A Nick In Time

by Tira Nog

Eight years. Sometimes Severus Snape had difficulty believing that it had been that long since Thomas Riddle was finally forced to shed his mortal coils and remain decently dead, but then Snape would look up and see Minerva McGonagall sitting in the headmaster's seat and that same gaping loss that he felt every blasted day would hit him. Then he'd have no trouble accepting how long it had been since their beloved madhatter of a headmaster had made the ultimate sacrifice for their cause.

Who would have thought he'd miss those aggravating teas so much? But there were days he'd kill to hear Albus' sleepy voice offer him one of those loathsome lemon drops or force a biscuit upon him.

And it wasn't just Albus' absence that was felt. He and Minerva were among the last of the old guard, two of the few left of the Hogwarts' teachers who had survived Voldemort's assault on the school. He looked down the holly-strewn, Christmas feast table at Hogwart's current staff.

Trelawney was still here. Their resident psychic probably wouldn't have even noticed Voldemort's arrival until the blighter banged on her trap door, Snape unkindly, but truthfully, acknowledged. Professor Sinistra was the only other pre-war teacher who remained. Aside from Binns, of course, but Snape wasn't entirely sure that a man who wasn't alive enough to know that he'd died really counted.

The more honest part of his nature warned him of the hypocrisy of berating Binns. After all, was there really that much difference between Binns and himself? Aside from the fact that Snape showed up in the Great Hall for meals and actually consumed them, there was little to distinguish him from the ghost.

The remainder of the teachers' chairs were filled with the most talented of their former students. Although Snape wasn't certain he would ever have placed Neville Longbottom in that category, he reluctantly gave Longbottom his due and admitted that the man was a genius when it came to Herbology. Beside him were the famous three - Potter, Weasley, and Granger, teaching Dark Arts, Quidditch, and Arithmancy, respectively. The blond man next to Granger was Callis Miller, a former Ravenclaw who now taught Charms. His perfect looks put Snape in mind of Lockhardt, only Miller's arrogance was far more offensive than Lockhardt's braggadocio had ever been. Further down the table, the Muggle Studies professor, Alicia Crenshaw, sat deep in conversation with Sinistra. Crenshaw's short, robust blondness was a sharp contrast to the Astronomy teacher's slender darkness. The final addition was from Snape's own house. Blaise Zabini had taken over Transfiguration once Minerva had assumed the headmaster's position, which pleased Snape no end. For a while there, it had seemed that those damn Gryffindors were going to take over the entire school.

Snape grudgingly admitted that the newcomers were a competent lot, but when he looked down the teachers' table at the absurdly young faces of people who'd been students in his own classroom less than a decade ago, he felt positively ancient.

Hardly a new experience, but these days he just didn't seem to be able to shake the malingering malaise.

Once he'd longed for Voldemort's defeat, desperately yearning for an end to the danger and lies that were the very fabric of his existence as a spy. All he'd wanted back then was to be free of his obligations. Strange, in all those years of anticipating an end to his servitude to that monster, Snape had never really planned on what he'd do with his freedom when he got it. And now with the Christmas festivities marking the passing of yet another year, Snape found himself looking back on these past eight years and realizing how precious little he'd done with that hard earned freedom.

With each passing day, he was becoming acutely aware that he had less of a life than some of the house ghosts. He went to meals, attended to the duties of his House and Potions classes, monitored detentions, spent what little spare time remaining on his private research, but inside, he felt as dead as Binns. He was only forty-eight years old, still a young man in his prime by wizards' standards, and yet, he felt old and used up.

Nothing moved him anymore, on any but the most superficial of levels. Oh, he could terrify children and treat his insipid co-workers to a scathing retort every now and then. He had only to glower down the table at Longbottom to reduce the man to a fork-dropping wreak, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. Hadn't been since Albus' death, were he to be honest. He was just existing these days, biding his time.

Waiting for death?

The morbidity of the thought sickened him. He was not a sentimental man. He was not given to self-pity. Wallowing was not his style.

But he was self-aware enough to recognize that the death of the sole friend he'd made in his lifetime had changed him in ways he couldn't begin to understand. He'd been alone his entire life. His childhood and adolescence had been miserable, but as an adult he'd come to appreciate solitude.

But lately he'd learned the difference between being alone and lonely. Albus' death had changed his close-guarded solitude into soul draining loneliness, and he hadn't a clue how to alleviate his problem. He'd never asked for Dumbledore's friendship, and, consequently, had never realized how very much he depended upon it until it was gone. Not surprisingly, no queue had formed to take on Albus' dubious honour of being Hogwart's misanthropic potions master's only friend.

For the longest time, he hadn't even recognized the need for human contact in his life, but now that he was aware of that . . . lack, Snape had no idea how to change things.

How did a vetted curmudgeon attract friends? His colleagues were all good people, almost simpering with kindness (and that type of thought was definitely not going to win him friends or influence people, he chided himself). If he made a friendly overture, surely one of them would respond in kind, providing he didn't kill the unsuspecting soul with the shock of Severus Snape attempting to be pleasant.

But he'd spent the last thirty years in this school snarling to keep others at bay. He didn't know how to make small talk or how to exchange pleasantries. Hell, he couldn't even return his colleagues' Happy Christmas greetings this morning without making his response into a sneer.

His pride wouldn't allow him to appear weak, to admit to this unexpected need. After all, he'd turned self-sufficiency into an art form. And beyond that, he didn't want to be pleasant. He didn't want to transform himself into some blithering simpleton. Albus had never required him to change, had accepted him the way he was - greasy hair, snarls, death mark, and all. Surely, there must be one other soul somewhere who could be equally accommodating. All he really wanted was not to be so eternally alone, to have someone to share the occasional intelligent conversation with, someone who didn't tense up when he entered a room. It didn't seem like too much to ask from life.

And perhaps it wasn't, for normal people - for those who had never made mistakes too big to be forgiven; for those who would happily suffer fools, in short, for those who were worthy of friendship - people like Potter and his friends.

He had only to glance two empty seats to his left to where the fabled three sat with their heads close together to find proof of that. Not one of them had ever had difficulty attracting companions. Even now they were doing it as they worked to make the nervous students sitting at the teachers' table for the holiday meal feel less anxious.

The two Gryffindor second year boys, first year Hufflepuff girl, and second year Ravenclaw boy still looked like they were afraid to eat at the same table with their teachers, but Potter and Weasley were doing their best to dispel the children's nervousness.

Snape didn't know why they were bothering. It had been his experience that nervous children were far less likely to misbehave than those at ease.

He frowned at his co-workers' antics, not sure if his displeasure came from sheer envy or his disapproval of Potter and Weasley's unseemly behaviour. They were Hogwarts professors, for heaven's sake, not circus clowns. But the pair were currently acting like the half-time entertainment during a World Quidditch Cup Match. They were regaling the four wide-eyed students sitting across from them with an impromptu drumming session of seasonal carols on their plates and goblets.

From their expressions, it was clear that their pupils had never suspected their teachers capable of childish antics such as the three infamous war veterans had displayed at the feast. Weasley was banging away on his empty gold plate with a denuded turkey leg, the resulting sounds bearing no resemblance to music or rhythm, Snape irritably noted. Potter was tapping his fork against his goblet in counterpoint, while Granger -- he could never think of anyone that brilliant as a Weasley -- made ineffectual requests to stop it and laughed at their tomfoolery.

The giggling trio didn't look like professors at all. Aside from Miss Granger's loss of common sense in joining the Weasley clan, little had changed since Snape had taught them.

They were taller, of course - all but Potter, he amended.

Once it would have pleased him immensely that his old nemesis' son had remained a skinny runt. But Snape no longer thought of the DADA professor with the unkempt black hair solely in terms of his father. They'd fought far too many battles together for Snape to make that kind of mistake. James would never have been able to unite them during the war the way Harry had. There had been too much conceit in the father for James to share the glory. But Harry . . . for all that Snape had considered the boy a glory hound in their earliest days together, he'd come to recognize that Potter hated his fame as much as Snape did.

And, looking at him now, Snape was forced to admit that Potter wasn't all that small. What normal sized man wouldn't appear dwarfed by Ronald Weasley's height? Weasley's wife had grown up long and lithe as well, so Potter looked doubly small sitting between them.

Still, Potter's compact stature was no handicap. It had served him well during the war and had afterwards made him the best professional Quidditch Seeker the Chudley Cannons had ever had.

And now?

Potter puzzled him these days.

Snape couldn't say with any certainty why the most famous man in the Wizarding World had even deigned to teach at Hogwarts, when the entire world was his for the taking. When the interim DADA professor had retired three years ago and Minerva had told Snape of her intention to offer the post to Potter, Snape had laughed in her face and told her that not even Potter would be fool enough to abandon a career that was making him the richest wizard of this age. But three weeks after McGonagall had sent her owl, Potter had shown up for the first staff meeting and had displayed no intention of leaving Hogwart's since.

In the blink of an eye, Potter had gone from unparalleled fame to utter obscurity. It made absolutely no sense to Snape. After his defeat of Voldemort and unparalleled Quidditch career, nothing had been beyond Harry Potter's reach. He could have pursued the more glamorous career of an auror or worked his way up the Ministry ladder. Hell, if he'd wanted to be Minister of Magic, all the Potter boy would have had to do was ask. But, instead, at Minerva's first request, he'd packed up his Firebolt, left his fame and fans behind, to return alone to Hogwart's, where he lived nearly as solitary a life as its despised potions master.

And, that, too, mystified Snape. Where it made sense for a misanthrope like himself to live the life of a cloistered monk here at Hogwarts, Harry was an attractive young man, barely twenty-six years of age. While Potter was with the Cannons, he'd had a very active social life. Though Snape had made no attempt to keep up with his former student's romantic conquests, there was no way you could live in the Wizarding World and not be aware of Potter's fling of the week, what with it being advertised on the cover of seemingly every publication, with the possible exception of Potions Weekly. But since Potter had arrived here, he hadn't dated at all, as far as Snape could tell.

Although they were discreet, all of the young professors seemed to have active romantic lives. Even Longbottom apparated somewhere every Friday and Saturday night. But Potter just stayed at the school, seemingly content to remain forever with the Weasleys as a third wheel.

"Ahum," Minerva cleared her throat from the end of the table, her blue stare focused on Weasley's instrument.

The lanky redhead dropped the turkey leg as if it had transfigured into a hot poker. The guilty expression on his freckled face was exactly the same one he'd worn when twelve. It set the four students sitting across from him off into another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Snape watched as Potter smoothly returned his fork to the table, with the same infuriating cool he'd always maintained when caught doing something forbidden.

"So," Potter said in his usual soft tone, as if they'd been doing nothing childish, "what did we decide? Is it essential to speak the spell to work magic?" McGonagall's gaze turned back to her own plate. "Or can it be done without words . . . without wands?"

"Oh, not that again," Granger complained. "I thought we'd settled that ages ago. We can't do real magic before we get wands or learn spells, so they are required."

"No," Potter mildly objected, "you decided that. We didn't. Did we, Ron?"

Weasley swallowed a large mouthful of pudding and answered, "I don't know, Harry. I was never able to do a thing before I came to school unless I snitched Fred or George's wand and used whatever incantation they'd been practicing around me."

"Well, I was able to make things happen when I was with the Dursleys without either wand or words," Potter said.

"But that's you, Harry," Granger said. "You've always been able to do things a lot of us can't."

"I think we just think we can't," Potter replied.

"Would you want to face a Death Eater without your voice or wand?" Weasley questioned.

Potter gave a subdued, "I have."

"Yes, but that's you," Weasley said. "Any of the rest of us would've been dead."

"I agree that we've come to rely on our wand and spells to the point that when they are denied to us, many of us are left as good as helpless, but I think that's because we believe we can't work magic without our props. I think if we were trained to do magic without wands, we could."

"In that case, why don't we just train the first years to fly without brooms?" Granger suggested with a sarcasm that rivalled Snape's own.

Weasley and the students laughed at the suggestion, but Potter replied, "Maybe we should."

"Harry, really!" Granger protested.

"Think about it Hermione. The brooms are made to be streamlined and fast, but they won't fly if a Muggle child sits on one. They don't work unless a wizard or witch mounts them. We fly. The brooms don't. We don't use either wands or words to power them. They just work the way we want them to, the way we expect them to."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! The broom acts as a wand. It channels our power," Granger answered.

"But it's still us powering the flight, not the broom. What do you think, Professor?" Potter's bespectacled gaze slid past Weasley to settle upon him.

Snape could see how Potter's pulling him into the conversation had startled his two adult companions and horrified the students. It was clear the other six had all but forgotten that the reclusive potions master was even sitting there. But unlike Granger and Weasley, Potter had been an active field agent during the war. He was always aware when someone was observing him, even if that person appeared to be paying complete attention to his own meal.

