Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Thank you TheMightyFlynn for the beta! This story came into being because akuma_river and Decadence_Alive

Warnings: starts off as Severitus. Pre-Slash. Harry is still in school, and the story starts when he's 11. It may get slashy (male/male romantic overtones) once Harry is old enough. I will try and keep this little fluff idea/ fairy tale alive. Will try. But can't promise fast updates...(I am writing too many stories at once…!)

Full Summary: Harry Potter was cursed by the evil Maleficent fairy (who must not be named), and Severus Snape had thought Lily's sacrifice saved him from that fate...but when Hagrid is unable to deliver Harry's Hogwarts letter through the wall of thorns, Severus is sent instead. There he finds a child surrounded by magic and the flock of sleeping owls turns out to be the least of his troubles.

Godric's Hollow

Godric's Hollow was quiet and still, all previous signs of conflict undiscernible from the outside. The baby's crib would be empty, the places where the inhabitants had fallen already having been seen to. Severus Snape hung back, unable to enter.

He took a slow breath, expecting to smell the bitter tang of fire or explosion, to taste violence in the air. But the grounds of Godric's Hollow remained indifferent to the deaths that had taken place there. He wanted to hate the place, to rail his helpless anger at it, but felt a brittle sorrow instead.

Lily was gone.

The child had already been delivered; Dumbledore had his plans in motion the very same day the Dark Lord fell. Without Snape's betrayal, would it still have happened? Certainly. But the child…the child may have fallen to one of the Host- one of the Maleficent Faery's many supporters.

With a resounding crack, Snape Apparated. He would leave the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress to arranging things for the boy. Even thinking that, Snape still found himself in Surrey, listening in on the tail end of McGonagall ferreting for information.

"You do know what they're saying? Rumours are everywhere! People are mad with the news, frolicking about in the streets where any Muggle could see them! They say that You-Know-Who went to Godric's Hollow last night… they're saying that he went to find the Potters… Do you know what they say finally stopped him? And the rumour is that Lily and James—" McGonagall took a deep, shuddering breath as though to steel herself. "They're saying they're dead."

Snape felt the anger boil up inside him again, watching the Headmaster bow his head and offer a comforting hand to McGonagall. But there was nothing left for Severus. The past would forever be nothing but memories.

"But why? Why go there? Why, if what they're saying is true, try to kill an infant? Why couldn't he kill that little boy? He tried, and it broke him! His power's gone, they're saying. Somehow he couldn't kill Harry Potter, and that's why he's gone." McGonagall shook her head, her bright eyes pleading with the Headmaster to give her answers.

Severus noted that Dumbledore did not answer those questions, did not even speculate. A cold dread welled up in Severus's stomach, and he knew then, that this was not the end of Maleficent. For Severus, of all people, knew what curse the Dark Lord had meant to cast—Death. Or slumber. To cast not only the Potters, but anyone the Faery deemed unworthy into an unnatural sleep until they died.

"We may never know the truth… what transpired that day. What matters now is that we keep the boy safe! I suppose you heard I would be here from Hagrid? He's rather late, isn't he? I've asked Hagrid to come here so that Harry could stay with what's left of his family." Dumbledore opened his watch, his blue eyes sorrowful.

McGonagall made a tisking noise Severus wholeheartedly agreed with. "With these Muggles? Surely there are better homes!"

"He must stay with his family." Dumbledore said firmly. "I've written them a letter explaining things," he continued.

Well. That was something Severus would have liked to read.

McGonagall and Dumbledore both looked up at some noise—the distant sound of a motor vehicle. Severus would have dismissed it as local traffic, until the rumbling noise got louder and louder—and then, a large motorcycle was just above them, plunging down from the night sky.

Hagrid, the half giant employed by Dumbledore, got off the motorcycle more gingerly than Severus would have expected, holding something very carefully.

"Hagrid! Very good, very good. And you've got him? What's this?" Dumbledore gestured to the motorcycle.

