dark Lord will return sooner than we have expected, and with those out there who are still willing to support him openly as this…

“…They likely Disapparated because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would undoubtedly not be pleased with them if he returned. If they had managed to stay out of Azkaban, they would have lied about their crimes under his orders, and the Dark Lord was never merciful to cowards. He would rather they have been proud of what they had done and how they supported him.”

“But I heard only Death Eaters know the incantation to cast the Dark Mark,” said Bill, “so why would one of them do it?”

“I am unsure.”

Lucius, Crabb, Goyle, Nott, Avery, Macnair…Which one of them would have done such a thing? Were any of them among the masked tonight? Severus recalled Lucius Malfoy’s cold sneer in the darkness of the top box in the Quidditch World Cup stadium, and he resisted the urge to scratch at the Dark Mark that was imprinted on his own skin.

There was a stiff silence until Mr. Weasley stood up and drained his tea. “Alright, bed, you lot. It’s very late now, and Molly’ll be worried sick if she hears the news and we arrive late. Let’s get some sleep and then catch an early Portkey out of here.”

They all got into their bunks without complaint or much further conversation. Severus knew that he was not the only one suddenly feeling the full weight of his tiredness dragging him down, but even when the lamps had been extinguished, and all was quiet inside and outside the tent, he did not slip into sleep for a long while.

At the crack of dawn, the group Portkeyed back to Stoat’s head hill where they made the trek back to the Burrow, where Mrs. Weasley tearfully hugged her entire family, Granger, and Potter (Severus managed to avoid her grasp) before Severus and Potter bid their goodbyes and left by way of the Floo.

The moment after Potter stepped out of the fireplace, he was flopping face first onto the couch with his rucksack dumped ungraciously on the floor in front of it, and within seconds, he was asleep.

Severus sighed exasperatedly, Summoned a blanket, and draped it carefully around Potter’s unconscious form. He seated himself on the other end of the couch, a leg crossed over the other and a hand propping up his chin as he listened to the quiet sound of the boy’s soft breaths, realizing that he was still quite drowsy himself.

He could have gone to brew a mug of tea or perhaps retire to his own bedroom, but all energy seemed to have been drained from him, and his eyelids were becoming heavier and heavier…

When the sun had fully risen over the horizon, both Professor and student were soundly asleep.

Chapter Text

After the excitement of the Quidditch World Cup, Harry at first found it difficult to settle back into Defence and Potions, especially since Snape had replaced the last Wednesday rest day with extra Potions (Harry had already finished his summer schoolwork so he had nothing to do then anyways), and all that brewing, wand work, and practice made the final week of the summer fly by.

He hadn’t had a single weird dream or nightmare since the vision of Voldemort, Wormtail, and the old man; Sirius had sent him a short but cheerful note written on the back of a scrap of a German magazine, delivered by a very harassed and ruffled looking pigeon, which dodged a peck from a hungry Hedwig before it launched itself out of the window, leaving a few downy feathers behind on the desk; Hermione had come over to the Burrow with some magic ordering forms after a duelling session, and she, Harry, and Ron had spent the rest of the time getting their new school things, magic fiction books, foreign snacks and candies, and other things available for delivery ordered by owl.

It had been a good week.

Before Harry knew it, it was suddenly a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon, the day before he was to go with the Weasley’s to King’s Cross station to catch the Hogwarts Express.

Snape’s living room looked rather funny sideways, Harry mused as he lay comfortably on his side on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chin. It was strange for him to remember how sullen and unhappy he had first been, clutching his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, when Snape had pulled him through that fireplace against the wall; it seemed to have happened only the other day yet a year ago at the same time, and tomorrow, he would leave to never come back.

A pang of what could only be disappointment ached in his chest, and Harry frowned.

I don’t care. I’ll be at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione, and I’ll stay there at Christmas and Easter as usual, and then—

He would be at the Dursleys’ for another summer. As usual.

Harry sat up properly and hugged himself, trying to squash down the melancholy in him that was determinedly dragging down his mood. He could survive the next summer and the one after that…Really, it was just—how many more years?—three more summers with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, who all hated him, and he would be free.

