A/N: I'm posting regularly! Wonderful me! I think I'm definitely sticking with the once a week method-- Fridays or Saturdays most likely, Sunday at the latest. This is a long chapter, so I hope it makes up for the once every seven days timing!

At any rate, a million thanks and points of the houses of people who reviewed! 49 reviews. . . wow. Just. . . wow. I'm amazed.

Lots of love and thanks to She's A Star, who betaed, and to Bohemian Storm, who listened to me rattle on about this story as I wrote it. Both of them write amazing stuff, so go-- yes, this is plugging-- they're in my favorites.

And on with the story!

Chapter Three: London Holiday

Potter, stop slouching, Snape snapped irritably, drumming his fingers on the wall. The combination of the orange shirt and newly short hair that he sported was enough to inspire a lethal attitude-- and since Amalthea had effectively prohibited any attacks on her, Harry was now Snape's sole target.

Not that Harry minded. They were waiting outside the back room of Debenhams, where Amalthea was having a quick word with the attendant who'd helped them portkey in. Despite himself, he felt a little tingle of excitement at the idea of shopping. It was pretty ridiculous, he reflected with a private grin, but there you were. Snape, on the other hand, demonstrated all the excitement that one might expect out of Neville in Potions class, and a deadly aura besides.

What did I say about slouching? Conduct yourself properly, Snape hissed, raising a hand to his hair. Harry narrowed his eyes as Snape scratched at a spot behind his ears. Was it his imagination, or had Amalthea charmed the hair a bit too short?

Severus, leave him alone, Amalthea said briskly, coming out and interrupting Harry's thoughts with her presence. Now. Let's run over this one more time. We are-- She turned to Harry, smoothing down her absurdly dowdy skirt as she did so. Harry, you first.

The Bayleys, Harry responded obediently, eerily reminded of arrangements with the Dursleys. I'm Harry Bayley, fifteen years old, and I've been living abroad with the two of you. I like reading, soccer, and basketball. My dad's name is, Harry bit back a wince at saying the next. He wouldn't give Snape the satisfaction. Severus Bayley, and he's a researcher in chemistry. My mum's name is Amalthea Bayley, and she's a freelance writer. I was named Harry solely to avoid the tradition of absurd names in my family. Anytime I get questioned about background, I just yawn and rattle off some questions about sports.

Snape snorted faintly, and Amalthea nodded, a small smile playing around her lips.

she said, pleased by how smoothly this seemed to be going. My name is Amalthea Bayley, formerly Amalthea Waterhouse. I write freelance articles, mostly for American magazines. I enjoy reading, astronomy-- what, Severus, we need to be convincing, don't look at me like that-- I have one son, no siblings, and my parents live in Greece.

A long silence followed her careful recitation, and eventually Amalthea spun around to face Snape. She folded her arms, her lips tightening as she did so. Snape raised an eyebrow. She tapped her foot a bit, but Snape merely stared back at her. Finally, she sighed.

Severus, do you intend to say anything?

Snape asked, eyebrow again arching as he spoke. Is that what you were waiting for?

Amalthea sputtered, but Snape waved a hand at her, sneering lightly at the entire operation.

My name is Severus Bayley-- my mother is French, hence my unusual name. Not that it's any of your business, sir. I am a chemist. I write primarily for scholarly journals. I do not wish to discuss my professional life. I am married to an unsociable academic, and we are cursed with an idiot boy for a son. Any other information is not of your concern.

Amalthea and Harry exchanged very long looks, and Harry could see her silently counting to ten before she spoke again. Harry, meanwhile, was busy picturing horrendous Muggle fashions to inflict on Snape. He'd gotten to striped ties and polka dotted shirts in combination when Amalthea spoke again.

Sounds fine, she said curtly, and stalked towards the clothing department. Harry, find Sev-- your father some things and we'll meet by the changing rooms.

Yes, Mum, Harry called after her, the words feeling strange and foreign on his tongue. He watched her disappear from sight, then turned to Snape. Well, I guess we're stuck together. Snape sniffed disdainfully.

Excellent conclusion, Potter.

My name is Harry, Harry said grumpily. If I have to refer to you as my father, you have to suffer through using my name.

Snape's eyes flashed, and for a moment Harry thought the man was choking until he realized it was a very rusty chuckle.

Coming from Snape.

This was officially bizarre.

Very well, Snape said grudgingly, a crooked little smile fighting to remain on his face. The Headmaster has something in mind for this, I've no doubt. He shook his head and glanced over at a pile of light cotton jumpers. They came in two shades-- bright magenta and a fuzzy green. No doubt. Very well.