"I got little Harry, sir. This, er, Sirius Black lent it to me when he heard. Their place was a wreck! Poor Lily and James—the Aurors were about to see to them when I got there. I got him just in time, poor little bloke. He fell asleep a half hour in, I think." Hagrid bent down to give the bundle to Dumbledore, and Snape caught a glimpse of the baby boy, all black hair and chubby cheeks.

McGonagall gasped. "Is that where," she started to ask, brushing her fingers against something too small for Severus to see.

And Dumbledore would just leave the boy to the Muggles, with little more than a letter to make him welcome. Severus sighed, and closed his eyes. Lily's boy would be taken care of. He could leave now.

At last, Severus Snape made his way home.

Number Four, Privet Drive had been the picture of normalcy before Harry Potter came to live there. The lawn was neat, the house neither too similar nor too different from its neighbours. The day Petunia Dursley found the baby on her doorstep was the day it all began to change. Hoping that no one had seen, she snatched him up and brought him inside.

"Vernon!" Petunia whispered, and then, a bit louder. "Vernon! Look at this!" She raised a hand fretfully to her mouth, uncertain where to put the baby.

But Petunia accepted him into her home just the same—what else could she do? Harry would be taken in to be cared for alongside his cousin, and the Dursleys would try and evade neighbours' and friends' questions of how and why a second child had come to live with them. Mr. Dursley frowned and complained, but ultimately accepted his wife's decision and at first, there was little change.

And then the trees and flowers began to grow up around Privet Drive.

"Things just aren't what they used to be!" Vernon swore as his third set of garden sheers broke. "Nothing will cut these creepers! Petunia! Are you sure this isn't the work of her lot? Your sister—"

Petunia made a half shriek, half shushing noise. "The neighbours!"

Vernon laughed awkwardly. "I doubt they can hear through this wretched hedge. Why on earth would our neighbours want to grow the blasted thing? It takes over everything!" Vernon glared at the briar encroaching on his neat green garden.

The briar curled up around the sheers, snatching them away from Vernon's hand. "What? Get inside, Petunia! Get inside! Where's Dudley?"

The Dursleys ran into their home, Petunia slightly ahead of her rotund husband. Once inside, Petunia turned on every light she could find and tried to ignore the strange noises all about the house.

Hours later, the light was grey, barely filtering in through the window in spite of it being well past early morning. The hedge had blocked it all.

One-year-old Dudley attempted to peep around her, his squiggly eyes half-shut. "NO!" He said loudly, pounding fat fists at the door.

Petunia could only assume that he wanted a bit of time outside. "Let's have a looksee, shall we, Dudlikins?" She looked around wildly, only to find that her son had moved to the front window with his cheeks pressed against the glass.

The hedge was not a hedge at all, Petunia saw. It was a cluster of briar; fast-growing, winding and twisting woody stems with sharp hooks. There weren't enough leaves to go around; it seemed to be just a lot of dark wood. Not the sort of thing Petunia would want her son playing near.

At the other side of the house, Vernon was rousing himself from his morning routine of watching the telly. Any attempt to forget the hedge and the clippers was forgotten, and he rocketed down the hall with fast, booming footsteps. "Dudley? Petunia?" He called. "Something the matter?"

Harry, who had been a very quiet baby thus far, had toddled to the window next to Dudley's. All Petunia could see of him was that messy black hair, as he'd wrapped the curtain around him like a cloak.

"Get out of there; you'll pull the curtains down." Petunia snapped reflexively. She reached out for the boy, but he shrank down into the curtain.

Tap, tap. The briar had reached the window.

Vernon stared suspiciously at the door. "What is it?" He snapped, reaching for the handle.

Petunia wailed. Dudley lurched backwards and into his mother, and the curtains quivered. Dudley started to cry noisily, tugging at his mother's legs. She eyed Harry balefully, unsure what to do, or how he'd managed to make Dudley cry. "Get away from the window!" She said. That would have to do.

When Vernon opened the door, it was not to see the neighbours peering over their newfound obstruction. He saw the briar and nothing else. "What! Where are all the houses? This is the middle of nowhere! How did we get here?"

Outside, a crow cawed. It swooped down, showing itself to be a huge, nasty thing with dark eyes, Petunia thought. It landed right on the step where Harry had been left not a week prior.