That reasoning didn’t help much. Three suddenly seemed like a rather large number.

Fortunately, Snape chose that moment to enter the room, almost dropping whatever he was holding as he was startled by the sight of Harry sitting silently on the couch, and Harry’s glumness was instantly replaced by curiosity once he saw what Snape had with him.

“I had assumed that you were in your room,” said Snape as he carefully placed the Pensieve   onto the coffee table before sitting down in his armchair across from Harry, regarding him with an almost suspicious look that Harry associated with Molly Weasley when Fred and George were up to something. “What have you been doing all day while I was working in my office?”

“Oh, you know, burning down your kitchen and cutting up your curtains, the usual.” Harry leaned over the basin of slowly swirling white liquid-smoke, but there were no memories in it to see, at least not yet.

Snape’s eyes flicked up at the curtains, which were obviously untouched, in the window behind the couch before his gaze took on an exasperated quality that had become very familiar to Harry over the past weeks.

“Only joking, Professor,” Harry grinned. “So, what’s up with the Pensieve?”

“‘What’s up with the Pensieve’ is that I am going to show you a few select memories in it.”

Harry’s interest was instantly piqued, and he couldn’t help from coming forth with questions as Snape took out his wand.

“What’re they about? Are you really sure you want me to see them…? Is it important, like more Defence stuff? Or Potions—?”

Snape’s wand paused halfway on its journey to his forehead as the Professor glowered at Harry. “It is difficult to recall a memory when a chatterbox of a child is yammering away,” he remarked pointedly.

Harry mimed locking up his mouth and throwing away the key, and Snape resumed the process of memory extraction after he had rolled his eyes.

A thin, glimmering string of something that looked like a cobweb sparkling with morning dew but could only be a memory came away with Snape’s wand tip when he pulled it from his forehead, and Harry watched, fascinated, as he deliberately dropped the memory into the Pensieve, where it dissipated into the smoky fog.

“Cool,” was the only thing Harry said before he dunked his head into the memory.

The magical shop fronts and bustling lanes of a snowy Hogsmeade melted into being around him, and people dressed warmly and wrapped up to their eyes in scarves and balaclavas appeared out of thin air. Harry had never experienced a Hogsmeade trip without the safety and burden of his Invisibility Cloak, so he looked around enviously for the young Snape who had had the privilege of such a thing.

Something touched Harry’s shoulder, and he almost jumped before he realized that it was present-day Snape, who nodded at the two small figures making their way down the street in front of them.

At the sight of his mother—albeit a thirteen-year old memory version of her—a reassuring warmth filled Harry from his head to his toes.

She had had a childhood, had gone on a school trip like any other student, had walked with her friend down the streets lined with growing banks of snow, had really lived. There was more to her than her death, which was what everybody seemed to care about more than her life.

“What shops should we go to?” Lily asked, rubbing her gloved hands together. “Mary told me that the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes are good, but it’s so crowded in there…”

Young Snape shrugged, the end of his patchy Slytherin scarf swinging from his shoulder at the rolling movement. “There’s the antique store down at the end of the street, or we could look at the writing supplies shop. Yesterday you said that you needed a new red ink bottle, didn't you? They’ve got over fifty different shades of inks there.”

“Ooh, that’s perfect! Let me get you something then, since you’ve come up with this nice idea.”

The two of them began walking, and Harry hurried after them, dimly aware of the real Snape hanging slightly back, as if he didn’t want to intrude on his own memory.

“You don’t have to get me anything,” protested memory-Snape, but Lily only smiled brightly back at him.

“It’s fine, Sev. We’re friends, and friends can give each other gifts! Besides, I’ve got to pay you back for you lending me your Defence notes last Thursday somehow.”

It took a while for them to actually find the writing supplies store, since the flurries of snow were thickening, and clumps of snowflakes were plastering themselves onto every surface, including the street signs and shop boards.

