Harry stood in the living room at Number Four, Privet Drive, in a small corner of suburbia in the town of Surrey. All the houses around this one looked the same; each boasted a car garage, a small garden in the back, and, inside, a lounge, a kitchen, cupboard under the stairs, and three bedrooms upstairs. Harry himself had slept in the cupboard upon the occasion of his eleventh birthday, when his deceased parents' will had come to light, letting him and everyone else know that he was to attend Wartsmoth Academy for Gifted Students in Scotland. Upon realizing that rather important tidbit of information, and his aunt and uncle convinced that people would begin knocking at their door at all-hours, checking up on Harry when he was still at home, they moved him upstairs to the smallest bedroom the house had to offer, something which his cousin, Dudley, at five weeks older than Harry, much disputed, as the location had been used to stash his multitude of toys and games he'd collected—and broken, when they either lost interest to him or he'd merely grown frustrated that he'd been unable to understand them—over the years.

"Harry? Are you all right?"

Harry turned to face the kind face of the woman who had spoken to him; her name was Dora; at least, she'd told him to call her that, as she felt the title of 'police detective' to be a bit too much, considering that they were only a few years apart. He gave her a tight smile and a nod in answer to her question; of course, he wasn't all right, far from it.

"Look," she went on, her voice gentle, "we don't have to talk about what happened, not now, at the very least. My main task was to get you out of here tonight. We're going to stay in a hotel for the evening, and then get some breakfast. Then, I've got to take you on a train."

Harry felt his brows going together. A train? He took a train to school, but school itself wasn't due to begin until the first of September, and they were only into the second week of August at that time. Surely, he couldn't be expected to go to school that early...

Dora softened her expression, clearly catching on to her young charges' confusion. "Don't worry, Harry—I'm not taking you to school. Someone close to you has finally won their suit for custody, and you'll be living with them from now on."

Harry blinked, obviously shocked that someone had wanted him in the first place, after having it drilled into his head, time and time again, over the years that he was very much unwanted. "Who has agreed to take me?" he asked, his tone a whisper.

"Your godfather, Remus Lupin," Dora explained patiently to him, and lowered her eyes to the worn trunk that Harry stood next to, in the drab-looking living room.

Harry sighed, remembering the kind face of the physical education professor at his school, who had begun there three years previously, when he was thirteen. Harry was shocked that such a kind man was best friends with his father, and had initially been given custody of him, but, because of financial difficulties, he was handed over to his mother's sister, her husband, and their son, who had systematically tormented and abused Harry from babyhood until the final straw had broken just one evening previously. Now, it seemed, with the steady income provided by Harry's school, that Remus Lupin was finally in a position to hire a solicitor, who, in turn, had managed to match up proper evidence, and accuse Vernon and Petunia Dursley of unspeakable abuse, thus gaining his suit for custody.

"Do you like him? Remus," Dora asked Harry.

Harry nodded at her. "Yeah. He's great. I... I mean, I've got my friends at school, of course, but I always had to come back here during Christmas and the summer, because of what the courts said. I hated..." He cut himself off then, knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to control his unbridled emotions, not now.

Dora nodded; she'd seen as much in the report as to the lengths that the Dursleys had gone in order to discipline young Harry, although Dora believed that the line had been crossed one too many times, clearly. "Like I said, we don't have to discuss it now, if you don't want to," Dora told him, knowing that she would have to treat the entire situation delicately; it was her first solo case as a Detective for Scotland Yard, and she would not mess it up.

Harry nodded back at her. "Thanks," he said.

Dora smiled. "Well, then, have you got everything?" she asked, and nodded in the direction of his trunk.

"Yeah, I've got everything," Harry replied.

"Great," Dora said, and motioned for Harry to follow her. She watched over her shoulder as Harry effortlessly lifted his trunk to drag it behind him, and they stepped through the front door, and Dora took Harry's key and locked it behind her, throwing it beneath the welcome mat as they took off through the darkening front yard. She made her way towards the street, fumbling ever so slightly with her borrowed set of keys, but managed to pop her boot open of her rental car for Harry to place his trunk inside, and then went to the drivers' side, motioning that Harry could ride up front with her, and Harry was clearly pleased with that small thing, which seemed to be a worthwhile treat in his eyes.