"Blasted bird—" Vernon kicked at it for good measure. "Off with you!"

Petunia grabbed his collar, pulled him in, and slammed the door hard and fast. "Don't let it in the house!" she hissed.

Dudley had stopped crying. He pointed at the door and burbled some sort of baby nonsense that might have meant 'bird.' Or possibly 'bath.'

"It looks as though we've got a new neighbourhood!" She whispered. And then, a little uncertainly, "We've been transported to a fairy-tale wood."

Vernon blustered. "But where's the car?"

Petunia sighed, and thought of all the terrors and trials she and her family would have to face. She eyed Harry nastily, and turned out of the front hall. She did not reply to her husband.

Vernon laughed nervously, pulling himself to his full height. "Well. You and me, Dudley, we'll go see about this fairy-tale nonsense. No more ruddy neighbours, is it? Fine. We'll move if we have to… we're not staying in a treacherous place like this!"

Dudley made a loud, disgruntled noise.

"Ouch! Not going out, are you? Stay inside then." And the door opened once more before shutting again. Sometime later, he came back inside. "PETUNIA!"

She gave Dudley a toy, waiting for the burst of outrage.

Vernon roared from the hall, "EVERYTHING'S GONE. NO POST, NO ROAD, NOTHING LEFT."

"And the car?" Petunia asked.

Vernon shuffled. "Fine." He seemed to deflate a bit. "But without a road, how am I to get to work?"

Petunia, with her long neck, peered out the kitchen window. "There's a road…not a good one, mind, but you can get out." Or she thought so, at least.

But while the Dursleys could find the end of the wood, and even eventually found their old neighbours some ways away, they wouldn't be able to move. Letters from Dumbledore made that clear—even if they did, the briar would probably follow Harry wherever he went, and Petunia, too, who had agreed to take him in.

And so, the Dursleys learned to live in the dark wood, having to drive to a park if they wanted Dudley to have a chance to play outdoors. Only Marge would come in to visit, and she only rarely. Even the mailman suggested they get a post-box at the end of the dirt road.

So this was the new world Harry Potter found himself in, surrounded by thorns and crows.

At seven-years-old, Harry was old enough to sneak out of the house and not afraid of anything. He would go outside to play even if Dudley wouldn't. He would pretend the backyard was a park, Dudley would; he'd throw a tantrum to go out. If there was anyone out here, Harry would find them and play with them.

He stepped off the path, listened to the crush of grass and undergrowth. It was dim, but no more so than usual.

But then the darkness began to itch Harry's cheek like a fly. He thought it was just his imagination (Aunt Petunia would have told him so), except it kept happening. Tiny, crawling little legs or a wisp of a wing, that's what it felt like. He peered into the woods, but he couldn't hear anything: no buzz; no flittering either. Just the sound of the wind and his own breath.

"Hey," Harry called. "Do you wanna play?"

The answering silence was disappointing, but not unexpected. Harry took his only toy (the broken knight Dudley had discarded) and began to enact an adventure through the undergrowth to battle the Briar Dragon.

Caw. Caw. A lone crow sounded from out of sight. It was a warning, Harry thought, but not one he had to mind.

He stepped farther from the path, his knees brushing against a thorny briar-patch he hadn't noticed. It stung, and another leaf stuck to the tiny drops of blood the briar left.

'Harry,' someone sang. 'Harry Potter…come here.' If the dark had a voice, this would be it; the voice that rattled the storm shutters, the voice that whispered on the wind. In twilight times, he could hear it laughing, high and cold. 'We'll play a game. Find me.'

Harry resolutely played on in the briar patch. His knee stung and his skin twitched where the dark had brushed against him, but if the Broken Knight wasn't bothered by the eerie voice, then Harry wouldn't be either.

Again, the leaves crackled. The voice sounded, ssssstill. Be ssstill.

Harry fought against the dark, fought against the strangely persuasive quality of the feeling in his mind. But Harry was only seven (and perhaps a little tired anyway), and the dark ancient and insistent. Harry felt as though he were immersed in sleepiness, like slowly sinking into tepid lake water. He shivered, and fought to keep his eyes open, but only for an instant more.