At last, Lily and Snape stumbled into the welcoming glow of the cozy store, which was lined with shelves and cabinets of quills of every kind of bird feather imaginable—eagle, owl, ibis, heron, hawk, flamingo, and even a delicate, navy-blue kingfisher quill that was so small that only a house elf could use it easily—and a section of the store dedicated to the huge array of ink bottles standing in a row in every hue of the rainbow, from the classic obsidian black that was a household favourite, to bright magenta that Harry suspected Gilderoy Lockhart of having signed many of his books in, to a glowing neon green that was reminiscent of the gleam in a beetle’s wings.

Harry made a mental note to visit the shop himself, when the school semester started and Hogsmeade weekend visits were possible again.

“Woah,” Lily whispered in awe, examining an sample roll of papyrus before turning to a packet of imported Japanese silk paper. “I didn’t know that there were so many options—and we’re stuck with boring old parchment at school?”

“This stuff’s expensive, that’s why we don’t use it. Can you imagine messing up an essay on one of these?” Snape held up a scroll of magic-imbued Chinese calligraphy paper, which shimmered subtly like an opal under the lamps overhead.

“Yeah, that’s true, but it’d look pretty, wouldn’t it?”

As the pair were getting their things rung up by the cashier, Snape stepped to Harry’s side. He seemed slightly pained, though he was obviously trying to hide it, as he kept his face turned mostly away from Harry as he spoke.

“I hope this is not a bore to you, seeing as you have been on a Hogsmeade trip yourself before.”

“No, no I haven’t,” Harry said automatically, but after a second, he sighed, “Okay, yeah, I have, but that doesn’t mean I care about this any less.”

Harry and Snape exited the store, following the memories down the street—it appeared that they were heading to a bakery near the Three Broomsticks, though it was difficult to tell, since the snowfall had become a light blizzard that made Harry shiver despite not being able to sense the cold.

“Ah, so Draco Malfoy did not hallucinate your head at the Shrieking Shack that day. I was sure that balls of mud do not have the ability to launch themselves at people,” Snape said dryly, and Harry dared to smile sheepishly. “If not for Lupin, I would have had your Hogsmeade privileges revoked forever.”

“Sir, Malfoy started it, so I had to do something about it! He was picking on Ron, ‘cause you know…Ron’s family aren’t exactly rich, and Malfoy’s a prat—”

“Potter.”

“Only telling the truth!” Harry held up his hands in mock protest. “Anyways, Sirius turned out to not want to me dead after all, so nothing came of it, alright?”

“It was never about whether if Black was guilty or not. To everyone’s knowledge, including mine, he was a murderer intent on killing again, and you were throwing away all efforts to keep you safe just to sneak off to—what? Buy tooth-rotting sweets and frivolous things such as that ‘spare bit of parchment’?” Snape did not seem angry, but there was a bitter edge to his voice that made Harry think that the Potions master might still begrudge him for that case of rule-breaking, no matter how long ago it was.

Harry couldn’t help his voice becoming smaller as he said quietly, “I know, I’m sorry, Professor—I shouldn’t’ve done it at all, but I just—I just wanted to be like everybody else for a change…”

“It does not matter now, but in the future, do try to resist the temptation of sneaking out of the safety of the castle while a presumed mass-murderer is on the loose. How did you even become invisible in the first place?”

“Somebody told me that a magician should never reveal his secrets,” Harry replied, casually not looking at Snape, in the case that the man would read his thoughts of his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map. Surprisingly, Snape accepted his non-answer, or he at least did not push for a real one.

Memory Lily and Snape were already seated at a table in the window of the bakery with their plate of jam tarts and cups of hot chocolate when real Snape and Harry arrived.

“So you used to like hot chocolate? How come you don’t anymore?”

“Lily thought—mistakenly, I assure you—that I liked it, and I hadn’t the heart to correct her. The chocolate is far too sweet for my preference.”

“But you ate the cupcakes I baked, and those were sweet,” Harry grinned.

Snape chose not to reply.

