Harry perched on the very edge of the sofa cushion. In one sense, he deeply regretted the fact that he had just blurted out to his Potions professor the story of his time-hopping interactions with a juvenile Severus Snape. His slip up would inevitably lead to a whole host of questions that Harry did not feel equipped to answer. On the other hand, however, Harry’s mind was spinning with the indisputable fact that in the last 24 hours, he had somehow travelled back in time, inexplicably met with the 12-year-old version of his Potions Master, who was somehow familiar enough with Harry’s presence that he had addressed him as ‘Henrik’ and had excitedly invited him to see who-knew-what in a hidden room of Kall Hus.

He peered up now at the still form of the more familiar (and far more intimidating) adult version of Severus Snape. The man had not moved, nor had he spoken, since Harry’s revelation that the mystery boy that he had interacted with on two separate occasions was, in fact, this very same person.

Slowly, Snape lowered his gaze, locking eyes with Harry. The emotion behind the dark irises was unreadable. Harry was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the man’s continued silence. He expected ranting, or a vehement denial of the facts presented. Instead, Snape seemed beyond any kind of vocalisation. If he were to try to put a name to his teacher’s current state of mind, he would have to say that Snape seemed…fearful.

“It was you,” Harry swallowed nervously. “Not you now, but you when you were a boy. You – he – even told me that his name was Severus. He seemed a little put out about being called Snape. Said that he only got called by that name at school-“

Snape’s alarm seemed to intensify for a moment before, just as suddenly, his expression transformed into a cool mask of indifference.

“Am I to understand, Mr Potter, from the content of your ramblings, that you actually conversed with this hallucination?”

One eyebrow raised in incredulity, the Potions Master sank into the wing-back chair nearest the fire. Harry could almost have believed Snape’s display of indifference, had it not been for the white-knuckled grip of the man’s hands as they tightly clenched the rolled arms of the chair.

“Well, you – he – talked to me first, really,” Harry explained. “I fell out of the cupboard and he thought I was a Boggart.”

“You fell out of the cupboard?” Snape sneered, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it.

“Yeah, that last time I had a seizure, when I was at Kall Hus, I was hiding in a cupboard,” he felt his cheeks warm a little as he gave his professor a sheepish sideways glance. “The kids – well, anyway, we were playing a game. I thought the cupboard would be a great hiding spot, and it was, because nobody came for me. At one point, I could hear some voices in the hallway, and I was in there for a while longer before I realised that I was stuck in there. There was no handle on the inside of the door and the latch was closed.”

He closed his eyes, remembering the panic that had blossomed inside him in the moment when he believed himself to be trapped.

“Just then, I heard someone standing right outside. I guessed it was probably Lucas.”

Harry paused, thinking of his decidedly ungraceful tumble onto the hallway rug when the cupboard door had suddenly released. “The door opened, but when I fell out, it was not now. Except, well, you were there, but I didn’t realise it was you at first because you weren’t you now, you were you then,” he tossed his head in frustration in his own clumsy attempt to describe the leap back in time. “I mean, when I saw you, it must have been years ago, because you were just a kid. Even so,” here, he spoke slowly and deliberately. “You knew me.”

Snape continued to stare at Harry as if he had gone completely mad.

“I knew you?” he queried softly, never shifting his intense gaze for a moment.

“Um, yeah,” mumbled Harry. “You called me Henrik, and – oh! – I remember that you said something about me appearing in the middle of the lake the last time you saw me!”

He felt a sudden rush of triumph at remembering this small detail, followed by apprehension.

“Erm – maybe that’s actually not such a good thing, really…” Harry trailed off in concern, wondering about the context of appearing unexpectedly in the middle of a deep expanse of water in one of his time travelling adventures.

There was a momentary flash of recognition in Snape’s face, but it was there and gone so quickly that Harry could scarcely credit that he had witnessed it. His teacher frowned and shook his head in bemusement.

“Potter,” he began. “Surely you must know how completely absurd this all sounds.” The man shook his head again, more slowly this time. If Harry didn’t know better, he would have said that his professor looked concerned for him.

As if to prove the point, Snape leaned forward and peered intently at Harry’s face, his dark eyes shifting from side to side as he looked him over. Harry felt a slight tingle of magic and the faintest brush of another consciousness meeting his own before the intruding presence slid abruptly away.