Forty minutes later, Harry wasn't feeling nearly as enthusiastic about the idea of getting to pick out Snape's clothes. The man was damn near compulsive about what he wore, and it had taken nearly fifteen minutes to convince Snape that he would have to spend time outdoors, and therefore could not wear black turtlenecks for the length of their stay. Snape had scorched the Bermuda shorts with one brief glare, and Harry was reduced to unearthing shirts so that Snape could examine the stitching on each.

You're enjoying this, aren't you? Harry hissed as he discarded another dark brown shirt in the rapidly growing pile beside him. Look, they're all the same. Just pick one. You have two shirts. Two. And we've been here for forty-- forty-five minutes, he amended, glancing at his watch. I thought you hated shopping.

I refuse to purchase shirts of poor quality, Snape said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. You may waste pounders--

Harry corrected automatically,

Kindly do not interrupt me, Harry. You may choose what you will, but I will not be saddled down with inferior clothing because of your impatience. Small wonder you are so terrible at Potions-- chemistry. The Potions of. . . Snape trailed off and shot a passing customer a poisonous glare. The elderly lady squeaked faintly, and hurried on.

Thanks, Dad, Harry grumbled, holding up a dark blue shirt for examination. He tried to keep the snarl off his face-- he didn't want to emphasize the relationship to Snape anymore than he had to. You know, my failure at chemistry must be genetic.



Just a Mug-- an expression, Harry said innocently. I mean, we're not doing so badly. We already have two shirts. In the shades of-- oh, look. That's amazing. Black and black.

Ten points-- a pause. Snape was visibly striving not to murder someone. Harry smirked inwardly at the sight. Snape controlling his temper-- or trying to. . . life was wonderful. Go speak with your mother, he hissed, poking a long finger at a navy blue shirt in emphasis.

Yes, Father, Harry said blithely, all but skipping off towards the women's department. Maybe Amalthea would have enough compassion not to send him back immediately.

Amalthea hissed as soon as she caught sight of him. She looked worried and frantic, and he noticed that the hem of her brown skirt seemed to be falling down rather raggedly You've got to help me!

Harry asked, puzzled. She'd seemed so in control this morning, dealing neatly with Snape and confidently strolling around the department store. And your skirt's a bit off, just so you know.

Oh, I know, Amalthea sighed and collapsed back onto a nearby chair. I know there's this thing called sawing, but I thought that Spellotape would be just as efficient. I really don't understand this, she said glumly, pushing her glasses up as she spoke. Why would you cut clothing to repair it?

It's called sewing, actually, Harry said cautiously.

Oh-- really? But-- you see-- here Amalthea whipped out a Vogue and flipped it open to a page. Harry blinked rapidly. Freakishly tall and thin woman wore -- he supposed they were dresses. Albus gave me this for fashion tips, but I don't see anything like these clothes here. And I-- well-- she blushed deeply at the next. I don't really have the, er. . . appearance to carry off-- well, these robes.

You don't have to, Harry reassured her, sliding into a nearby chair. This stuff is really high fashion, and nobody will wear it where we are. Amalthea looked visibly relieved at this.

I did think the feathers were a bit much, she said, toying with a loose curl. The humidity of the summer afternoon had gone to her hair, and what had been a semi-neat attempt at a chignon had frizzed out to a mop of wayward ringlets. Amalthea caught his gaze and put a hand to her hair, laughing softly.

We're a family with hair problems, evidently, she said in response to his puzzled look. Yours goes every which way, mine frizzes from here to the stars, and Severus. . . well. She toyed absently with her limp cotton blouse. That reminds me-- I don't suppose you know of any Muggle cosmetics?

For what? Harry asked, puzzled. My scar?

Well, that, and. . . .

Harry wrinkled his forehead, puzzled. She really was acting oddly. Amalthea looked furtively from side to side, gestured him closer, then whispered into his ear.

Severus' hair.

Harry immediately burst into loud, rather hysterical laughter.

Amalthea hissed, sinking down into her seat. That's not funny! What if he heard?

I'm sorry-- Harry managed between gasps of laughter. He held his sides firmly, trying to hold back the extreme case of the giggles he was in for. It's just that-- I don't know-- I thought you were going to say something really important--

That is important, Amalthea said huffily, searching for something in her purse. We are feigning marriage, and we will have to have-- the pained distaste made another appearance in her voice-- some physical contact, and-- She glared at him. Stop that, or I'll send you back to Sev-- your father, she amended, obviously remembering where she was.

