Gatehouse Cottage was everything that Kall Hus was not: cosy, with a warm and inviting atmosphere, it looked lived-in and loved. It was therefore a surprise to Harry when Kora informed them that the little house had not been used at all since the last time that Snape had visited his aunt almost twenty years ago.

The man in question had not said a word after leaving the manor house. Instead, he had summarily retreated behind the door of one of the downstairs rooms as soon as they had entered the cottage, leaving Kora in charge of getting Harry settled.

Harry shrugged at Snape’s abrupt departure and took in the white-washed walls of a small but comfortably appointed room that clearly served as the main living space of the house. The floors were of waxed pine, mostly covered by an assortment of mismatched rugs. The largest rug, a woven flat-weave cotton in an oatmeal shade, lay invitingly before a very unusual fireplace. The oversized mantel boasted organic, rounded edges with a low bench that swept around its base, the entire piece coated in an off-white plaster render. It reminded Harry of the photographs that he had seen of adobe fireplaces in Aunt Petunia’s posh coffee-table book on Spain. The chimney-breast was almost as broad as the mantel and tapered only slightly where it met the timber-beamed ceiling of the room. The effect was of warmth and comfort, further emphasised by a large, squashy sofa with rolled arms, upholstered in a green and white check fabric. A variety of cushions and throw rugs were haphazardly arranged along the back of the sofa, tempting Harry to climb up and nestle in for a cosy nap in front of the gently crackling fire.

Kora smiled at Harry’s obvious appreciation of the homey space and tugged gently on his hand to lead him around the corner. He noted an open kitchen-diner that housed a scrubbed pine table, behind which sat a wall that housed floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing with an assortment of books. Harry was instantly reminded of Snape’s own extensive collection of books in the house at Spinner’s End. He moved as if to inspect the shelves, but his attention was drawn away by a burst of intense colour in his peripheral vision. A narrow staircase, the treads painted a glossy postbox red, curved invitingly up to the first floor. Kora was already heading in that direction, so Harry followed her, promising himself that he would get to have a closer inspection of the ground floor of the cottage later on.

“Young Master Henry’s rooms is the only ones up on this level,” Kora informed him as they stood in the small hallway at the top of the stairwell.

If Harry had been enchanted by the snug and restful atmosphere of the ground floor of the cottage, he was now positively delighted with the bedroom the house elf showed him. Upstairs, tucked away under the slanted attic roof, the honeyed tones of the pine floors were complemented by an oval rag rug in beiges and pale blues that dominated most of the floor space. In the corner, beside a dormer window, sat a single cast iron frame bed in white. He had immediately tested it and was thrilled to note that it was soft and comfortable; layered in a down comforter and a simple blue and white patchwork quilt, it was nothing like the grim bed with its stained sheets and threadbare blanket that Harry was used to at the Dursleys.

The room also held an ornate oak armoire opposite the bed. A battered roll-top desk and simple wooden chair in the far corner completed the furniture. His bedroom in Gatehouse Cottage was small, but perfectly formed, and Harry loved it. It was easily the nicest bedroom that he had ever stayed in. His dormitory in Gryffindor Tower was wonderful, and still felt like Harry’s true home, but it was sometimes a challenge sharing a bedroom with four other boys.

Curiously, Harry approached a timber door in the corner of the room with a slanted top, which was angled to match the sloped ceiling. The door was eerily reminiscent of the door to his cupboard under the stairs at Privet Drive. To Harry’s great relief, however, behind the door lay an adjoining ensuite bathroom, rather than the stark confines of the storage cupboard he had half expected to find. He grinned as he realised that the little bathroom would allow him privacy and also ensured that he would be able to stay up in the attic for a great deal of the time, should he so choose, therefore giving him the possibility of avoiding any unnecessary interactions with the surly Snape.

“Kora will leave Young Master Henry to prepare for bed, unless he is wishing for assistance?” Kora bobbed her head and gazed at Harry expectantly.