Snape slumped back into his chair in an uncharacteristically despondent manner. He sighed and rubbed at his brow in seeming frustration. “I cannot.”

“Beg pardon?” Harry stared at him.

“I cannot, Mr Potter, validate whether you truly believe this preposterous story, or if this is all some attention-grabbing fabrication of your infantile mind,” Snape replied wearily. “I cannot Legilimise you at present. It is too dangerous for both of us.”

“That never stopped you before,” Harry replied hotly. “Last year, you never worried at all about mucking about in my mind!” A recollection of those terrible Occlumency lessons came rushing back, and the ghost of the fearsome headaches he had suffered afterwards seemed to take up residence behind Harry’s eyes as he thought about Snape’s cruel intrusion into his private thoughts and memories.

Snape closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly working to control his temper.

“You were old enough at that time that your synaptic connections were more concrete and thus less vulnerable to any permanent damage that mind magic can cause. That is certainly not the case at the present time. If I were to enter your mind now, I could cause irreversible harm to your temporal lobe.”

“My temporal lobe?” Harry fidgeted with his left ear absent-mindedly.

“Not your ear lobe, you imbecile!” Snape snapped at him. “Your temporal lobe; it is the part of your brain responsible for auditory processing, speech, long and short-term memory and a whole host of other vital brain functions. Were I to perform Legilimency on you at this physiological age, I could render you a deaf-mute amnesiac for the remainder of your natural born days! I could inadvertently destroy your ability to process emotion, leaving you in a state of unendurable terror from which you would never recover, or, conversely, render you completely devoid of any emotional capacity at all. I am speaking of brain damage, Potter!”

The man was breathing heavily at the end of his impassioned lecture, his cheeks flushed, and his brow creased in exasperation.

Harry felt a little shaky at hearing exactly what might have happened to him just moments ago, had Snape actually followed through with his first instinct to seek confirmation of the truth through breaching Harry’s mental defences.

“There is a different danger inherent in performing mind magic on a developing brain,” Snape continued in a softer tone. “As the caster, I would likely have become trapped in your mind, unable to extricate myself from the depths of still-forming memory and emotion. Eventually, after several hours or days of disorientation and a gradual complete loss of self, I would have died.”

There was silence in the room, as both wizards contemplated the near-miss they had just experienced.

“Huh,” Harry huffed, breaking the heavy atmosphere. “Lucky you managed to stop yourself in time, then…”

Snape snorted with what sounded suspiciously like amusement and seemed to gather his wits.

“Although somewhat simply phrased, that is a fair and accurate assessment. Unfortunately, this does leave us at somewhat of an impasse,” he spread his long-fingered hands in a gesture of futility.
“I shall, instead, have to assume that this rather bizarre story is either a desperate attempt on your behalf to return to your real age, or yet another side-effect of the de-aging potion.”

Harry felt a rush of anger that Snape simply wouldn’t believe him.

“I know you think me a liar and a sneak and most definitely a spoilt little attention-seeker,” Harry sneered in his best Snape impression. “But, Sir, I swear to you, I am telling the truth! I saw you! I spoke to you!”

Snape sighed again.

“Mr Potter, as much as I may believe that you are all of those things, and more, it pains me to admit that in this instance…I do believe you,” he frowned at Harry.

Harry gaped back at him.

“I believe that you believe that you saw some youthful version of myself in the corridor of Kall Hus.”

“So you still think I hallucinated, then?” Harry clenched his fists so tightly that he could feel the skin straining against his knuckles.

“A dream, perhaps, if not some fantastical delusion brought on by a lack of oxygen during your fit. It must have appeared completely real to you in every way,” Snape looked at Harry with an expression of sympathy that was at odds with his impatient demeanour. “You were in a semi-conscious state for some time. Near three hours had passed before I was able to fully rouse you from your stupor. It stands to reason that your mind was still attempting to process information during that time, providing you with a complex vision-“

“No!” Harry thumped his small fists against the sofa cushion in frustration. He hated the ineffectually high-pitched tone of his own exclamation. “I told you before – but you weren’t listening! I was awake during that time, but I just couldn’t move. I knew everything that was happening, well, mostly. I fell asleep after you put me in my bed. All that stuff happened after I time travelled! I met you, the younger you, before all of that!”