Harry said contritely, banishing his smile. He'd probably kill himself if he had to kiss Snape-- Amalthea was handling it quite well, all things considered. Want me to help you find some clothes? he offered.

Amalthea blinked, looking oddly lost behind her thick spectacles. You wouldn't mind? she asked cautiously.

Harry said, realizing that he meant it. He smiled a little at Amalthea. I wouldn't.

Harry, I can't wear this! came a wail from behind the changing room door.

Why not? Harry asked, surreptitiously admiring his new jeans and top in the mirror. Amalthea had insisted on picking out some things for him before they started looking for her. It was stupid to stare at himself like Lockhart, he knew, but somehow he couldn't get over having things that fit him properly. You looked fine in all the other things we picked out.

Grey corduroys, fine, Amalthea said huffily. I concede that I can wear trousers. And you know I liked the yellow and blue rugby shirt you insisted upon. But, Harry, I don't look right in things like these.

You made me get formal clothes, Harry pointed out sensibly.

I am perfectly willing to purchase that black suit for myself. But this-- Harry-- the tone of her voice changed, and he suddenly knew how Ron felt when Mrs. Weasley turned on him. You didn't try on those formal clothes, did you?

Harry groaned, having finally accustomed himself to using the term. I don't need a dress shirt and tie.

Yes, you do. What if we're invited to a party?

I don't want a dress shirt and tie, Harry grumbled, already heading to the men's dressing room. They'd encountered Snape a few times while wandering around the store, but he'd just sneered at them and continued glaring at the Muggle clothes. Are you going to come out? he called back to Amalthea.

Yes. No. Maybe. He heard her sigh. Go try on your clothes, please, and I'll come out.

It took an additional five minutes after he'd changed to persuade Amalthea to leave the dressing room.

she'd said grudgingly as the door swung open. But don't laugh.

I won't laugh, Harry promised as she edged out into the light. She flushed, and stood with her head down.

she said, shrugging a little and self-consciously smoothing the fabric down.

Oh, that's lovely, ma'am, a passing clerk said, something that brought a hint of a smile to Amalthea.

You do look really nice, Harry said honestly. He'd talked Amalthea into a pale lavender dress-- a colour he'd seen on his own mother in the photograph album Hagrid had given him after his first year. The hem was about calf-length and ruffled-- something that had perturbed Amalthea until he'd reassured her that it was supposed to be uneven.

I do? Amalthea looked pathetically hopeful.

You do, Harry nodded. You could get any guy you wanted wearing that.

Amalthea blushed and poked him in the side.

Stop that, you silly boy, she said playfully, putting a hand to her hair. I suppose I do look all right.

Even Dad, Harry continued, smirking at her. I bet you'd knock his socks off.

The only thing that knocks his socks off, Amalthea said dryly. Is a properly brewed Deflating Draught. Harry stuck his tongue out at her.

Fine. You knocked my socks off.

You're a bit young for me, she teased, patting his head. Besides, you can't dance. I always dreamed of marrying a man who could tango.

I can so tango! Harry said, pulling himself up. Some part of his mind was regarding the scene before him with astonishment, but the rest of him just went with it. He was reminded suddenly of the time he and Sirius had spent an afternoon playing tag in Hogsmeade-- Sirius in his dog form, of course-- before they'd had to return to Hogwarts.

Amalthea smirked at him, and Harry was drawn back to the present. He wondered if Sirus and Amalthea would like each other. She was a little shyer than Sirius could probably handle, but, maybe. . . she was awfully nice and energetic when she was comfortable around somebody.

Prove it.

Harry said, quickly pulling her into a bizarre, clomping tango. They got a few steps past the changing rooms until Amalthea began shrieking with laughter, eventually ending up pushing him back into the chair as she tickled his sides.

Harry scrambled back and stuck his tongue out at her. I'm ticklish!

That's the point, Amalthea shot back, tossing her purse lightly at him. You ridiculous human being.

Am not.

Are too.

Am not.

Are too.

Am not.

At least I don't whine about wearing a tie.

But you do about wearing a dress.

It was while they continued bantering that Harry became aware of Snape's presence behind Amalthea, a little off to the side. He felt a peculiar touch of wonder-- Snape, for once, didn't seem to be glaring. He was staring, rather oddly, at Amalthea. A look, that if seen on anybody else's face, Harry would have termed a little bit sad and a just a little bit longing. But it was, after all, Snape. Probably just some new glare he'd come up with.

