Chapter 19

"Read."

Harry stopped craning his neck to take in the neighborhood around him, and instead turned his attention to the tiny slip of paper that Snape had thrust before his place.

In looping, vaguely familiar script, it read, The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry glanced up questioningly at Snape, but as he did he caught something shifting in the corner of his eye. Between two of the narrow brownstone homes lining the opposite side of the street, a third house was emerging, seemingly shoving the other two to the side as it grew into the widening gap between them.

When Snape had Apparated them to this seemingly nondescript London neighborhood, Harry had thought the man was having a laugh at his expense, possibly at last revealing his true colors after so many days of being nice. But now, seeing a building emerge from thin air before his eyes, he suddenly doubted that was the case.

"The Order of—?"

"Not here," Snape hissed, cutting him off as he shoved the piece of paper back into the voluminous robes he'd once again donned. "Inside—quickly!"

And with that the man was propelling Harry forward, one unrelenting hand on his back, until they'd climbed the dilapidated stairs to face the door.

There was no door handle. Or key hole. Only a silver knocker that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a serpent twisted in on itself a few times.

Snape sighed behind him, presumably at Harry's paralysis, and brushed past him to bang the knocker three times.

A feminine shriek erupted from somewhere within the house; Harry stumbled back, only to be pushed back into his original position by Snape.

Suddenly the door swung inward, revealing a flinching Remus Lupin, dressed as shabbily as ever in a worn tan and white seersucker suit. As soon as the door opened, the shrieking poured out onto the stoop, no longer muffled by the heavy wooden door.

"DISGUSTING FLEA-RIDDEN HALFBREED, YOU DARE TO TREAD THE HALLS OF THE HALLOWED HOUSE OF BLACK—"

"Pull the curtain!" came the familiar voice of one Fred Weasley. Or possibly George.

"You pull the sodding curtain!" came the indignant reply from George, or possibly Fred. "I did it last time, didn't I? And got bit by a doxy for it—"

"BLOOD TRAITORS IN MY HOME, WRETCHED WASTES OF MAGIC, BEGONE—"

Lupin whipped around, firing off a quick spell, and amidst some shuffling and a thud the screaming woman fell quiet.

Lupin turned back to them, something of an abashed smile on his lips. "Er, sorry about that. Still working on a solution to that little problem."

"How fortunate we are to have a foremost expert on the Dark Arts attending to the matter," Snape drawled, pushing Harry inside before stepping around him and straight past Lupin. "I've brewing to see to and require uninterrupted use of the kitchen for four hours. I will not be responsible for my actions if I am disturbed." Snape turned back partially to Harry, his features impassive. "Mr. Potter, if you have need of me during that time I merely request you call down before entering. Though I will likely regret it, I will leave the task of answering any questions you might have to those you intended to visit today, unless you inform me you prefer it otherwise. Is that acceptable?"

Harry struggled to formulate an answer. Had Snape really designated him as someone—the only person, even—allowed to interrupt his brewing? That was what it sounded like…. "Um, yes sir."

Snape's eyebrows crept up a bit in silent admonishment, and Harry recalled their agreement. But the man had called him Mr. Potter! And they were in public, weren't they? Surely he didn't want Harry replying casually, 'sure, Snape, got it'.

But the potions master said nothing aloud. "Keep yourself out of trouble, then." And with that he was sweeping off down the hall of the house, past a stunned Fred and George, who hastily moved to press against a long velvet curtain on one wall to make room for Snape to pass them by.

Lupin, too, seemed to be lost for words. He was staring after Snape, his mouth slightly ajar, and remained that way for a moment before snapping his jaw shut and turning back to Harry.

"Harry, it's good to see you," he greeted the boy warmly, his expression breaking into a smile. "Come in, come in—sorry about the unorthodox greeting there, we weren't expecting you—"

"Snape didn't tell you I was coming by… er, here?" Harry demanded, moving to clasp his hands behind his back. There, that felt better.

A rosy blush colored Lupin's face. "Oh, yes, he said… but we thought he'd come up with some excuse for keeping you away. He can be a bit prickly—you know how Severus is—"

For some reason that comment lit a fire in Harry. "No, Professor, I'm afraid I don't know," Harry retorted coldly. "Usually when Snape says something, he means it. Unlike some people. He said he'd let me visit my friends, and here I am. Unless they aren't here?"

Lupin's blush deepened. "Ah, Harry, I'm not your professor anymore. But Severus is, so perhaps you should use his title—no sense in pointlessly upsetting him if you slip—"

Feeling rather vindictive, Harry retorted, "He told me to call him Severus, actually."

Lupin just blinked at him once, twice in disbelief. "He…."

"But I'm probably lying about that, so don't worry, sir. I'll call him 'Professor Snape' from here on out. Are Ron and Hermione here?"

"I don't think you're lying, Harry," Lupin replied quietly, his voice sincere. "But do you even know where you are? I know that we'd all been instructed to tell you nothing just in case, but Albus agreed you could be brought here—though that was just last night, I understand, so I can't imagine Severus has had a chance to tell you all that much—"

"I'm sure Ron and Hermione can catch me up," Harry interrupted tersely. "I can go find them if you don't want to help—"

"Harry," Lupin murmured, his voice breaking a little, "what is the matter? I know you've had a rough time of it—believe me, between your relatives and then being forced to stay with Severus—"

"Snape has been fine, like I said. He apologized to me, actually, once he found out about the mix-up with the police." Unlike you, he stopped himself from saying.

To Harry's surprise, Lupin actually seemed to find relief in that. "Good. I'd worried… and Albus refused to hear my arguments…. You've been all right then, more or less? Severus has been treating you well?"

Hadn't he just said that? Was Lupin deaf? "Yeah. Look, sir, I only have a few hours—"

"Harry, what is it?" Lupin begged, exasperated. "Clearly you're upset with me. Has Severus said something—?"

"No, he didn't," Harry replied tersely. "I'd just rather catch up with my friends—"

"Have I done something?" Lupin pressed, his voice oh-so-gentle and understanding.

Harry just glared.

"Harry, if you would just tell me…."

"It's more of what you didn't do." Fed up and unwilling to dig into this particular topic too deeply, Harry pushed his way around Lupin and tried to take in the layout of the strange house.

The entrance hall was somewhat narrow, and led to a once-eloquent staircase at the back that now suffered from neglect. The paint was peeling, the wood comprising the structure was gouged and dilapidated in places, and even the once-ornate rug that led down the hall and up the stairs was wearing down, its patterns faded. Like the knocker, many of the decorations in the hall seemed to be serpentine, including the sconces along the hall that housed gas-lamps. Perhaps most prominent was the massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling, so layered in dust that it had lost a degree of its crystalline appearance.