Harry immediately flushed and shook his head quickly, realising that the elf was offering to help him wash and change into his pyjamas. In his wonder at the unexpected loveliness of this house that Snape had apparently frequented in his childhood, Harry had forgotten his own childish appearance.

“Erm…no, thank you, Kora,” he muttered. “I can manage everything myself.”

After hurriedly bathing and changing into his pyjamas (powder blue and covered with garish yellow snitches – Mrs Weasley had really outdone herself with these), Harry retired to bed. He lay curled on his side, staring unseeing at the whorls of snow just visible outside the window. So far, his time spent in the company of Severus Snape had been unexpectedly bearable.

Harry was surprised to find that the man, although as taciturn and disagreeable as ever, did seem to be taking his role as Harry’s guardian quite seriously. There had been food provided when he was hungry (and even forced upon him when he wasn’t), warm clothing, a soft bed; all things that were not necessarily afforded him under the dubious care of the Dursleys.

Harry blushed to think that Snape had even apparently carried him from the airport to the taxi when he had fallen asleep on the plane. Of course, in other ways, the professor was just as much a git as he ever was. He thought back to Snape’s earlier comments that evening about Harry being ‘impetuous’ and ‘without a great deal of sense’ when he had introduced Harry to Aunt Agatha as his son. He had been further reminded of Snape’s unpredictable nature when the man had so abruptly disappeared when they had arrived at the cottage. He supposed that his professor had simply spent enough time with the hated Harry Potter for one day and needed to go off on his own and do Snape things…whatever that may be…before he threatened Harry with bodily harm, or worse.

To be honest, Harry was quite proud of his own restraint so far. There had been several instances over the past day where he had wanted to tell Snape exactly what he thought of his stupid rules requiring Harry to act like some kind of robot that only spoke when asked a question and behaved perfectly at all times.

He shifted restlessly in under his covers and scowled at the ceiling. Harry wondered at how their father and son act would fare under the intense scrutiny of the Prince family over the coming days and grimaced slightly. Snape’s Aunt Aggie was just as keenly intelligent as the man himself. It didn’t seem like this game of pretence would be the easy task that Dumbledore had planned.

As if Harry’s thoughts had summoned the Potions Master, the bedroom door suddenly opened to reveal Snape’s tall form, backlit menacingly by the glow of the hallway lamp. Harry sat up abruptly, feeling ill at ease as he took in the way the figure loomed in the doorway. It reminded him a little too vividly of Uncle Vernon coming to Harry’s door repeatedly during the previous summer when he would lurch in and threaten Harry to ‘stop making such a ruddy racket’ after another Sirius-related nightmare. Harry swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, refusing to allow Snape to see that he felt at all cowed by the man’s presence. He just wished that he wasn’t in such a vulnerable position, but it seemed stupid to leap out from under his covers and stand there beside the bed for no real reason. In any case, Snape took the decision away from Harry, stooping slightly under the eaves of the ceiling to twirl his wand and conjure a stout leather armchair beside the bed.

“There’s really no need to read me a bedtime story, Professor,” Harry said sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest and thrusting his chin out.

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry as he lowered himself into the chair, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You would do well to hold your tongue, you arrogant boy,” Snape spoke in a low tone. “I have not come to read you a story, nor am I here to tuck you in, as I am sure you must realise. Rather, I thought it pertinent that we take this opportunity for a little…chat.”

“Oh, so I am to be allowed to speak now?” Harry raised his eyebrow in what he hoped was a sardonic manner.

“What in Merlin’s name are you blathering on about now?”

“You told me before that I couldn’t speak unless spoken to and that I had to obey you. Well, sorry, Sir, if you think that I can carry on like that while being treated like a little kid for three whole weeks – but it’s a lot to ask!”

“This entire situation is a lot to ask – of both of us – but here we are.”

Harry stared at Snape in shock. He hadn’t expected that the man would actually agree with him. He began to wonder what exactly it was that Snape wanted to talk with him about. He had assumed that he was in for another lecture on how to behave as the perfect little five-year-old, but now he wasn’t sure what to expect. Harry sagged back against his pillow and sighed.

