Dusk of October 31st, 1981

Sunrise: 6:04 a.m.

―

James' eyes snapped open as Harry's cries filled the air. He sat up, his heart pounding as he listened to his son's tears, trying to understand what could have caused such distress. He got out of bed, his flannel pyjamas hugging his frame as he went through his morning stretches, hair sticking up in all directions from where he slept on it. James had tried straightening his clothes with an iron so it didn't rip, but it worsened. There was a big hole at the side of his long-sleeved shirt. The best he could do was to charm it into stretching with him when he did and transfigure bits of it back together. Lily called him lazy and said he could just wear things that fit him, but James liked his pyjamas. He couldn't just let go of his attachment to the damned clothes since it's the same ones he used to wear at Hogwarts. It… reminded him of his glory days.

As James entered his son's nursery, something crept over him. There was a weight in his chest that he couldn't seem to shake. The 21-year-old man absentmindedly cleaned his glasses on his trouser hems, thinking about his life before adulthood.

He didn't want to bother his wife with Harry at the moment. She already did so much for him—dealt with the toddler's tantrums, appetite, and even his petty episodes where he gets mad over nothing. It was only fair James cared for the boy tonight. He could mention his inability to fix his clothes at a later time—maybe he'd buy new pyjamas when their stint with the Dark Lord washes over. Then maybe he'd be able to let go.

Harry's cries rang through the room as he clung desperately to the wooden bassinet fences, his tiny fingers white-knuckled. The brooms above his head were still spinning, making small chimes ring as they spun.

James picked up his son and settled into the rocking chair next to the crib. As he held Harry close, he could feel the gentle weight of Harry's body and the softness of his hair. "There, there," he said, hoping his calm tone would soothe the child's mind. Harry gurgled out more wails, accompanying the glossy tears falling from his verdant eyes. "It'll all be okay," he reassured the infant.

The faint aroma of baby powder lingered around them as they rocked back and forth. The chair creaked quietly, and Harry's breathing rasped into a steady rhythm. James watched with contentment as Harry reached out to play with the rocking horse next to the chair, his face alight with awe. He kept rocking on the chair, whispering soothing words until the child fell asleep in his arms. Harry's soft snores made James let out a small chortle.

It was adorable how fast the kid fell asleep sometimes. It reminded him of his days in Hogwarts—when things were much better.

Things were far from perfect now.

Just as he was deep in thought, a muffled tapping sound startled him. At first, James believed it to be his imaginings, but the noise persisted like an incessant woodpecker plucking into a hard oak.

After setting Harry back to his cot with slight difficulty, James turned around to look for the source of the noise. It was from the windows. The persistent cadence compelled his feet to move forward. He approached the window with deliberate steps, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. He hesitated before the pane. It was like a thick fog rolling in over the mountains in his head. James felt lost at sea with no map, and a storm was approaching. With a deliberate motion, he threw open the window and peered out into the night. All was still, save for the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

James pivoted on his heel, his senses still plagued by the sound. "Just what was that noise?" he muttered to himself. Before he could get out of the room, the clamour resumed as he confronted the window, sending him spinning anew.

"Aha!" he said, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Harry. His gaze fell upon something that, to the muggle eye, may have been strange but, to James, was an everyday occurrence—perhaps not this late at night.

"Aren't you gorgeous?" he greeted the gallant owl, its plumage ruffled, perched upon the windowsill, its beak striking the frame in a persistent drumming. The owl's eyes, round and wise, met James' in a gaze, holding some urgent missive. James approached the window, and as he drew near, the tapping ceased. The owl hooted and extended its leg, bearing aloft a parchment tightly bound.

"What's this?" James droned, singsong. He opened the window carefully and let the owl in. It hooted at him rather quietly as if trying not to wake Harry either. When James touched the paper, it unfurled into a sharp-edged envelope. James took the sepia letter from the owl's leg and grimaced. The thick crimson blot of wax gleamed, the insignia unmistakable. It was the brand of Dumbledore's not-so-secret order. He opened the flat envelope, pulled the letter from inside, and read through the fine calligraphy, one word at a time, processing the message written to him.

He thanked the owl with a gesture and watched as it fled through the window.

He sat back on the rocking chair, caught in a landslide of emotions, unable to process them. "Peter..." he whispered out.

Peter Pettigrew was one of his best friends. He was their spy all along. The Order had received intel about him when he let something slip to his… associates. Lily had originally suspected Remus because of his condition, but Remus didn't blame her. James didn't want to believe it initially, but the idea grew on him. But now, it didn't matter who they blamed. Peter was a Death Eater, and they were all in danger. Dumbledore ordered them to leave as soon as they could so they could re-establish the Fidelius charm elsewhere and pick a more suitable secret keeper.

