There has been a major f**** up on my part or on ff's part -I dunno which. Before you read this chapter, please go back to Chapter 2 and 3 and re-read them. Not even half of those chapters were posted. I am very sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you.

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Some time during the night, Severus thought for a long time about picking up the boy and bringing him up to the Headmaster's quarters. He was not used to sharing his own rooms with anyone, much less a twisting and turning and whining and sighing child. Who did all that while he slept.

Snape could not close his own door either because if the little fiend woke up and just wandered out of the rooms, he might get lost anywhere. And that would cost himhis head.

And the boy had featherlighted his bag – which was still in the Headmaster's office – Severus had no doubt that he would, if scared enough, either take his wards down and run, or destroy his living room. Both not very nice options. So, he had to leave his door open to interfere as soon as the boy began to riot in his living room. And with an open door, he could not sleep. Especially with the noises the boy made while sleeping.

Honestly, how could one little child – and Potter was little – make so many noises? At times, Severus even though he was talking in his sleep. But – well – who would not have nightmares after living with Petunia Evans?

Snape knew he would. Evil nightmares. Probably worse than the ones he suffered from now. And the boy tossed and turned and it was just too loud for him to sleep. He was used to peace at night. At least during the past six years or so. Not quite six. Almost. He had not been woken rudely, from pain, or burning or anything. And while he had been kept up by one Slytherin or the other who needed his advice as Head of House, he had never been kept up all night by a single, little boy. Who was not even a student yet. Who would most likely not even be in his House later on, what with those two Gryffindor parents and an aunt who would end up living in the lavatory with Moaning Myrtle or in the Forbidden Forest with the Acromantulas.

However, some time during that night, Snape realised that he could not possibly dump the boy in Dumbledore's bedroom, especially since he did not fancy seeing him, or his wife in their nightclothes and a about an hour later, he decided that he might as well switch on the lights and read. And that he did. Cursing. Swearing. And complaining quietly. He had only been sent to get the boy. Not keep him.

Oh if there was one shred of evidence (and Severus had no doubt he would find a large junk of evidence) that the Headmaster, or anyone else for that matter, made the rest of the staff leave the castle (well, those who were in during the summer holidays) on account that he was supposed to take care of the boy, there'd be serious – – – somethings. Hexes, probably. And he would leave for the rest of the summer after this ordeal. No matter if he promised he would help strengthening the wards again and no matter if he was truly looking forward to harvesting Piltarboques in the Forbidden Forest. Then they could deal with the annoying, noisy child. And he'd be quietly happy in Spinner's End. End of story.

He never checked the little clock on his bedside cabinet, never quite realised that the sun was rising slowly over the hills and bathing the castle in a beautiful, orangey light. And he heard a little too late over PotionsinAncientGreecethat the boy had woken up.

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This was softer. It was warmer. There was no spider crawling over him. It smelled less dusty here. More of books and herbs and summer. Yes, it smelled of a cellar in summer. He thought. He wasn't quite sure since he was a little afraid of the cellar in Mrs Figg's house and the Dursley's didn't have one, and Mrs Figg had only taken him down there once when Mr Tibbles had tumbled down the stairs and he had to help. But this smelled similar. He actually liked the smell.

But why would he sleep on something soft and warm in Mrs Figg's cellar? Oh. He didn't. He opened his eyes very, very, very slowly, in case he was still dreaming he didn't want to scare himself into waking up, and the first

thing he saw was a low ceiling. Well, cellars probably had low ceilings. And the second thing, Harry saw was bookshelves. Every single wall lined with bookshelves. He might not remember much, but there had not been any books in Mrs Figg's cellar at all. And this room was stuffed with...yes. He was with 'fesser Snape.

'fesser Snape's room! He remembered. Harry had been so tired and then there had been that little man called Peeves who had thrown something at them and the 'fesser had protected him and then he had sort of fallen asleep on his...oh no.

Like a baby. He had fallen asleep on 'fesser Snape's arm. He had carried him. Like an infant. But he remembered being carried and it had been awesome. The 'fesser had let him hug him and he had been very careful while carrying and then he had so nicely and gently and carefully put him on the couch and had covered him. Truly, truly wonderful of him. On the couch! Not on the floor or in a cupboard or somewhere. No. On the couch. With a blanket to cover him. And not his own, ratty old baby-blanket. No, a real, dark-blue, soft, warm, heavy blanket.