It was a strange place. Harry wondered what it was that led him to so many poorly-maintained old houses this summer. This one, he decided, was worse than Spinner's End, simply because bits and pieces of it reminded him of the dreams of another old manor he'd been having the summer before his fourth year.

"Perhaps we could talk," Lupin began. "We could have a spot of tea in the dining room—"

"No thanks," Harry muttered. Well, he could just start up the stairs and go floor by floor. And if that failed… maybe Snape wouldn't kill him if Harry just nipped in for a moment to ask a few basic questions.

"Maybe later—"

"Maybe," Harry echoed, though without any conviction.

"Sirius is upstairs—"

Harry's fists clenched. "Okay," he forced out.

"He was looking forward to seeing you—"

"Sure." Harry glanced down to the left and the right at the foot of the stairs. He couldn't tell where either direction led, but he thought it might be worthwhile to start down here and then start making his way upward.

He'd turned slightly to the left when he heard a loud crack and suddenly found his left arm pinned to his side by a strong grip. Another crack and he found his right arm pinned in the same manner, and himself wedged between the two tall, gangly, and surprisingly robust Weasley twins.

"Hey, get off," he started, beginning to twist in their grip—but not too hard. He figured they just wanted him for some prank or another, and that if he protested enough they'd back off. "Is that any way to greet a bloke?"

To his surprise, the twins' expressions remained solemn. "Easy, there, Harry," George (or possibly Fred, in George's monogrammed sweater) commanded him in a soothing tone. "We just need to check on something, all right?"

"Walk with us a bit, yeah?" Fred added, as together they started to propel him up the staircase.

"I'm not eating anything you two give me," Harry declared, shooting a mock-stern glare at the both of them. "I know better."

" 'Course, Harry," George agreed easily. "We just want to have Hermione check on something, yeah?"

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion. "Um, okay. But you don't have to drag me—"

"We're not so much dragging—" George began.

"—as escorting," Fred finished for him. "Don't you worry about it." They'd reached the next floor by then, and turned down a hall, past two doors and into the third door on the right, which opened into a small, dusty library.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting around a small coffee table, Hermione watching an ongoing game of checkers between Ron and Ginny. All three twisted to see him as soon as they entered.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, and jumped to her feet.

Ron's face lit up with a dopey grin as he scrambled up as well. Ginny just cast him a shy smile and waved a little with her fingers before getting up and slipping out of the room.

Hermione was almost within hugging distance when Fred extended a hand in front of him. The twins still hadn't let Harry go.

Hermione's face crumpled in incomprehension. "What is it?"

"He's been with Snape," Fred explained gravely, glancing over at George.

"And he was acting funny—"

"I was not!" Harry protested. "What are you even talking about?"

"Wouldn't even talk to Lupin," Fred continued, as if Harry hadn't said a word. Hermione's eyes were darting rapidly between the two of them, her lips pursing tighter with each passing second.

"We think Snape did something to him," said George.

"A spell."

"Or a potion," they concluded in unison.

"You're mad," Harry exclaimed. "Snape didn't do any of that—"

"Mate," Ron interjected, his voice soft and serious. "You've been with him for weeks. He hates you. He could have done anything to you. If Fred and George think you're acting funny… there are things out there, you know. Subtle things, but they can mess with you."

"Like a Potion of Subversion," Hermione murmured, her eyes now scanning rapidly up and down Harry's form. "But Professor Snape wouldn't dare to give Harry anything of the sort. Professor Dumbledore—"

"Dumbledore trusts Snape," Ron argued, "even though he probably shouldn't. You know the rumors about him, from the last War…."

Harry could guess well enough what rumors Ron was referring to, and he could barely restrain himself from retorting that they were true, but it didn't matter, because Snape was decent, as it turned out, even if he could still be a git from time to time.

"Snape didn't give me anything. I would know." Harry swallowed thickly. "And I didn't want to talk to Lupin."

"Lupin, Harry?" Ron demanded. "Remus Lupin? The only decent Defense professor we've ever had? The Lupin who likes you, the Lupin who's mates with Sirius, that Lupin?" He turned to Hermione. "That slimy bastard did do something to mess with Harry's mind—"

"He didn't!" Harry tried to shake off Fred and George, but they still wouldn't budge. "Why would he? And Hermione's right. Dumbledore trusts him, and I trust Dumbledore—"

"Dumbledore left the Sorcerer's Stone in an obstacle course that we got through our first year!" Ron pointed out. "He left the school open when a bloody basilisk was slithering about petrifying people! He—" Ron stopped, glanced at his brothers, and then continued in a quieter voice, "You remember what all happened with Sirius and Buckbeak, and then last year… he bloody lets you get teleported away to a bloody graveyard with You-Know-Who! He let a Death Eater teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, thought it was some world-class Auror he'd known all his life! I love Dumbledore and all, don't get me wrong, but sometimes the man is barmy, and sometimes he's just plain wrong!"

"But not about this," Harry insisted. "Look, if you don't believe me, just have Hermione cast some spell on me that will let you know if I'm not acting of my free will." He turned expectantly to Hermione.

"I don't know a spell like that!" she cried. "Why do you think that every time you need a spell, I'll just happen to have it memorized—"

"You're brilliant, Hermione," Ron interrupted. "If you don't know it, you can find it."

"Just because you want the spell to exist doesn't mean that it does! Have you ever heard of such a spell? Hm?"

"No," Ron admitted. "Have you?"

Hermione pinkened just slightly. "Well, yes, as it so happens, I was doing a bit of supplemental reading for Charms—but this doesn't mean that every time you need a quick and easy solution to your latest problem—"

"Right," Ron agreed, but he wasn't looking at Hermione, but at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Fifteen or so minutes later, after perusing Five-hundred and Seven Charms and Countercharms any Witch (or Wizard) Should Know, Hermione had cast three separate Revealing Charms over Harry, one for potions, one for spells, and one for cursed objects that would influence the subject's thinking. All three turned up nothing.

Harry was ashamed to admit that he was more than a little relieved at those results. And not just because Fred and George finally let his arms go.

"Do you believe me now?" he demanded, plopping down into one of the room's dusty armchairs.

Ron and Hermione settled onto the sofa; Fred and George hung back , their arms folded over their chests.

"Yes." Ron shifted a bit closer to Hermione, probably thinking that he was being subtle about it. Hermione let him. "But then, I don't get it. What do you have against Lupin? He was great! And he's been really worried about you, you know."