“I guess the Headmaster really has it in for both of us,” he forced out grudgingly, glancing up to see what Snape’s reaction would be.

Snape eyed Harry suspiciously for a moment.

“I do believe that in this instance, Professor Dumbledore has perhaps underestimated the demands he has placed upon us,” the man replied. “However, it must be said that you are doing well thus far.”

“Wh-what did you say?” Harry was incredulous.

“You have, shall we say, exceeded my expectations in your ability to play your part in this farce. You did –“ Snape paused and looked uncomfortable, “very well - in your interactions with my Aunt earlier this evening.”

Harry did not know what to do with this strange version of Severus Snape. The man was complimenting him. He had just told him that he had done well – that he had exceeded his expectations! Harry struggled with a swelling feeling in his chest for a moment and deliberately pushed the emotion away. He refused to feel pleased that Snape, of all people, might be proud of him for something.

“I like her,” Harry said softly, trying to distract himself from his own confusing emotions.

“Aunt Agatha is a very fine woman,” Snape replied solemnly. “I have a – difficult – history with her. It is important to me that –“ he broke off and looked away with a fleeting expression of deep unhappiness before shaking his head and glaring impatiently at Harry. “I wish to speak with you about other matters. You will have a far greater challenge to face in the coming days as you continue to play your role.”

Harry looked up at Snape curiously, wondering what the man had been about to say moments earlier.

“The rest of the family will be here for Christmas,” Snape continued, tapping a finger against his lower lip in a show of deep thought. “My cousin, and her children. It will not be so easy to fool the children that you are only five.”

Harry nodded. He could see why Snape was worried. It was one thing to act as if he were a young child around adults. He would have far more interaction with the children and it would be all too easy to slip up in some way, or simply overplay his part.

“I think it best if you come across as quiet and a little shy. It will not be out of character with your behaviour earlier this evening.”

“I will try my best, Professor,” Harry said firmly, nodding to himself. He found himself wanting to earn more praise from the irascible Potions Master, despite his own misgivings.

“Yes,” Snape said thoughtfully, giving Harry a searching look. “I do believe you will.”

***

Shifting uneasily in the utilitarian blue-grey plastic chair in which she reluctantly waited, Dolores Umbridge glared at the unshaven Muggle youth who occupied the seat beside her. The Guildford Police Headquarters was one of the most distressingly mundane and non-magical places that Dolores had ever had the misfortune to encounter. To add insult to injury, the waiting room where she was currently forced to sit was teeming with the absolute dregs of Muggle society. Fidgeting with the slippery paper docket in her hand, Dolores once again checked her queue number against the garish, Killing Curse green number that constantly changed on the screen mounted in the far-left corner of the room. Her docket number was ‘24’ and the screen had resolutely refused to shift from number ‘21’ for the past 15 minutes. The interminable wait to speak with a police officer had already taken a little over an hour and her patience, fragile to begin with, had now completely deserted her.

Dolores was most disgruntled that she was forced to debase herself by interacting with the Muggle police in Surrey after the snub of that odious and officious little Slytherin, Bertram Blundersby. It was disheartening to think of the damage that her reputation had taken since the fiasco that the Potter boy had made of her regrettably brief tenure as Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Still, she thought imperiously as she straightened her posture and leaned further away from the unkempt man beside her, if you wanted something done properly, it was usually best to see to it yourself. Point in case, that buffoon Vernon Dursley had proven himself entirely useless in handling the release of Harry Potter over into her hands. She had thought it would be easy – a few carefully worded letters, with the insinuation that the boy’s mental instability could cause a danger to a poor, defenceless family of Muggles such as the Dursleys – and the boy would be delivered to her post-haste. But no; whether it was through Albus Dumbledore’s cursed interference, or a sudden attack of familial guilt on the part of Potter’s relatives, Dolores was still unsure of precisely what had gone wrong. The results were the same, whichever way she looked at things. Potter remained out of her reach.