They drove along the roads of Surrey in silence, as the sky continued to darken around them, and Dora drove in the direction of Kings Cross Station, about an hour away. Dora's superiors had booked them accommodation at the King's Cross Hotel, located just near the station, for the evening, but Dora was expected to make sure that they got a decent breakfast the following morning. Her parents, thankfully, had chipped in for the train fare, and made sure that there was a lunch service available for the both of them.

Once they arrived at the hotel, Dora briefly explained that it would look better if he simply pretended to be her younger brother, and Harry nodded, seeing why an alternative would involve badges flashing and too much attention, both things he hated. Once they were given directions to their bedroom, Dora hauled her duffel effortlessly in the general direction, with Harry quickly following her. The room boasted two twin beds, a carpet that had clearly seen better days, a television set from the 1980's with massive antennas, a window with curtains that were likely filled with decades of dust, a radiator, a closet beside the door to the room, and a bathroom just opposite the closet, featuring a standing shower, loo, and sink.

"You can change for bed in the bathroom or in here," Dora informed Harry with a quick and easy smile. "I'll just change in the area you don't pick. And feel free to take a shower, if you want to."

Harry nodded, digging through his trunk for a moment until he found sleep pants and a too-large T-shirt, along with a pair of boxers, and slipped into the bathroom. The white tile seemed to have a bit of dark grime in between each section, but Harry brushed off his need to clean it and set his change of clothes onto the basin. Following that, he used the loo and dragged a hand through his hair upon completing the task and washing his hands, before he turned and looked at the shower, before he dragged off his jeans, T-shirt, boxers, and glasses, and adjusted the temperature to one that he liked.

The fan turned on automatically in this bathroom, so Harry had no need to cross to the other end before getting into the shower. The blasting stream of water was calming to him, and he found that he couldn't rightly remember the last time he had been afforded such a luxury. His aunt and uncle certainly hadn't allowed him one often; on Sundays, if he behaved throughout the week and got all his chores done, or if he didn't have too many beatings to his name that week. He bit and worried his lower lip, before he allowed his wild mane of black hair to go underneath the jet of streaming water, and remembered the beatings—his uncle's meaty hands on his skin, doing god knows what to him—and the pain, always the pain...

Once he had washed his hair and body, Harry slipped from the shower and briefly wrapped a white towel around him, which hung off his body like some sort of sorry toga. He brushed the thought from his mind as he crossed back to the basin, drying himself off quickly before he put on a fresh change of clothes. He automatically pushed the steam off the mirror which had gathered there during his shower, and felt a lump rising in his throat at the purple bruises and dark burn marks, black shadows underneath his eyes, and various red bite marks littering his too-pale skin. He shuddered at the sight, his green eyes staring back at him in a moment of pain, before he pushed himself back from the mirror.

Walking out of the bathroom, his dirty clothes gripped in his hand, he spotted Dora in her bed, a short-sleeved shirt for Manchester United on her frame, with what appeared to be matching sleep pants. She gave him a kind smile, but could tell from his body language that he still wasn't ready to talk, so she returned to Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson, illuminated by the small lamp placed on the rickety-looking table in between the single beds.

Harry stuffed his day-old clothes into the bottom of his trunk, before lifting the thing and placing it into the space onto the floor in the swatch of space between his bed and the wall. He climbed into the bed and faced away from Dora, staring at the wallpaper which appeared to be covered in an emblem of some kind, and Harry thought it looked to be a Coat of Arms. He swallowed and took off his glasses, placing them onto the top of his trunk, so that they would be easily accessible, come morning. The clock's red numbers, placed beside the lamp upon the rickety table, had declared it to be close to ten. It was early, for Harry, at least, but, given the events of the day, Harry welcomed the feeling of his green eyes growing heavy, and allowed the silence to overtake his senses as he settled into sleep.

. . .