Harry sighed. "Because he was just like your mum. He just… he lit right into me in the letter he sent. Like Sirius, too. I just… I guess I thought I'd get at least the benefit of the doubt."

"You did steal Mr. Weasley's Ford Anglia and fly it into the Whomping Willow," Hermione pointed out helpfully. "And you've gotten into trouble before—"

"But not for stealing from some helpless old lady!" Harry protested. "All those other times—yeah, okay, I admit it. I've done stupid, illegal things—and some of those things you two have done with me! But we always had a reason, right? It wasn't ever just for fun—"

"You snuck into Hogsmeade—"

"Because I just wanted to be normal, for once in my bloody life! I wanted to go to the candy store and the joke shop, and I had an invisibility cloak and a map of the castle. Fred and George have done it loads of times—"

"Without an invisibility cloak," George put in, while Fred nodded proudly.

"I put myself in danger. But no one else! This… neither of you believed I could have stolen from my elderly neighbor, right? That there were no circumstances, none, where I'd do anything that awful. Right?"

"Right," Hermione and Ron agreed in unison.

"But they didn't. Lupin taught me for a whole year. He gave me extra lessons, and he still thought I was a criminal. And Sirius… we've been writing back and forth and he still doesn't get me. He thinks I'm some more reckless version of my dad, and I'm not."

"Mum just gets carried away," Ron mumbled, his face bright-red with shame. Probably more of those memories of what his mother had written to Harry. "She doesn't mean anything by it. That's how she always deals with these two. Sends them Howlers and makes empty threats."

"Thirteen, going for fourteen this year," Fred declared, as if announcing a world record in sprinting that he intended to break.

"And not all of those threats are empty, little brother," George added, with a wink. "You'd do well to remember that."

Harry shrugged. "But it's different. I'm not her son—"

"Oh, as good as," Ron protested.

"No, I'm not!" Harry huffed. "Listen, she's great, your mum. She's really been nice to me. But she's not my parent. She's never acted like one, not really." A lie. Harry's mind flashed back to that hug in the hospital wing, the warm crush of Mrs. Weasley's arms after he'd returned from the graveyard. That had been pretty parental. But Harry chose to ignore it. "She's like a nice aunt. But I've never had her the way you do. She…." Doesn't make me do my homework. Doesn't sit up with me after I've had a nightmare. Doesn't embarrass me with my dirty laundry or tell me to change the sheets, or patiently explain to me how to send things to my wizard vault. "It's just not the same," Harry finished lamely, unable to find the words he needed to explain.

Ron chewed on his bottom lip as they all sat in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. "Yeah," he agreed. "I guess… I guess that was her starting to act like a parent, but out of the blue. Like, she doesn't need to be sticking her nose into things, especially when she doesn't know the full story." Ron rubbed a palm idly against his jeans. "But she did say she'd heard the whole story, and that she'd invited you out to the Burrow. Did you get that letter?"

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "Snape won't let me go, though. Says it isn't safe."

"Complain to Dumbledore," Ron suggested. "I can't imagine the great git wants to keep you around. I bet he's already bored with tormenting you—"

"He's been decent, actually," Harry interrupted, feeling like a broken record. How many times would he have to repeat that today? "We mostly keep out of each other's way. And he's good about making sure I have what I need, and that I don't miss meals."

"Right," Ron snorted. "I bet he penalizes you if you show up late, right? Just like class? Only there aren't any points… hmm…."

"No," Harry muttered. "He doesn't care when I show up, as long as I have three meals."

"You do look… well, better than you usually do," Hermione commented, a small smile on her lips.

Harry returned the smile. "It's weird, but staying with him… it's like I've said. It's not all that bad. Still bizarre, but… I think he's going to let me visit you guys a bit, as long as I ask." Harry made a face at that.

"Oh, bet he gets all smarmy about that," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Uh, no. He just… he'll make me ask about it specifically, even if he already knows what I want. Like for today."

"Is he really particular about how you ask?" Hermione inquired curiously. "I could see him being a bit… difficult."

"No. Just… it's important that I 'vocalize my needs', as he put it." Harry blushed when he noticed the twins exchanging a puzzled glance. "I don't want to talk about it. It's just annoying, trust me."

"Sure," Ron agreed, his eyes following Harry's. "Oi, don't you two have some experiments to be getting on with?"

The twins' eyebrows crept up at Ron's question. "Oh, yes," George agreed. "Now that you mention it…."

"Plenty to be getting on with, indeed," Fred chimed in, sidling away from the wall. "Good seeing you Harry."

"Glad you're not cursed."

Twin cracks echoes throughout the room as the pair vanished from sight.

Ron groaned. "Bloody Apparition. They've been driving us all up a wall. Can't wait until I'm of age. Bloody Apparate right on top of their beds, I will…."

Harry snorted, then laughed. And suddenly he found he couldn't stop laughing, because somehow everything seemed to be dawning on him at once. He was with Ron and Hermione, and everything was all right. They didn't hate him. They didn't blame him for what had happened in the graveyard.

He wasn't alone. Not really.

"Harry?" Ron asked nervously, when Harry had begun to clutch at his sides, which were aching from the force of his laughter. "You all right there?"

Harry nodded through his hysterical giggles. Then shook his head, as his giggles started to dissolve, bizarrely, into tears.

"Harry," Hermione murmured, touching a hand to his arm. "What's the matter? What is it?"

"I'm just really, really glad to be here," Harry choked out. "This is the most normal I've felt since… God, since forever."

Hermione's expression turned sympathetic, while Ron relaxed a little bit, his features melting into an understanding look.

"Where are we, anyway?" Harry demanded, starting to calm a bit from the fit. He wiped his cheeks hastily.

"You don't know?" Ron asked, stunned. "Snape didn't tell you?"

"No. But I didn't really ask questions much—"

"And we're not supposed to speak of it outside of the Fidelius," Hermione interrupted, with a pointed look at Ron. "It's Sirius' house, Harry. The Black family house. It's the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

"Snape told me that," Harry confessed. "But he didn't explain. He said he'd leave it up to you guys to tell me…."

"Pfft." Ron rolled his eyes. "Typical. Too busy for blasted Potter—"

"No," Harry sighed in frustration. "Not like that. He said I could go talk to him if I wanted, but I think he figured I'd rather spend the time catching up with you guys." Harry leaned back into the sofa. "And I told him I would."

"Of course you would," Ron agreed. "Why would you spend more time with that miserable git than you had to?"