Seeing that Potter really did want his opinion on the matter, Snape spoke slowly on the subject as his thoughts formed, "We are given wands . . . and taught incantations to focus the power with which we are born. Most wizards come to rely completely upon these tools to focus their magic. When their crutches are removed, those wizards dependent upon them are rendered as helpless as newborn babes. But there are those rare few who learn to rely on their magic itself, and not on the tools that channel it. Albus Dumbledore, the dark wizard Voldemort, Professors Quirrel, and Potter here are among those who have mastered wandless magic in our age."

"You neglected yourself in that list. The brewing of potions requires neither wands nor words, yet it takes formidable power to achieve a truly potent brew. That's why there are so few potions masters today," Potter remarked. Snape stared hard at Potter's face, searching for some hidden insult, but the words appeared sincere. Startled by the compliment, Snape arched a brow and answered in his most condescending tone to cover his uneasiness, "It goes without saying that the brewing of potions requires a superior individual."

Weasley barely masked his snort. Granger's disdainful huff was only slightly less noticeable.

Potter's green eyes sparked with amusement behind his round glasses as he laughed aloud and answered, "But, of course."

"So, Professor Snape, you really believe that wandless magic is possible for all wizards, not just the very powerful ones like Harry?" Granger questioned.

"None of our Muggle-born students would be here at all, were it not," Snape pointed out.

She gave an embarrassed flush. "I never thought of that."

"Obviously," Snape drolly replied, earning a barely suppressed chuckle from Potter.

"What about words? Even Harry usually speaks when he uses wandless magic," Weasley challenged.

"Yes, but I have seen him cast spells without wand or voice," Snape responded.

"What about you? Can you work magic without using them?" Weasley demanded. "And I don't mean potion making, 'cause that's different. If someone were cursing you, could you defend yourself without lifting a hand or using your voice?"

"Like you, Professor Weasley, I prefer my crutches," Snape sourly admitted. "Especially my wand."

"But you still believe that children can be taught to work magic without either?" Ganger asked.

"I believe it is possible. I make no claims as to its practicality. It is difficult enough to teach some," Snape's gaze couldn't help but seek out Longbottom at that point, "with such props. And I believe there is an inherent danger to the idea."

"What danger?" Potter asked.

"When we recite an incantation, voice a spell, or wave a wand, we are making a conscious decision to use our power to affect a situation," Snape explained. All three of his co-workers nodded their understanding. "We have to stop, think, and focus before our will is executed. That delay, infinitesimal as it may be, gives the wizard an opportunity to consider the consequences of his use of magic in the situation. But should we remove those props and teach children to work magic by thought alone, what is to stop their every impulse from being executed by magic? Think of how many times a day, even as adults, we find ourselves wishing we could hex some bothersome fool. How often have all of us wished we could perform an Unforgivable Curse in some situation? Remove our props from the equation and we'd have bedlam."

"I never thought of that. But you're right. If all it took to work magic was a thought, neither Malfoy nor I would've made it through first year," Potter admitted.

And Potter's father would never have survived long enough to sire him, Snape thought. "Precisely."

"Has there been anything written on it?" Weasley asked, confirming Snape's suspicion that the man had never opened a book from the library that Granger hadn't put in front of him.

Granger rolled her eyes at her husband's ignorance and said, "Tomes. But most of them are theories. There has been surprisingly little empirical work done to back up the theories."

"The 17th century alchemist, Anton Chartier, did a very interesting treatise on his experiments on the nature of magic that dealt with these very issues," Snape said. "He took a group of twenty orphaned ten year old wizards and attempted to teach them wandless, wordless magic."

Granger's brown eyes grew as eager as a student's on the last day of class. "I haven't seen that one in the library."

"Only you would know what books the library doesn't have," Weasley mumbled beside her.

"Understandable enough, as it is part of my private collection. You are welcome to borrow it, if you'd like," Snape was surprised to hear himself offer.

"Thank you. I would," Granger said with a smile.

"I'll have it ready for you in the morning," Snape promised.

"So what happened in the study?" Potter asked.

"Eighteen of the test subjects died before age twelve. One of the two survivors spent his adolescence bound as a slave to the strongest of the group," Snape discretely edited, in light of their students' presence.

"And?" Potter prompted. "Normally trained wizards could not stand up to Chartier's protge. His magic was too fast, too raw. Chartier himself had trouble controlling the boy. The boy was not quite up to Voldemort's level of malevolence, but he was a danger to the whole of the Wizarding World. Chartier finally ended up poisoning him at his sixteenth birthday celebration. The boy's companion tried to avenge his master's murder and Chartier killed him as well. A rather grim outcome to prove a theory, I'm afraid."

"No wonder nobody tries to teach magic without props," Granger said.

"But it did prove the theory. Propless magic is possible," Potter said. "Perhaps," Snape said.

"What do you mean 'perhaps'? Chartier taught them to work propless magic," Potter argued.

"Perhaps he did teach them, but I don't believe so," Snape answered. "Eighty percent of his test subjects perished within months of the start of his experiment. That is approximately the number of wizards whose natural power levels aren't strong enough to work wandless magic. I believe one of his subjects was someone whose natural talents ran as high as your own, someone who could perform those same feats without props under duress."

"Where did you get that figure from? How do you know eighty percent can't perform wandless magic?" Potter questioned.

Snape was quiet for a moment, forming his thoughts. If he said this incorrectly, the results could be catastrophic. "I've taught at Hogwarts for nearly twenty-eight years. Each year, there are usually two such as yourself, Potter, wizards filled with such raw power that very little would be outside their reach if they worked to attain their potential. But as in all things, most people choose to take the easiest course in life, and those with extra potential learn to rely on their props and learn what they can't do, rather than take the initiative to explore their true capabilities."

"You said two every year," Granger jumped in. "Who was the second one our term?"

"Malfoy?" Weasley guessed.

Snape raised his right eyebrow and drolly offered his opinion, "Actually, it was Longbottom."

"Neville!" Granger exclaimed in such a loud voice that the object of their conversation looked their way.

"Yes, Hermione?" Longbottom called from the far end of the table, appearing nervous to even have to glance Snape's way.

"Ah . . . could you please pass the custard tarts?" Granger stammered.

Looking his usual, confused state, Longbottom obligingly handed down the plate of treats, diplomatically not mentioning that an identical plateful of sweets sat in easy reach of Granger.

"Surely, you're joking," Hermione whispered once she'd settled the platter next to her goblet.

"I assure you, I'm not. Neville Longbottom had the potential; he was simply terrified of his own powers," Snape said.

"How can you say that? He was . . . ." Looking at the four students across from him, who seemed absorbed in their own conversation, Weasley broke off, the hopeless they all heard remaining unvoiced.

Lowering his voice, Snape said, "He had tremendous raw power. Even completely harmless potions would explode around Mr. Longbottom. It's my understanding that he had similar results in every one of his classes. He could rarely produce the desired result, but his mistakes were always spectacular."

"He could be right," Potter thoughtfully added, "Remember our first flying lesson? The minute Neville held onto his broom, he was airborne."

"And he always transfigured his object into something, just not what we were trying to achieve," Granger reminded.

"Yeah, but, he was totally out of control," Weasley argued.

"Yes, but the potential was still there. If he'd learned to control it . . . that's what you're talking about, isn't it?" Potter asked.

Snape nodded, relieved that he hadn't been misinterpreted. There was a time when he would have been accused of using them all as guinea pigs in an experiment had he voiced these observations.

"So, if you're correct, what does happen to those two with potential?" Granger wondered. "Why isn't there a Harry and a Voldemort in every graduating class?"

He noted she was wise enough to understand that the power might pull them in different directions. "The same thing that happens to every child in school, whether wizard or muggle. They blend in with their peers. They believe the power strictures placed upon them and forget what they used to be able to do before they came for Wizarding training."

"So, what you're saying is that we train ourselves to believe that we can't do magic without words or wands to protect the Wizarding World as whole?" Weasley asked.

"In a sense." Snape nodded, thinking that this was the first conversation he'd ever had with Ronald Weasley that was bereft of animosity. It felt strange, but not unpleasant.

"I read a book about that last year, Wizard Training and its Crippling Effects on the Naturally Gifted by Rosa Lawrence," Granger said, continuing to describe the theory.

To Snape's utter astonishment, he realized that he was enjoying the conversation. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had so intellectually stimulating a debate, certainly, never at the Hogwarts dinner table.

As Potter, Granger and Snape discussed the various articles they'd read on the nature of magic, the bored children sitting across from them left the table one by one.

Snape could see how strange this was to them all. Although they'd worked together as colleagues for almost eight years now, his former students seemed almost nervous conversing with the potions master as equals. After almost every statement they made, the Weasleys seemed to hold their breath, as if waiting for Snape to explode on them like one of Longbottom's more spectacular mishaps. Potter was the only one who seemed relaxed, but then, he'd never had the sense to fear him

For once the Christmas evening meal did not seem an endless ordeal. In fact, Snape was almost disappointed when the last of the diners finished, leaving only the four of them keeping the house elves from their clean up tasks.

"I guess we'd better clear out," Weasley said at last. "We still have to change for the party. I'm not wearing my dress robes to the Three Broomsticks."

"Heaven forbid you look decent for more than an hour a year," Granger snarked.

"Very funny," Weasley grumbled.

"Ah, Professor Snape?" Potter seemed nervous as he turned back to him.

"Yes?" Snape answered.

"Rosmerta is having a Yuletide celebration this evening. A group of us are, ah, going, if you'd like to join us?" Potter asked.

Snape couldn't tell who was more shocked by the DADA teacher's invitation - himself or Potter's companions.

To his unending shock, Snape was genuinely tempted to accept, even though he normally loathed such sentimental foolishness. However, the expressions on the Weasleys' faces made it quite clear that his presence would put a definite damper on the festivities. Weasley looked as though Potter had just exposed himself before a class of first years. Though Granger's response was less obvious, she, too, appeared stunned.

"Unfortunately, I have some work to complete tonight, but thank you for the offer," Snape lied, without a trace of his trademark sarcasm.

He could see the relief flash across the Weasleys' faces, but Potter didn't seem to share their feelings. Although he didn't appear surprised by the rejection, there was something almost like regret in his pale green eyes as he said, "Perhaps another time then." "Perhaps," Snape did not commit himself.

"Well, Happy Christmas, then," Potter wished, rising from the table.

Snape nodded as Potter's companions echoed the sentiment.

As the trio left, he heard the tall redhead demand in what passed for a whisper in the Weasley universe, "Have you lost your mind, Harry? What if he'd agreed to go?"

Snape strained his ears for the response. But Potter had a modicum of discretion and whatever he said went no further than his companions. By the time Snape had even considered a sound enhancing charm, the three were out of the Great Hall.

Besides, even if he had had the presence of mind to work the spell, wizards of Potter and Granger's sensitivity would have been immediately aware of his actions.

His heart more heavy than it had been at the start of the evening, Snape returned to his quarters, doing his best to ignore the flashing strings of lights, real fairies, and carolling suits of armour on his way back to the dungeons.

His private rooms were blessedly free of seasonal cheer. But only in that way were they lacking. He remembered the few times he'd had visitors to his chambers. They had always seemed surprised that Snape's rooms did not reflect the asceticism his sombre clothes and demeanour suggested. He supposed that the well-lit, book-lined sitting room with its lush brown rug, Slytherin green velvet couch, wing backed arm chairs, and highly polished mahogany desk, end and side tables didn't jibe with most people's expectations, but Voldemort's hospitality had convinced him at quite an early age that minimalism could be taken too far.

The book he'd started that afternoon on the possible use of the deadly mandrake root in a truth serum consumed the remainder of the night.

Hours later, Snape finally closed the tome. What an incredible waste of time! Six hundred pages of theory, all for a concoction that killed its test subjects. The fact that the drug had forced them to reveal the truth before their painful demise in some way alleviated the uselessness of the book, but a truth serum that killed its subjects was extremely impractical. One might just as well put the poor sod under Cruciaatus until he broke down and told you what you wanted to know, Snape thought, resolving to have another discussion with Blott about vetting the books he sold before putting them on the shelves.

He replaced the book in its place on his theory shelf. Recalling his promise to Granger, he found the Chartier treatise and left it out on the end table so that he'd remember to bring it to breakfast with him.

Weary to the bone, Snape completed his nightly ablutions, entered his bedroom, and donned his nightshirt. The huge four-poster with its dark green curtains sang a siren's song to his aching muscles.

With a flick of his wand, he doused the torches on the wall, his soundless gesture bringing to mind this evening's discussion, which inevitably roused memories of its less than pleasant ending.

The truly annoying part was that he couldn't even be angry with Weasley for his reaction. It was, after all, precisely the response he'd laboured a lifetime to achieve. Albus had always warned him to be careful of what he wished for. Ah, well, such was life.

Cautious as ever, Snape slipped his wand beneath his pillow, where it had rested every night since Mr. Olivander first slipped it into his hand.