Harry and Dora were awake promptly the following morning, in order to catch their nine o'clock train from Kings Cross. They ate at a little café down the street, in between the hotel and the station, with Harry picking at his scrambled eggs on toast and Dora enthusiastically eating a full English breakfast. Dora was pleased that Harry had eaten half his breakfast before the bill was paid and they were on their feet again, dragging their luggage behind them and making their way towards Platform Nine.

They handed in their tickets and were soon ushered onto the train, before finding their compartment, in which Dora had pulled rank and managed to get them away from prying eyes of the public. Dora pulled the door closed and the curtain down, hoping beyond hope that, by giving Harry some space between last night and now, that he would, at last, be giving her some material for her report. She watched as Harry lifted his trunk and placed it into the bin above his selected seat, and Dora kept her duffel beside her, tempted to take out her notepad, but not wanting to frighten the sixteen-year-old in front of her.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you be all right with talking to me for a bit now?" she asked, and noted quickly that Harry's green eyes flashed with concern. "Harry, I don't want to beg you here, but I need you to understand that it's my job to take a report from you, as well as get you to Remus. Now, how about this. If you're uncomfortable at any time with my questioning, we can stop for the moment. Does that work for you?"

Harry sighed, obviously relieved that there would be a clear moment to stop if he was uncomfortable with the situation. "It works," he replied.

Dora nodded, taking out her notepad and pen and leaning back against the comfortable bench seat afforded to them in their compartment. "Very well, then," she said, clicking her pen open and pressing the head onto her pad of paper. "Do you remember when your abuse at the hands of your aunt and uncle began?"

Harry swallowed, his hands forming fists on top of his jeans. "I suppose giving a child chores that are inappropriate for their age group counts as abuse?"

Dora nodded again. "Yes, of course."

"Then, I was two," Harry went on, his voice stiff. "My aunt made me begin cooking and cleaning as soon as I could hold a spoon or a mop."

"What would a typical day in the household, for you, consist of?"

"I had to be up at five—Uncle Vernon would unlock my bedroom door—and I was permitted to use the bathroom," he said quietly. "I would get three minutes exactly. If I wasn't done, then I was ordered to stop what I was doing and wash my hands, and get out of there. Then, I had to go downstairs and fetch the newspaper, and have it waiting on the kitchen table. I would then have to make coffee for my uncle, tea for my aunt, and pour the orange juice for my cousin. Then I would wait for them to let me know what they wanted for breakfast—well, my aunt and cousin, at the very least. Uncle Vernon always wanted the same thing."

"And what was that?"

"A fry-up, usually," Harry replied with a shrug. "Fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bacon, fried tomatoes, and baked beans," he said, and could physically feel his stomach crawling at the smell of grease, which constantly seemed to linger on his skin by association. "He would take the tomatoes and..." He broke off.

"You're safe, Harry," Dora told him gently, and Harry suddenly seemed aware that he was no longer in the kitchen at Privet Drive, but on a train, bound for Scotland. "You can do this. I know you can do this," Dora was telling him.

Harry rolled up the sleeves of his oversized polo shirt, and grimaced as Dora looked horrified at the circular burn marks on his arms, which littered pretty much every surface of his skin, some old, some new. "Uncle Vernon never did like tomatoes," he whispered, his voice practically trembling with the memory.

"Why did he insist on you making them?" Dora asked, her emotions getting the better of her as she forced herself to write down the report.

"To hurt me," Harry said softly, running his hands over the burn marks, and he found he could still hear the sizzling sound as the cooked tomato made contact with his exposed flesh. "That's all he ever wanted to do, it seems. Hurt me..."

"And...the rest of the day?" Tonks asked, her tone hesitant.

"Aunt Petunia liked poached eggs," Harry said, his tone still quiet as he traced the tomato-shaped burn marks on his arms. "Dudley always wanted pancakes with blueberries in them or strawberries and whipped cream on top..."

"And after breakfast?"

Harry slowly rolled down his sleeves. "Uncle Vernon went to work."

"Which meant that your aunt would instruct you in chores?"