Harry didn't feel like arguing with Ron, so he let the comment pass. But he didn't miss the way Hermione's gaze suddenly sharpened on him. "So what is it? I get that it's a secret, but not much else…."

"Oh, well, the Order's this secret group Dumbledore founded the first time when You-Know-Who was around," Ron began. "Because You-Know-Who was infiltrating the Ministry and everything, so they had to get together without anyone knowing. Your parents were in the Order the first time around, and Sirius and Lupin too. And my mum and dad, and Neville's parents, and a bunch of others. And they're getting it together again now, you know, since He's back and all. And since Sirius is on the lam and has his house here, he told everyone they could use it for meetings."

"Oh," Harry mumbled, a little dumbstruck. "So… that's probably where Snape's been going… but wait, why the hell didn't you tell me something like this existed? I've been sitting on my hands all summer, worried sick about what we're going to do now that Voldemort's"—Harry pointedly ignored Ron's wince—"back, and all this time—"

"Harry," Hermione broke in, her voice pitched high and her tone tight, "we couldn't tell you! Dumbledore forbade it! He didn't know if your post would be intercepted, and there are all kinds of moles in the Ministry now who'd just jump at the chance to bring information like that to You-Know-Who—"

"Would you call him Voldemort?" Harry groused, his temper hardly appeased. "Ron I get, but your parents are Muggles."

"It's just… honestly, it's just the norm, you know, not saying his name. They don't even write it in the books—"

"Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself," Harry quoted dutifully.

"Fine," Hermione sputtered, "V-Voldemort. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Harry muttered sarcastically. "Anyway, fine. You couldn't trust the post. I just…." Harry sighed. "I didn't know what to think when you wouldn't write about anything more serious than the weather or de-Gnoming the garden."

"We wanted to tell you," Hermione murmured, frowning. "Truly. But now that You—now that Voldemort's back"—Harry could not help but admire that she said the name without flinching this time—"we have to think about everything we do and everything we say."

Harry rubbed his palm tiredly against his forehead. "Fine. Right. So how do we know this place is even safe? You know what happened with Pettigrew—"

"Dumbledore's Secret Keeper," Ron cut him off gravely. "If they get to Dumbledore, mate, we're all lost."

Harry couldn't help but agree. "Well," he began, trying to force false cheer into his voice, "we're all here now. So tell me…."

And there was enough to tell that all three failed to hear Molly Weasley calling them down to lunch.

XXXXX

Harry forced himself to inhale deeply three times, and to breathe out through his nose in the exhalation, before knocking once on the kitchen door. His stomach still churned uneasily from the minor argument he'd had with Ron. And from the lie he'd told. A white lie, but it didn't sit well with him to lie at all to his best mate.

But Ron hadn't wanted to let the matter drop. He'd wanted Harry to come with them down to lunch. Harry had begged off, claiming that he'd eaten a large breakfast (not untrue) and wasn't hungry (somewhat untrue). He'd done his best to pretend that it had nothing to do with Mrs. Weasley serving it, or Lupin and Sirius being in attendance.

Ron hadn't been convinced. He'd initially tried to gently persuade Harry to give them all a chance to apologize; Harry had begged off again. Ron had taken offense, thinking it was his mother alone that had upset Harry, and they'd exchanged a few terse words. Harry had repeated that he wasn't hungry and that he needed to ask Snape a question. "Need" was probably a bit too strong of a word, but it had gotten him out of the ill-fated luncheon.

Now, of course, he found himself wondering in a panic if Snape would have an issue with Harry's definition of "need", and if he would be cross at having been disturbed for, more or less, no reason at all.

"Enter," came the brusque command from the other side. Not terribly promising.

Harry slipped into the room, and was a bit startled to find himself in a kitchen transformed rather handily into a fully-stocked potions laboratory. Snape had jars of ingredients lining the countertop near the sink, and on the far wall stood three simmering cauldrons. Snape himself was hovering over a fourth, on the rudimentary dining table, a pestle and mortar to one side and a silvered knife to the other. The Potions Master glanced up briefly from his stirring, his eyes flickering rapidly over Harry, before falling back to his task.

"Problem?" he inquired, his left hand feeling gently along the table for a few clippings of a needled plant that Harry didn't recognize. The man's eyes remained trained on the substance bubbling within his cauldron.

"No, sir. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"Harry." The man's tone was heavy with admonition.

"You called me 'Mr. Potter' earlier," he accused the man feebly.

"Because you expressed to me that you wished for me not to use your given name." Snape sprinkled a few of the needles into the cauldron, and quite suddenly the smoke changed to a bright lavender for a few seconds before clearing. Snape immediately set to stirring it in what looked to be an extremely complex pattern. "And while I will not refrain from doing so when we are at home, as I think it would be detrimental for the both of us, I did think to respect your wishes in public."

"Oh," Harry mumbled, a blush creeping up from his neck and prickling his cheeks. "Um. Actually… look, I was a bit, um, upset when I said that. I didn't mean it, really."

Snape did not look up, but he did quirk an eyebrow. "You most certainly did mean it," he disagreed mildly.

"Okay," Harry conceded, "I did then, but not anymore. I… I wouldn't mind you calling me Harry."

"And I would prefer not to be addressed as your professor, as I made perfectly clear not long ago."

The reprimand hit Harry hard, even though it, too, had been delivered in that same mild, almost bland tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't… it's just, we're in public, and I didn't think you'd appreciate me just… I don't know. It feels even more disrespectful with people around."

Snape stirred his cauldron twice more before carefully removing the stirring stick and laying it to the side. He wiped both hands quickly on his surcoat before returning his full, piercing attention to Harry. "It is an adjustment for both of us," he agreed. "Perhaps reserving more familiar modes of address for home is not a bad idea for the time being."

Harry felt his stomach unclench. Snape was compromising with him. It shouldn't matter this much, but it did. "If you don't mind."

"I'm amenable. Now, what brought you down here?" Snape curled a lip. "Did the mutt give you fleas?"

Harry's lips lifted in a half-smile at that remark. Some things, he thought, would never change. "No," he mumbled. "Haven't seen Sirius."

The rancor faded from Snape's expression. "I believe you know my opinion on that matter."

"I'll see him before I leave."

Snape reached into a pocket and drew out a watch; his brow furrowed at whatever he saw there. "Have you had lunch yet?"

"No. I actually… I came to see if you were going to eat anything."

For a moment Snape's features expanded with pure shock, the habitual lines disappearing as his raised brow and slightly distended mouth drew the skin taut. Then his expression abruptly faded back into neutral as Snape seemed to regain control over himself. "What do you mean, if I was going to eat anything?"