He only hoped that the 'fesser wouldn't be too angry that he had drooled a little on his pillow. And, if he didn't get up soon, he would leave an even larger stain somewhere more down there. But the 'fesser had not shown him where the bathroom was and he didn't want to wake him to ask and so, with great regret to leave the warm nest he had built himself during the night on the couch, he scrambled out of it as quietly as he could. He was used to getting up, walking, and doing everything else very quietly. Uncle Vernon always yelled at him when he was too noisy. Of course that was a little dumb, since, well, honestly, when he was only a bit noisy but Uncle Vernon yelled afterwards, he was even noisier. But he was a grown-up and they were allowed a lot of things that children were not. He knew. And he knew that Dudley was allowed to stomp on the stairs, even when Harry was in his cupboard and make as much noise as he wanted to.

Still, he was used to being very silent and so, he tiptoed around the room for a bit, his thighs pressed together tightly. It was a beautiful room, Harry

thought, and the early sunlight coming in from the windows made it even prettier. So many books. Harry made a mental note to ask the 'fesser if he had read all of them. But he looked smart so he probably had. He tiptoed around and noticed that he still wore his clothes from the day before. The trousers and the baggy shirt that he had hidden from Dudley and his friends in. Oh, the 'fesser wouldn't be happy if he knew that he had slept in his dirty clothes. But he had been so tired and the 'fesser had obviously only taken his shoes off.

He had taken his shoes off. Harry thought for a moment, standing very still in the middle of the room. No, he couldn't remember a time when Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon had taken his shoes off – or brought him to bed.

They must have done because he used to be really little and too small and stupid to do some things himself but he couldn't remember it. And there came 'fesser Snape and on his very first night there, with him, he had taken such good care of him. Had brought him to his couch, tucked him in!

When he could have just given him a little push and could have just bellowed at him to go sleep somewhere. But the 'fesser hadn't done that at all. No, he had made the exact opposite, had held him, had put him down gently, had tucked him in.

It was just wonderful. This entire thing he had stumbled into, it was just – like a dream. And he never, never, never wanted to wake up again.

"Mr Potter," he heard suddenly and even though he already stood very, very still, he stiffened further and all kinds of feelings rushed towards him.

What if the 'fesser didn't want him to go wandering around his flat? What if the 'fesser realised he had made a mistake and sent Harry back? He didn't want to go back. Now that he knew what it could be like – even if it had only been only for a few hours, he didn't want to go back to the Dursleys. Never.

"I...I," he stuttered and looked at his socks. They had holes in them and his big toe was poking out. He couldn't help but wriggle it a little before he

continued, "I...I...need the loo."

He did not really look up but he could hear the 'fesser sighing dramatically and felt as if he was pointing. "Through there, Mr Potter," he said slowly.

Harry looked up from under his fringe briefly and smiled. So he wasn't angry. So he didn't want to send him away. He was just grumpy in the mornings! That was all. He skipped to the bathroom, had luckily caught him pointing a little in the right direction, and sighed to himself. Didn't send him back.

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Little fiend. Little pest. Little...

Stood in the middle of his living room and stared. Just stood, still, very, very still. Now he could be still. During the night, oh no. That was too much for the boy. And he just skipped – skipped! – into the bathroom and Severus stood there in his nightclothes and cold feet on the bloody flagstones. The boy had at least worn socks. Even if there were more holes than fabric left in them. He made a mental note to tell Albus to take the boy shopping, even though – – –

It might be better if people did not immediately recognise him for who he was. The way he saw it, it was bad enough that Peeves had realised who he had with him, who the boy was, but, if he hid the scar, the resemblance to Potter and Lily wasn't that visible. Yes, he had some of Potter's features but he wore different glasses and he looked like a child. Potter was in the memory of the people as a grown up, or adolescent. Not as a little boy who looked more like five or six than seven. Oh but he had Lily's eyes exactly. No. Lots of people had such eyes, especially in the Wizarding World green eyes were nothing special. If he could hide that scar, he should be able to get through Diagon Alley without people knowing who he was.

But then again, that was not his problem. He would bring the boy immediately to the Headmaster now. If he had returned. If not, he would...he didn't know what. He would think of something.

Snape still stood there in his bare feet and pyjamas as the little pest returned from the bathroom, looking as chipper as anyone could look, smiling and those eyes looking up at him.