Harry nodded. "After I washed the breakfast dishes, of course," he said, rolling his shoulders as he thought his daily schedule over. "Then I had to wash the bathrooms, vacuum the carpets, mop the floors, and dust the furniture. After that, it was usually time for lunch, and Aunt Petunia liked soup and sandwiches, and Dudley usually ate the same..."

"And after lunch?"

"I'd wash the dishes again," Harry said easily. "And then Aunt Petunia would go out and do the shopping, and Dudley would run back outside and play with his friends. Their favorite game, after Harry Hunting, was beating up ten-year-olds..."

"And what would you do after you washed the dishes?"

"I would go outside and do the gardening tasks," Harry said softly. "I'd be instructed to mow the lawn once a week—usually on Sunday, as there was nothing good on telly, according to Uncle Vernon, and there was no post on Sunday, so he could easily watch me and berate me if I ever did something wrong."

"What other gardening tasks did you have to do?"

"Prune the rose bushes, scrub the birdbath and make sure it was full, fill up the bird house, make sure that there weren't any dead branches on the trees... I would also have to water the garden, and this was a daily task. They had a mangled hose that Dudley would always manage to tie up in knots between days, and I would have to heave the thing from one end of the yard to the other, constantly wondering if Aunt Petunia would come back from the shopping early and, if she did and I wasn't finished, she would search the kitchen for something to hit me with."

"And after the gardening?" Dora asked him.

"I'd be locked in my room until dinnertime," Harry said quietly. "Or, rather, when it was time for me to prepare dinner."

"What would you do in your room?"

"Read, mostly," Harry replied with a shrug. "Or, if I had any assignments from school, that was when I usually did them. I wasn't permitted to watch the telly, and I was only allowed a hard-boiled egg and a slice of toast for my lunch..."

"And breakfast?"

Harry sighed. "Glass of water, if I was lucky. And anything Uncle Vernon didn't eat. Aunt Petunia didn't like baked beans cluttering everything, and the meal wasn't sweet enough for Dudley, it seemed."

Dora dragged her hand down her lips, absolutely appalled at the conditions that Harry had found himself forced to live in. The Dursley residence was as bland as it came, but she had seen the conditions of Vernon and Petunia, and that oafish son of theirs, and they were living in the lap of luxury in comparison to young Harry. Harry, whom Petunia had been entrusted to via the court system after her sister and brother-in-law had been killed by mass murderer Tom Riddle, who had been sentenced to life in prison in the aftermath, although many of his followers were still at large, and he'd been successfully dubbed the British Charles Manson by The Times, The Daily Telegraph, The Sun, and numerous other newspapers.

Dora folded up her notes and put them back into her duffel, and stared across the compartment at her young charge, who was now staring outside the window, as the train had begun moving and had now left the station. "Do you know why I asked for this assignment, Harry?" she asked him, her voice soft.

Harry shook his head, but still didn't turn to look at her. "No."

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my own agenda," she said softly, and watched as Harry's mouth transformed into a thin line; he was used to that, she figured. "But, you should know from me that you and I have a connection."

Harry's brow furrowed, but he continued to stare out the window. "Are we related?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no," Dora replied. "My aunt murdered my cousin, just before this past summer. My aunt was one of Riddle's most notorious followers."

Harry found himself gripping at his jeans again, and found that the nails biting at the palms of his hands—callused from his constant hard work, and burned by some faulty cooking over the years, among other signs of abuse—was a slight comfort to him, as it was a familiar sensation. "You're talking about Bellatrix Lestrange, aren't you?" he asked, his voice like lead.

Dora sighed, but nodded, nevertheless. "Yes. My mother was disowned from her family after she married my father, because he wasn't rich, and had a typical, working-class lifestyle. My aunts and grandparents didn't approve, and so she was cut off from the family. My cousin, Sirius, however, whom I know you were close to..."

"My other godfather," Harry put in.

"That's right," Dora said. "Well, he and I stayed close, despite the family drama. But my aunts, Bellatrix and Narcissa, well, they never gave up Riddle's dark ways. Because Bellatrix killed my cousin, however, she has a cell in prison for the rest of her life."

"Narcissa?" Harry asked, the familiarity of the name catching his attention as he turned back to look at Dora. "You mean, Draco's mum?"