Harry suppressed an exasperated sigh. "You know, for lunch. You have to eat too, right?"

"Do you believe that it is your job to regulate my mealtimes?"

"No!" Harry erupted. "I just thought we could have lunch together, okay?"

Snape frowned slightly. "Much as I appreciate the invitation, I have no interest in enduring the company of certain parties—"

"Just the two of us," Harry clarified, thinking even as he said it that he sounded like an absolute idiot. "I mean—never mind. I—"

"That sounds more agreeable," Snape cut him off coolly. "Come here and make yourself useful for a moment, and then we shall see about discreetly requisitioning something from the Black larders."

Harry balked. Make himself useful? What on earth did that mean? He glanced warily over the ingredients scattered over the table, hoping Snape merely meant for him to clean them up and not prepare them.

He was not so lucky. Snape selected a bundle of purple flowers with yellow centers and a pair of metal tweezers, which he pushed toward Harry. "I need the pistils removed and set aside. I trust you're competent by now to work with common nightshade…."

Harry swallowed thickly. No, he wasn't. He didn't even know what a pistil was. "I could wash cauldrons—"

Snape made an impatient noise. "It isn't complicated."

"I'm pants at potions and you know it," Harry mumbled

"Even better. You can practice here, with my supervision, and perhaps improve a bit."

"I won't do it right and I'll mess up your potion—"

"You'll do no such thing." Snape gestured briefly to the flowers. "Go on."

Harry sighed to himself, starting to regret his decision to come down here. Sure, he hadn't wanted to see most of the adults eating lunch up at the table, but this little exercise here was not fated to end well. But he didn't think Snape would take no for an answer at this point, and he'd just as soon as botch this without a preceding argument as well.

He picked up the tweezers and began to pluck the petals off of one of the flowers one by one, not sure of how else he could start.

"Pistils, Harry, not petals," Snape corrected him, but calmly and without even an edge of impatience.

"Um." Well, he'd brought this on himself, Harry told himself. He'd just had to come traipsing down here. "I… I don't know what a pistil is."

Snape drew his wand and uttered an incantation over his cauldron before turning his full attention to Harry. "Haven't you covered the basics of plant anatomy in Herbology?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "No—I mean, not that I remember…."

Snape scowled, and for a moment Harry was certain he was in for a verbal excoriation the likes of which he'd not heard in a while.

But then Snape merely shook his head, nose wrinkling in minor irritation. "Perhaps I need to have a word with Pomona," he muttered, "about her choice of curriculum. Daft Hufflepuff, not even covering the foundational principles… well, come here and look closely."

Snape selected one of the flowers and, still holding it so that Harry could see, he carefully peeled back the yellow petals in the center to reveal a thin, whitish tubule, which he extracted carefully with the tweezers. "This is the female reproductive organ of the flower," Snape lectured. "It consists of the stigma—the tip here—the style, and the ovary at the base. The yellow parts here are the stamen, the male parts. You can ignore those." Snape passed the tweezers back to Harry. "It requires a delicate touch, so take your time." Snape demonstrated once more.

Lord Almighty, if Snape had instructed any of his potions classes with this level of patience and knowledge, his students would be in danger of actually learning something.

Harry banished that thought before stealing a nervous glance at the potions master. He knew on a rational level that the man couldn't read minds—

Oh, bloody hell. No, Snape most certainly could read minds.

"Are you having some kind of attack?" Snape wondered scathingly, and it was only then that Harry realized the series of expressions that must have flitted across his face.

"Um, no, just… thinking of something."

Snape arched his infamous brow at him. "Don't strain anything."

Harry rolled his eyes, picking up the tweezers and finagling the yellow parts of the flower open. After a few moments he stole another glance back at the man, just to be sure. But the potions master seemed as placid as ever. Snape either hadn't read his thoughts, or hadn't been offended. Either way, it didn't seem as though Harry had landed himself in hot water.

A quarter hour later, Harry had successfully removed seven near-perfect pistils (though he'd mangled five other specimens along the way).

"Are the male parts good for anything?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Yes, there are many potions that call for them—for enhancement or enrichment, typically. The pistils are usually used to induce growth or healing." Snape had returned to his potion then, and was already decanting it out into vials. "I assume you have used the petals, then, in the past, when potions have called for the pistils?"

Harry felt a prickling warmth wash over his skin. "Yeah," he confessed, laying another extracted pistil in his growing pile on the counter. "I… I didn't know the difference. I think Hermione even used the petals." A white lie, to be sure, but he hoped that it would pass unnoticed.

Snape said nothing to that immediately, only continued his steady work. At last, he murmured, mostly to himself, "Perhaps an overview of botany and animal anatomy would be useful, as well as a course dedicated to preparatory techniques."

"It wouldn't hurt," Harry agreed tentatively casting another mystified glance over at his professor. He was beginning to suspect Polyjuice, or some sort of new prank from the twins.

"I will have to review my lesson plans. In the meantime, we can certainly add such a course to your summer schedule…."

Harry groaned to himself. Ah, there was the good old Snape he knew, hell-bent on sucking the joy out of Harry's life.

"Oh, come now. You clearly need it, and it will not do to have you failing potions—and certainly not during your O.W.L. year. We'll limit it to a few hours a week."

"I have other homework, though—"

"Which you will complete in a timely manner, thus leaving a good portion of your summer free for extra course work." Snape stared him down, as if daring him to contest that statement.

"Sure," Harry agreed unenthusiastically.

"An hour a day will not kill you."

"Ah, but it might," Harry mumbled, plucking out yet another pistil, "and then how would you feel?"

"I would say the chances are exceedingly low, even given the… rather limited equipment I will be working with. But in the interest of not overtaxing that poor organ, we'll take the weekends off, and we'll alternate potions with defense, if you are amenable." Snape glanced over at him. "Are we agreed?"

"We could stick with just defense," Harry wheedled.

"Your marks in defense are not concerning, unlike your marks in potions. We could instead concentrate on potions alone, and do two hours of theory and two hours of practicum each day…."

"Fine, potions and defense," Harry sighed. How did he get himself into these things? Though the prospect of extra defense lessons, even with Snape, was not so bad. "Though my marks in potions aren't so bad, considering…." Harry bit his tongue, feeling like an idiot. He'd been about to complain about Snape, to Snape! All this chumminess had his brain addled.

Snape let the comment pass, though. "They could be exceptional, though, and many future career paths require a high level of proficiency in brewing. Have you given any thought to what you'll do after Hogwarts?"