"Good morning, 'fesser Snape," he said, almost apologetically. "I'm sorry I haven't said it before but I really had to go and didn't know where it was so it was really lucky that you woke up when you did and showed me. Your sofa is very comfortable. Thank you for giving me the blanket. And this room is awesome. Did you read all those books? Aunt Petunia doesn't let me read a lot because Dudders doesn't like to read too. He likes to play and sleep and eat and hit me. And because he's lazy, I'm not allowed to read much either. So did you read all of them? What are they about? Are they interesting?" he only stopped when his stomach growled loudly. "Sorry," he said quickly.

Severus stared. The boy was just full of questions. And talked without taking a breath. And why was he apologising for an empty stomach? Oh. Yes. Quite. He had fallen asleep without dinner and who knew what Petunia had given him before that.

"Go wash yourself and brush your teeth and that hair of yours," he growled. "And yes, I have read all those books," he added as an afterthought.

The boy looked at the floor again, his eyes cast way down. "Erm." "Erm?" Snape drawled mockingly. "Erm what?"

He looked up and those eyes met his. Lily's eyes. Remarkably like Lily's eyes. To him at least. And those eyes showed every emotion so clearly. The boy was embarrassed. And a little afraid. Gone was the rattling joy of his speech only moments ago. No, he was scared. And Lily's eyes in his reflected that. Clearly. Severus felt a piercing pain in his abdomen as those eyes looked in his. If Lily had ever looked at him that way, he would have done everything in his power to stop that look. Everything. And now he had made her boy look that way. Though why, he wasn't sure yet. But those

eyes. They had haunted him and now they were there. Just standing there in the head of a little boy and – oh, he told himself sternly, snap out of it.

"What is it, Mr Potter?" he asked and tried to sound a little more gentle. "I don't have a toothbrush, sir," the boy replied very quietly.

Severus sighed. Of course he didn't. Nor clothes he could change into. And if he took the boy into the Great Hall for breakfast, looking like this, the Headmaster and Minerva, and Poppy, if they were there, would all reprimand him and Minerva probably wouldn't stop short of hexing him.

So, because he liked his peace and liked all parts of his body where they were, and unhexed, he sat down on the sofa and beckoned the boy closer.

"Come here," he said gruffly. All that before breakfast, before a cup of tea and all this after a sleepless night. Slowly, though, the child did come closer, walking very silently and treading carefully. He stopped just in front of his knees and did not quite dare to look him in the eyes again.

Well, the boy was damaged by Petunia so maybe he would have to be a little more careful. For the time being. As long as he had him, until he could let Albus and Minerva take care of him. He accioed his wand silently and the boy's eyes went very, very wide.

"Cool," he mumbled under his breath as he saw the wand zooming through the air and being caught and Snape could not stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"Indeed," he replied and before the boy could protest, he had pulled him closer, to stand between his legs. "Now," he continued, "stand still."

"What are you doing?" he asked in his little voice.

"I'm going to fix your clothes and brush your teeth. And as a side-effect, you might stop asking infernal questions about whether this is real and whether witches and wizards do exist," he drawled, quite content that he had thought of this. He did not have to explain at all. The boy was obviously not quite stupid and he would probably accept the fact that

witchcraft and wizardry did exist if he felt it on his own body. The teeth- brushing-charm was – well – not that nice but that he would have to just accept. And he would stop asking those questions about magic.

"Stand still, I said," he growled when the boy twitched and Severus locked his knees just a little to keep him in place as he waved his wand over the child. The clothes first, he decided, and made the trousers clean and shorter and smaller and a nicer, blacker colour, the baggy shirt smaller and cleaner and instead of that weird rabbit on the front, it now had a nice, simpler, blacker colour. Well, no. That wouldn't do. He had transfigured both the trousers and the shirt into black. No, the shirt would be different. He waved his wand again and it became lovely Slytherin-green. That would do. The socks were black and without holes, the underwear, though he did not see it and had absolutely no wish to, white and squeaky clean.

"Good," he said more to himself than to the boy. "This is fine." "Erm," the boy stared at himself. "How did you..."

"Mouth open," Snape interrupted and the boy was probably stunned into obeying and a heartbeat later, his mouth had filled with toothpaste-froth and he smirked as the boy spluttered a little.

"Spit," he said a moment later as he held a conjured bowl out to the boy and vanished it then. "And that hair."

The child's stomach growled again and Severus tried with his fingers first, to brush the hair down over his forehead. But the hair wouldn't budge. It just stood right up again. He was deeply annoyed. Even if it was only the Dumbledores and Madam Pomfrey he would encounter today, it would be no mistake to at least let them know that it was unwise to have the boy seen as Harry Potter immediately. He was famous after all (or infamous, a small part of his brain argued).