Dora raised her eyebrows. "You know my other cousin, then?"

Harry swallowed, but finally nodded. "Yeah. He and I... We've never been close. In fact, he can be a downright bully, if you ask me."

"Privileged upbringings can do that to people," Dora said softly. "Draco's been given everything a boy could want, although I'm not sure a full-indoctrination on Riddle's crime-hungry and murderous ways are a good part of an upbringing..."

"I know his dad supports him..."

"Lucius," Dora replied with a sneer. "My mum never liked him. He turned down his nose at my faction of the family every chance he got. Said that my mum couldn't measure up to a halfway-decent marriage to a respectable gentleman."

"But weren't there rumors that your aunt tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom?" Harry wanted to know. "They... They're my friend Neville's parents," he explained, and Dora nodded, now understanding the connection. "I thought they found her fingerprints all over the scene, and that's what got Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom sent to Broadmoor..."

Dora swallowed. "Well, Bellatrix was able to make out that she had been coerced into participating in said torture," she explained with a shudder. "She was thirty at the time, so she could hardly blame her age. However, she was able to turn herself into a witness for the prosecution and, in doing so, turned state evidence against her own husband, brother-in-law, and another follower of Riddle's, Bartemius Crouch, Jr."

"Crouch," Harry whispered, recognizing that name as well. "He was one of your superiors at Scotland Yard, isn't he?"

"Until his son murdered him on Riddle's orders, yes," Dora replied.

"How did he manage to pull off patricide?" Harry asked, and Tonks raised her eyebrows that a sixteen-year-old was familiar with the term. "Like I said, I enjoy reading," the teen told her with a shrug of his slight shoulders. "True crime has always been a favorite of mine."

Dora sighed with a slight nod. "Well, Crouch Jr. was let out of prison for a parole period after the torturing of Frank and Alice Longbottom, as he was only nineteen during the time that the crime had taken place. He, too, turned evidence against Raspbian and Rodolphus Lestrange and, given that he had served nearly fourteen years, they believed a parole period to be appropriate. How wrong they were..."

"I found his body, you know. Crouch Sr.'s," Harry said, and Dora's mouth fell open at the revelation that the teenager had given her. "He was close friends with Headmaster Dumbledore, and I was helping our groundskeeper, Hagrid, with some work in the forest around the school grounds with my friends, Ron and Hermione. I... I wandered away from the group and came upon the body..." He shuddered.

Dora shook her head. "That can't have been easy for you..."

Harry lifted his green eyes to Dora's, and she was surprised to see just how old he looked behind his glasses. "My entire life hasn't been easy, Dora," he replied.

. . .

Harry and Dora arrived at the station in Edinburgh in the middle of the afternoon. Harry lifted his trunk carefully from its place above his seat, and followed Dora, still carrying her duffel, down the hallway of the train and towards the main exit. They hopped out and onto the platform, and Harry walked through the crowds with Dora; it didn't take long for him to pick out Remus through the crowd, and Harry even shocked himself as he rushed forward, and threw himself into his godfather's arms.

"Harry! Are you all right?" Remus asked, holding the teenager close for a moment before he pulled him back, looking him over. Remus had taught Harry physical education at the age of thirteen but, once he had gotten wind of the abuse he was suffering at the hands of his relatives, had taken the following two years off, while gathering a defense with the support of the headmaster and a select few other professors, in order to gain custody of Harry and, now that that was accomplished, he would return to his post the following moth.

"Yeah, I'll be all right," Harry said, feeling comforted at the feeling of Remus wrapping his arm protectively around him. "This is Dora, from Scotland Yard," he said by means of introduction, and Dora stepped forward.

"How do you do, Remus?" she said, and put out her hand.

Remus was startled at her young age, but was quickly captivated by her beauty. He cleared his throat as he put out his hand towards hers and shook it. "Very well, thank you, Dora. Thank you for bringing Harry safely to me."

Dora nodded at him. "No problem," she said, finding herself warming considerably at the notion of Remus's eyes wandering over her. "Well, I'm due back at headquarters before end of day. I assume that you're all right?"