Harry stiffened slightly. "Um, no," he lied, before ripping the pistil he'd been trying to extract in two. Damn.

"Continue to think on it." Harry felt Snape's eyes lingering on him for a moment before they returned to the cauldron.

Harry had. And really, he'd drawn one conclusion. He'd survived that graveyard by a stroke of luck—a fluke, really. If Voldemort hadn't wanted to put on his little show, Harry would be rotting away in the ground next to Cedric.

He didn't count on being so lucky the next time. And there would be a next time, Harry knew. Oh, he'd prepare for it the best he could. He'd take all the extra defense lessons he could get, and he certainly wouldn't give up. But it seemed to him that his chances of living much past the end of his Hogwarts days were slim to none.

Harry brushed those morbid thoughts aside. No use in dwelling in them. He sure as hell had every intention of making the most of these years here.

They continued to work in silence for a time before Snape called for a halt. The man cleared a space at the counter, casting a cleaning charm over it, before calling, "Kreacher!"

A pop resounded, and there suddenly was an ancient-looking house elf dressed in a filthy rag. "Oh," the old elf moaned, "Kreacher is not supposed to be responding to respectable Potions Master Severus's calls, no, not even if Potions Master Severus is worth ten times as much as Mistress' rotten, awful, blood-traitor son. Not even if Potions Master Severus was good friends with young Master Regulus, ohh, no, Kreacher was warned."

"Kreacher," Snape sighed, "perhaps you would feel more comfortable seeing to your master's godson's requests?"

"This is Sirius' elf?" Harry wondered aloud, peering down at the creature.

"Yes, though your godfather complains about this particular bequest to all and sundry. Which you would know, had you spoken to him."

Harry flushed slightly at the latent disapproval in those words.

"Hem." Kreacher cleared his throat, his features turning from worried to bitter. He glared hard at Harry. "Kreacher is ordered to serve Master's half-blood godson, even if Kreacher believes Master and his godson were not fit to scrape Mistress' shoes…."

"Your master's godson is worth a great deal more than your master, by my estimation," Snape murmured. Harry didn't know what to take of that statement—if Snape was merely saying that he thought so little of Sirius that anyone would look good by comparison, or if he was actually paying Harry a compliment.

Kreacher looked Harry up and down suspiciously, glanced back at Snape, and then finally returned his attention reluctantly to Harry. "How can Kreacher serve?" he demanded impatiently. And then added, under his breath, "Disgraceful that Kreacher should serve a filthy half-blood, spawn of mudbloods…."

"Kreacher," Snape began warningly, his voice gone cold.

Harry watched, fascinated, as Kreacher flinched and then offered, seemingly genuinely contrite, "Kreacher apologizes for his language, Potions Master Severus. Kreacher meant no offense."

Snape frowned, but offered no further rebuke. "Harry, it seems as though you'll have to order lunch, as the mu—as your godfather has expressly forbidden me from calling upon his elf."

"You like Snape, Kreacher?" Harry questioned, too curious to resist.

"Oh yes, Kreacher has a great respect for Potion Master Severus. Master Regulus was great friends with Potions Master Severus—"

"Ancient history," Snape cut the elf off with an unmistakable glare for Harry, "that is best left forgotten. Lunch?"

Harry knew better than to push the topic. In fact, it seemed to him that he'd gotten away with a great deal more than he should have already. "Er, right, lunch. Could you—you know, bring us something down here? If it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

Kreacher's wrinkled lips curled in disgust, but he began shuffling away, muttering under his breath, "Hooligan half-blood brats not knowing how to properly give orders to House Elves…"

"He's a real charmer," Harry commented brightly once the elf was out of earshot.

"Just like his master," Snape grumbled.

XXXXX

Lunch was a quiet affair, which Harry found he greatly preferred. Unlike Remus, who would have forced cheerful small talk, or Sirius, who likely would have spent the whole time regaling Harry with tales of his Hogwarts days.

Snape, on the other hand, was perfectly content with restful silence as they enjoyed their sandwiches and tea. In fact, Harry would have gone so far as to describe the man as pleased, which was odd.

But the signs were unmistakable. The man was relaxed, thumbing through a potions text, one foot braced against the stool he'd dragged over to the counter, knee slightly elevated and the other leg relaxed and trailing against the ground in what Harry was certain was the most casual pose he'd ever seen the man strike. That, and the lines of Snape's face were practically slack, and not in the neutral expression he'd been wearing around Harry for the past couple of weeks. No, now he looked—if Harry didn't know better—completely at ease.

It was nice.

After they'd finished their lunch, Snape summoned Kreacher and offhandedly mentioned that there were dishes lying about in the kitchen without issuing an actual order. Kreacher shot the potions master a mildly disturbing smirk in response and vanished the dishes away before popping off himself.

"How much longer did you wish to stay?" Snape asked at last, returning to the counters and his ingredients. Slowly, with great care, he began gathering up the remaining bits of each and returning them to the corresponding glass jars that had been lined up on the counter beside the sink.

Harry froze.

Sure, he wouldn't mind spending more time with Ron and Hermione, but he wasn't too keen on the confrontation between some of the adults that seemed more and more inevitable.

"Um, you probably want to get going—"

"That is not at all what I asked." Snape collected his stone mortar and pestle and carried it over to the sink, where he began to rinse out the bowl. "I am more than capable of leaving now and returning to collect you later—"

"But that would be a bother, really," Harry argued. "Kind of a waste of your time. We can go, honest."

Snape turned around and pinned him with a knowing look. "You realize that, for all your efforts at subterfuge, you're being rather transparent, yes? You cannot avoid them indefinitely."

Harry really hated, sometimes, how very blunt Snape could be. "But that doesn't mean I have to talk to them today," he countered.

Snape watched him for a moment longer before dipping his head once in consent. "Very well, but I can imagine you would at least want to say your goodbyes to your little friends."

Harry snorted. "You don't have to insult them every time you refer to them, you know."

"Oh, but I do," Snape drawled, an amused smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Go on; I'll meet you back here. We'll take the Floo."

Harry sighed and nodded in acquiescence, thinking that he could probably make this quick. And he'd bet his vault that Snape would let him come back to visit his friends sometime soon. As long as he asked, of course….

He bounded up the steps, wondering just how he was going to hunt down his friends without running into anyone else.

He didn't have to worry long. He nearly barreled into Molly Weasley on his way up the stairs.

"Harry!" she cried, and before he could defend himself she'd pulled him into a tight embrace. "There you are! Ron said you'd gone to ask Severus a question, and when you didn't turn up… well, I wasn't worried, mind you, but the man sometimes has no notion of manners, and I thought that he'd taken you away without as much as a word…."