“You were aware?” Snape queried sharply. “You knew what was happening around you that night?”

“Yes, alright?” he fidgeted and avoided meeting his professor’s eyes. “When I came to, I was still in the hallway. I felt Cadmus pick me up and carry me into the Drawing Room. Aunt Aggie was holding me and trying to get me to talk to her, but as much as I tried, I just couldn’t move my lips. You came in and shouted at me, shook me hard, and I still couldn’t wake up. Aunt Aggie yelled at you, everyone was worried and then you – “ Harry paused in his account and looked up at him in both curiosity and confusion.

Snape’s complexion had paled so much that in the dim light of the room, his skin took on the pallor of bleached parchment. He looked decidedly uncomfortable with this latest revelation, perhaps even more so than when Harry had earlier revealed his unintentional time-travel.

“You were worried, too. You tried to talk to me,” the memory filled Harry with an unexpected feeling of desolation. “I tried to answer you, tell you I could hear your voice, because you sounded so… Um, you sounded – but-but my mouth wouldn’t move, and the words wouldn’t come. And th-then, when everyone left,” he swallowed hard against the tightening of his throat. What was wrong with him?

“I remember,” Harry continued haltingly. “Aunt Aggie talking to you. About me. Sh-she wanted…something good for you and she wanted y-you to be-“ he stumbled over his words, his voice a little rough. He tried to shrug, but it felt more like a shudder. “You know what she said…and y-you were trying to tell her that it will never happen. Because, you said, you couldn’t c-care a-about…because you didn’t want-”

Embarrassed by an unexpected hot prickling of tears in his eyes, and unable to continue looking at his professor or to even stay in the same room with him, Harry launched himself clumsily from the settee and stumbled away from the man.

“Potter, I-“

“Don’t,” Harry managed to force out. “Just – don’t.”

He rushed up the stairs, leaving his bewildered teacher staring at the empty stairwell in shock.

***

“I believe that his is a very sad situation indeed, Mr Pritchard,” Dolores granted the Muggle social worker a smile that attempted to express both sympathy and sadness but, as her lips twisted, she knew that she failed to achieve either. She had been sitting primly upon a wheeled office chair in the miserable little cubicle that served as Samuel Pritchard’s office space for the past five minutes, taking tiny sips from her tea, (served in a cardboard cup, of all abominations!) and exuding an air of deep concern and regret. The entire ordeal had already become tiresome in the extreme.

“Perhaps you could provide me with a little background, Ms Umbridge?” the sandy-haired man asked in a neutral tone. He did not appear at all affected by Dolores’s demeanour, instead slowly turning a red pencil over between his finger tips and gazing at her with intense blue eyes. Those eyes reminded her unsettlingly of Dumbledore and she tittered nervously at him as she nodded.

“Of course, of course. Well, I suppose you should know that I was the person who reported the boy’s abuse to the police in the first instance.”

“Indeed, I was already aware of that fact, Ma’am,” his smile verged on condescending and Dolores bristled.

“Yes, well, someone simply had to intervene. I first realised that there was an issue, you see, when I was in the employ of his school in Scotland.”

“Ah,” Pritchard leant back further in his chair and nodded. “Yes, I spoke to the Headmaster just yesterday at length.”

Curse Albus Dumbledore to the darkest cells of Azkaban! Of course, she had realised that the Muggle authorities would investigate all areas of the Potter boy’s life when she lodged the complaint, but Dolores had hoped to be able to set the scene in her favour before Dumbledore waded into the picture, twisting things to suit his own purposes.

“Well, then,” she simpered. “You must know that the boy shows some academic promise.” It was not hard to guess that the scheming old wizard would have painted an exaggerated picture of the boy’s intelligence.

“I am afraid that for legal reasons, I cannot reveal any details of that conversation,” Pritchard demurred politely.

Dolores clenched her teeth but nodded her understanding. The Muggle was clearly going to play this game by the rules. Being a stickler for regulations herself, (well, apart from a few moments of discretionary law-breaking – needs must) she changed tack.

“Oh Mr Pritchard, I do understand. In fact, it is so very important to me that this entire matter is dealt with in a professional and discreet manner.”