Back in school, it had been his inbred paranoia that had caused him to keep it so close. The other students in his dorm had laughed at him. Not even Lucius kept his wand under his pillow. For a long time, Snape had been almost self-conscious about the precaution.

It was only after he'd joined Voldemort that he'd realized how wise his younger self had been. He couldn't count the number of victims that he and the other Death Eaters had surprised wandless in their beds and finished off easy as Muggles. The war might be eight years over, but Snape was determined to never be caught with his pants down.

Unlike Potter, he did not excel at wandless magic. And even the living legend was better with wand in hand than without it. As he slipped in between cool silver sheets, he briefly wondered if Potter still slept with his under his pillow as well.

Damn, he would have to think of Potter again. Fifteen years ago, he'd envied the boy his celebrity. Snape gave a sardonic twist of his lips as he acknowledged how much he'd matured over the years. Now, he'd advanced to envying Potter his people skills. He supposed that meant something.

Pathetic, that was what it was, truly pathetic.

And yet, as he settled down into his bed, Snape couldn't help but wonder what it was like to be Harry Potter, to have been raised in a nourishing environment that promoted friendship and trust, instead of having endured a childhood where one's humanity was excised as a weakness. How different would he have turned out if he'd had a friend like Potter or even Weasley when young? Or if he'd had any friend at all?

Stars, but he hated Christmas. It made even heartless bastards like him wax maudlin. Enough of this. All he needed was a good night's sleep. Doubtless, it was just the season, during which Albus' absence was always most keenly felt, that had made him feel so dissatisfied with his life. Tomorrow was another day.

Turning over onto his side, Snape's hand snaked under his pillow. With the reassuring comfort of his wand gripped tightly in his fist, he thrust all self-pity from his thoughts, allowing sleep to court his tired body.

His mind drifted, worries fading.

Outside, the winter night was filled with wind, biting cold and ice. Its chill slowly invaded the subterranean dungeon. For once, he didn't notice the discomfort.

Warm in his dream, Snape ran across a sun-warmed field. He was barefoot and the grass felt sensually cool as it squished between his toes. He couldn't help but note how tiny his feet looked.

And there was something else strange. He was laughing, with pure joy and physical glee, happy as he could never recall being in real life, or even in most of his dreams, for that matter.

There was another oddity. His feet weren't the only ones slapping the dewy grass, nor was his boyish laughter the only sound piercing the sunny field.

Curious, he glanced to his left, and received confirmation that he was, indeed, dreaming. As if joy like this could have left him in any doubt.

There at his side ran Harry Potter, or the boyish version thereof. A grin on his face, his scar revealed as his black fringe bobbed in the breeze, his tiny body swimming in a pair of brown short pants and blue short-sleeved top that were at least five sizes too large. The boy who lived was in fact a boy. Potter looked younger than Snape had ever seen him. Looking at Potter, Snape decided that he was about six or seven years of age, probably a year or so younger than his dream self, judging by the size difference. Snape was a head taller and markedly wider.

As if feeling his gaze, Potter turned his way.

To Snape's surprise, the smile grew wider. "Told you I could keep up. I'll beat you to him."

Potter took off with a burst of speed. Looking in the direction his companion had taken, something painful clutched tight in Snape's chest.

There, at the end of the field, dressed in his high-heeled boots and silver starred, lilac robes, stood Albus Dumbledore, grinning like a madman.

Snape increased his speed.

Normally, in his dreams, when he did something like this, Albus would vanish or crumble into dust when he got close to him. But tonight his old friend remained solid.

Tears of joy streaming from his eyes, Snape crashed into the long-bearded wizard, clutching at Dumbledore and feeling Potter do the same right next to him.

Albus bent down and drew them both into a tight embrace. Snape could never recall anyone hugging him like this.

"Severus, Harry! How good to see you!"

"Professor . . . ."

"Albus . . . ."

Judging by his wavery, childish voice, Potter seemed as upset as he was.

"It's been so long, sir, so very long," Potter rasped, giving voice to Snape's thought.

"There, there, boys. There's no need for tears," Albus comforted, patting their backs as they both hugged tighter. Snape could feel Potter's sweaty hand beneath his own on Albus' back as they tried to get as close as possible. Their sides were pressed together in their effort to get closer to Dumbledore. It almost felt as though they were hugging each other as well as Albus, but neither of them seemed to mind. They'd both loved the old man like a father.

"You've done me proud, working together as you have. You've made me so happy," Albus said. "But it troubles me that neither of you have found the joy you deserve."

"I'm happy now," Potter said.

"Ah, I'm glad to hear that, Harry, but you know this is just a dream," Albus said.

"It had to be. I was never this happy when little," Potter once again voiced Snape's sentiments.

"I wish it were real," Snape whispered, not recognizing the high, but soft voice as his own.

Both he and Potter lifted their heads out of Dumbledore's soft beard far enough to see his face.

"I suppose you both do. I'm afraid that neither one of you had an easy childhood. I always wished that I could change that for you both, but circumstances wouldn't allow it. Do you understand?" Dumbledore's normal glitter seemed dimmed, his guilt an almost palpable presence.

"You can't change things like that, sir," Potter said.

"No, I suppose not. We can only take our comfort in the present. I always hoped that by working so closely together that you would become friends. Has that happened yet?" Dumbledore asked.

A fast glance at each other and then Potter, the eternal Gryffindor, was answering, "No. He still doesn't like me."

Those piercing blue eyes settled on him.

"Is that true, Severus?" Dumbledore asked without rancour, but Snape could feel the unspoken disappointment.

"I don't know how to be a friend. You know that better than anyone, Albus," Snape softly denied, his face hot with embarrassment. Even here in his dreams he was letting Albus down.

"To the contrary, Severus. I found you a most loyal and devoted comrade. I'm certain Harry would, too, if you'd just let him," Dumbledore counselled.

"Let him? I don't know how . . . I never learned how," he whispered, wishing this man didn't call the honesty straight up from his very soul. "You never cared that I didn't know how to be nice. Everyone else does."

"Ah, yes. I suppose that would be an impediment. What if you were given the opportunity to learn these things you feel were omitted in your upbringing - would you take it?" Albus questioned, the sunlight glinting off his silver beard and half moon spectacles.

Pinned by those eyes, Snape gave a slow nod. "If I could."

"And would you help him, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

Potter met Dumbledore's gaze and then glanced at Snape before uttering a single syllable, "Yes."

"Because Albus asked it of you?" Snape snapped, hating the very idea of being pitied. He'd rather remain miserable than have Potter befriend him out of a sense of duty to Dumbledore.

"No, because I'd like to be your friend," Potter replied, his gaze and tone level, if the latter pitched much higher than Snape was accustomed to hearing.

"Why?" Snape asked in equal measures of suspicion and bewilderment.

"Because when you're not being too vicious, you make me laugh. I like your sense of humour, and your ruthless intelligence . . . and how bloody stubborn you can be. I also appreciate that you never once left me to die during the war, even when I probably deserved it," Potter answered, his light green eyes fixed squarely on Snape's.

Snape swallowed hard. He knew the truth when he heard it.

Finding his voice, he tested the veracity of the claims. "If asked, most would deem me completely humourless."

"Only those who don't know you," Potter answered. "Even Ron laughs when you get sarcastic these days."

"Ah, just what I aspire to in life - to be a source of amusement to a Weasley," Snape snarled.

"That type of comment is not going to aid your cause, Severus," Albus gently pointed out.

"And being a buffoon to mental incompetents is? I - I don't know if I want to be what most simpletons call . . . nice," Snape warned.

His disgust must have shown because Potter grinned. For once, he wasn't taking issue with the insult to his friend. "I don't think anyone would want you to do anything that radical."

"Then what would it take?" Snape felt lost again. Clearly, he didn't have any idea what the problem was, if not his lack of good will.

"Maybe you could take down some of your No Trespassing signs and let one or two of us a little closer?" Potter suggested.

"I . . . ." That don't know how line was getting a little old, Snape thought.

"Well, Severus, what shall it be? Will you let me help you?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape gave a tense nod. He'd faced Voldemort's wrath with less fear.

"Very well, then. I will give you your chance to learn, Severus. Use it well. But for now, let's chase some butterflies, shall we?" Dumbledore gave them a tight squeeze before releasing them. He stood up, waved a hand into which three wire and mesh butterfly nets instantly appeared. After handing one to each of the startled youngsters, Albus Dumbledore grinned and hared off after a cabbage leaf butterfly that was fluttering about ten yards away.

For a moment, Potter and Snape looked at each other out of adult eyes as their headmaster ran off in hot pursuit of the fluttering insect. The absurdity of the scene was no doubt reflected in both their faces.

"I've never chased a butterfly in my life," Snape cautiously admitted, staring down at he net in his hand, having no clue what to do with the thing. "Have you?"

"No, but it does look like fun," Potter answered, giving his own net an experimental swish, like a first year trying out wands.

"It always seemed a senseless pursuit when I watched other boys doing this when I was young. Unless one was going to use the butterfly in a potion, capturing one seemed an incredible waste of time and energy," Snape admitted.

"Something doesn't have to make sense to be fun," Potter said. "Some of the most enjoyable things are actually rather ridiculous."

"But . . . ."

"There's no one here to see us," Potter seemed to pick up on the true source of his hesitation. "And I'll never tell. I promise. I did mean what I said. I'll help you any way I can."

"And precisely how will chasing butterflies help me learn to be a friend?" Snape dubiously questioned, the enquiry just this side of cynicism. Still, when he saw Albus racing across the field, he ached to join him, no matter how idiotic his current pursuit.

Snape tensed as Potter reached out to give his shoulder a squeeze. "I haven't a clue. Come on. Just try it and don't worry about all that, okay?" And then Potter turned and ran off to follow Dumbledore.

For a long moment, Snape stood there, feeling very left behind. This wasn't him. He couldn't waste his time with foolishness like this. He should be . . . .

"Severus, hurry up! All the good ones will be gone!" Albus called out to him.

What he should be doing vanished from his mind. He had a chance to spend some time with his only friend. What did it matter what they were doing? After eight years, it felt good to simply be with Albus again. And, chasing butterflies was certainly a lot safer than some of the things he'd done at this man's behest.

Feeling his own mouth quirk up into a hesitant, unfamiliar smile, Snape gave his net a swoosh and jogged off after his two companions.

Chasing butterflies might, in fact, be an entirely senseless pursuit, but as he and Potter trailed their loony headmaster across the wildflower dotted field, Snape began to understand that Potter was right. Joy didn't necessarily have to make sense. It just had to be experienced. And he'd done so little experiencing in his life.

Desperately wishing that he had more time than just a dream to learn about these things that his childhood had never taught him, Snape immersed himself in the butterfly chase.

**********

He was warm. That was the first thing Harry Potter noticed when he started to wake up. It wasn't the stifling, oppressive heat that filled his cupboard in the summer. This was pleasant, like the heat in Dudley's room in the winter months when Harry's cupboard would be freezing.

Something else wasn't right. There were no metal slats digging through his cot's thin mattress into his back. To the contrary, the mattress he was on was thick and cushiony. Maybe he'd fallen asleep on Dudley's bed, or, God forbid, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's? If that were the case, he'd better get out of it right away.

Panic spreading through him, Harry's eyes snapped open. The room around him was blurry, but it was definitely too big to be his cupboard.

Instinctively, he groped around for the milk crate he kept as a night table at the left side of his cot. That was where he usually left his glasses.

Sure enough, his fingers touched their cool metal frames. Relaxing, Harry put them on. Only, they were too big. As soon as he put the glasses on the bridge of his nose, they tried to slide down. If he'd broken them again, Aunt Petunia would murder him. He fiddled with the sides and finally managed to get them to stay up on his face. If they were broken . . . .

The thought trailed off as he stared in shock at his surroundings. He was in a huge four-poster bed. It was fully three times as wide as his cupboard. And the rest of the room . . . .

Harry gulped. The walls were made of huge grey stone blocks, the floor between the area rugs was flagstone, and the windows were long, wide affairs with bevelled glass casements. He'd never seen a fireplace as huge as the one across the room from the bed. And the heavy wooden furniture looked like something that belonged in a king's room.

He jumped at a sound to his right. There beside the window stood an open birdcage. A huge white owl sat watching him out of curious golden eyes from its perch within. The bird gave a twitter that sounded like a question.

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to panic.

Another fainter noise drew his attention back to the nightstand he'd taken his glasses off. He stared in confusion at the big glass jar there. There were holes punched in its lid. Inside was a collection of flowers and grass at the bottom. Above the bedding, three white butterflies with black spots on their wings danced madly. The jar also contained two tiny lavender butterflies, and a huge orange and black one that was the most amazing thing he'd seen in his life; aside from the room, that was. The noise was being made by the butterflies colliding with the walls of the jar.

What a strange and wonderful place! He knew he still had to be dreaming, but when he pinched his arm it hurt.

Eager to explore, he slid out of bed, and nearly measured his length. He was wearing some kind of linen nightgown that went down past his feet. When he pulled it up to keep from falling, his head and shoulders slipped straight through the head opening and the thing pooled around his feet. He blushed as he realized he was naked.