"Fine," Harry said with a nod.

"We'll be all right," Remus told her.

Dora smiled at them both. "Glad to hear it. I'll check in with the provided address you gave me a week from now, giving the two of you time to settle in. We'll see about more of my report, eh, Harry?" she asked.

Harry nodded, relieved that he had some time. "That's fine, Dora."

"Good," she said, before she lifted her hand.

"Nice meeting you," Remus said quickly.

"You, too," she called over her shoulder as she walked outside.

"Come on, then," Remus said, keeping his arm slung around Harry's shoulder and making a grab for his trunk himself, as he went outside. He walked in the general direction of the closest car park, where his own car was, and Harry stayed beneath his arm, only moving when Remus gestured for him to get into the car, a red 1990 Volkswagen Golf GTI.

Harry got into the passenger side as Remus put his trunk into the boot, and made his way around the vehicle and got into the driver's seat. "I hope I haven't caused you too much trouble."

Remus shook his head as he stuck his key into the ignition and adjusted his mirror. "'Course you haven't," he assured his godson as he shifted the car into reverse and stepped on the gas. "I wouldn't have gone through all of this if I didn't want some trouble."

Harry leaned back against the seat as Remus navigated the car carefully out of the car park and down the street, leaving the grounds of the station. "Just... Sorry."

"You've got nothing to apologize for," Remus assured him as they came to a stop in front of a slight, and reached over to gently squeeze his shoulder. "If I'd have had my way, the courts would have given you to me straightaway."

"After Riddle offed my parents?" Harry asked darkly.

Remus sighed, pulling his hand away from Harry as the light turned green. He stepped on the gas again and pulled through the intersection, matching the speed within the line of traffic. "That was a horrible night for all of us. And, if Sirius didn't have that false conviction to his name, you would have gone to him. My financial troubles aside, it would have been much better for you to have been raised by either him or me."

"I know that." Harry raised his eyes to watch the buildings around them through the windshield and considered his new life for a moment. "So, what's going to happen?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, where do you live, for starters?"

"Our house is in Culross," Remus explained with a smile; clearly, he was proud of it. "It's a three-bedroom detached villa. Albus helped me in securing it for, as you know, I was living in a flat for some time. He, however, didn't think a flat was very appropriate."

Harry's brows knitted together. "You didn't rob the national bank, did you?"

Remus shook his head. "No, of course not. I simply had my solicitor, with Albus's help, get me reinstated into my grandparents' will. I got the fortune that had been promised to me when I was twenty-one, so I had more than enough to get the property."

Harry sighed, relieved that Remus had managed to provide him with somewhere to live, all within the proper channels. He was tired of losing people he cared about, and, by the same token, having people around him who seemed to care less. "That's good to know," he said at last as Remus continued driving. "I don't think I've ever been to a villa."

Remus smiled at the look of wonderment in Harry's expression. "Molly and Arthur have arranged for Ron to come down in the next couple of days, and Hermes and Jean are doing the same for Hermione."

Harry blinked, turning to look at Remus again. "You mean, they can come over?"

Remus nodded. "Of course, Harry. It's your house, too, after all. You'll also have access to the phone; in fact, they both want you to call as soon as we get there."

Harry blinked so as to prevent the tears from coming. "Thank you."

"It's proper household etiquette, Harry, to provide its residents means to contact the outside world," Remus said gently. "I've also taken the liberty of providing you with stationary, and the house is filled with all of your favorite foods."

Harry shook his head. "Remus, you didn't have to..."

"I am only doing what Vernon and Petunia should have done from the moment that the courts handed you over to them—providing you with basic necessities and showing you the love that you were always meant to have."

Harry sighed. "This is all too much..."

"All of this is quite basic, Harry," Remus replied gently. "Tomorrow, if you're feeling up to it, we'll drive into town. They've got a movie theater there, plus clothing stores and the like, and plenty of restaurants for dining-in and takeaway. You'll have to tell me what your favorite takeaway places are, and we can get food there whenever you like. Plus, we'll have to do something about your wardrobe," he continued, shaking his head. "I cannot believe what Vernon and Petunia made you wear, but it stops now."