At any rate, Snape quickly shook off the look and glided into the area. The playful conversation between Amalthea and Harry quickly halted, and Harry could see Amalthea nervously withdraw into herself again. Snape raised an eyebrow.

Are you quite done, then?

Amalthea said immediately, rising and heading for the changing room. I'll meet you two outside the . . . place where you purchase these.

Harry said, edging towards the men's rooms. I'll be right back, too.

Snape nodded curtly, and Harry decided that he'd definitely imagined the sadness in his expression.

Things at the checkout line went smoothly enough, with Snape staring down his hooked nose at the cashier in an effort to make the man move faster. Whether it was the glare or not, they went through pretty quickly until Amalthea handed over a credit card and the clerk handed it back after running it through the machine. Amalthea's eyes went comically wide.

I get to keep it?

Uh, Mum? Harry muttered, taking hold of her elbow.

Yes, ma'am, the clerk said politely.

Harry said in response to Snape's scathing glance that said quite clearly-- do something, Potter, or you're dead. We've been abroad.

the clerk inclined his head, a smile now hiding behind his solicitous expression. I do hear that they have disposable cards in America.

You're not funny, Snape snapped. The cashier went pale and quailed under the look Snape shot him. Harry could hardly blame the man.

Of course not, sir.

Snape and Amalthea were still arguing when they got to Boots, and Harry rolled his eyes as they launched into yet another facet of the fight. They were here to buy shampoo and makeup for his scar, not to maintain the world's longest argument.

The fact is, Amalthea, is that you couldn't be bothered--

You didn't know either, Severus!

Can we please discuss this later? Harry finally broke in, annoyed past the point of endurance. He picked up a bottle of shampoo and set it down with more force than necessary.

What's the matter, Pott-- Harry? Snape arched an eyebrow. Can't bear to hear a bit of disagreement?

A bit, yes. But when you start repeating yourself, that's enough, Harry growled back, throwing a tube of concealor into the basket Amalthea carried.

Temper, temper, Snape shot back, examining the ingredients and curling his lip. Do you really mean to apply this to your skin?

No, I mean to eat it, Harry snapped back, turning to examine a line of shampoos.

One can never tell with you, can they?

Stop that, you two, Amalthea said wearily. She plucked a bottle of shampoo off the shelf.

Really, Amalthea, your maternal concern astonishes me.

This is for you two, Harry said abruptly, having found what he was looking for. He handed the bottle back to Amalthea, who immediately choked and had to turn away to study to study conditioner.

Boots Mediterranean Shampoo: Normal Greasy Hair, Snape read out suspiciously. Suspiciously formulated for normal greasy hair. He stared Harry down for a long moment, and Harry fidgeted. Snape obviously knew that Harry had meant something by that purchase, but couldn't quite fathom it-- it was, after all, completely unfathomable that Snape's hair might be greasy. The staredown continued until Amalthea regained control of her voice and spoke again.

Oh, look! she said, a hint of laughter bubbling under her words. Waterproof mascara. For wearing in the swimming pool. That was something I caught in Vogue-- apparently swimming is a very popular pastime. You did remember to get swimming materials, didn't you?

Er, no, Harry admitted, backing away from Snape's doubtful gaze.



Why would I need that?

Amalthea said, finally deciding to ignore Snape's questions. She lowered her voice and turned to Harry. Harry, could you portkey over to Debenhams and pick up swimming clothes for you and Severus? We only have a few more things to pick up here. She handed him the box that held the portkey and the credit card.

Erm, sure, Harry said quickly, sliding behind a display and looking both ways for any unwary Muggles. He was about to pull the portkey out when he was caught in a landslide of plastic bottles. Sputtering, he rubbed his hand against his head-- those bottles were heavy! When he caught sight of a satisfied, twisted little smile on Snape's face, his sixth sense flared up. That wasn't his wand Snape was tucking away into the bag he carried, was it? Amalthea hadn't noticed anything, though, and Harry only glared for a moment before touching the portkey.

To Debenhams, then, and the last thing he felt like was buying Snape swimming gear. The man could go starkers for all he cared.

Although that was probably illegal.

Socks. Red ties. Speedos, Harry murmured absently, passing by the display on his way back to the men's department. Black swim trunks for Snape-- not that Snape would know anything about swimming, he thought absently, rolling his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, he was back in front of the display. Wait a minute. Speedos.

Leopard print speedos.

On sale.

Oh, revenge was sweet.