Harry quickly picked the garment up and held it out. It looked like a man's nightshirt. He'd only seen them on television, so he couldn't be sure, but it certainly appeared to be the same type of pyjamas that Scrooge had worn in the Christmas special Dudley had been watching that time Aunt Petunia had caught Harry after he'd snuck out of his cupboard. Looking around the room, he could see no children sized clothing, not even anything of Dudley's. There was a long black robe of some kind draped across a chair in the corner, but that also looked long enough to fit a giant. Seeing nothing for it, Harry squiggled back into the nightshirt and did his best not to slip out of its neck again.

That sorted out, he hiked up the bottom and crossed the room to peer at some pictures over the mantelpiece. He'd never been that close to an open flame before, so he took care to ensure that his oversized nightshirt stayed clear of the dancing fire. Back home whenever his aunt and uncle had lit a fire in their tiny hearth, Harry had been consigned to his cupboard. He rather liked the cheery flames.

Peering up at the largest picture, Harry froze. Not only were the figures in it looking back at him, two of them were waving wildly and doing all they could to attract his attention. There were three black-robed people in the picture. A very tall redheaded man with an amazingly friendly grin was on the left. He had his arm around a woman with brown bushy hair, who also had a warm smile. The third person in the photo had messy black hair, round-rimmed glasses and a scar just like his on his forehead.

Harry stared up at them in shock as the moving figures continued to wave at him and the man who looked so much like Harry that he surely must be Harry's father gave Harry a confused looking smile.

The picture beside that one showed his possible father hugging the same brown haired woman in a wedding dress. They stood in front of a ramshackle structure that looked very much like the place the Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe might have moved into if her first home were repossessed.

Were these his parents, Harry wondered.

The final photo showed his father again. This time he was standing between a grinning old man with a long white beard who was dressed in a bright blue robe and a magician's pointy hat and another man in dark robes who had stringy black hair, a sour expression, and who looked rather much the way Harry had always imagined a vampire might look. His father was once again giving Harry a bemused smile; the old man beside him was positively bursting with enthusiasm as he waved and grinned. The mean looking man was rolling his eyes and shaking his head, as if embarrassed to be photographed with the pair.

Harry didn't know what to make of it. He stood there staring at the pictures for a long time before he decided to look out the window to see where he was. The owl hooted at him as he passed her cage. He received the distinct impression that the bird didn't quite know what to make of him.

Climbing up onto the window seat, Harry gasped at the view. He hadn't been far off in his appraisal of the room being fit for a king. His window looked out upon the most incredible castle imaginable. There were spires, turrets and towers all over the enormous structure. The ground outside was wearing a thick blanket of snow, and there was a huge, half-frozen lake beyond the castle grounds. Off to his right, Harry could make out what appeared to be an endless forest.

It was like a dream come true. All those times he'd sit on his cot in the locked cupboard, playing with one of Dudley's discarded knight action figures, pretending he was a prince who'd been kidnapped and left with the Dursleys as punishment, that someday his real family would come to rescue him, and it had finally happened! This was brilliant, just like . . . .

"Harry?"

Startled by the sound, Harry took shelter beside a tall armoire. He peered hesitantly around its corner. He didn't think anyone could have entered without his hearing. The bedroom door was still closed. There was no one else in the room.

"Harry, are you in there?" a woman's voice worriedly called from the far side of the chamber.

Harry's gaze followed the direction of the sound, trailing it to the hearth.

He gave a small, horrified exclamation at the sight of a woman's head and torso amid the dancing flames. It was, he realized, the same bushy haired lady in the moving photos. His mother?

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always told him that his parents had died in a car crash, but maybe they'd lied. Perhaps he really had been kidnapped as a baby and his real parents had been searching for him all these years. It was possible that he'd somehow just been returned to them last night while he slept and his mother was just coming to look for him. That made sense.

But . . . what was she doing in the fireplace, in the middle of all those hot flames? Was she a ghost? Was it possible that he himself had died and that was why his mother was here looking for him now?

Frozen with fear, he stood there shivering beside the armoire.

"Hermione, will you let him be?" a man's annoyed sounding voice called from behind her. "It's the day after Christmas, for pity's sake. Let him catch up on his sleep."

The day after Christmas?

"Harry promised to help wrap the children's presents," the woman who was not on fire in his hearth turned her head as if to speak to someone behind her. "He said he'd be here at ten. He wasn't at breakfast and the picture on his door said he hasn't been out yet. He's not in his sitting room or the bedroom. He could have fallen in the bath, Ron. He could be hurt." She turned back to face his room and called out in a louder voice, "Harry, if you're in there, get decent. I'm coming to check on you."

And with that warning, the woman with the bushy hair tumbled straight out of the fire onto the oriental carpet before it.

Absolutely terrified now, Harry watched her rise to her feet and dust ashes off the long blue robe she was wearing.

"Harry? Are you in there?" she called, turning towards a door that was straight across from Harry's armoire. It was probably the bathroom, he thought.

Harry tensed, trying to shrink deeper into the shadows and make himself as small as possible, but he was as far back as he could get.

His movement seemed to attract her attention. She turned towards him, speaking fast and crossly.

"What are you playing at, Harry? You gave me a terrible fright, I thought . . . oh . . . ." her words broke off as she gaped at him. "Harry?"

"H-hello," he stuttered, taking a hesitant step out of the shadows now that he'd been spotted. Life with his aunt and uncle had taught him that hiding never did any good. The punishment was only worse for the delay, and the horrified expression on the woman's face told him that she was no more pleased to see him than Aunt Petunia generally was when she unlocked his cupboard door in the morning. She seemed enormous as he stepped forward. But that scary, horror-stricken expression didn't stay long on her face. As she looked at him, it turned into worry. After a moment in which she seemed to be struck as speechless as he was, she sank down to her knees.

She wasn't hulking over him. Their eyes were on a level now and he wasn't quite so frightened.

"Harry, is that you?" she asked in a gentle voice, her kind, brown eyes wide as saucers. She didn't appear upset with him anymore.

Giving a nervous gulp, he nodded. "Yes."

"Oh, dear."

Reading nothing but worry and compassion in her face, Harry blurted out, "Are you my mother?"

"What?" His question seemed to totally befuddle her, as though it were the last thing she expected him to say.

"Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always said my parents were dead, but I thought that maybe they'd lied, that maybe I was lost or kidnapped like in the fairy tales. In the picture on top of the fireplace . . . you're wearing a weeding gown and standing with a man who looks like he might be my father, so I thought . . . ."

He'd thought wrong, obviously, but she didn't appear to be angry about his big mistake.

But she did look like she was about to cry. "No, Harry, I'm sorry. I'm not your mother."

He gulped back his reaction and lowered his stinging eyes.

"Don't you know who I am?" she softly asked.

He gave a negative shake of his head. Still staring at his cold, bare feet, he tried to hide his disappointment that she wasn't whom he'd thought she was. Her popping out of the fireplace like that had frightened him, but now that she was talking so gently with him, Harry thought that he would have liked to have a mother like her.

"My name is Hermione," she said in that same gentle voice.

He looked up at her again. She seemed to be waiting for something from him. He mightn't know much, but he did know his manners. "I'm Harry."

"I know," she smiled, and it made him feel warm down to his toes because it seemed meant just for him. "Harry, do you know what happened to you? How you got here?"

He shook his head no. "I just woke up here."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Ah . . . going to sleep in my cupboard, I guess," he said; although now that she asked, he wasn't sure. When he tried to remember the details of last night, they seemed very murky.

"You're not certain, though?"

"No."

For a second, she seemed at a loss, and then she asked, "Harry, how old are you?"

At least that was a question he could answer.

"Seven," he said with a smile.

"Seven," she repeated, sounding like her mind was thinking this through. "Do you know what year it is?"

"Don't you?" he asked, stunned. Grownups always knew stuff like that.

"Well, yes, I do. I just wanted to see how grown up you are," Hermione said quickly.

He wasn't sure she was telling the truth, but she was still looking at him with worried eyes, so he didn't think she meant him any harm.

"You do know what year it is?" she questioned with more than a trace of doubt after a prolonged silence.

"Of course, I do. It's 1996. That's right, isn't it?" A chill passed through him as all expression blanked from her friendly features.

For a second, she looked like she didn't want to answer. Then finally, she said, "No, Harry. It's 2017."

"But . . . that can't be. I'd be . . . " He couldn't do the math in his head, even counting on his fingers.

"Twenty-six," Hermione softly informed.

"That can't be," he protested, his fear running wild. "Wh-what happened? How did I get here? Where's Aunt Petunia? How - how did you know my name if you didn't bring me here?"

He couldn't ever remember being this scared, even when Dudley pushed him into Aunt Petunia's favourite lamp and it broke.

"Ssssssh," Hermione soothed and then did something that no one had ever done to him when he was upset. She reached out and collected him into her arms, holding his shaking form close to her as she rubbed his back and said, "It's okay, Harry. I don't know how this happened to you, but it will be all right. I promise. You're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."

In spite of all the questions still racing through his mind, his fear stilled. He felt so safe all of a sudden.

Hermione was so warm and soft. She smelt like cinnamon and apples. It felt so wonderful to have her embracing him the way Aunt Petunia always hugged Dudley. He'd never believed that anyone would want to hold him this way.

"How do you know my name?" he asked after a while, looking up at her troubled face.

"That's a little difficult to explain." She stared down at him for a moment, as if evaluating something, and then quietly said, "What I'm going to say is probably going to be hard for you to believe. Can I ask you a question before I answer?"

If she kept hugging him like this, he'd probably let her do anything she wanted to him. But he didn't say that. He just nodded, in case his speaking would make her let go of him.

"When you were angry or upset, did you ever make something happen, something you couldn't explain?" It didn't sound like a real question. In fact, it sounded like something she already knew. But . . . he wasn't allowed to talk about those things. Every time he tried, Aunt Petunia would start screaming, then Uncle Vernon would grab him by the ear and start shaking him, and then . . . he always ended up spending a few days without meals locked in his cupboard.

He let go of her and stepped a safe distance back. He knew this was too good to be true.

It was almost as though Hermione read his mind. "Don't worry, Harry. You won't get in trouble if you answer honestly. I used to make things happen at home, too."

"You did?"

"Everyone here did." Hermione nodded. He liked her grin. It was full of mischief.

"What kind of things did you do?" he asked.

"I once broke every glass in the kitchen with a glance when my mum wouldn't let me go out to play after dark," Hermione said.

"I . . . made all the weeds pop back up in Aunt Petunia's garden one afternoon after she yelled at me because Dudley pushed me into her flower bed. And another time she shaved all my hair off and it grew back overnight," Harry dared.

True to her word, Hermione didn't punish him for talking about those forbidden subjects.

"Those talents make you special, Harry. This is a school for children who can make things like that happen," Hermione explained.

"This castle is a school?" His own school back in Little Whinging was a grim, lifeless affair. He'd never seen anything so wonderful as the castle outside his window.

"Yes."

"And that's why I was brought here? Because I can do stuff like that?" Harry asked. Things were finally beginning to make a bit of sense.

"Well, not exactly, or, at least, not recently," Hermione answered. As if realizing that she was only further confusing him, she said, "You first came to Hogwarts School of Wizarding and Witchcraft when you were eleven. You, I, and several of our other friends from school teach here now."

"I have friends?" he asked, more amazed by this than by her saying he was a teacher.

"You have lots of friends," she assured.

"I do?" he'd always wanted a friend.

"Yes."

"And I'm a teacher?"

Another smile and another "Yes."

"You said . . . 'School of Wizards and . . . ?'" he repeated, thinking that it was a funny name for a school. It almost sounded as thought they taught wizards.

"Hogwarts School of Wizarding and Witchcraft. You're a wizard, Harry. The greatest wizard of our age."

He searched Hermione's warm features, but could find no hint that she was teasing him.

"I . . . that can't be. Not me. I'm just . . . ." The boy that nobody wants, flashed through his mind, but he didn't say it. Hermione wasn't acting like she didn't like him or want him here. In fact, this was the nicest anyone had ever treated him. So, he didn't voice his doubts.

It was all so much to take in. Not only had he gone to bed a grownup last night, but if Hermione was telling him the truth, and he could think of no reason why she'd lie to him about this, he was a wizard as well. And somehow, he'd gone from being a wizard to being a boy again. He didn't understand anything that was happening to him. Maybe Hermione could help him understand. "What . . . how . . . if I'm a teacher and all grown up, how'd this happen to me?"

"I don't know. Someone might have put a curse on you to turn you into a child again, but . . . " She seemed to catch herself talking out loud to herself again.

"But?" he asked.

"Let's not worry about that now, all right? I think we should go visit Madame Pomfrey and see what she has to say about all this."

"Who's Madame Pomfy?"