Seeing as it would be awkward to stand around and watch them eat their tarts and watch the snow-covered passersby struggle through the blizzard (according to Snape, that was what they had done for the next half an hour), they decided to leave the memory for a new one. Harry remembered how he had struggled to pull himself out of Snape’s worst memory, so he was thoroughly impressed when the Potions master only had to tighten his hold on Harry’s arm and shut his eyes for a moment to drag them both out of the Pensieve.

The next memory was set on the grounds of Hogwarts, by the lake. At first, Harry thought absurdly that he was going to see memory Snape get pummelled by his father and Sirius again, until in the next second, he realized that it was much different than that memory, though the environment seemed the same at first glance.

It was a sunny, cloudless summer day, just as it was in the other memory, and students were milling around the grounds, but Lily and Snape were younger, more soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, and their laughter rang out, high and clear, as they splashed around in the shallows of the lake, their socks and shoes set safely on the banks.

“We were both in our fourth year here,” real-Snape clarified as he and Harry watched the memories kick up water in their attempts to soak the other first. “Our final exams had just finished.”

“Don’t mention exams again,” Harry said with a shudder. “I don’t want to think about those ’til we’re back at Hogwarts.”

A smirk curled Snape’s thin lips. “I will expect work of higher caliber in class and in exams from you now, seeing as I have been privately teaching you Potions for much of the summer.”

Harry groaned.

There was a loud yell, a splash, and a triumphant shout, and Harry and Snape both looked up to see memory-Snape dripping with water; he had tripped and fallen into the lake.

Lily danced victoriously around him, chanting, “Got you! I got you!” until Snape tackled her by the knees, and the resounding spray of water soaked them both as they spluttered, laughing together afterwards as they picked bits of lake grass and debris from their sodden clothes.

All of the ruckus and commotion they were making had drawn the attention of some of the other students relaxing on the banks of the lake, and Harry cringed as a boy wolf-whistled loudly. Both Snapes scowled, but Lily ignored the sound, as she was preoccupied with wringing more water from her robes, even as louder jeers and calls sounded from behind them.

“Many were under the false impression that we were more than friends,” Snape explained, still frowning deeply. “Lily was never particularly bothered by the mocking comments. I admired her for that strength.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all as they followed Lily and memory-Snape up to the grassy lawn, where they sat down on the grass near a grove of birch trees, basking in the hot sun. Lily began creating a daisy chain, duplicating the flowers when she ran out, and Snape did his best to help her, though he broke more chains than he made, which were fortunately repaired by a simple charm.

“Just pull the stem through the loop—yup, just like that—and you’ve got them both connected!” Lily clapped her hands together in glee as Snape held out the completed chain of daisies. “Isn’t that beautiful? My grandma taught me last summer on our family camping trip…I wish we could’ve had you with us.”

“I couldn’t have, you know that I had to help my mum. Besides, I don’t think your sister would’ve appreciated me coming along,” muttered Snape, his face souring. He plucked another flower from the grass and started to rip off the leaves.

Lily gently took it from him, tucking it into his dark hair as she said serenely, “Well, let’s not care about what she’d think, not when it’s such a nice day, and our exams are finally done! How d’you think you did on Transfigurations? I think I did well, except that one bit about the characteristics of mammals versus birds in animal to furniture transformations…”

“And I thought that you had your notes all in order for those questions! Did you remember that mammals, especially the larger ones, are more likely to be hard-wooded furniture?”

“Oh, no, I did misremember that…I thought it was the smaller ones, not the larger ones.”

Snape smiled and patted Lily’s arm reassuringly. “I guess it’s not that important, at least you didn’t mix something up as badly as Rogers did; I heard him in the common room shouting about how he had thought werewolves and wolverines were synonyms in the Defence written final.”

“That does makes me feel a bit better. You know, whenever I make a mistake, I’ll be sure to think that it could be worse—that I could be Roger!”

They both laughed aloud and then set about to gathering more daisies for another flower chain. Harry could have watched them for hours, but Snape seemed to be on some kind of schedule (or perhaps watching the same memory of his own for a prolonged period of time made him uncomfortable), because he yanked Harry out of the memory to add a new one in.