"What in the name of..." he muttered and attacked the fringe that just wouldn't stay over the scar with both his hands, the wand next to him on the couch.

"It always does that, sir," the boy said meekly. "Aunt Petunia even shaved my head once apart from the front and it was grown back the next day and wouldn't stay that way."

Snape growled and again, tried to handle that fringe with both his hands, pushing it down, trying to stick it to the forehead, smoothing it, flattening it and as soon as he took his hands away, it stood right up again. He was so annoyed by this, that he did not even think about the fact that he actually touched the boy. Not that he would have minded, but he was so focused on the fact that for once, something did not bow to him, that he got very, very angry.

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Okay, so the 'fesser wasn't exactly all cuddling and tender and his hands had a rough touch to his hair but it felt almost like he was stroking his hair and his forehead when he tried to flatten his hair against the scar. He hated the scar too, yes, but his hair had a mind of its own. And if Harry had not been so happy with having his hair stroked like that, all the while he had new, clean clothes and the 'fesser even hugged his sides with his knees, he would have pointed at that maybe, if the wand was able to bring him new, clean clothes, it might help with the hair too.

But it was truly awesome. A wooden stick that could do all of it. A wand! Like in a fairy tale. A wizard with a wand who could do all kinds of things with it.

So Harry made an inventory in his head. Magic was real. Magic was what had changed his clothes and magic was what had brushed his teeth. There was no cheap trick as Uncle Vernon had said because, well, Harry knew better now and he was involved in magic being done and 'fesser Snape had not asked for any kind of money. Obviously Uncle Vernon had been wrong. Ha!

But then, a moment later when Harry still only stood and let his head be stroked by the 'fesser, he got a little too rough and pulled on Harry's hair.

"Ouch, 'fesser," he suddenly yelped and the man only glared at him. He hadn't done anything. But that had hurt. A lot.

"Erm, 'fesser, can't magic do that? With my hair, I mean?" he asked timidly, unsure whether he had the right to say that and apparently, he did not have the right. He looked absolutely furious, picked up his wand and pushed it almost in Harry's forehead then muttered something that sounded truly evil and a moment later, Harry had a nice fringe. Hanging almost to his eyes. Covering the scar that people always stared at and asked after and then Aunt Petunia would get really mad.

Disbelieving, he touched his forehead. And it was covered with his own hair.

"There," the 'fesser said, "you wait here while I get ready myself."

Harry nodded, not sure what he had meant – ready for what? – and with a happy smile, sat down on the couch again.

The boy stayed very close to him and even though Severus realised that Peeves was hovering just behind them, the Poltergeist said nothing, blew no raspberry, threw nothing but only followed. Silently. Which was remarkable in itself. And the boy was – skipping again and bouncing and staring and somewhere along the third or fourth fusillade of questions, he had begun to stop listening.

"Mr Potter," he said just as he was about to open the door to the Great Hall, "if you could stop your infernal questioning of everything, we could have breakfast. And I'm sure we will meet the Headmaster there and he will explain everything to you."

"The Headmaster, sir?" the boy asked, frowning.

"Yes," he sighed. "We're in a school and you're hopefully about to meet the Headmaster Albus Dumbledore."

"Oh," he said, "okay."

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Snape rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that day (and he still hadn't had his cup of tea) and pushed the door open. And of course they all sat there, Albus, Minerva, Poppy, waiting expectantly. Oh, he would...he grasped his wand tighter and with a scowl on his face, approached them. The boy, he noticed, always keeping up with him. Jogging beside him.

"Good morning, Severus. Good morning, Harry," said Albus, his eyes twinkling like mad.

"You!" Severus spat. "I was told to..." he calmed himself, "get the boy. I did. And the castle was empty except for Peeves who thought it was funny to attack us with Sticking Bombs."

"Ah well, we had important business to attend to."

"Important business my..." he swallowed the last word. "Mr Potter, those are the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey. They will answer all your questions and since my job is now done, I hope I can continue my summer holidays. At home!"

"Severus," Minerva said sternly but he only shook his head and was about to turn when there were two hands clutching at the back of his robes. He turned his head and those eyes looked at him again. Pleading.

"Please," the boy shook his head, "Where are you going? Are you coming back soon? Please? I don't...Please?"

Severus growled. "Please what, Potter?"

"Please," he obviously fought for words, "don't leave me here alone."

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