"Madame Pomfrey. She's our mediwitch, er . . . our doctor," Hermione explained. "She'll be able to help."

"She'll turn me back into a grownup?"

"Let's hope," Hermione smiled.

"Will it . . . hurt?" he asked in a small voice.

Hermione reached out to touch his shoulder. "I won't let anybody do anything that hurts you. I promise. Most magic doesn't hurt at all, even that which transfigures a person into a toad or something of the sort."

"Trans . . . ?" he questioned.

"Changes them," she said.

"Have you ever changed into a toad, Hermione?" he asked, remembering all the incredible fairy tales he'd read and wondering how much of that was possible.

"Not a toad, per se, but when we were in second year, we brewed a potion that trans . . . changed me into a giant cat for three weeks."

"Why did you want to be a giant cat?" he asked, although it did sound rather cool.

"I didn't. It was a mistake. I ended up having to spend the whole time in hospital. It was quite boring, actually. My paws were so awkward that I couldn't even turn the pages of my books and I kept wanting to chase mice."

"Oh."

"All right, then? Are you ready to go?" Hermione asked, holding out her hand to him.

He stepped forward to take it, only the nightshirt he was swimming in didn't move with him the way it should and it nearly fell off him again.

"That won't do," Hermione said. She took a polished stick out of her robe's pocket, pointed it at him, and said something in a language he'd never heard before. Instantly, his nightshirt shrunk to fit his form. The dead cotton moving to fit his body was a weird feeling, but not nearly so strange as that of his glasses shrinking to fit his face.

"Wow! Is that magic?" he wondered, spinning in glee in his properly sized clothing.

Hermione laughed. "Yes, Harry, that's magic."

"And I can do stuff like that?"

"You've been able to do that since you were fourteen," she said. Her eyes were on his bare feet. "We're going to have to get you something for your feet and an outer robe. Ah, there are your slippers. Run and put your feet in them while I fetch you a robe."

He raced over to the bed and put his tiny feet into the sheep-lined bedroom slippers that were sticking out from under the four-poster.

She returned with the long black garment he'd seen lying on the chair before. Hermione put the enormous thing over his shoulders, said those same two words, 'Reducio something or the other,' and the slippers and robe also changed to fit his size.

Even shrunk to fit, the robe was still so large that he had trouble finding the armholes. Surprised, he felt Hermione move the robe to help him get his arm into its sleeve.

"There, that's better," she said as she fastened the front closed for him.

She brushed a hand through his hair, as if attempting to smooth it into place. He tensed. Whenever Aunt Petunia took notice of his hair, the shouting would start, but Hermione just ruffled it a little, as though it didn't bother her too much that it wasn't all neat like Dudley's. Then she smiled down at him, her eyes warm and glittering. "We're ready to go now."

He wondered if this was what it felt like to have a mother.

Her gaze slid past him, stopping at the bed and night table behind him.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know what that jar is doing there?" Hermione walked over to pick up the oversized glass jar with the butterflies in it.

"No. It was there when I woke up. "

"How strange," she said, staring thoughtfully in at the flying bugs.

"Don't I like butterflies?" Harry asked, confused.

"I'm sure you like them fine, Harry. I just don't know where you would have gotten them in December."

"Do you think they were here when I went to sleep?" he questioned.

"I doubt it. Perhaps we'd best bring them with us," she decided, tucking the jar under her left elbow.

He didn't understand why she did that until she held her right hand out to him.

He quickly took the offered hand, gazing up at her in awe as her warm palm closed protectively around his small, sweaty one. He'd only known her a few minutes and already she'd shown him more kindness than his aunt and uncle had in his entire life.

She led him out the bedroom door, through a sitting room he hadn't even known existed, and then to a huge corridor beyond.

"Who's this, then?" he jumped as a gruff voice sounded behind him as the sitting room door closed behind them.

Clutching Hermione's hand for dear life, Harry swung around to ogle the speaker. It was an oil painting on the front of his door, an old man with a red beard dressed in a black robe like the one Harry was wearing and a pointy witch's hat.

"Hello, Martin," Hermione greeted the oil painting's inhabitant. "Harry's had a bit of a mishap. We're going to sort him out now."

"Well, see that you do! Mishap, indeed!" the old man harrumphed as Hermione led him down the hall.

Martin wasn't the only picture that moved and talked. The corridor was lined with paintings, and every one of their subjects seemed to take an inordinate interest in Harry.

When they reached a turn in the corridor, Harry saw a blond boy race by. The boy was dressed in a black robe with a red and golden emblem stitched on it like a badge.

"Stanton!" Hermione called, and the boy ground to a halt.

"Good afternoon, Professor Weasley," the boy said. His curious blue gaze moved to Harry.

Harry tensed as the older boy's eyes bulged in his head. "Blimey, is that . . . ?"

"Stanton, run and fetch Headmistress McGonagall and ask her to meet us in the infirmary. Then please go to my quarters and tell Professor Weasley to meet us there as well."

"Yes, ma'm." Stanton nodded as she hurried Harry past him.

They turned another bend in a corridor. Harry stumbled to a stop, frozen by the sight before him.

The corridor opened onto what appeared to be Hogwarts' main stairwell. The space was as large as a cathedral. It rose at least eight stories high. There were dozens of stairways crisscrossing the open area, and some of those stairways were moving, slowly gliding from the right side of the building to the left and back again.

"Er, Hermione . . . ?" he tightened his grip on her hand.

He was holding onto her so hard that he thought she'd admonish him for it, but when Hermione glanced down at him, her gaze was soft with understanding.

"It's okay, Harry. They're just stairs. Sometimes they move, but usually you can get where you want to go. Are you all right?" Hermione drew him nearer to the wall and put her free arm across his shoulders. "Sometimes I forget how overwhelming this place can be when you're not used to it."

She let him watch the stairs move for a few minutes without trying to force him to go near them.

He saw a black girl a few years older than him, also in one of the long black robes everyone here seemed to wear, coming down a moving flight of stairs several levels above them. Although he couldn't see her face too clearly, she didn't seem upset by the motion.

"I guess they are pretty neat," Harry allowed, taking a determined step towards the stairs. He was grateful for the encouraging squeeze Hermione gave his hand.

He was almost disappointed when the steps they were on failed to move. He just trailed Hermione down past the curious inhabitants of the oil paintings and exited the stairs three levels below where they'd started.

She led him along another drafty corridor and then into a room that had a dozen or so single beds lined in neat rows down both its sides. None of the beds were occupied.

There was a lady in white robes at the back of the room stacking bottles in a cabinet.

"Hello, Poppy," Hermione called.

"Hello, there," the lady answered without turning. "Please tell me that you're not here for a Pepper Up Potion, too! I'm just about out. I'll have to ask Severus to brew me up another batch before term star-" her words died as she turned and caught sight of them. "Good heavens, is that . . . ?"

"Harry Potter," Hermione confirmed. "Harry, this is Madame Pomfrey. She's the best mediwitch Hogwarts has ever had."

"Hello," he nervously greeted.

"Hello, dear," Madame Pomfrey smiled. "Don't worry. We'll have you fixed up good as new in no time at all." Her friendly blue eyes turned to Hermione.

While Hermione explained how she'd found him a short while ago, Harry let go of her hand and explored the hospital wing.

"It could be a simple age reduction potion," he heard Madame Pomfrey say.

"Like the opposite of the potion Fred and George used to try to fool the Triwizards' Goblet?" Hermione questioned.

For all the sense her words made, they might as well have been in another language.

"Exactly. Let's have a look at him and then give the remedy a try," Madame Pomfrey suggested.

"Harry?" Hermione called. "Would you come over here for a moment, please?"

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Madame Pomfrey checked his eyes, ears, nose, and throat like his regular doctor, and then performed a few more examinations that he didn't really understand.

He was lying on the examination table with Madame Pomfrey slowly passing her wand over every inch of him when the infirmary door banged open. The tall, redheaded man from the photograph on Harry's mantel stormed in, his brown robes billowing around him like wings from the speed at which he was moving.

"Hermione! What's all this nonsense about Harry? Stanton said . . . . Harry?" the big man's words ended in a squawk.

"Harry," Hermione said, leaning down to give his hand a squeeze, "this is my husband, Ron. He's been your best friend since you were boys. Ron, Harry doesn't remember us, so please try not to frighten him."

The confounded expression on the big man's long, freckled face was almost comical. "Er, hi, there, Harry. Are you doing all right, then? I mean, aside from . . . ."

"Aside from being seven years old, he appears to be just fine," Hermione snapped.

The exasperated look she shot at her husband made Harry giggle.

"Seven?" Ron repeated. "Are you sure? He barely looks five."

"I'm seven, not five!" Harry angrily informed.

"Really, Ron! Have you ever even heard of the word tact?" Hermione chastised.

A chastened flush turned Ron's face nearly as red as his hair. "I'm sorry, Harry. You really don't remember me? We've been best friends for more'n fifteen years."

He shook his head no, still not over Ron's five-year-old crack.

Harry thought better of him for the brave smile Ron gave him. The man's brown eyes still clearly showed his confusion over whatever had happened to him. "Well, don't worry about it. I'm sure it will all come back as soon as we sort this out." Ron looked over at Hermione, "Umm, what happened to him?"

Hermione lips had just parted to reply when the hospital door opened again. A stern-looking woman in green velvet robes with a tight black bun at the back of her head entered. "What's happened? Mister Stanton said . . . oh, dear. Good afternoon, Harry."

"Er, hello." He was beginning to feel nervous with all these grownups staring at him.

"Harry, this is Professor McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts," Hermione introduced.

The three robed grownups conversed in whispers as Madame Pomfrey completed her examination.

"That's it, dear," Madame Pomfrey said at last. "You can get down now."

Hermione helped him down onto the floor.

Self-conscious with them all staring at him as though he were some kind of freak show, Harry scuffed his slippered toe on the stone floor.

"Well, Madame Pomfrey?" the Headmistress said into the silence.

"He's frightfully undernourished," the mediwitch replied. "Whoever has been taking care of this child should be horsewhipped. He's six inches and nearly a stone under what he should be -"

"No one's been 'taking care' of him," Ron interrupted.

"That's obvious enough," Madame Pomfrey appeared very upset over whatever she'd found.

"Aside from his being poorly cared for, is there anything else you can tell us?" Professor McGonagall questioned.

"He hasn't been cursed, charmed, or bewitched. As far as I can tell, he's a perfectly normal boy," Madame Pomfrey reported.

"What do you mean, he hasn't been cursed! Look at him!" Ron demanded.

"I ran my wand over every inch of him," Madame Pomfrey said. "It's spelled to detect even the most well-concealed magic. He's clean of magical influence from head to foot. If he'd ingested a potion to cause this, there should have been some traces lingering in his intestinal track, but there was nothing."

"What do you think caused it then?" Hermione asked.

"I wish I knew," Madame Pomfrey answered.

"Hermione," Professor McGonagall said, "what on earth are you doing with that jar?"

Hermione gave a surprised start. Obviously, in the excitement she'd managed to forget the jar she had tucked under her elbow. She raised it up towards the wall torches so that everyone could see its fluttering contents. "It was next to Harry's bed. He said he found it there when he woke up this morning."

"Do you think it means something?" Ron asked the question before Harry could.

Even Harry had to smile at the looks Ron's question earned him.

"Of course, it means something," Hermione replied, while the other two women stared at Ron as though he were a simpleton.

"I've never heard of anything like this," the headmistress said, pursing her prim lips. "If Potter wasn't cursed, then how . . . ."

"Perhaps Professor Snape might be able to help?" Hermione suggested.

"Yeah, he's forgotten more about the Dark Arts than most DADA teachers know," Ron said and then abruptly glanced down at him and said quite contritely, "Sorry, Harry. Present company excepted."

"Good idea. I'll go get him," Professor McGonagall said and quickly hurried off.

As Hermione, Madame Pomfrey, and Ron began to voice their incredulity over Harry's present state, Harry wandered across the room. There were some really interesting looking bottles on a side table.

Ron seemed to be running through a list of who might have cursed Harry, to the increasingly loud protests of his companions.

Harry, who felt blessed by this entire experience, rather than cursed, did his best to ignore them.

Hermione was loudly insisting, "Well, we'll just have to wait to hear what Professor Snape has to say about it," when the infirmary door opened again and Minerva McGonagall's grim brogue announced, "I believe we have a problem."

Everyone, including Harry, turned to stare at her, alarmed by her tone.

The room was filled with gasps and exclamations from the adults as McGonagall escorted a dark haired boy into the infirmary. Professor McGonagall was carrying a butterfly jar identical to Harry's own.

As the place erupted into chaos, Harry and the strange boy stared at each other.

Harry thought that the newcomer must be a year or two older than him. He was tall and thin, with long black hair and a nose that looked three sizes too large for his face. The taller boy didn't have a very friendly countenance. His features were harsh and angry.

Harry was rather intimidated by the other boy, but since the stranger hadn't given him the predatory glare that Dudley's thugs usually employed before attacking, Harry inched closer to him while the adults' conversation grew louder.