She had thought that her ‘Plan B’ appeal to Blundersby to be foolproof. She had written to him with a request that Harry Potter be sectioned and placed under medical supervision, where he would be evaluated and then hopefully placed in long term care in the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo’s. The man owed Dolores much after she had used her considerable influence as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic to secure him that promotion. She had never imagined that the man might, instead of assisting her, place obstacles in her way. She cleared her throat with a small ‘ahem’, the feminine and high-pitched sound at odds with the absolute rage Dolores was feeling at Blundersby’s betrayal.

Never trust a Slytherin. Even though she was one herself, or perhaps because of that fact, Dolores knew all too well that if there was a way to wiggle the best out of a deal without giving too much of yourself, a Slytherin would always find it.

‘Plan B’ had seemed quite straightforward. No rational wizard could doubt that the Boy-Who-Lived was unwell, especially in the light of all the negative press he had received in the Daily Prophet. Of course, Dolores may have had a hand in some of that unfortunate media coverage, but the fact that she had chosen to involve herself in Potter’s smear campaign just proved her willingness to defend the Wizarding World against vile little trouble makers who threatened the very peace of their society. The same actions had to be taken against bumbling old wizards who ought to have retired years ago, leaving the leadership of impressionable and malleable young minds of the future generation of witches and wizards in more capable hands.

What Dolores hadn’t counted on was that her name no longer commanded the same level of respect and deference that it once had. But all that was soon to change.

“Ahem,” Dolores once again cleared her throat with a girlish little inflection, drawing a scowl from the detestable young thug who still slouched too close on her right-hand side. She was starting to lose control of her emotions again, and that just wouldn’t do. Not here, in this den of Muggle reprobates. No, Dolores needed to keep her composure. A clear head and a calm demeanour was, after all, vital when one was plotting their latest act of revenge. Young Mr Potter was still clearly in her sights and with the boy’s unwitting help, she would soon reinstate her reputation as a formidable witch of some considerable influence.

“Number 24,” drawled the voice of the acne-cheeked constable at the reception desk, jolting Dolores out of her vengeful contemplation.

She primly stood and swiftly approached the constable with a smug expression oddly reminiscent of a toad that had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. Handing over her docket, she leant forward to speak with the young police officer in a conspiratorial manner.

“I wish to report a case of child neglect,” Dolores simpered softly, her voice dripping with tones of false concern.

***

Harry slowly emerged from a deep sleep to the gentle scratching of a quill on parchment. For a moment, he was not exactly certain where he was. The room was filled with warm dappled sunlight which danced in joyful patterns on the timber floor. Something felt odd about the quality of the light and it took him a moment to realise the problem. When he had fallen asleep, a gentle snow fall was fluttering outside the dormer window. Now, Harry could see robust green leaves shifting in a light breeze against a pocket of blue sky. The view from his bed gave every indication that it was a perfect summer’s day.

Entranced by the sight, it occurred to Harry that the window must be charmed. He threw aside his blankets and padded on bare feet to inspect the view more closely.

It was then that he noticed the boy.

Hunched over an open book at the desk beside the doorway, the dark-haired stranger was so intent on his work that Harry’s presence went unnoticed. Harry moved until he was standing behind him, a vantage point from which he could now see that the boy, who looked on closer inspection to be perhaps seven years old, was carefully drawing an ink sketch in a leather-bound journal.

“Um, hi,” Harry said, completely nonplussed about who this boy was, and why he had chosen to use an already occupied room to work on his art.

The boy started dramatically, knocking over the inkwell beside his hand and splattering ink all over the desk and the wall behind it. He leapt from his chair and stared wide-eyed at Harry with an expression of absolute horror as he backed towards the door.

“Wh-Who are you?” he demanded a moment later, his fear slowly turning to puzzlement as he continued to stare at Harry.