“Well then, why don’t we start with you telling me about your interactions with young Harry at his school?” Pritchard leafed through a file on his desk and fingered a little square piece of yellow paper that was stuck to an official-looking form. “Hogwarts School, isn’t it? A rather good public school, I am given to understand. Were you teaching there?”

“Among other higher duties, yes,” seeing her chance, Dolores leapt at the opportunity. She had very carefully prepared her story and now was the time to secure the trust of the Muggle authorities. For as much as it galled her to think it, it would eventually be on this social worker’s say-so that Dolores might gain full legal custody of Potter.

And then there wouldn’t be a single thing that Albus Dumbledore could do to stop her.

***

The slight figure curled in a tight ball in the corner of the window seat. At first glance, the boy was so still and quiet that Severus thought he might have been asleep. On closer inspection, however, the puffy-lidded eyes were clearly open, glistening wetly in the light from the window. Harry’s posture stiffened slightly as Severus shifted his weight on the creaking floorboards, but the boy did not turn around. Instead, he resolutely stared into the darkness beyond the window, blinking slowly on occasion.

Severus moved further into the room, lowering himself uncomfortably onto to the low single bed whist remaining tight-lipped. Despite the tense situation, the normally taciturn man found himself needing to fight back a tiny smirk at the sight of Potter clutching that accursed throw rug so desperately against his chest.

Taking his time to formulate a sentence, Severus openly inspected the boy. He was dressed in a pair of ridiculous footed onesie pyjamas; the ends of his hair still damp from a recent bath. He looked every bit a miserable little child hunched there under the blanket, apparently seeking the simple comfort that simply holding a familiar and cherished possession can sometimes bring.

The urge to smile slid away, as Severus was reminded of Potter’s emotional display earlier that evening in the living room. He had thought that allowing the boy some space and time alone up here in his room would be enough to soothe his anguish. However, judging by the current state of the vulnerable boy seated at the window, Potter had not yet recovered from his outburst.

Severus eventually chose to say nothing at all, instead waiting patiently. He knew that he would never be anybody’s first choice to offer comforting platitudes in times of distress. He cursed himself, really, for even thinking of making the attempt, knowing as he did that he could only make things worse. The silence between them grew weighty with unsaid things, but still Severus’s regret remained unvoiced.

Truly, he did not know what to say. He scarcely understood what had happened between himself and Potter earlier that evening in the sitting room, apart from the fact that the child had appeared genuinely hurt at overhearing his teacher’s apparent refusal to take on the burden of playing father to ‘Henrik’ at Aggie’s request. Surely the boy remembered that this entire situation was an elaborate ruse? For Merlin’s sake, the real Henrik was Harry Bloody Potter; a 16-year-old boy who hated Severus Snape with a passion borne of years of enmity and distrust!

He turned his attention once more to the miserable figure perched on the window seat and cleared his throat softly.

“You are upset.”

Potter jerked a little at the unexpected sound of his teacher’s voice in the heavy quiet. With a slight rustle of fabric, he rolled himself away from the window to face Severus. The boy’s expression was the very picture of desolation as he raised his head slowly and heavily to look at him. Eyes red-rimmed and swollen, Potter blinked but remained silent, waiting expectantly for Severus to continue.

“Come here, please.”

Severus patted the bed awkwardly and then gestured to the boy with a crooked finger. Very slowly, Potter unfolded himself from his seated position and slid from the alcove with a light thump as his feet met the floor. There he remained, clutching his blanket, which now trailed to the floor, and staring at his teacher with a look in his eyes that lingered somewhere between apprehension and dismay.

“I promise you, Mr Potter, that had I the slightest desire to do you any physical harm at all, you would most definitely have known about it within minutes of our initial meeting back in your first year at Hogwarts,” Severus sighed in irritation. “Now come here – you will catch your death sitting there in that draughty alcove.”

“I’m not scared you’ll hurt me,” Potter snorted, tossing his head in a show of bravado and then contradicting his defiant attitude by inching carefully over to the bed, stopping at arm’s length from the Potions Master.

Severus watched the boy closely as he continued to stand uncertainly near the head of the bed, not making any attempt to sit.

“You were upset earlier this evening, Mr Potter,” he tried again.