"Hi. I'm Harry," he said, trying to be friendly.

Eyes black as the robe he wore pinned Harry. After coolly appraising him, the other boy gave a slow nod. "Severus Snape."

Uh oh. That was the teacher they were hoping would be able to help him.

"Were you a grownup, too, yesterday?" Harry whispered.

Severus gave him a disgusted look. "So that woman claims." He pointed his chin in McGonagall's direction.

"You don't believe her?" Harry asked.

"Of course, I don't believe her," Snape said.

"Do you remember how you got here?" Harry asked, wondering if the amnesia were specific to him.

Severus didn't appear happy about that question. In fact, Severus didn't look as though he were ever happy about anything.

"No, I don't know how I got here. But I think it's far more probable that I was kidnapped than this crazy tale they've concocted."

"Kidnapped?" Harry hadn't thought of that. But then he remembered Hermione's shock when she first saw him and knew that Severus must be mistaken. And even if he weren't, his kidnappers were treating him a lot better than the Dursleys ever did.

"I only hope that they hurry up with the ransom demand. I was in the middle of . . . ."

"Yes?" Harry prompted.

Snape's already frowning face grew thunderous. "I don't recall exactly what I was doing, but I know it must have been important. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Harry watched the other boy stalk up to the group of arguing adults and shout, "Excuse me. If you're quite through with this infantile behaviour, I'd like to go home now."

All conversation ceased.

"What did you say?" Headmistress McGonagall demanded. Even Harry, who'd known her less than an hour, suspected that her frozen features boded disaster.

He shivered at the headmistress' icy expression, sure that Severus was going to be punished.

"I said I want to go home. Whatever your demands are, I'm sure my grandparents will meet them," Snape said in a condescending tone that Harry had only heard from Aunt Petunia before when she discussed the neighbours.

"What's he talking about?" Ron asked, staring down at Snape as though the boy were a venomous snake.

"He thinks he's been kidnapped," Minerva McGonagall huffed.

"What?" Hermione's mouth dropped open.

To everyone's surprise, and Severus' obvious fury, Ron began to howl with laughter.

"Professor Weasley, control yourself!" McGonagall admonished.

"Oh, that's rich!" Ron laughed. Seeing all their gazes upon him, he tried to explain around his merriment. "Makes sense, doesn't it? He wakes up, doesn't know where he is or how he got there, Snape automatically assumes the worst! That's our Snape!"

"You're not helping, Ron," Hermione said and then bent down to speak to Severus on his level. "Profess . . . er, Severus, you haven't been kidnapped. You -"

"I know." Severus cut in. "I was an adult yesterday and woke up a seven-year-old this morning. You don't seriously expect me to believe that twaddle, do you?"

Snape's sneer caused another round of laughter from Ron, and made Madame Pomfrey chuckle as well.

"Are you sure he isn't himself?" Hermione asked. "What seven-year-old talks to adults like that?"

"I demand that you stop laughing at me and take me home immediately!" Severus commanded.

"I'm afraid that you're in no condition to make demands right now, dear," Madame Pomfrey smiled.

"Would you stop that insipid simpering and send me home?" Severus shouted.

"That's enough!" McGonagall moved to glare down at Severus. "Mr. Snape, you will stop this nonsense immediately and go over there with Mr. Potter and remain quiet until you are called."

"Or?" Severus raised his left eyebrow as though the Headmistress were nothing to him.

Harry held his breath. He'd seen Dudley throw tantrums and shout at his aunt and uncle his entire life, but all of that was simply Dudley acting like a baby. There was a mature, nearly menacing air to Severus. Harry had never seen a boy his own age stand so utterly defiant before adults. It was the bravest and stupidest thing he'd ever seen.

"Or you will find yourself unable to utter a word for the next twenty-four hours," McGonagall replied with suspect sweetness. "The choice is, of course, yours."

She took out a stick like the one Hermione had used to shrink Harry's clothes earlier and pointed it at Severus.

Severus glared at her for a long moment and then turned on his heel and stalked over to Harry.

As the tableau broke, the adults recommenced their discussion. Harry heard Hermione ask, "Do you think there's any chance this could happen to the rest of us?"

As the silently fuming other boy came to stand beside him, Harry turned to the table behind them and took down his favourite bottle. "Hey, did you see this one? It looks like a skeleton! Isn't it brilliant?"

Harry gulped at the expression that earned him.

"Are you mentally incompetent? Doesn't it concern you at all that these strangers are arguing our fate over there and we have no say in it?"

"Er . . . what's incump... incompretent?" Harry asked, certain that he'd been insulted, but not sure how badly.

Severus gave what sounded remarkably like one of Aunt Marge's dog's growls and moved to go sit on a bed three spaces down from the one Harry was playing near. Shrugging his shoulders, Harry turned back to his skeleton bottle.

Some time later, McGonagall called, "Boys, please join us." Once Harry and his sulking companion had rejoined the group, the Headmistress continued, "I'm afraid that we will be unable to restore you at this time. Please be assured that we are taking all steps to find a solution to your problem." They all affected not to notice Severus' disdainful snort. "Until such time as the situation is resolved, we will have to deal with matters as they are. The most immediate problem is where you will be staying until a solution is found."

"I want to go back to those rooms with the books," Severus said.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. A boy your age should not be reading spell books, let alone those on Unforgivable Curses," McGonagall curtly denied. "You will need proper supervision until such time as you are restored to yourselves."

"They can stay here in the infirmary," Madame Pomfrey offered.

His insides turned cold as he realized that Hermione was going to have to leave him here. He liked Madame Pomfrey, but it wasn't the same as what he felt for the woman he'd mistaken for his mother. But he knew better than to make a fuss. His heart breaking, he stared down at his fleecy slippers and did his best to keep his face controlled.

"Harry will stay with us," Ron's suddenly steely voice announced.

Harry's chin shot up. Hope welling inside him, he looked to where Hermione and Ron stood close together.

"Don't just assume, Ron. Give him a choice," Hermione chided. "We have a guest room, Harry, or you could stay in the boys' dorm with the first years. Whichever you'd like -"

He had run up to stand in front of her before she finished speaking. He wanted to wrap his arms around her like he'd done before, but back home his aunt and uncle wouldn't allow him to touch them. "With you, please."

"That's settled, then." Hermione laughed and rustled his hair.

Her other hand slipped to his back and before Harry knew it, he was right where he'd wanted to be, in another of those wonderful hugs.

"What of you, Severus?" Professor McGonagall asked. "Which would you prefer - the dormitory or the infirmary?"

Harry felt almost bad for Severus as the other boy looked over to where Hermione was still hugging him, but then that nasty hardness came back over Severus' face and he didn't feel so bad anymore.

"The dormitory, I suppose," Severus said.

"Umm, Minerva?" Ron said uncertainly. "You do know that the only first years staying here over the holidays are from our house?"

"Of course, I know. It will do for a temporary solution. I'll have another bed moved in immediately. It will be there by the time he arrives. Madame Pomfrey, if you think of anything, please notify me immediately. If you'll excuse me," the headmistress said and took her leave.

"Well, come along, boys. We'll get you settled," Hermione brightly said, taking Harry's hand again to lead him out. She offered her other hand to Severus, who stared at her as though she were a worm on the sidewalk.

"I can find my own way," Severus said, standing taller.

"All right, then." Severus' rudeness didn't even seem to upset Hermione. She just led Harry out, while keeping pace with Severus, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. "This way."

As they walked yet another endless maze of stairways and corridors, Harry felt Ron come up beside him. The tall man's hand settled on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It'll be all right, Harry."

When they reached a brightly decorated tower entrance with a portrait of a lady in a pink dress on the door, Ron moved over to Severus.

"I'll take him up to the dorm," Ron offered.

"Good night, Severus," Hermione said.

"Good night," Harry called.

"Good riddance, more like," Severus sneered.

Harry saw Ron's face turn bright with anger. "Come along, you."

"Password?" the lady in the pink dress questioned.

"Marmalade," Ron replied.

Harry watched the door close behind them.

"That man," Hermione muttered, shaking her head.

"You mean Ron?" Harry asked.

"No, Severus. Never mind him right now. We're right over here," Hermione said, guiding him to the door to the left of the one with the pink lady. She murmured some words in that foreign language again and the door swung open.

Harry followed her into a cosy sitting room. There was a live Christmas tree with hundreds of lights on it standing in the corner farthest from the fireplace. The furniture was old and comfortable, the rugs the slightest bit worn, but fastidiously clean. Aunt Petunia would have hated the place, but Harry felt instantly at home here.

As he wandered around the room, he realized that the man he'd taken to be his father appeared in almost all the pictures on the mantel.

"That's me, then?" Harry asked, staring up at yet another shot of Hermione, Ron, and the green-eyed man.

"Yes, Harry."

"Who are all those people with the red hair with us in that one?" Harry asked, pointing to a terribly crowded photo of laughing, waving people. Hermione and his older self were in the foreground surrounded a tribe of redheads. Harry thought that the ramshackle house he'd seen in the pictures back in his room might have been in the background, but there were too many people in the picture to see what was behind them.

"Oh, that's Ron's family. It was taken last summer," Hermione said, and then proceeded to name each of the subjects. It seemed like a whole townful of Weasleys waved at him. By the time the last Weasley had been named, they were both giggling.

"The bathroom is here and the guestroom is next to it. Would you like me to show you your room?"

At his nod, she led him into the guestroom. It wasn't as large as the room he'd woken up in, but it was just as warm and comfortable. The big four-poster bed stood against the far wall. It had a bright blue duvet on it and matching curtains. There was a desk, bureau, and night table. The paintings in here seemed to be landscapes, so there was no waving or shouting going on in them, but there was a herd of deer moving through the painting over the bed.

"I'm afraid it doesn't have much to amuse a young boy. There isn't a computer or television," Hermione said.

"I think it's brilliant," Harry smiled up at her and then ran over to bounce on the bed. "Way better than my cupboard back home."

For a second, Hermione looked as though she might cry, but then she seemed to force a laugh. "Well, just don't knock the place down. Will you be all right on your own in here for a while?"

"Sure."

"I'll be in the next room if you need anything."

"Okay. Hermione?" he called as she turned to leave, needing to say something to her before she left, in case he woke up back in the cupboard again or something.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For what?" she seemed puzzled.

"For being so nice to me," he said self-consciously, staring down at the duvet.

He didn't hear her cross the room. The next thing he knew, she was gently tipping his chin back up.

"Harry, you don't have to thank us. You and Ron and me, we're family. We love you."

He couldn't remember anyone ever saying those words to him before. His throat felt like he'd swallowed Madame Pomfrey's Skelagro bottle.

Apparently, Hermione was very good at interpreting things. Somehow, she knew what he needed.

As her incredible warmth embraced him again, Harry rested his cheek against the soft roundness of her chest. He closed his eyes tight and hoped with all his might that he could stay like this forever, that he'd never have to go back to the Dursleys'. Lulled by the comforting rhythm of her breathing, the events of the day caught up with him, and before he knew it, he was drifting off to sleep.

**************

"Oh, what a morning," Ron groused as he entered their quarters an hour or so after she'd settled Harry down.

Hermione glanced up from the book of age reduction spells she was reading. There was a three-foot pile of similar tomes stacked on the end table beside her easy chair.

She lifted her face up to Ron as he leaned over the back of her chair to give her an upside down hello kiss. The logistics of their position took a little work and, as a result, the friendly greeting transformed into something a bit more interesting. Consequently, when they finally withdrew, they were both rather breathless.

"Er, where's Harry?" Ron asked, his gaze scanning the living room.

"Asleep. The poor thing drifted off in my arms. Ron, he really thinks he's seven years old. He's got no memory of us at all. It's . . . ."

Ron squeezed her shoulder and came to perch on the wide arm of the brown velvet-upholstered easy chair. "I know. It's so strange. Age altering spells don't normally affect memory, do they?"

"Not that I can find." She leaned against him, glad of his strength. "And they leave traces of the casting. Minerva retrieved Harry and Professor Snape's wands from their quarters and spelled them to see what the last spell used was. Harry last used his to turn a hedgehog back into a pin cushion - don't ask; Stanton again, - and Professor Snape used his to douse the lights."

"Not very encouraging, is it?" Ron sighed.

"No. Frankly, I'm worried. Every instinct I have tells me that you're right, that they must have been cursed, but none of Hogwarts' intruder alarms were triggered."

"So, it was someone in the castle, then?" Ron questioned.

"I don't see how it could be," Hermione said. "I mean, the only people here right now are the teachers."

"Don't forget the students who stayed," he reminded. "Remember the trouble the three of us used to get up to during Christmas break?"

"Ron, only seven stayed. The oldest isn't even thirteen. A student can't have done this. And, even if one had wanted to . . . ."

"Yes?"