James picked up Harry from his crib once again and quickened his pace. He made it to his and Lily's bedroom, waking his wife from her sleep. "Lily, hurry, wake up, love," he said, frenzied by the time constraint. "He could be here any minute."

"James?" Lily mumbled as she opened her eyes, still groggy. "What's happening?"

"We have to go now! He's coming," he explained with fervent desperation, the taste of bile muddling his throat.

Lily's eyes widened, but she slowly paced herself. "No," she said, stouthearted. "You need to leave me with Harry, and go."

James couldn't tell if she was in the right mind or not. "Lily? Are you seriously joking right now?" Perhaps she was so frightened she had lost it.

"James, listen to me. I know what I have to do, but I need our son to do it. Trust me."

He couldn't mistake the sheer honesty in her voice. It was the same voice she used when she advocated for something she truly cared for. But this time, she meant it so dearly that he could feel the valiance she exuded from where he stood.

"I trust you, my love. You know I do," he said. But then he thought back to his days at Hogwarts once again. He peered at Harry in his grasp, a faint, wistful smile crawling onto his face as his son opened his eyes. "Even though you lie to me, I trust you, Lily. For his sake."

"Now is not the time for this, James."

James nodded. "I know. That's why we're leaving. I'm taking Harry with me. You can come if you so choose." Harry's hand approached his face and ran along his stubble-ridden jaw. "Or you can hide. I won't blame you, Lily."

Lily grunted with a pursed lip. "This isn't how it's supposed to go," she said, finally breaking down. "I just—!" She did not shed a single tear, not a smidge of wetness in her eyes. "I need to go, James."

He propped his knee on the bed and encased Lily in a warm embrace, caressing the warmth of her cheek. "Do what you have to, love," James whispered into her blood-red hair. Before he could finish, she shot out from his hand, racing out of the room.

James exhaled through his nostrils. He searched Harry's face for a sign of hope. The boy giggled at the attention before letting out a small blabber of words sounding like 'pa,' even though he could speak more if he wanted.

He wiped the wetness from his eyes and smiled at his son. "Yes. Your pa loves you too, Harry."

James turned to the bedroom window, which showered them with moonlight. He grabbed his wand from the drawer next to his bed and aimed out the window. He turned on the spot, carrying his son with him to the entrance of Hogwarts, where Dumbledore and his order were waiting.

Night of July 25th, 1991

Sunrise: 6:08 a.m.

―

Harry felt a jolt of pain in his stomach as he landed on a cobblestone street. His skin felt raw like someone had scraped it off with sandpaper. He barely had time to register his surroundings before he vomited on the ground. While it touched the ground, most of it hit his oversized blue shirt. The sound of him retching echoed through the streets.

Snape's voice, tinged with annoyance, rang in his ear. "Welcome to Spinner's End, Potter. This is where I live. Try not to make a mess of it." The man's scowl could curdle milk.

Harry wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked up. He saw a row of shabby houses with boarded windows and peeling paint. A rusted swing was set in the front yard of one house, and a faint smell of mildew came from all of them. Snape's house was no different except for a gold-plated number eight on the door. Harry wondered if this was really better than the Dursleys. "Sorry about the puke in your yard."

The man lifted his sleeve a little, and a dark ornate stick shot out from it and into his palm. "Tergeo!" Harry watched as the bile on his clothes and the ground slowly lifted off him and into a void of nothingness with little fanfare. "Follow."

Snape led him inside, unlocking the door with a flick of that stick. Harry accompanied him, scratching the back of his neck, feeling dizzy. He could hear his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. Harry had experienced that teleportation magic before and hoped he would never have to do it again. Seems luck was not in his favour either.

The inside of the house was dark and dusty, with piles of books and papers everywhere. Harry saw a fireplace, a sofa, a table, and a few chairs, but nothing that looked comfortable or inviting. Snape gestured for him to sit on the sofa while he went to a cupboard and took out a small red bottle and a glass.

"Drink this," he said, handing Harry a glass of clear liquid. "It will help with the nausea."

Harry sniffed the glass. A faint smell of ammonia wafted off the thing. He hesitated, unsure if he should trust Snape.

"Go on, Potter. It won't kill you. It's a potion. Magic is not all about the fantastical, it also has practical uses."

The liquid's effervescent bubbles tickled his nose as Harry sipped, hoping it would make him feel better. He coughed as the liquid burned his throat and made his eyes water. He felt a warmth spreading through his body. It actually wasn't that bad. It tasted like a spoonful of slightly too salty soup, but not enough to ruin the soup and a hint of… the sound of children laughing in the distance. He wasn't sure he could even consider the last bit a flavour.

