A/N: Sorry, sorry sorry! Busy Summer – and all sorts of stuff going on at the moment. (13R bangs head on wall) Here are the long overdue 14th and 15th chapters to this fic. And then, I promise, there is more to come – I know as I have it plotted out! Thank you all for reviewing!

Snape gazed triumphantly at the blackened and smouldering crater of plastic melted into the carpet where the television had been only moments before. He wafted the smoke lazily away with one hand; in way of incendiary spells, perhaps that one had been a little bit excessive.

The fact it had been a Muggle appliance was his excuse; as these things had given him more than enough grief over the years to make him rather twitchy with electrical gadgets of any kind. The best policy was surely to attack them before they attacked you, and then keep on attacking. Torch them all until they disintegrate into (hopefully inoffensive) little piles of dust. On one occasion (just to be certain) he had even taken care to remove the dust with an appropriately reactive dissolving solution to leave absolutely nothing.

Yes – Snape really was that paranoid. Or persistently unlucky. Maybe both. But with his track record paranoid was probably the most sensible thing to be.

Before he had the chance to start on anything else in the room however, a high pitched, deafening noise split through the air, causing Snape to duck and clamp hands over his ears. Grimacing, he craned his neck to cast a filthy look up at the cause of the racket; a small white box - with a little, flashing red light - stuck on the ceiling directly above his head.

Snape aimed his wand and with one shower of red sparks blasted the thing clean off the ceiling. To his chagrain, however, this zero-tolerance method didn't appear to work – the apparatus had gone, but the deafening racket was still there, though somehow fainter...

Snape shot a sultry look toward the hall door. So there were more than one of the blasted things? No, he would probably never, ever, lose his passion for cursing Muggle contraptions.

No mistake; Dudley didn't have a clue what to do. There was that creepy wizard teacher of Harry's downstairs (he'd forgotten his name) who had a sort of Jafar from Aladdin look about him – but greasier. (He was going to joke about that with Harry, but he'd rather not admit to watching Saturday morning cartoons at his age.) Anyway, there was his mum treating his cousin as if nothing was wrong with him, and completely ignoring Jafar-whats-his- face even when he stood right behind her. To make it worse Harry had just told him his stash was now in this bloke's possession, and now couldn't look less interested in getting it back for him.

And to top it all, Mum hadn't even called him down to breakfast yet! Dudley sniffed snottily; he could smell something, but it didn't smell like food at all, more like burnt plastic. Maybe she had started, and burnt the saucepan handle or something. What a crap morning this was turning out to be.

"That bloody stinks," muttered Dudley offhandedly to his cousin, not quite sure what else to say. "Even your cooking used to be better than what she scrapes up!"

His cousin didn't even acknowledge him, much less notice his attempt at a compliment. Instead he just sat there, staring gormlessly at the wall. Dudley shrugged; what the Hell did he have to do –slap him? That's what they always do in Eastenders anyway, when everything goes tits up...

Then he remembered something, and his small eyes gleamed. When he got back from the shops yesterday he'd smuggled a few Mars Bars into his room and stuffed them under the bed. (Mum didn't check under the mattress – good job she didn't, as Piers had leant him some pretty cool magazines...) Dudley's stomach growled loudly, and seemingly forgetting his cousin, he shuffled back into his room in anticipation of a chocolate breakfast.

On his way past the stereo he paused and looked at his CD collection. It was quickly down to a choice of two like always – Oasis or Blur. (Trance was crap, really, he only bought it 'cus Piers liked it – and it was too early for The Prodigy) Oasis. Loading the CD and cranking up the volume dial, Dudley crossed the room, lifted the mattress, got a Mars Bar and a dirty mag, and lumped down on his bed with a grunt of satisfaction. That was him for the rest of the morning.

"Here's a thought for everyman, Who tries to understand what's in his hand,"

Though the hoarse tones of Liam Gallagher rudely interrupted the silence, they didn't interrupt one teenager's train of thought. Harry was still gripping the wizards' picture tightly between his fingers, as if he was convinced it would suddenly try to escape or something. Half of him was crying out to rip it in two. What would happen to "Nutty and Rus" then? Would one boy stay on one half of the picture, the other boy in the other, divided and never to fight again? Maybe he could then throw away the young Snape and keep the other boy?

"As they took his soul they stole his pride, As he faced the sun he cast no shadow."

But as much as one part edged him on, a small part of him was screaming not to. While Harry really didn't want to listen to this desperate little voice that was telling him he had a family, the ache he felt in front of Erised all those years ago returned to haunt him. It seemed like a painful joke. Harry imagined Voldemort's reaction to this, and the shrill mocking laugh replayed through his head once again. Yes, it was cruel, and was exactly the sort of thing that would amuse Voldemort.

"We live in the shadows and we had the chance and threw it away, And it's never gonna be the same,"

As to what he was going to do now. Harry stared at his thin fingers; what if he were stuck like this? Problem after problem seemed to be building up. Biggest of all were the people he'd have to face – Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, the rest at Hogwarts.

Snape.

Harry stomach churned uncontrollably with a mix of horror and rage, until his next thought, which was so awful he couldn't believe he'd come up with it -

"At least Sirius didn't live to see this."

He winced and drew his legs tightly up against his chest.

"And it's never gonna be the same, 'Til the life I knew comes to my house and says, Hello..."

Aside from the pain of the reminder, Harry then couldn't stop his mind creeping with even more horrible thoughts. Would Sirius have rejected him completely as a godson if he had been alive long enough to know the truth? Would everyone else abandon him now – the relative of the reviled Potions Master? And then what? Would Gryffindor kick him out – leaving him nowhere to go but Slytherin?

Harry recoiled. This coupled with the fact that he had almost lead those friends to their deaths a few weeks ago made it all the more unbearable. Suddenly the thought of meeting anybody connected with Hogwarts made him feel very nervous; it was as if all his Gryffindor courage was slowly draining out, leaving only his cold Slytherin traits coiling around inside him. He deserved to be hated now. He was truly disgusting.

But maybe – there was one chance that he wouldn't have to face all this.

There was always the option of running away...