Harry struggled out of the woman's arms, trying his best to free himself without blatantly shoving her away. "I needed to talk to him about something," Harry replied evasively. "And he wants to leave soon, actually—"

"You haven't even had lunch yet! Daft, irresponsible man. Let me speak to him, Harry."

"I already ate with him—"

"Incorrigible man," Mrs. Weasley swore, her sympathetic eyes still on Harry. "I don't know what Albus was thinking, leaving you with Severus. Making you keep him company, letting him order you about like that—"

"He didn't!" Harry shouted, praying that their words weren't carrying down the stairs. The last thing he needed was Snape coming up and involving himself personally. "I wanted to eat with him."

Mrs. Weasley, like Remus, seemed utterly floored by his declaration. "You… you wanted to eat with him? Did you have a spat with Ron? He seemed a tad upset…."

"No," Harry retorted. "Well, a little, but…." Damn it, there was no way around this, was there? "I mostly didn't want to see… certain people."

Mrs. Weasley, it turned out, could be as dense as her son at times. "Certain people?"

Harry stared down at his shoes. "Like you."

Silence. And then, after that pregnant pause, Mrs. Weasley asked a bit brokenly, "So… so you did get that first batch of letters, then?"

Harry said nothing. Was that her excuse? That she'd wanted to pretend that he'd never read that awful first missive she'd sent?

"We were convinced you hadn't—well, Remus wasn't, he was sure that Severus wouldn't deny you your post, but Sirius, Arthur, and I thought for certain that he'd decide to keep them from you. We all know how he can be, and especially his attitude toward you… oh Harry, I'm so sorry."

Well, that explained a bit. Explained, but didn't excuse.

"Ron tried to tell me that you'd never… but the stories they'd tell about your hooligan cousin, and what Arthur told me after meeting him last summer, well, I'd thought the worst, that you'd taken after him, or had been bullied into things by him. And I knew those Muggles were inept at rearing children, and I couldn't help but think that you… well, that you could do with some parenting. Arthur told me that it wasn't really my place, but I was having none of it. I was in a right state." Mrs. Weasley's hands came together then to wring one another.

"And then Severus told us the truth about everything, and I thought that as soon as I had a reply from you I'd write you back and tell you I'd been out of line—because you're really such a good, kind boy, Harry, and I was so worried for you… my boys can tell you exactly how my worry comes out, too. But then I never had a reply, and we'd been talking, and it just seemed likely that Severus had deliberately withheld your letters, or… or forgotten about them. Oh love… I can see why you'd be cross with me." Mrs. Weasley looked to be on the verge of tears.

Harry tried to hold himself steady. But he had to fold his arms tightly over his chest to keep them from trembling. This was not how he'd imagined things going. Damn it, she'd made him feel awful—ashamed of himself, ashamed for something he'd not even done.

"We only took the car because we thought we wouldn't be allowed to go to Hogwarts if we'd missed the train," Harry blurted out. "We didn't know. We were stupid kids. And… and I was so afraid of having to go back to them after Fred and George came to get me…."

The tears started to gather in Mrs. Weasley's eyes again as she bobbed her head a few times. "Yes, I didn't think about it…. You don't break rules for selfish reasons. I know you've had an awful time of it, Harry, don't think I've forgotten. I've just… well. Foolish of me to make any assumptions, I know, but you've been through so much in your life, and I know that sometimes sends people down the wrong path, and I just was so afraid that it had finally become too much for you." She swallowed hard and drew in a deep breath, so deep that her bosom rose and fell with the force of it. "I promise to keep my nose where it belongs from now on. And to think before I send off any more stupid letters."

Much as he wanted to stay angry, much as he wanted to tell the woman that she never should have sent such an awful letter in the first place, Harry couldn't find it in himself to keep that resentment burning. It flamed out in him, and he found himself stepping forward without a thought, this time to initiate an embrace.

Mrs. Weasley welcomed him easily, though she did seem surprised to find him in her arms.

"S'okay," Harry mumbled, then stepped back quickly, feeling very awkward suddenly.

"Did you know," Mrs. Weasley began in a trembling voice, a watery smile on her lips, "that I once thought Fred and George had been experimenting on the Muggles down the way? Oh, I was mad enough to skin the pair of them. I thought they'd made one of the little girls break out in itchy red spots, and then tricked the girl's family into believing it was some rubbish disease called Chicken Pox." Mrs. Weasley had begun to blush then, and she started to fish around in a pocket in her apron for a handkerchief. When she found one—a red-checkered, twisted-up thing—she daubed at her eyes before swiping it over her nose.

"Chicken Pox is a real Muggle disease," Harry ventured tentatively, not sure where her story was going.

"Oh, I know that now," she insisted, a self-deprecating smile on her lips. "But not in time. The twins said they'd had nothing to do with it, and it was so unlike them, I tell you. When those two are caught, they fess up, take their lumps, and move on with their lives. They're honest boys, mostly.

"But this time they swore up and down that it wasn't them, and I didn't believe them. I told them they were going to make it right, because Merlin help them if I had to involve St. Mungo's and the Ministry. And still they told me they had nothing to do with it." Mrs. Weasley's smile faltered, then fell, and for a moment Harry could barely recognize her through the expression of guilt that had twisted her features.

"What did you do?" Harry asked quietly.

"Made them muck out the whole chicken pen with toothbrushes. I told them that I hoped they caught Chicken Pox, that it would only serve them right…." She sighed. "And then Arthur came home, and I mentioned the girl down the way—I wanted to ease him into things, see. Arthur knew right away, of course, what the girl had, and he told me I should make her some of my mother's bone broth to help her feel better. And I knew that Fred and George had been telling the truth." Mrs. Weasley smiled bitterly to herself. "I'd like to tell you that I went to them straight away and told them what I'd learned, and apologized for my awful mistake."

"You didn't?"

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "No. I was a coward, Harry. I never brought it up to them again. Not to this day. I couldn't admit I'd been wrong. I couldn't admit that I'd jumped to conclusions and been unjust with them. But I promised myself I'd do no such thing again." Mrs. Weasley closed her eyes lightly for just a moment before opening them again. "And here I am, doing the same thing over again because I was too—too proud…." Mrs. Weasley's voice choked over for a moment, and she had to stop speaking.

"It's all right," Harry reassured her, and he meant it, too. His heart ached a little, even, as he realized how vulnerable Mrs. Weasley was, how much she'd just admitted to him.

The adults in his life were human too. Why did that feel like such a revelation?