Snape looked at Harry with a face that looked like it was carved out of stone. "You must have many questions, Potter. But before we get to that, there is something you need to know. You are staying here with me until you are ready to go to Hogwarts. This is your new home, Potter. At least for the time being."

Harry's muscles tensed up. He felt a surge of fear and a bit of anger. There was no way he could stay with Snape. He did not want to be trapped with a stranger, let alone one he needed to keep his guard up against.

He opened his mouth to protest but let out a faint intake of breath instead as Snape cut him off. "Don't argue, Potter. It's for your own good. You can not go back to the muggle world." Snape turned away, saying something like 'even if that old bastard says otherwise' to himself.

He realized that his life had changed forever, and he had no choice but to accept it. He looked at Snape, who turned back around to look back at him with a piercing gaze.

"Stop maiming yourself. It is unsightly."

Harry didn't even realize that he did that. He stopped scratching the itch at the back of his neck and breathed out.

"When am I going to get a stick?"

"A stick? You mean a wand, Potter?" Snape asked. The man's annoyance seemed to increase even more now. "Later. You may not use magic until you get to Hogwarts."

Harry didn't like the sound of that. In the Dursley's household, 'later,' almost always meant never whenever it came to Harry's needs. "How come you get to use magic, then?"

Snape snorted, and the air whistled between his teeth. "I am an adult, Potter. I can do many things that you cannot."

"Okay… I can live with that," Harry replied. "When will you take me to Hogwarts?"

"After you get all that is necessary for your classes, I will take you to King's Cross in London on September 1st." Snape waited a minute before flicking his wand around his clothes. Harry watched in some form of shock as the man's two-piece suit transformed into a black robe, making him even more intimidating than before. "That includes your wand."

"Won't the police come looking for me? You just took me out of what felt like a prison cell."

"A distinguished perspective; no, they will not. They won't remember you either," Snape responded. "Tell me, do you fear the unknown?"

What an odd question. "What's there to fear?" Harry replied. "What's new to me isn't to someone else. I'll just need him by my side when I need to face it."

"How interesting—presumptuous, even. That was not subtle at all, by the way. Something like would have worked on your blithering muggle relatives, but it will not on me."

"Why ask me that question, Snape?"

Snape took off his sleek gloves and tossed them onto a small circular table next to the front door. "That is 'sir' to you, boy. You will address me with respect." The man was aloof for a moment, looking away from Harry only to turn his back to him, moving to the cupboard again. "I expect perfection from my students, nothing less."

"Right, God forbid I be anything less than perfect," Harry said. "It's almost like I didn't lose my entire family, sir."

"Watch the sarcasm, boy." Snape sat on the armchair facing the couch, crossing his arms and lifting a leg over the other. "You'd do well to sit and listen to me."

"I have been," Harry replied, matching the man's demeanour. He lifted his leg over the other and crossed his arms like Snape. "I believe you've been withholding information, sir. I just want to know exactly what is happening. Because right now… it feels like I've only been moved to another cell."

"How amusing. Is there anything else you think about?"

"Yes, why are you dodging my questions?" Harry asked. "I… I don't like it when people do that."

"Fine, you want me to be frank with you, so I shall," Snape smirked a little, if Harry could even call it that. "I had put compulsions on your muggle jailers to let me into the holding cell they kept you in. I do not very much care about your personal affairs, especially how you landed in a penitentiary. It's not in my job description."

Snape said nothing else before getting up.

Harry's eyes narrowed to slits. "What is it?"

"Have you eaten?"

"No." That was strange. Harry was sure he meant to say 'yes' just now.

Snape moved into his kitchen for a while before bringing a steaming plate and a glass of water. He placed them on his dining table and ushered Harry to him. When Harry did so, the man took a little lime-coloured bottle and dropped some of it into his glass.

Noticing his hesitation, Snape lightly groaned. "Drink. It cures you of the effects of Veritaserum much faster than its natural micro-bacterial lifespan."

"Okay." The sight of bright green peas against a bed of fluffy mashed potatoes marred his gaze. Harry ate silently as Snape paced around the dining room like a looming overgrown bat. When he was done, the man looked at him again, just as critical as before.

After about a minute, he finally gave Harry more instructions. "Upstairs, two rooms down on the left, there is a washroom with a toothbrush and other essentials that have been prepared for your arrival. After you are done, the bedroom is one door down." Snape paused. "You have a big day tomorrow. I suggest you get some sleep."

When he got up, he felt the weight of a question pressing down on him. "Wait, what's a Veritaserum?"

Snape let out another strange frown smile, but this time, his lips curled up on one side, revealing a dimple. "Go to bed, Mr. Potter."