The arching branches of a willow tree stretched out high above them, and spring sunlight filtered through the screen of vine-like leaflets, which swayed gently in the slight breeze. Where the ground began to slope at the edge of the tree’s reach, the lake began, bordered by rushes and reeds topped with brown cattails, and it was on that curved bank of grass, underneath the willow, that the memories lay side by side.

Lily and Snape were very young, perhaps a year before they would be legible for Hogwarts. Harry noticed that memory-Snape was dressed in an patchy grey shirt that was rumpled and creased, far too large for him, and reminded Harry uncomfortably of his own old hand-me-downs from the Dursleys, and faded black shorts that reached his knees, while Lily looked ready for Sunday church, wearing a green dress with a matching headband that complemented her flaming red hair.

“How did you know that you had magic?” Lily was asking curiously, tilting her head to look at Snape.

“My mum said that the second I was born, she knew that I was going to be like her. Then when I was two, apparently I turned the neighbour’s cat green.”

“Poor cat!” Then she sat up and cast a nervous glance around them, as if she was about to say something incriminating, before she whispered, “but you said that we’d get in trouble for doing magic outside of school, so what—what happened after?”

Snape burst out laughing, and with a huff, Lily crossed her arms in indignation. “What? You did magic outside of school!”

“I was two years old, the Ministry wouldn’t show up to tell a toddler off for some accidental natural magic! And my mum was in the other room, so it didn’t count. You’d only get in proper trouble if you did it on purpose, in front of muggles, and without an adult mage near,” Snape replied, still grinning amusedly, once he had managed to stop doubling over with laughter.

“Oh,” Lily said simply, her face reddening slightly. “Alright. I was worried ‘cause, you know…sometimes I do magic on my own, or at least, I try to…”

“What can you do, other than your flower trick?”

Wordlessly, Lily picked up a few fallen leaves and put them in her open palm, furrowing her brows in concentration as she stared fixedly at the leaves. After a few moments where they didn’t so much as twitch, the leaves slowly twisted themselves into a vaguely boat-shaped thing of green.

Snape was evidently impressed; he watched silently with wide eyes as Lily gently placed her creation into the water, where it began to drift away of its own accord. Only when it had gone a little way out onto the small lake did Snape speak again.

“That’s cool. I think you’ll be great at Herbology.”

“Oh, magic plants must be even prettier than normal ones! At school, we’ve started a little garden project in Science class to learn about how they eat sunlight and drink water. I wonder what magic plants eat? I can’t wait to tell Alice—” Lily fell silent, and she looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. Her voice was mournful when she then asked, “I—I can’t tell her about magic, can I?”

Empathy and regret etched in every feature of his face, memory-Snape shook his head sadly. “It’d be against the rules, you know that—and it’d be dangerous.”

“Alice wouldn’t hurt me! She’s my friend. She’d believe me,” Lily protested, but the way she hunched in on herself, hugging her knees, betrayed what she truly thought. “I don’t get why we can’t just live all together in peace…Why doesn’t Tuney understand?”

“My dad doesn’t either.” Something darkened in Snape’s expression, but in the next moment, it vanished as he flopped back onto the grass. “But that’s just how it works. I think they let some muggles know about us, the important muggles, like the Prime Ministers and Presidents of all the different countries, and family members too. But the fewer that know, the safer it is for everybody.”

Lily nodded vaguely, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “I guess if it keeps everyone safe…but it’s hard, isn’t it? Being different?”

“Sometimes,” Snape sighed, then he brightened slightly. “But we’ve got each other! And we’ll get our Hogwarts letters, I know it. They’d be crazy not to send one to you!”

Though a small smile appeared on Lily’s face at Snape’s positive words, the depths of her green eyes still glittered with a hint of sadness. “What’s History of Magic going to be like? Do you know anything about it already?” she asked abruptly, and Snape was as happy as ever to answer.

———

It was extremely jarring to be outside of the Pensieve after having spent what felt like hours inside of it, being a member of a two-person audience that the memories could not see, hear, touch, or sense at all, and Harry had to rub his eyes to get rid of the slight dizziness that the transition back to reality had left him with.