"What's the point? I mean, think about it, what possible purpose could be served in turning your enemies into children? If you were going to curse someone out of vengeance or anger, wouldn't it make more sense to do something that hurt them? Cruciatus or one of the other offensive curses we've learnt would be a much more effective method of revenge."

"I suppose."

"And, even if you did something like this to humiliate your enemy, wouldn't you want them to be aware of their ignominy? What's the point of making your enemy impotent if they can't remember what they've lost? It just doesn't make sense."

"I just want to know how whoever did this got at them," Ron said.

"That's almost as big a mystery as why."

"Hmmm?" Ron asked.

"Minerva flooed in with some information a few minutes ago," Hermione said. "She gave the butterflies to Neville to release in the hot house, in case we need them to undo whatever was done to Harry and Professor Snape. That was the good news."

"And the bad news?"

"Whatever caused this happened when they were both alone in their rooms."

"How can that be?" Ron asked.

"I don't know, but both Snape and Harry's private wards were still up and unbroken. Minerva questioned the portrait guarding Harry's door. No one entered. The Ministry Floo records indicate that I was the only person to floo into Harry's rooms in the last three weeks and no one has flooed to Snape's since Professor Dumbledore died. Sad, that, don't you think?" She looked up into her husband's eyes, as ever finding strength in their warm brown depths.

Ron shrugged. "Hardly surprising. Dumbledore was always the only person who could stand him."

"Ron!"

"Well, it's true. Just look at how he was today! It's a wonder he survived to adulthood with the mouth on him. Mum would've killed us if we mouthed off to a teacher like that." Ron shook his head.

"We're not his teachers."

"Don't tell me you're defending him!"

"He doesn't know us. Think about it. He woke up this morning in someplace he's never been before, among complete strangers. He's only seven. For all his bluster, he has to be as frightened as Harry was," Hermione chided.

"Harry was frightened?" As was his habit, Ron latched onto the least important facet of a discussion.

Well, maybe it wasn't the least important, Hermione allowed. Harry was the only thing that concerned Ron in this situation. Normally, this type of obstinacy would have irritated her, but the absolute change in his tone told her this was something he hadn't considered. The idea of his best friend being afraid had obviously taken Ron completely off guard.

"He was hiding behind the armoire when I flooed in. He was putting up a brave front, but the poor thing was terrified. Remember, Ron, he was raised by Muggles. Magic itself is new to him. Add all that to the crazy story we told him about being an adult one day and a child the next . . . it's a lot to take in," Hermione said.

"Yeah. I guess the amazing part was that he wasn't accusing us of kidnapping him like Snape was," Ron marvelled.

"It's heartbreaking," she admitted, needing to share her feelings with someone.

"How so?" Ron asked, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair.

"Ron, any normal child would have been crying to go home. Snape's reaction was far healthier. But Harry . . . once I spoke softly to him, he didn't seem concerned about going home. He's just so hungry for affection that it breaks your heart. He acts like he's never heard a kind word in his life."

"Maybe he hasn't," Ron replied, his face darkening with anger. "You know what those people who had him were like. Mum used to come home in tears every time we had to leave him at the train station with those awful Muggles at summer break. The year Fred and George and I sprung him, they had him locked in a room with bars on the window. It was horrible, Hermione."

"I'm sure. I get so angry looking at how small and helpless he is, and then thinking about how those monsters mistreated him! I know that this has to be a spell of some kind, that he's really our age and will be restored to himself soon, but, when he looks at me with those lost eyes, I just want to hug him," she admitted.

"It can't hurt, can it?" Ron smiled with the good-natured compassion that had drawn her to him.

"You think it's all right if we indulge him a bit, then?" Hermione asked.

"Why not? Whatever you did with him this morning, you did right," Ron said. "He was the calmest person in the infirmary today."

"That's not necessarily a good thing. A healthy child would want to go home."

"Harry never thought of the Dursleys' as home. He always considered Hogwarts his home," Ron reminded.

"Even so . . . ."

"And it's not like he's really seven years old. He's really a full grown man under an enchantment," Ron argued.

"Ron . . . we don't know that," she said in a hushed tone, voicing her deepest fear.

"What do you mean?"

"What if they haven't been bespelled? What if they really are children?" Hermione questioned.

"I'm not following you. How can they really be children?"

"What if the Harry and Severus we know were exchanged for their seven-year-old selves? What if there's no way to reverse it?"

Ron gave the answer that his gender had historically voiced when faced with inconvenient facts. "Let's not worry about that until we have to, all right? For all we know, they could wake up fine tomorrow."

Biting her lip, Hermione turned back to her research.

Ron stared annoyingly down at her for a few more moments before silently picking the next book off the top her pile and sitting down in the armchair across from her.

*************

"Now, when I put my two down, you look through your hand to see if you've got its mate," Ron instructed. "If you don't, then you draw another card. If you draw a two, then you take the pair. If not, the turn passes back to me. If I have a two, I can play it and take the pair. But if I don't have a match, then we keep drawing in turn until one of us can play the two. If the two should be the exploding card in this game, then the person who played the exploding card gets the pair and the player with the most pairs in their played pile wins. Is it making sense now?"

Harry scrunched up his face and peered at the cards in his hand. "I think so. Once a card explodes, the game ends and the person with the most pairs wins. And the exploding card is never the same from one game to another, so there's no way to tell who's got it. Is that right?"

"Got it in one," Ron approved with a huge grin. "You're a natural at this."

Harry held his breath as he put down his two. When it failed to explode, he picked up the pair and put it in his growing pile.

They were playing Exploding Snap on the floor in front of the sitting room hearth. Hermione was in the armchair behind him, reading the thickest, biggest book Harry had seen in his life. She was searching for a spell to turn Severus and him back into grownups, he knew. Harry hoped she wouldn't find it too fast. These past two days had been the best ever.

Sometimes at night when locked in his cupboard, Harry would push his face up to the grill and look out upon a scene very much like this. He'd always wondered what it felt like to be sitting out there in the light with people who cared about him. He'd never had anyone to play with him or just talk to him. Now he knew what it felt like. It was wonderful.

No one had ever been as kind to him as Hermione. Although she didn't slobber over him or call him baby names the way Aunt Petunia did with Dudley, she was everything he'd always imagined a mother would be. He hadn't gone hungry at all today, nor did he have to ask for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Hermione and Ron had sat him between them at the long table everyone ate at, and they'd kept piling food on his plate until Harry was sure he'd explode.

For the first time in his life, his clothing fit him. He wasn't wearing hand-me-downs. Hermione had shrunk some clothes from his grownup self's wardrobe especially for him. She'd said if he was still little tomorrow, that she'd take him into town to buy him clothes of his very own.

And last night when he'd had that familiar, terrible nightmare about the green light and nasty laughter, he hadn't been left to cry alone in a dark, locked cupboard. Hermione had come to him, lit the torches in his room by magic, and held his hand until he fell back to sleep in his warm bed. She'd even said that they could leave one of the torches lit tonight if he thought it might help him sleep easier.

Ron was just as good to him. Harry was still somewhat intimidated by Ron's height, but the big man had spent the entire day playing and laughing with him. Ron didn't even seem to mind if Harry won the games they played.

He had never had so much fun.

Harry was in the process of picking up his eighth set of pairs in a row when they were interrupted by an urgent pounding on the door.

"Come in," Hermione called.

The door swung open and the blond boy Harry had seen in the corridor yesterday came barrelling into the sitting room. His cheeks were flushed from running, his blue eyes wide. He was not smiling.

"Good evening, Stanton," Hermione said, closing her book and rising from her chair to meet their visitor.

"Professor Weasley, you'd better get up there fast," Stanton said in an excited rush.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked from the floor beside Harry.

"It's Snape, I mean, it's Professor Snape, I mean . . . you just better come quick!" the boy urged.

"I'm up. I'll go," Hermione said quickly.

Ron gave her a smile and said, "A teacher toils from sun to sun, but a house head's job is never done."

She was out the door before he'd finished speaking.

To Harry it seemed that she was gone for a long time. His duke had exploded when he'd put down his sixteenth pair and they were well into another game when the sitting room door crashed open. Harry and Ron both looked up from their game at the interruption.

His spine stiff as a board and his expression dark as a thundercloud, Severus stalked into the room. Harry and Ron were blocking his path, so he stopped a few feet away, looking down at them as though he'd never seen anyone playing a game before. Since this was the first time Harry himself had ever played a game, he understood the feeling.

Hermione didn't look much happier than Severus did as she entered behind him.

"What happened?" Ron asked.

"Harry," Hermione said, "would you mind showing Severus your room for a few minutes?"

"Well, that's subtle," Ron chuckled.

"Ron, please!" Hermione snapped.

"Okay, okay," Ron raised his hands in surrender. "Harry, why don't you bring the cards in with you and show them to Severus. We'll start another game in a few minutes. All right?"

Harry quickly gathered up his cards and climbed to his feet. "The guestroom is this way."

Severus followed him to his room without argument. The taller boy cast an unimpressed eye over the furnishings and paused several feet within the door.

"Would you like to play Exploding Snap?" Harry asked hopefully.

"I think not," Severus said with a sneer.

"Can't you just say 'no' like normal people?" Harry asked, irritated with Snape's pretension.

"Can't you be quiet? I'm trying to listen," Severus snapped.

"It's not polite to listen to people behind closed doors," Harry said.

The sour look Snape shot him made him feel very stupid.

But neither of them had to try very hard to listen in. As Harry's cries had demonstrated last night, the door was far from soundproof. No sooner had Snape's words died, then they heard Ron's voice clearly ask, "So what happened? Why'd you bring him here?"

"He petrified Billings and Shearson," Hermione said.

"What? He can't have! He's only seven!" Ron protested. "What seven-year-old could cast that spell? Eleven year olds can hardly manage it!"

"Nevertheless, Severus petrified them," Hermione said.

"How?" Ron asked.

"By flicking his wand at them and voicing the spell, I would imagine - how do you think?" Hermione snapped, sounding exasperated.

"But you said that Minerva had both their wands. How did he get it?" Ron asked.

"You're going to love this. He said he used a summoning charm on it."

"A summoning charm?" Ron repeated. "But . . . ."

"I know. That's a fourth year spell."

"Do you believe him?" Ron questioned.

"Ron, there were two boys twice his size frozen on the floor. He admitted to immobilizing them. I wasn't going to haggle over how he got his wand back."

"But the accio charm . . . Bloody hell!"

"That's not helping, Ron."

"Where's his wand now?" Ron asked.

"In his pocket, I would think," Hermione answered.

"What! You left it with him! Are you mad?"

"He was ready to petrify me. I didn't think it was a good idea to have it come to wands with an adult on his second day here."

"Hermione . . . ."

"He was provoked. Both Billings and Shearson admitted that they'd been taunting him with slurs to Slytherin," Hermione sounded tired.

"But he's not even in Slytherin! He's not a Hogwarts' student yet!" Ron protested.

Ron had explained to Harry about Hogwarts' four houses, so this conversation was making a bit more sense than it would have yesterday.

"His family's been in Slytherin for centuries. Just like yours have been in Gryffindor. If someone had been making fun of Gryffindor when you were seven, you would have gotten upset, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose, but how could you leave him with his wand? Who knows what else he's capable of, Hermione."

Her sigh carried quite clearly through the closed door. "He's been remarkably well behaved up until now."

"Except for the small matter of one or two petrified roommates," Ron snarked.

"Severus didn't petrify them until they both charged him at once. He was defending himself."

"We've put a baby Death Eater in the first year dorm," Ron sounded disgusted.

Harry wanted to ask what a Death Eater was, but Severus refused to look at him.

Hermione's voice filled the room. "He's a little boy among strangers. He's got to be frightened, Ron."

Harry glanced at the other boy. He thought that Hermione might be right. Severus was standing still as a statue, tight-lipped, with his fists balled in the pockets of his robe. With his scraggly long hair hanging down the sides of his lowered face and his oversized nose pointing downwards for once instead of stuck haughtily up in the air, he looked really upset. Harry could see how hard Snape was breathing from where he stood five feet away.

"We can't have him petrifying the students, Hermione. Even Dumbledore would've frowned upon that," Ron said.

"I know, but . . . ." her words broke off. "There isn't a silencing spell on that room, is there?"

"No," Ron said. "We removed it last night in case Harry needed us, remember?"

"Come inside with me. I've got to speak to you about something," Hermione said.

They could hear the Weasleys' voices retreating into the other bedroom. There was a sudden outburst from Ron of "You want to what?!" before all sound cut off.

Harry stared at Severus, not knowing what to say. Finally, he asked, "What did you do to those boys?"

Harry had seen the pair at meals today. They were a head taller than even Severus.

At first, he didn't think that Severus would answer him, but after a long silence, the other boy said, "Nothing permanent."

Severus was still staring at the rug.

"What's 'petrify' mean?" Harry asked. He didn't like the sound of whatever it was.

Severus gave a sigh. "It means I froze every muscle in their bodies and left them lying on the floor like a sack of potatoes."