"Hardly," she murmured. "I've upset you. Oh, Harry…."

"It's all right," Harry repeated numbly, awkwardly, not sure what more he could say. "Really. I—I was upset about it, but… I understand now. And I know you didn't mean what you said. Not like I thought, anyway."

Mrs. Weasley nodded once, mutely, her eyes still not meeting Harry's. "Well. I suppose… Ron and Hermione were looking for you, dear. And Remus and Sirius too."

Harry couldn't help but pull a face at that.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips. "They're sorry too, you know," she murmured. And then she announced briskly, "Well, come along, Harry. Let's not keep them waiting."

Harry sighed to himself, but he allowed himself to be led up into the dining room.

All four named parties, as it turned out, were convened around the dining table. Four heads raised and turned toward him as soon as he and Mrs. Weasley entered the room.

Sirius was on his feet in half an instant and on his way over to Harry, his arms open and a broad grin splitting his face, which was only slightly less gaunt than what Harry remembered. "There you are. Come here, don't be a stranger!"

"Sirius," Lupin cautioned the man, an uncomfortable look stealing over his features. "Harry might not—"

"Moony, I think I'd know if that creep poisoned my godson. Dumbledore would never allow it. You're all right, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry almost told the man to shove off, but Snape's disappointment weighed heavily on his mind still. If the potions master, who unabashedly detested Sirius, thought it was a good idea for Harry to at least talk to the man….

"Hey," he greeted Sirius weakly, lifting his hand in a feeble wave.

Sirius dropped his arms, his expression turning puzzled. "Harry? Everything all right then?"

From the other side of the table, Hermione lifted her brows pointedly at both Lupin and Sirius. Clearly, she thought he should speak plainly to the two of them.

Harry disagreed though. His stomach already felt unsettled after dealing with Mrs. Weasley, and that whole confrontation had gone about as good as he could have hoped for.

Still, he wasn't about to let that poisoning comment stand. "Snape didn't brainwash me, or poison me, or any other stupid thing," he said, and glared pointedly at Lupin.

Lupin at least had the grace to look abashed. "Harry, it's not that we think that he has. It's just strange that you've been so… well, standoffish with the both of us—"

Harry's resolution to keep mum and deal with the two of them on a later day snapped then and there. "Really? Strange that I've been standoffish, is it? What do you call not writing me for a full year, hm, Professor? Good thing I wasn't doing anything important during that year. Fighting off dragons or merfolk or getting whisked away to resurrect Voldemort!" Harry whipped to face Sirius. "And maybe I don't like hearing that my godfather can just accept that I robbed some defenseless Muggle, and that instead of asking to hear my side of the story, he just fires off about how I'm being too wild, about how my father never would have gone so far, as if the only thing that matters to you is how I measure up against my father! I'm not bloody James Potter, and I never will be, and hell, maybe I don't want to be!"

Lupin and Sirius just stared at him in stunned silence, unable to reply.

Harry took advantage to turn to Ron and Hermione, whose eyes had turned to saucers. "I'm going home. Um, I think Snape'll let me come back sometime. I'll write." And with that he darted past Mrs. Weasley and back down into the kitchen, hoping Snape would be ready to go. He really didn't want to linger. He was afraid of what he might say.

Snape, thankfully, was ready. He stood by the fireplace, a chipped onyx bowl in one hand, a bored expression on his face. His attention flickered to Harry as he stumbled into the kitchen.

"I will," he said simply.

Harry stared at him, perplexed.

"Allow you to return," Snape clarified. "Provided that you ask me clearly and directly."

Harry felt his face begin to prickle and burn as it dawned on him that Snape had somehow heard the entirety of his exchange in the dining room. "Were you spying on me?"

"Merely investigating this rather curious invention. Purely out of professional interest, as a faculty member of Hogwarts, where I assume they will be distributed." Snape indicated with a jerk of his chin what appeared to be a human ear lying in the corner of the room. An Extendable Ear—a Weasley invention that Ron had detailed to him during their conversation.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I, um… I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. I'm sorry, sir—"

"Why are you apologizing to me?" Snape demanded, bewildered.

Harry chewed his lip for a moment, trying to formulate his thoughts. Snape hated rambling, that he knew. "Well… I'm kind of your responsibility now, so when I go off like that, I… uh, make you look bad?"

Snape snorted. "Are you asking or telling me?" And then, without waiting for a reply, he informed Harry loftily, "I happen to appreciate the phrasing you used with the wolf and the mutt. You were not out of line." He shook the bowl he was holding slightly. "Now hurry along. I'd rather not linger in this miserable place a moment longer than I must."

Harry stared at Snape a moment longer, still wondering at the fact that he hadn't been told off for his bad behavior. If he'd ever spoken to anyone as he had to Lupin and Sirius in Vernon or Petunia's hearing….

But Snape was not the Dursleys. Clearly. It was stupid that he should need to keep reminding himself of that simple fact.

"Have you been Confounded?" Snape growled impatiently, snapping Harry out of his contemplations.

Harry shook his head.

"Then why are you staring blankly at me?" And then he clarified, with a touch of his trademark sneer, "More blankly than usual."

"Waiting for the Polyjuice to wear off," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes, before grabbing a pinch of Floo powder from the proffered dish.

Snape glowered at him (though with no serious malignity, Harry could tell) before taking his own pinch and settling the dish back onto the kitchen's grimy mantle. He thrust the powder into the fireplace and announced, "Spinner's End!"

The fireplace roared to life in a rush of green flames, and Snape stepped in and disappeared.

Harry tossed his own handful in immediately afterwards, reigniting the flames, and repeated after Snape, being sure to enunciate very clearly. And then, in a rush of soot, he was spinning off toward the grungy, outdated little flat, thinking that, nice as it had been to see Ron and Hermione, it would be good to be home.

Or, he corrected himself, what was home for the moment.

Still, never in his life would he have believed that he would be looking forward to a quiet evening in the company of Severus Snape.

A/N: Hello, lovely people. Another update for you, nice and long. The tentative plan right now is to return (like, really return and actually produce a chapter) to Snape's Promise, so I cannot, alas, promise updates in the near future.

Also, Wizards Unite kind of has me scrambling around outside and such (PSA, there's a Harry Potter Go game for all who might somehow be unaware). So there is that. Also, summer, so I do this thing were I try to get outside instead of hiding behind my computer screen...

Anyway, all this to say that I thank you all, as always, for your kind and encouraging reviews, and I will do my best to get more written as soon as humanly possible. And I thank you all for your patience and for keeping me plugging along.

Cheers! ~Mel