He had always been told more about his father than his mother by the people around him. James was the trouble-maker, a charming young man, the best Seeker the Gryffindor had had in decades, a noble and loyal friend, but Lily—Harry had only ever occasionally heard Aunt Petunia hiss about how he was a freak, just like her.

Now, at least he had the photo album Hagrid had gifted him and memories of his mother…Snape’s memories.

“Professor—thank you for showing me those memories,” Harry blurted out as Snape put the last memory back into his mind. The Potions master stiffened, and Harry was suddenly nervous as he continued falteringly, “Y-you didn’t have to, and it means a lot to me that you did.”

There was a sharpness in Snape’s voice as he bit out, “Do not thank me,” before he swiftly left the sitting room, taking the blank Pensieve with him, and leaving Harry looking after him, feeling confused and bewildered.

It first reminded him of how cold and cutting the man had been before, and immediately, anxiety sank its claws into Harry, sending his brain abuzz with uncertainty and nervousness. Did I do something wrong…? Maybe I should’ve reacted differently—He thought that the first memory might bore me, so should I have tried to show more interest? But I was interested—I am!

Harry groaned quietly and put his face in his hands as a faint headache began pounding in his temple, trying to quell his own worries. Perhaps Snape had been too affected by the memories, and he had only snapped because of the emotional pressure.

“It’s different now,” Harry told himself firmly, in the silence that had blanketed the living room. “He won’t be like before again, not without a reason.”

Eventually, his mind quieted, and the throbbing of his headache slowed. If Snape had an issue with him, he could easily confront Harry about it over dinner, which would be in a few hours, judging by the time on the clock set on the mantlepiece that helpfully chirped, “4:46,” when Harry glanced at it.

That left him with plenty of time to busy himself with replying to Sirius’ letter and filling him in on his vision of Voldemort and what had happened at the Quidditch World Cup, and Harry picked himself up off of the couch to head to his room and do just that.

Fortunately, dinner started out as a peaceable affair involving pork pie and some kind of sautéed magical vegetable that looked like a navy-blue turnip and shifted from tasting savoury to sweet with every other bite. Harry enjoyed it greatly and wondered aloud as to where Snape had gotten it, and Snape obligingly went into a tangent about how it was an invasive species in Brazil, where it was wrecking havoc on the environment, and the magical society there was trying to get rid of it as fast as they could by advertising the turnip as a nutrition-packed superfood, so the Shifting Turnip became a cheap and popular food item in Europe and North America amongst the magical population.

As Harry listened vaguely to Snape explain how the species of turnip had invaded Brazil, he realized with a pang of dismay that he would miss this—having quiet evenings studying while Snape read his novels, working in the Snape’s office on their own separate potion brews, and even listening to Snape ramble on about the turnip’s toll on Brazil’s water quality.

Snape fell silent, having seemingly sensed Harry’s change in mood, and Harry met his searching gaze with his own pained one as he said quietly, “At Hogwarts, we’ll have to hate each other again.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, bitter and aching.

Harry looked away and clasped his hands together tightly beneath the table, squeezing hard as if the physical discomfort of that sensation would distract him from the emotional sting of the truth. It didn’t.

“We must appear as if nothing has changed,” Snape replied tonelessly, and Harry winced at the lack of emotion in his baritone voice. Doesn’t he care at all…? “It is imperative that we act as before; any hesitation to do so would be suspicious.”

“But—but it’ll only be an act, right?” Harry hated how small his voice was, how pathetic he must sound, but he needed the reassurance because he couldn’t bear the thought that, after all that had happened—after all that they had learned about each other—Snape would be nothing to him but his hated Professor again and he, the spoiled son of Snape’s late enemy.

“Of course,” the Potions master replied simply, “but we must be…convincing, to say the least. I will have to target, insult, and provoke you, just as I have before this summer—Could you handle that?”

Harry carefully glanced up again. There was something in Snape’s black eyes that he now recognized as worry and even concern for him, and a strange sense of relief washed through Harry, like a clear stream bubbling up through muddy silt, easing some of his own dread and apprehension.