"You did that with magic?" Harry asked, stunned.

"Obviously," Snape said in the same tone he'd used to call Harry a mental incompetent yesterday. Harry still wasn't sure what that meant.

"Do you really have a wand?" Harry asked.

Snape nodded.

"Can I see it?"

"Whatever for?" Severus suspiciously asked.

"I've never seen one up close," Harry explained.

"Don't your parents use magic or are they Muggles?"

Harry looked down at his slippered feet. He didn't know what Muggles were. "My parents are dead."

He tensed. Severus hadn't exactly been the nicest person since they'd met. It was totally possible that the other boy might make fun of him for not having parents, the way that Dudley's friends would tease him about it.

When no jibe came, Harry raised his gaze back to Snape's face. Severus didn't look so forbidding all of a sudden. He appeared nearly as uncertain as Harry felt.

"So are mine," Severus said softly.

"Oh. I'm sorry," Harry instantly sympathized.

"Why? You didn't kill them."

"I know. I just . . . ." he didn't know what he meant. He didn't understand half of what Severus said at the best of times. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Severus nodded.

"What are Muggles?" Harry questioned.

"People who can't do magic," Severus answered, sounding as if Harry had just asked what colour the sky was.

"Like my aunt and uncle. I never met anyone who could use magic before yesterday," Potter said.

Severus stared at him in open curiosity and then asked, "If you've only been with Muggles then how did you get that curse scar on your forehead?"

Curse scar? Harry realized that he was referring to the lightning bolt on his head.

"I got it in the accident that killed my parents. It was a car crash."

"I don't know what a car is," Severus said, "but that scar didn't come from any kind of accident. You only get that kind of scar when someone tries to put a very powerful, dark curse on you and you survive it. ."

"My aunt and uncle said it was from the crash." Harry felt his face harden in impatience. Severus was too arrogant by half!

"And I suppose they would never lie to you?" Severus challenged.

He wasn't a complete idiot, no matter what Severus' tone might imply. He couldn't count the number of time that the Dursleys had lied to him. He felt the scar in question crinkle as he considered the idea that they'd lied to him about even his parents' deaths. "Why would they lie about it?"

"How should I know?" Severus snapped. "But either they lied to you or they were mistaken. That's a curse scar."

"How can you be so sure?" Harry demanded.

"I've seen one before. My grandfather had one just like it right over his heart. The curse didn't work, of course, because the bastard never had a heart."

Harry was shocked by the language. Aunt Petunia would have made him eat a whole bar of soap and cut his meals for three days if he ever used a word like that. "You don't like your grandfather?"

"I hate them both. They only keep me because there's no one else they can foist me upon. Snapes do not go to orphanages," Severus said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Then Severus seemed to catch himself. "I don't know why I'm telling you any of this."

"I asked," Harry said. "Besides, they sound just like my aunt and uncle."

"Do you hate them, too?"

Harry hesitated. "I don't want to hate them, but . . . yeah, I guess I do."

Severus seemed pleased by his answer. "Well, perhaps you're more than just disgustingly agreeable after all. Do you still want to see my wand?"

Harry knew a peace gesture when he saw one. Severus wasn't quite as repentant as Dudley was whenever he'd make nice with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon after a tantrum, but, then, Harry supposed Severus really couldn't care less whether Harry accepted his offering or not.

Since he really wanted to see the wand, he quickly said, "Yes."

Severus withdrew a long, highly polished, deep brown stick from his pocket.

"That's what you use to do magic?" Harry questioned.

Severus nodded.

"Can you do some now? I mean . . . I don't want you to petrify me, but . . . ."

Severus seemed to think about it for a minute. Then he flicked his wand in the direction of the bed.

Harry's eyes nearly popped out of his head as the pillows began to dance around the bed.

"Wow! That's incredible!"

"Not really," Severus said in a bored tone. "I've been able to do that since I was four."

"Oh." Suddenly, Harry felt very backwards. "I guess everyone can do things like that. Hermione said that I'm a wizard, too, but I can't do anything that brilliant."

A mean light flashed through Severus' dark eyes. Harry braced himself, expecting something particularly nasty, but when the other boy finally spoke, his words were devoid of malice. "Most wizards don't get their wands until they turn eleven. Half the dullards in this school probably couldn't do that, especially in this House. I wouldn't worry about it."

From anyone else, the sentiment might have been reassuring. And at first Harry felt better for the words. Only slowly did he realize that the House Ron had said had been his own had been insulted.

"Ron said I was sorted into this House!" Harry protested.

"How unfortunate," the words dripped sarcasm.

"You take that back!" Harry said.

"Take what back?"

"That it was unfortunate that I was sorted into Gryffindor. There's nothing wrong with Gryffindor!" Harry insisted.

"If you say so," Severus replied, sounding bored again.

"I do!"

"I heard you," Severus said.

"So, you take it back then?" Harry asked, getting a little lost in the words. Fighting with Severus was like arguing with an adult. Snape used words in ways he wasn't used to and put meaning on them that confused him.

Severus stared down his long nose at him for effect and then said almost pleasantly, "No."

Harry's anger flared. He wanted to punch Severus on that big nose of his.

But then there was a knock behind them and the bedroom door opened.

"Harry, could we see you in the sitting room for a moment?" Hermione asked.

"Sure." Harry gave the other boy a glare and followed Hermione out. He noticed that she closed the door behind him.

She led him to the couch, where she sat down beside him.

He tensed, not liking the worried expression on Hermione's face. When he glanced at where Ron was sitting in one of the easy chairs beside the fireplace, he saw that Ron's affable features were tight with anger.

"Did I do something wrong?" Harry quickly questioned, wondering what he could have done to mess things up.

"No, of course not, Harry," Hermione quickly assured. "We just have something we want to ask you."

"And you're allowed to say no," Ron said in a truculent tone.

"Ron!" Hermione objected.

Ron glared at Hermione in a way that made Harry very nervous. He didn't want them to fight. He wanted things to be like they were before when Ron and he had been playing Exploding Snap and Hermione had been reading.

"We agreed that the decision is his. He should know up front that he gets to say no," Ron said.

"Say no to what?" Harry asked, more than a little scared now.

"Harry," Hermione said, "Severus can't stay in the dorm anymore. We wondered if you'd mind if we put him in the guestroom?"

He'd known it was too good to last. He'd never had anything in his life before, and that had felt awful, but to finally have something, and then to have it ripped from him so soon . . . that was worse.

But he really couldn't blame Hermione and Ron. Even if he wasn't the nicest boy, Severus was a real wizard, capable of doing magic with his wand. It only made sense that they'd want to keep Severus instead of him. But they'd said they loved him . . . .

In the back of his mind Harry could almost hear Dudley taunting 'Who'd want to love you?'

His mouth dry, he tried to swallow. All the moisture seemed to have gone to his eyes, which were stinging something terrible. But he wasn't a baby. He wasn't going to cry.

He tried to tell himself that Hermione and Ron weren't mean like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Surely, even if they didn't want him anymore, they might allow him to stay.

"Is - is there a cupboard here?" Harry stammered.

"What?" Hermione's brow puckered in confusion.

"I - I didn't see a cupboard door in any of the rooms," Harry explained. "Will I still be able to sleep here in the cupboard, or will I have to go to the infirmary?"

"Oh, God." To his horror, Hermione's eyes filled with tears.

Harry looked to Ron, but he appeared just as upset.

"No, Harry, luv, that's not what we meant," Hermione said in a rushed, upset voice. "We just wanted to know if you'd mind sharing your room with Severus until we sort this situation out. Nobody was sending you away."

"Oh," he felt very foolish, until Hermione reached for him and gathered him close.

"We'd never send you away or let anything bad happen to you, Harry," Hermione whispered, hugging him tight. He felt Ron settle on his other side, and put his long arms around them both.

A long time later, Hermione drew back a little to look down at him. "I'm so sorry I frightened you, Harry. Please forgive me."

"It's okay," he assured, not understanding why that made her eyes go all misty again.

"Well, now that we've sorted that out," Ron said in a cheerful tone, "How 'bout it? Do you care to share your room with Snape?"

Ron's expression made it clear that he thought Harry would be crazy to do so, but when Harry looked at Hermione, she looked braced for the worst. It was apparent that Hermione wanted Severus to stay and Ron didn't.

He didn't really want Severus to stay, either, but he'd been left out so often in his life that Harry didn't feel right about doing it to someone else. But maybe if he made sure Snape was going someplace nice that wouldn't be so bad.

"Will Severus have to sleep in a cupboard if I say no?" he checked.

"Nobody's sleeping in the bloody cupboard. If you don't want him here, we'll send him up to Pomfrey. She'll keep him out of mischief," Ron said.

"It's okay if you don't want him here, Harry," Hermione assured. "Nothing bad will happen to him."

"So, what do you say, mate?" Ron asked, his smile seeming to suggest that the answer was a foregone conclusion.

*************

On the other side of the closed bedroom door, Severus held his breath, waiting the inevitable no.

He was surprised that he really wanted to stay. It was a sorry state of affairs when a bunch of kidnappers were kinder to him than his own family.

But he knew they weren't kidnappers. At least, he was ninety-nine percent certain they weren't. He recognized Hogwarts from pictures he'd seen. The castle outside the windows certainly looked like the school. There could be a glamour in effect, but, he'd gotten up several times last night to look and he'd checked the windows sporadically throughout the day. The exterior changed the way real places did. If it were a glamour, it was an elaborate one. Snape could conceive of no reason as to why these people (Hogwarts' staff?) would perpetrate such an outrageous farce upon a seven-year-old.

Which probably meant that they were telling the truth. He tried to get his mind around the concept. Presumably, he'd been an adult yesterday and had somehow been transformed into a boy again. What a horrible curse! He couldn't imagine hating someone enough to do something that cruel to them, only . . . it really hadn't been that bad so far.

The last day had been . . . unusual. Although he couldn't say that anyone really liked him or wanted him here, no one had been actively cruel to him. Even those two Gryffindor morons upstairs hadn't been unbearable. Snape knew from previous experience that, had he ignored the pair, their baiting would have stopped. It was his own sarcasm that had acerbated the situation beyond repair. And now his fate was being left in the hands of another person to whom he'd mouthed off.

He knew Potter was sure to say no. Who in their right mind would say yes? If their positions were reversed, he certainly wouldn't.

He couldn't understand why the woman, Hermione, had suggested he stay here at all. His instincts told him that she was no fonder of him than her husband, and, yet, she was forcing the issue. It made no sense.

He knew what he was. His grandparents let him know a dozen times every single day what a burden it was to have been saddled with their only child's Mudblood progeny. He knew it would have been better off for all involved if he'd never been born, but he was here, and everyone had to make the best of it, for the sake of family honour.

Yesterday, he'd been very conscious of his family honour and conducted himself in a manner in which he felt his grandparents would approve, but today . . . .

He'd seen the date on the Daily Prophet that one of the Gryffindor morons had had upstairs. If this weren't some elaborate scam - and more and more, he was beginning to suspect that it was not - then his grandparents were probably long dead. He supposed he should feel some remorse at that thought, but his reaction was really closer to relief.

But relief or not, it left him stranded here among these strangers, who had even less reason to like him than his grandparents ever had. He wished . . . .

Well, his wishes were irrelevant, as they always had been. His fate was in the hands of that scrawny boy with the scar from a curse on his forehead. Severus was acquainted enough with the ways of the world to know that he was going to be sent packing just as soon as the nitwit found the gumption to state his druthers.

He supposed the infirmary wouldn't be a terrible place to spend however long he was to be trapped here.

"I don't want him to go to the infirmary," he heard Potter say quite clearly from the other side of the door.

"What!" the big redheaded man squawked. He sounded like a brainless twit when he used that tone.

"Are you certain, Harry?" Hermione checked. "It is a small room."

"It's bigger than my cupboard back home," the Potter boy said.

Again, with the cupboard! Severus had no idea what Potter was blithering on about, all he knew was that the other boy hadn't condemned him to the infirmary.

The strength seemed to go out of his legs all at once. Not knowing what was wrong, Severus stumbled to the bed and gingerly perched on its end, beside the abandoned Exploding Snap cards.

Had Potter been older or more like himself, Snape would have suspected ulterior motives for the decision. As it was, he was completely befuddled. His presence only stood to inconvenience Potter. What possible reason could the other boy have had for allowing him to remain?

It wasn't as if Potter and he were friends or as if their being so were even a remote possibility. His peers never liked him. He spoke too much like an adult for children his own age to understand him. Normally, he couldn't last for more than ten minutes with his own age group before he became an object of ridicule. And then his wand would come out, and there would be hell to pay, one way or another, with his grandparents, if not his teachers.

Nobody inflicted his company upon themselves if they could possibly avoid it. The fact that Potter had voluntarily agreed to spend time with him rocked the very foundation of Severus' universe.

The door opened, and he quickly got hold of himself, schooling his features into their usual impas

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