Aunt Petunia is going to find out that I snuck out again… Harry thought bitterly. It's not fair… I wasn't sleepy…

The next thing Harry knew, his eyelids felt heavy. With a sinking heart, he realized he would fall asleep. He didn't have time to do so much as whimper.

And so Harry Potter slept, cold and still on the forest floor.

o0o0o0o0o

(Harry's eleventh birthday)

Harry curled up in the cupboard under the stairs, contemplating his newest finds. A bit of hub cap, a long and finely polished handle that had broken off at the end, and best yet, a jumper. They were a bit dirty from the road, but not bad, really. Not bad at all.

Ten year old Harry Potter grinned to himself, feeling both pleased and guilty with his sleeping self. When awake, Harry could hardly step out the front door without being hollered at, but his sleep-walking-self, well, he could walk along the dark and shadowy roads throughout the forest. The Dursley's never dared to wake him, after all.

Harry liked to imagine the stories that went along with the junk he found. This hubcap was from a car—like the one Uncle Dursley drove, probably, though his Uncle would surely say it was a lower quality model. Someone had tried to drive into the forest. Harry's heart beat quicker at even the thought of it—he never saw anyone but the Dursley's, after all. Not many people came into the forest, and none of them stayed.

By the way his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin loved to get out of the forest, Harry imagined the family thought of the dark and spindly trees as their jailors, but for Harry, it was all he could remember. Harry wasn't allowed to ask questions about the forest though, and had only rarely been out.

Harry stroked the fabric of the jumper, remembering his latest trip out of the forest. Surrey was wonderful. There had been children running about, trees which didn't block the sunlight, and rows and rows of houses with neat little streets and cars all parked along them. It had been just like what he saw on the television, what he'd read about in books. Those few hours his Aunt had taken him shopping for Dudley had been the best thing to happen to Harry all year. Of course, he'd have liked to have gone shopping for himself as well—Dudley's cast offs never quite fit right—but he'd fallen asleep halfway through.

"I won't be buying you anything if you misbehave like that, boy," Aunt Petunia whispered to him once he'd come to. "I've never been so humiliated! Go! Back to the car; there'll be no library books for you."

Harry fingered the smooth finish of the stick, wondering what this third item could be. It wasn't like anything he'd seen before—the closest was the long end of the gardening shovel in the back of the house. But that shovel wasn't polished, and was so rarely used and poorly cared for that when the metal shovel at the end broke off, no one had replaced it.

Harry sighed, hearing his Uncle complain about the very thing Harry had been happily contemplating. "Outsiders coming and going at all hours! Do they think this is an attraction park? People just leave their rubbish wherever they like, never mind how it affects the value of the real estate. This confounded forest is bad enough, we— er," Uncle Vernon cleared his throat, and quickly changed the subject. "Dudley! Do you still have that new torch I got you? Fresh batteries mind, not the rubbish it came with."

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia's voice cut through Harry's day dreams. Her bony fist rapped on the cupboard door. "Set the table for dinner."

Harry stuffed his new things under his blanket and opened the door.

As usual, the house was brightly lit, dozens of lights twinkling away. The curtains were firmly drawn, hiding all hint of the magical forest surrounding the Dursley's home.

Harry bustled about, letting his mind wander as he went through the motions of the familiar routine.

A car had come through the Briar Woods. And the jumper wasn't so dirty—had some teenagers driven through on a dare, like his Uncle so often said? Harry stood on tiptoes, looking for a glimpse of the outside.

The next thing Harry knew, he was standing on the roof, watching an owl fly unerringly toward him, expertly avoiding the thorns.

It's not falling asleep… Harry thought. Humans could stay in the woods, wander in and out without trouble, but nearly all animals would fall asleep. Harry rarely saw anything smaller than a dog that wasn't lying down in an unnatural sleep. But this owl…it seemed all right.

"Boy! Snapped out of it, have you? Get back in here before you break your miserable neck and curse this whole family with your unnatural affliction!" Vernon hollered.