“It’s fine…I’m fine,” Potter tried for a carefree shrug and achieved a jerky little spasm instead. “It’s just being in this stupid little kid’s body. Sometimes I just can’t seem to control my – emotions.” A flush gradually spread its way over the rounded cheeks as Potter’s dark gaze drifted to the floor. He was clearly just as uncomfortable with their conversation as Severus.

Sighing softly, he leaned toward the boy. “I suppose, in this instance, you were unable to help the fact that you were once again eavesdropping on a private conversation, given your condition at the time. It remains, however, that you have clearly failed to grasp the finer nuances of what you overheard. My aunt has particularly firm opinions about some of my less-than-savoury life choices and seeks to re-make me into a better man-“

He stopped abruptly, wondering at why in Merlin’s name he was sharing this deeply private information with the child.

“What I am saying, Mr Potter, is that Aunt Aggie has been quite taken in by our concocted cover story and would quite like to see little Henrik become a permanent member of the family. She believes that fatherhood might soften my rather…frosty disposition,” he sneered disdainfully at his own statement and straightened up, preparing to stand. They were veering painfully close to matters that Severus had no intention discussing further with the boy.

“You know,” came the quiet rejoinder. “You probably should stop calling me ‘Mr Potter’ while we are here. What if you were to slip up in front of Aunt Aggie?”

Severus stilled, recognising the attempt at deflection for what it was, but let it slide as he noted the boy appeared to relax a little.

“Hmm…you clearly forget my position as a spy within the Dark Lord’s ranks, Mr Potter. I very much doubt that I would reveal your identity in such a clumsy manner.”

Potter rolled his eyes, grunted and turned away. For a moment, Severus thought that the boy was about to return to the window seat, but instead he continued to twist his torso until he was facing the bed, throwing himself against the edge of the mattress and allowing his forward momentum to propel him so that his chest and arms sprawled across the pillow. With an ungainly wriggle, the boy completed his complicated manoeuvre, pulling himself fully up onto the bed and tucking his feet up underneath him as he settled himself against the bedhead.

“Well, I just think it would be easier for me, if you called me Henrik,” Potter tried again, distractedly tugging the throw rug so that it lay across his lap. “It would help me get used to people calling me by that name.”

The comment prompted something in Severus and he considered the small boy carefully, thinking of their earlier conversation. Potter had, at that time, referred to the fact that Severus’s younger self had addressed Henrik by name.

“There was something you mentioned downstairs that I have been puzzling over,” Severus stated slowly. “You mentioned an incident – one that the younger version of myself alluded to – a moment where you appeared suddenly in the middle of the lake?”

Potter, who had blanched at his initial comment, now nodded, peering at him through the gloom with sudden interest.

“There was – is – a memory of mine,” he stopped and shook his head as though trying to clear it. “More a remembered dream, but I do have some recollection of seeing a boy on the ice.”

Severus brought a hand up to his neck and rubbed at his shoulder in a distracted motion. “It wasn’t something that actually happened. But I do recall a dream, a nightmare, in fact.”

“A nightmare, Sir?” Potter seemed to have forgotten his misery in the face of this new information.

“I am not sure,” Severus released his breath in a frustrated exhalation. The details of his dream-memory were muddled and too slippery for him to grasp firmly in his mind, but he knew that when Potter had mentioned appearing in the middle of the lake, it had sparked some long-forgotten terror that now eluded him once more.

In his mind, he could picture with stark clarity a small boy, standing at some distance from the lakeshore. Mixed with this fragmented memory was a terrible fear at seeing the child standing barefoot in the snowdrifts that blew across the hardened icy surface of the lake. There was a sound associated with this image; a harsh Crack! of apparation that reverberated in the snow-deadened landscape…and then nothing more. Yet the fear, it still clenched tightly in his breast as he fought to bring the rest of that moment to mind. He felt his breathing quicken and his heart race, but Severus could not understand why this half-remembered dream affected him so.

“Professor?” Potter’s voice was soft and uncertain. “Are you alright?”

Severus looked at the small face which was peering up at him. He felt a strange little twist of something deep within as he noted Potter’s open concern.

“No, I don’t believe I am,” he replied, widening his eyes at the boy in sudden horrified realisation.

“Sir?”

“I do believe, Mr Potter,” Severus stated with forced calm, even as a terrible chill filled his heart. “That someone has been meddling with my memories.”