“I’m Ha-Henrik,” Harry stuttered in reply, almost giving his real name in his confusion. “Sorry about that,” he gestured to the spilled ink. “I guess I startled you, huh?”

The other boy looked back at the mess on the desk and glared angrily at Harry. “Yes, you did! What are you doing here?”

Harry felt confused. Was there another family staying in the Gatehouse? Kora hadn’t mentioned anything the night before and Snape had said that his other relatives would be arriving in a few days' time. “I slept here. Last night – Sn- I mean, my father and I, we’re staying at the Cottage. For Christmas-“

The boy furrowed his brows, at first in annoyance, and then in complete bewilderment as Harry spoke. He looked towards the bed and Harry followed his gaze, gasping when he could see the bed was neatly made with unfamiliar bed linens, clearly not yet slept in. There was absolutely no evidence that Harry had exited the warm confines of that bed just moments ago.

Turning back to the boy, he watched as dark eyes peered more closely at Harry’s appearance. The pale face slowly lost what little colour it had. “You’re a ghost!”

Harry began to snort with laughter. It was then that he felt a very strange sensation. His hands and feet started tingling with pins and needles. An overwhelming impression of vertigo made the world tilt and sway around him. He felt almost as if he were lying down, at the same time as he was still standing, looking blankly at the boy in front of him. He tried to take a step forward so that he could grab hold of the desk chair to steady himself but found himself completely frozen to the spot. As if from a great distance, he could hear someone calling his name. His real name.

A moment later, the sensation disappeared, and Harry stumbled forward, grabbing the back of the chair to halt his momentum. He took a deep breath.

“I’m not a ghost,” he said, somewhat shakily, his previous feeling of amusement having entirely abandoned him.

“Yes, you are!” the boy insisted in a somewhat snarky tone, moving further away from Harry and slouching in the corner of the room. “I just saw you go all see-through. It was like you were fading away. Only ghosts can do that!”

“If I’m a ghost, how come I can touch this chair?” Harry queried more firmly.

The boy scratched his head. He seemed to forget his wariness and slowly approached the place where Harry still stood, uncertainly gripping onto the desk chair. “Maybe you’re a poltergeist?” he offered. “You said you were staying here for Christmas…”

“Well, I am!” Harry insisted.

“But it’s August. Christmas isn’t for months yet.”

Harry blinked at the boy.

“It’s not August - -“ he was about to continue when, once again, he experienced that same feeling of inertia, accompanied by the inability to speak or even move. He could hear the voice calling him again. There was a panicky edge to the tone that Harry could not ignore.

“-rry? Can you hear me?”

The room, the boy, the light, everything slowly receded from Harry’s view. The world felt like it swayed and turned on its side. His eyes were hooded, partially open, but he was unable to make sense of the vague shadowy figure that loomed above him. He again felt tingling in his fingers and toes, but this time he could also feel large hands squeezing his own firmly.

“Potter – Harry…if you can hear me, try to squeeze my hand.” The voice was louder now and more insistent.

Harry was suddenly desperately afraid. He felt that he was dying. He was unable to move. He was completely paralysed. What was wrong with him? Where was he? He tried to squeeze the warm hand that wrapped around his smaller one and managed only a brief twinge of his fingers.

“Better. Try again,” the owner of the voice spoke more calmly now.

Harry managed once again to shift his fingers, curling them weakly in response to the instruction. Abruptly, the hands let go and Harry felt a thumb slide his right eyelid fully open. Bright light flooded his vision, blinding him momentarily.

Trying to turn his head away while protesting his discomfort, Harry could only make a guttural groan. Awareness was slowly returning to him. His extremities still felt unnaturally heavy and as sensation slowly began to flood his body, he could feel his own pulse pounding in his ears.

“He is breathing more normally now,” the deep voice still held concern. “Kora, please go to my room and locate my potions kit. I think it best you just bring the entire bag up here.”