But Harry didn't move. It wasn't the height—he'd been finding himself in these sorts of unlikely places his entire life, after all—it was the way the sun spilled through the thorns. Even as Harry watched, the shadows reached out for the bird.

"Fly lower! Behind you!" Harry warned. But the owl didn't need his help; it swirled and dove, making its way to the house. It was almost there, now. As it drew closer, Harry saw that it carried something. But what?

Harry reached out his hand, and the owl released it—a letter. Harry's fingertips brushed against thick parchments, and he accidentally brushed the spindly legs of the owl—

Harry must have fallen asleep for the second time in an hour. When he woke, he found himself curled on the front step with no sign of either owl or letter. But what did it say? Harry wondered helplessly. Now he'd never know… Harry swallowed his anger. Why did he always fall asleep?

But the next day, there were two owls with two letters. And the third day, there was a flock. But the owls weren't going unobserved—the Dursley's hurled insults at the birds, but it was the crows that worried Harry. A murder of crows had always lived in the forest, their beady eyes watching from the thorns. The crows watched now, darting in and out of the owls, pulling at their feathers, cawing harshly all the while.

Harry ran outside, waving his hand to try and scare off the crows, but it was no use. The crows were used to Harry, just like they were used to the forest. No matter what he did, they would stay. Oh. Crows and owls filled the air, flapping and squawking, until the owls landed, hobbling uncertainly. A small grey owl approached Harry hesitantly, but stopped moving just a pace away from Harry. Soon there were no owls in the air. With a sinking heart, Harry found what had happened to the others. All neatly laid out in rows, owl after owl lay unnaturally still in the back garden.

"Don't touch those filthy creatures! If you move one more owl, boy, you're not to come back inside! Who knows what sorts of vermin those beasts have touched." Aunt Petunia watched the commotion from the front door, broom in hand.

Harry shook his head, his mouth set with anger. "I didn't move them! It wasn't me—"

Aunt Petunia harrumphed, and went back inside. Harry followed her, and tried not to listen to the cawing of the crows, or the beating of wings.

The day the wizard came, Harry had been knee deep in mud, fighting the never-ending battle against the vines surrounding the house. Harry poked a vine with the re-appropriated broomstick, absorbed in his task. He hadn't noticed the wizard until his Aunt opened the door.

"I have come to personally deliver Harry James Potter's letter of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the tall man in black announced. Harry thought Aunt Petunia would slam the door in his face, but she just stood there, gawping.

"You're that Prince boy!" She finally said. "Well? Has the curse been lifted?"

Harry became very still.

"Yes, Petunia Dursley. Where is the boy?"

"Boy! You have a visitor!" Petunia snapped and slammed the door, leaving the man on the doorstep.

Harry reluctantly came forward, jumping over a vine that tried to grow up around him. They stood there looking at one another, man and boy, neither quite sure what to make of the other.

"Have you come about the owls?" Harry asked. "They'll probably wake up if they're taken out—"

The man's lip curled. "The owls are still here?"

Harry nodded and pointed to the back of the house. "You don't want to go back there."

"You will show me, Potter. Now."

"But—"

"Now, Mr. Potter."

Harry sighed and led the way to the rows of owls. He brushed undergrowth from the nearest, feeling unexpectedly guilty.

"Where are the letters?" the man asked. Harry wondered why he scowled so when—

(Snape)

Potter looked no different than a moment before—he was dirty and unkempt as a boy on a lark, clearly unconcerned with how his Aunt would have to clean his clothing later. His movements too were not unusual—Potter walked forward and bent down. Nimble fingers untied a stray bit of string from the owl and slowly, he stood straight, holding his hands outstretched.

A crow flew straight and wicked, its talons raking. The boy didn't so much as flinch as briar and crow flew before him. Green fire enveloped the string, and Snape gasped as he recognized the colour.

Thin briar tendrils protected Potter's eyes and throat to keep the crow from him. Snape held out his wand to cast a spell, to break the vine and blast the crow.

"Don't! You mustn't wake a sleep walker!" Petunia screeched. Snape swirled about to see her long neck poking out of a barely opened window.