"I like flannel over wool," Harry said softly, knowing that he should just go with it. "Also, I like Italian food for dining-in, and Chinese for takeaway. And you know by now that my favorite snacks are treacle tarts."

"Well, I can work with all that, Harry, because I like all those things, too. Don't worry," Remus assured him, and pulled to a stop in front of another light, and waited until Harry's eyes turned back to him before he started to speak again. "I won't pressure you to talk, but I do think that, perhaps, you should seek some outside help, but only when you're comfortable with it. I think it could help. When I was attacked," he said, turning his gaze back to the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel before him, "all those years ago, I was afraid that I wouldn't have any friends, for as long as I lived. But I had your dad, and I had Sirius, somewhere along the way, and it just made things better. Things were at their best when I finally started talking to a professional about everything. You know what he said?"

Harry shook his head; he knew that Remus had been to see someone, but he had never shared the intimate details of his sessions with him. "No. What did he say?"

"He was quick to tell me that, everything that had happened, my father's reaction and subsequent rejection of me because of it... That none of it was my fault," Remus said, a breath escaping his lungs, once that he'd obviously been keeping close to his chest throughout the entire conversation he'd been having with Harry. "For years, I thought it was my fault. The wolves attacking me, my mother having a heart attack and passing away after seeing me, and my father's reaction to, well, everything," he said softly. "But, none of it was my fault. I didn't ask the wolves to come after me. I didn't want my mother to die of a heart attack. And I certainly would never desire my father to reject me, or to think he'd lost everything."

"I know it wasn't my fault," Harry said softly.

Remus nodded. "Good. You're halfway there."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not so sure..."

"No?" Remus asked. "How do you mean?"

Harry's trainers scuffed the footwell of the car. "I think things would be better if my peers or a certain professor didn't hate me..."

"Draco Malfoy?" Remus asked.

Harry sighed. "At the end of the day, I can handle Draco. It's the alternative that's frightening to me, Remus."

"Ah. You mean Severus."

Harry's stomach, which usually rolled in contempt, found that he trembled slightly at the name, but not with revulsion as he usually did. No, he was considering, almost for the first time, the long, pale fingers working the beakers in chemistry class, the black smoldering eyes filled with knowledge as he discussed the Periodic Table and Atomic Structure, and that voice of his as he condemned his students for not researching their topics properly...

Harry swallowed, unknowing where this sudden change of pace involving Severus Snape, Professor of Chemistry, Biology, Environmental and Forensic Science, and Astronomy had come from. In fact, up until that summer, Harry had positively loathed that professor, and Severus Snape had loathed him right back. However, when Headmaster Dumbledore had suggested that Professor Snape teach him meditation, in order to focus more on his classwork and less on the inner traumas he'd been going through, the taut line that had been drawn from the time he was eleven and had begun at the school, was suddenly erased.

Nothing made sense, not anymore, especially now that he was literally sitting in a car with Remus Lupin, in Scotland, and that the man had now been made his guardian. Harry found that the notion of waking up from this dream, if it proved to be one, would be a total nightmare, and he didn't want to wake up, even if it meant another beating later. Harry swallowed, not knowing where he was going from here, and if...

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" he asked, turning back to Remus.

"I asked you if you would like me to sit down with Albus and Severus, and attempt to figure out how we can get the latter to treat you better at school."

Harry worried his lower lip. Headmaster Dumbledore was perfectly aware of Professor Snape's treatment of him but, as science was a core class and, therefore, required for graduation, and because Professor Snape was the only instructor with an advanced degree, everyone was at a loss for what could be done. Not that Harry didn't have advocates in Ron and Hermione, plus Ron's younger sister, Ginny, their friends Seamus and Dean, plus another recent friend, Luna, but it all boiled down to teacher and student relations, and Harry didn't want special treatment. Getting him out of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's house was enough.

"No, I'll be all right, Remus," Harry said, forcing a smile onto his face. "I've dealt with him for five years, what's another three? How bad could it really be, after all?"