Morning of July 26th, 1991

Nightfall: 9:02 p.m.

―

Severus had always trod a path of indifference, a stranger to the softer shades of emotions one may possess. It wasn't his idea to break the Potter brat out of prison, but it might as well have been. Dumbledore had insisted that the matter was pressing—urgent to his Order. The boy had garnered another miracle. But Severus was like his mother, cautious, armed with forethought and a drive to discover the truth behind any circumstance. A miracle is a miracle, but it becomes something entirely different when it happens to the same person twice or more. Harry Potter was not a miracle. He did not bear them. Potter is at the epicentre of the chessboard, perhaps to over two sides of this brewing war.

Severus didn't know what exactly these muggles wanted with the boy or why they placed him in that drab facility. A quick flick of his wand allowed him to tear through most wardens and guards pilfering about the halls. Harry was not the hardest to find, either. A prick of the first guard's head gave Severus all he needed to know. He infiltrated that prison on behalf of Dumbledore's illegal order. The old goat had him by the leash, and he didn't like one bit of it. But Severus swore he'd keep that boy safe, not to the headmaster… but to Lily. Maybe in the afterlife, she could forgive him for what he had done.

After last night, Severus was in a state of disarray, not physically, but in the temple of his mind. He touched his forehead and hissed out a silent groan. The boy's push into his mind was devastating. How a nearly eleven-year-old child could skewer into his brain and atomize his shields was jarring. Only Severus's tact allowed him to push away Harry's assault on his mind. To think, Harry Potter—a natural Legilimens, one nearly as powerful as the Dark Lord.

This would be trouble. Severus sat up on his weathered bed. Its seasoned mahogany frame bore the patina of countless restless nights. Making his way into the washroom, he tidied up, cared for hygiene, and fit into his innocuous black robes. The reflection in the mirror ever-darkened his already sour mood. The room he had situated Harry in used to be his father's study. Severus trotted the hall before entering, contemplating whether he should wake the boy.

A steady knocking came from the main door. Severus paced again, this time with much more caution. The creaking floorboards beneath him protested the disruption of their quietude. Severus never had visitors. Dumbledore would send a missive if he were sending for Severus. He could not even recognize their signature… had a muggle traipsed by his wards? With each step toward the door, the echoes of the knocks reverberated. Who was at his door? Severus transmuted his clothes into muggle attire and began walking down the stairs.

When he arrived, he swung the door open, and it whistled a muted noise. Light spilled into his dark house, briefly illuminating the room with the Sun's citrus hues. "Mr. Snape, I presume?" a man in a dark suit asked. He had a stoic presence to him—disciplined, Severus noted. The man's crisp British accent was disgustingly prim.

The man extended a firm hand. "Marcus Falcone, MI5. We have a couple of matters of national importance to discuss."

Severus, his demeanour as cold as ever, met the handshake with a measured grip. "What business does the MI5 have with me?" he inquired.

Falcone's partner eyed him down. Her hand was on her buckle, itching to shoot Severus at the first sign of resistance. "Don't bother playing coy. We know you took Harry James Potter from under our noses." She had this venom on her tongue that almost felt like she held onto it for someone else.

"And how could you possibly know that?" Severus asked.

"Listen, Mr. Snape. Our intel says that the boy survived a fire the likes of Smithfield. That doesn't just happen out of nowhere, and you do not come out unscathed from it either." Falcone's eyes were sharp as they locked onto Severus's. "Not to mention, arson was not the sole perpetrator of that carnage… people were stabbing each other, friends turned foe, mothers gutting their children. This was not by any means normal. By the time help arrived, not a man, child or even animal remained alive in Privet Drive except for Harry Potter. We think that this ties into something bigger."

Severus held the knob of the door. "You don't say?" He then locked eyes with the man and held his breath.

"Is there something funny on my face, Mr. Snape?"

He let go. "No, there is not. I just needed more information." Severus swiped his wand before either agent could do anything about him. "Imperio!" he whispered. A little-known fact about the Dark Mark was that it protected the Death Eater from the Ministry. Voldemort had made it so his followers could freely use dark magic without the law getting in their way. Severus was dealing in the light, but he never once took this little gift for granted.

Falcone and the woman turned still, awaiting orders. Their expressions became vacant, their eyes empty, vessels devoid of purpose. "Leave this place, forget my name, and never come looking for Harry Potter or I again." The MI5 agents nodded in unison, their purpose rekindling itself within their heads. Without uttering a word, they turned on their heels and left, allowing Severus to close the door.

Once he was certain they were out of earshot, he released a heavy sigh. Running up the stairs, he walked into Harry's room and looked over the boy until he found exactly what he was looking for—at the back of his neck.