He nodded slowly. “I think so, sir. I mean…it’s not like it’ll be anything I’m not used to,” he half-heartedly joked, but it fell short in the tense atmosphere.

Snape’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forwards as he replied firmly, “You should never have been familiar with that treatment in the first place. I should not have singled you out for things your father did.”

Now that made Harry vaguely uncomfortable, despite the fact that he knew that Snape was right and was being honestly apologetic; he didn’t know how to respond.

“R-really, Professor, I’ll be fine—I can take it.”

“If you are sure…though it isn’t as if either of us have any choice in the matter.” Snape ran a weary hand over his face as he sighed softly. “Have you made your friends aware of our change?”

“Yeah, they were both a bit shocked, Ron more than Hermione. He looked as if I’d gone crazy for a bit, but Hermione just went blank for a second and then started scolding me for not telling her about my nightmares sooner.”

“And Black? What will you tell him? I imagine that he would be rather displeased, considering our history and how I…attempted to have him Kissed by the Dementors last year.” Snape waved his wand as he spoke, sending their dishes to the sink to be washed by the charmed sponge and soap.

Harry smiled grimly. “I haven’t told him anything, so as far as he knows, you’re still a slimy git.”

“Oh, is that what you’ve been calling me in all the letters that you’ve sent?”

Face reddening, Harry stammered. “No! Well—not recently…We—me, Ron, Hermione, and Sirius—er, never used your name before ‘cause we thought that if someone took our letters and found out I was with you, it’d look weird…”

Snape arched a thin eyebrow at him. “Have you really had your letters stolen so often that you are on guard for it?”

“Dobby the house elf kept my letters from me for almost the whole summer when I went back to the Dursleys’ after my first year at Hogwarts,” explained Harry, “and Sirius is still on the run, so I’ve got to be careful for him too. I address him as Snuffles in my letters.”

“…I suppose your precautions are understandable, then.”

The tension in the room had been thoroughly diffused by their casual conversation, and Harry finally relaxed again, his unease having lessened considerably, though he still felt the vestiges of his worry when he went to his room after having excused himself from the table.

Hedwig was of course still absent, on her way to wherever Sirius was with Harry’s letter, and Harry hoped dearly that she would return soon. He wondered idly if she also missed Hogwarts like he did, as he got dressed into his pyjamas that night, or if she disliked the ruckus and noise of the Owlery. He had never thought about it before, perhaps because he had always assumed that Hogwarts was home for them both.

———

The next day dawned grey and wet with a drizzling rain that reflected Severus’ mood perfectly.

He had slept poorly in the night, having spent much time laying awake going over his preparations for the new school year in his head, as well as trying to prevent his thoughts from wandering to the subject of the boy sleeping soundly in the room at the end of the hall.

Although Potter had insisted that he would be fine with their switch back to their roles as enemies, Severus had his doubts; the boy had been visibly distressed by the very idea, and the hurt in his expression, in the depths of his eyes and the lines of his frown, had been as a twisted knife is to a wound to Severus. He was already the reason why Potter had no parents, had been raised in a family that did nothing but abuse him, was his tormentor and bully—Merlin, Severus had made his class a torture for him—for years, and now, he was going to have to play his part and tyrannize Potter just as before, as if the summer had never happened.

He truly did not deserve whatever misplaced trust Potter had put in him.

“Have you packed all of your things? I would rather not have to fetch you something that you left behind.” Severus looked Potter over to make sure that he was dressed properly. The boy had already donned his school robes and was currently pulling on his cloak, hastily smoothing out the creases in the rough fabric.

“I double-checked last night, and I checked again this morning. I’m ready!” Grabbing the handle of his trunk and the empty cage of his owl, Potter stepped next to Severus in front of the fireplace.

They Flooed quickly to the Burrow, where the Weasley family was waiting for them, all ready to go. After a few rushed greetings, Mr. Weasley led everybody out to the front drive, where three muggle taxi drivers struggled to load all of the luggage into the trunks of their cars as rain continued to pour down, drenching all who stood beneath it.

“I will see you at Hogwarts,” Severus said quietly to Potter as the others climbed into the taxis.