"Asleep? Already?" Snape asked.

Petunia nodded curtly, but said nothing more. She closed the window and drew the curtain. "He's been doing it since the forest came, since he was a child."

Snape looked closer to see that sure enough, Potter's eyes—Lily's eyes—were closed. Snape watched, fascinated as the boy held out a hand. Not slowly or with any fumbling as most eleven-year-olds might do if feigning sleep, but smoothly and unerringly, Potter's small hand flew out with the same shock of green fire enveloping his hands, and slowly his entire form was covered in little flames. The briar shot out again.

"Enough!" Severus said, and thought Renneverate at the sleeping child. Green fire, and the echo of a terrible voice replayed in Snape's mind.

Potter did not wake. Instead, Snape felt something heat up in his robe pocket. He hissed and seized the letter, but it was too late.

Only then did Potter waken.

Severus glowered. "Do you have any idea of what you're doing? What exactly you just incinerated?"

Potter blinked owlishly and shook his head slowly. "What I've done?"

Severus examined the boy's face, searching for guile or mischievousness, but found only confusion. He scowled. "You mean to say you are completely ignorant of your situation. Your heritage."

"I know who my mum and dad were; James and Lily Potter." Potter said, sticking his chin out.

"But you don't know how you came to be cursed by the most evil Faery known to Britain in an age."

"What?" Potter said.

"Go inside. I will tell you there." Severus sighed and ushered the boy in.

Potter dawdled in the hall, removing his shoes and hastily wiping his hands on his clothes. He appeared to take notice of the muck for the first time, and shot a glance at the cupboard under the stairs—perhaps he'd forgotten to wear a cloak over his things? But there was no time for that. He waved the boy impatiently forward, and Potter (reluctantly) sat at the kitchen table. He watched Severus with interest.

"When you were a baby….no. Know this: the Maleficent Faery is known by most as 'He-who-must-not-be-named,' or the 'Dark Lord.' His true name…I cannot utter it, not when his curse flows so strongly in you.

"Ten years ago, he was like a monster out of a tale—killing witches and wizards who opposed him and using his Faery Magic to enslave untold numbers of wizarding and Muggle children. He was a plague on Britain for nearly a hundred years. His crimes were many, and each of them were filled with dark magic, incurable except by the curse-giver. If witches and wizards had not followed him, we would never have recovered."

The boy's eyes darted from Severus to his Aunt—as though she could confirm or deny any of what Severus said. He looked, of all things, curious.

"The Dark Lord is the one who killed your parents…and gave you that scar. Of course you will have noticed the curse…? I had thought you were safe from it until you were sixteen." He couldn't help but sneer—surely a more cautious child would know not to touch the green fire.

"Sixteen?" Potter asked in a small voice, disregarding Severus's question.

"When the Dark Lord's corporal body was destroyed, he laid a powerful Dark Curse on you. It was meant to make you fall asleep once you touched a certain potion on your sixteenth birthday. I had not heard that you were already afflicted." Severus looked away as he folded his hands.

But Potter didn't cry out. Instead, a flurry of questions sprang from his lips. "Is that why the owls come? Because it's me who makes all the animals sleep? And keeps anyone from staying in the briar? We've had to live out here because…" Potter's voice was strained. Anger or nerves, Severus couldn't tell.

Severus snapped his eyes back to the boy. "The briar protects you, you foolish boy. Something kept you from dying instantly, and that same magic keeps you safe in these woods."

"So what's the briar… protecting me from? Is the Mal…Mal-something fairy trying to make me sleep now, or when I'm sixteen?"

"Perhaps the best your mother could do as postpone the curse. I do not know." Severus felt his lip curl. "I have been sent to deliver your Hogwarts letter as yours have failed to reach your hands. In light of the situation, we believed it necessary to inform you of your acceptance in person."

Petunia gave a tiny noise that might have been a stifled shriek or gasp of surprise.

"You will need to get certain supplies for your school, among them robes and a wand. I was instructed to escort you to Diagon Alley to procure your things today."

At once Potter's face lit up. "We're going out? Great!"