“Yes, Master Severus,” the squeaky voice of the elf trembled slightly.
Harry realised with a sense of complete confusion that the hands that just moments ago had ministered so gently to him were Snape’s. He remembered now that he was staying in the Gatehouse Cottage. He had seen that boy, had spoken to him and then the world had turned on its head. Harry still could not make sense of what was happening to him. Had he fainted?

Long fingers grasped at his chin and Harry could feel the cold dribble of a potion sliding against the inside of his cheek. He realised that his jaw was clenched shut and he attempted to part his teeth so that he could swallow the foul-tasting substance more quickly. Sluggishly, his body obeyed. Above him, he could hear Snape sigh.

“The larger green vial next, Kora,” he said quietly. “Here, Potter, let us see if you can manage this one.”

Harry found he could now open his eyes more fully and took the opportunity to look up at his teacher. He was frightened by the intense concern written on Snape’s face. Whatever had happened to him, it must have been quite serious for the professor to look at him with such open worry. Obediently, he swallowed the oddly tasteless substance that was tilted into his mouth.

“Now, try to squeeze my hands again,” the Potions Master carefully lifted Harry’s hands and held them with a light grip.

Harry was relieved to find that he was now able to more firmly grasp the hands with his own. He took a deep, shaky breath and attempted to speak again.

“What happened…to me?” it was hard to force the words out through his reluctant lips.

Snape released Harry’s hands and sat back on his heels. Turning his head to the side, Harry could see the foot of his bed and realised that he was lying on the floor in the attic bedroom.

“You had an episode – a seizure of sorts. Kora found you here ten minutes ago and called me straight away. After your tremors, you became…completely unresponsive.” Snape looked even paler than his usual sallow complexion.

“There was a boy,” Harry said quietly, slowly sitting up as his ability to speak and move freely finally returned to him. “Where is he?”

“A boy?” Snape looked confused.

“He was over there,” Harry pointed at the desk and shook his head as he took in the fact that the lid of the desk was closed. There was no sign of ink on the floor, or walls.

“There is no boy here, Potter, other than you yourself. Perhaps you were hallucinating.”

“He seemed so real,” Harry shook his head. If the boy’s presence had been a dream, then it had been a particularly vivid one.

“The mind can play strange tricks on us when we are in pain or distress,” Snape replied, scooting forward and then effortlessly pulling Harry’s small form into his arms.

Harry squeaked in protest, but before he could even begin to struggle, he was lifted and swiftly deposited in the soft bed. Kora trotted up to the bedside and pulled up the blankets around Harry’s shoulders. In sudden realisation, Harry gasped and turned to Snape. “You used my real name.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied gravely. “I may have forgotten myself in the urgency of the moment. However, Kora will not betray us, Potter. You can be sure of her loyalty.”

“It is being okay, Young Master Henry,” the elf grinned as she placed a slight emphasis on his pseudonym. “Kora is understanding how to keep secrets very well,” she gently patted the patchwork quilt that now covered Harry and busied herself collecting the empty potions vials that lay haphazardly on the rug.

Snape sat on the edge of the bed frowning in thought. “I believe that this seizure of yours may indicate a reaction to the de-aging potion you have consumed. Have you ever experienced any similar symptoms in the past?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said slowly as he leaned back into his pillow. He felt fine now, but he was reminded unpleasantly of the visions that had plagued him in his fifth year. One of those visions had ultimately resulted in the death of his godfather. “Only…”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Well, the visions from Vol –“ he rolled his eyes as Snape flinched. “Sorry, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…I guess they were a little bit similar. But I was never paralysed like that before,” Harry shuddered at the remembered sensation.

“Hmm. I do not think that this incident is necessarily an indication of the Dark Lord’s interference,” the professor looked pensive for a moment. “I do believe, however, that you will remain in bed for the remainder of the morning. I will have Kora bring you some breakfast and then you will rest.”

At that, Snape stood and swept abruptly from the room. Harry was left to stare at the empty doorway.

In the back of his mind, it came to him that not only had Snape used his real name, but he had called him ‘Harry’.