“Yeah, see you there, Professor,” Potter smiled, even as rain dripped down his face. “Hey, I can still see! You didn’t tell me that these glasses were water-repellent—Oh, won’t you let me pay you back for them?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “A Slytherin would have wisely accepted it without fussing about repayment, and get in the car already, you’ll make the others late.”

“Shame that I’m a Gryffindor, then,” Potter replied cheekily before squeezing into the taxi with his friends. The last Severus saw of him through the downpour was his wave goodbye through the back of the taxi as it sped away from the Burrow, the other cars following closely behind.

Though Severus would undoubtedly be seeing Potter at the welcoming feast later that day, he felt as if he had just bid farewell to the boy forever, and perhaps, in a way, he had. The next time he would see Potter, his current self would be concealed behind a cold, unfaltering mask that  he could not take off, lest he risk everything, and it would seem as though he was another person to Potter. 

Feeling oddly empty, Severus Disapparated from the Burrow, and as he strode up to the open gates of Hogwarts, casting a spell to dry his clothes as he did, he noticed Albus Dumbledore standing by the winged-boar shaped hedges, wearing his usual smile and robes of royal purple and trimmed with sunflower yellow that made Severus’ corneas hurt.

“Severus, I am glad to see you here so early.” Dumbledore smoothly matched Severus’ pace, and they walked along the dewy grass together, the Headmaster continuing on as they did, “Do tell me, how has Harry been faring? The last I heard of him from you was about that vision of his.”

“He has experienced no other nightly disturbances since then, and he should be boarding the Hogwarts express as we speak. His brewing has improved significantly, and his Defence skills even more so. Now, you tell me, Headmaster,” Severus switched track abruptly, his voice lowering slightly in volume, though there was no one else around to hear his next words, “the true reason why you thought it necessary to leave Potter with me for much of the summer.”

He had wanted to confront Dumbledore with that question even before Potter had arrived at his house with his trunk and owl, but it always seemed to have slipped his mind whenever he spoke with or wrote to the man.

Not this time, though.

Dumbledore stiffened for barely a second, his eyes glinting slightly, and did not immediately speak, leaving Severus time to barrel on with, “You and I both know that no amount of training would give Potter even the slightest chance in besting the Dark Lord upon his return, and currently, the boy would struggle to keep his own against any Death Eater. You did not have only his education in mind when you had me agree to your plan.”

They had reached the grand steps of the main entrance, and at their approach, the huge wooden doors swung open to allow them inside. A few busy house elves, who had been chatting to each other in Elvish as they polished the frames of the paintings on the walls, spotted Dumbledore and all gave him a bow before disappearing, and still, he did not speak.

Frustration was rising steadily in Severus, and he fought to keep it from boiling over, balling his hands into fists at his sides as his annoyance seeped into his voice, sharpening his words until they were almost cutting.

“I admit, the experience was not entirely agonizing, though the vast majority of it was, believe me, but why, Albus? What could have possibly made you think of having me, his most hated Professor—for entirely rational reasons, mind you—tutor Potter for the summer?”

Dumbledore stopped in front of the grand staircase. There was a maddeningly bright twinkle in his sky-blue eyes, and he clasped his hands behind his back in a satisfied way as he chuckled, “Because frankly, my boy, I was growing tired of your grudge against Harry’s father. I felt that if I forced you two to coexist for a while, you might learn something about each other. Do you know the most amusing thing about it all?”

Severus could only stare wordlessly at the older wizard, who smiled cheerfully back at him as he stated simply, “I was right. You have learned something very important from this enlightening summer, learned something that you knew before but had forgotten over time…How long fourteen years is, even to us mages, with our especially long lifespans…”

“And what is that?” Severus said impatiently, though he felt that he ought to dread the answer.

“What it is like to truly care about someone else again.”

Dumbledore grandly tipped his obnoxiously purple hat at Severus and strode away down one of the side corridors to the Great Hall, leaving the other man standing frozen at the foot of the stairs with the horrible realization that the Headmaster was correct, as he usually was.

What a summer.