Severus sighed and resigned himself to escorting an excitable child. He rose and said to the room at large, "I will deal with the owls. You." He pointed at Harry. "Clean yourself up and join me in the garden in ten minutes."

Harry whooped with glee.

.
Potter's enthusiasm for the outside world was not limited to the hidden wizarding one, Snape found. They could not Apparate in the briar woods, and so he had to find an appropriately discrete spot outside. By the way the boy gawped at the shoppers and the cars, Snape guessed he rarely went out.

"Do you find you get more…sleepy outside the woods?" He asked, scanning the road.

Potter nodded. "But not because I'm bored or anything. I really want to go shopping, and learn about magic, and go to the Alley. I just sort of… fall asleep. Don't make me go back yet." He glanced askance at Snape. "Please."

Severus snorted at the way the boy tacked on the last word. "We shall go to Gringotts and then we shall get your wand. If you fall asleep… I shall secure any further supplies."

The bank, with its old architecture and stiff goblins, was 'something.' Potter was wide-eyed at whole ordeal, fingers clenching around the cart and drinking down everything Griphook said. He drew his breath sharply at the pile of gold, a reaction Severus found he hated instantly.

Harry kept to himself after that. He eyed Severus only when he thought he was unaware, and otherwise kept his mouth and eyes open. He asked questions like, "Do people really use dragon liver? What for?"

Severus lifted his eyes in exasperation. "Potions ingredients." When Harry stared at him sullenly, he added, "A fertility potion, for example. Others think it to be an aphrodisiac."

Harry turned around again to stare after the potions supply shop before being pulled into the wandmaker's. "So she's not going to eat it?"

"Never mind that. In here. Now." Severus noticed Harry shaking his head to clear it, the constant blinking and deep breathing. The boy was half asleep on his feet and determined not to stop for rest.

"The wand maker?" Harry asked excitedly. "What's in a wand? How do you make one?"

"You do not. Olivander makes it, and he matches you to a compatible wand. The cores and woods vary from wand to wand."

"Wow." Harry breathed.

Yet his enthusiasm for Olivander's was only tapered by his nervousness. He was almost immediately distracted.

"Mister Potter… I had thought I might see you soon. Welcome." To Severus he said, "Black oak, fifteen inches long… quite sturdy. Dragon heartstring, was it not? How does it serve?"

Harry moved toward the side of the shop as if drawn to the many boxes. He stared up the piles as a measuring tape sped to him, measuring his arms, his height, chest, and so forth. He swatted at it as it started to measure between his eyes.

"It serves well. The boy needs a wand, Olivander. Please help make the fit."

Olivander turned his attention back to Harry, silvery eyes bright. "Extend your wand hand."

"Er, I'm right handed," Harry said sheepishly, doing as he was asked.

"Take this and give it a swish. Unicorn hair, very springy willow. Like your mother's, good for charm work."

Harry nearly dropped it, but had a go.

Severus watched with veiled interest, heart in his throat. Lily's wand…he had not thought of it in years.

"No? Well, try this-

Some of the wands flew to his touch, while others seemed to burn him. A fair few did nothing at all.

Severus began to suspect something at odds when the boy's eyelids began to droop.

"How do you keep yourself awake, Potter?" He asked.

"Dunno… doing something helps… being busy."

"Very well. March twelve paces and raise the wand. Then come back." Severus was faintly surprised when the boy did as asked without fuss.

Eventually, Olivander dared to try a last wand, and the match was made. Holly, a light coloured wood… like his mother's, with a dark finish. Phoenix feather, too—unlike both parents.

"Curious… very curious." Olivander said, because almost as soon as the sparks flew from the wand, green flames enveloped both the wand and the hand that held it, but the wand refused to burn. It glowed for long moments.

Harry kept a tight grip on it, but he tumbled to the ground, still clutching the wand. He was fast asleep.

Severus took the money from the boy's pouch and levitated him to Madam Malkin's to be fitted for dress robes, and then to the apothecary, and the bookshop. Potter didn't wake up to see any of the other shops.

o0o0o0o0o

tbc…probably.

Would love to know what you think!