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They Flooed to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Harry stumbling a bit as he exited the fireplace into the room familiar from his long Occlumency sessions with Snape. It surprised him a bit that Draco had managed to Floo through, considering the Fidelius Charm and all, but Harry supposed that at some point, Dumbledore must have told Draco about the house's true purpose.
"The Death Eaters know about this place," Harry protested. "It can't be safe for us to spend Christmas here."
"The wards will keep them out of your house," Snape returned.
"Wait, your house?" Draco questioned, looking around.
"Inherited it from my godfather," Harry quietly replied.
"Oh?"
"Sirius Black."
Draco gaped, and Harry didn't know if it was because of Sirius' criminal record, or the fact that Harry's godfather had been a relative of the Malfoys. Maybe Draco knew from Death Eater gossip that Wormtail had been the one who had belonged in Azkaban? Either way, Harry didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to be here. "Professor," he protested, "this really isn't a good place for me to spend the holidays."
"I never imagined it was," Snape returned. "I merely needed a safe place from which to Apparate us." He beckoned to Harry, and when the boy stepped close, pulled him into a warm, firm embrace. "Do you remember doing this in Surrey?"
"I'm hardly likely to forget," Harry murmured, cheek against his father's chest. "You said I'd have enough sense to hang onto you the next time."
"And so you do. Apparation will likely still not agree with you, but with me to absorb the worst of the shock, you shouldn't find it quite so arduous a process." He glanced over at Draco. "I will be back for you in just a moment."
Draco assumed an expression that was bored, smug, and superior. "I've known how to Apparate since I was fifteen," he informed his teacher. "You really ought to teach Harry. But by all means, please do return for me, as I've no idea where to Apparate to."
Snape ignored the barb.
A moment later, Harry felt himself melting and reforming, the sensation sickening, but not nearly as much so as when he'd suffered it unaided. Snape's body was taut as he tried to cushion the impact Harry felt. It helped, it really did.
When Harry could open his eyes, he found himself in a small stone cottage. Sparsely furnished, it had the look of a place that was seldom, if ever used, yet there was no layer of dust such as one would expect. Something about the place was vaguely familiar, but Harry was certain he'd never seen it before. His brow furrowed as he puzzled over that.
Setting down his duffel, Harry studied the room more closely. No, he'd definitely never seen that huge stone fireplace before, or the window view overlooking a fragrant meadow.
Fragrant...
That was it; the place smelled familiar. Harry breathed it in, sorting out the scents. Clear, clean grass... the slightly musty odor of a thatched roof above... acrid ashes sitting in the hearth...
Other scents came to him, phantom ones he couldn't smell just now, but they'd been here once. Memory brought them wafting back. Hot cider and oatmeal, the pungent odor of Muggle salves. He heard rain against the eaves, though it was a clear day, now.
But he'd been here when it was raining, hadn't he....
"Devon!" Harry suddenly exclaimed. "We're in Devon! This is where you took care of me after Samhain!"
Snape inclined his head. He had been studying Harry closely, and holding his shoulder in case the boy still needed support, but at that he let go and stepped slightly away. "My own little cottage in the wilds," he lightly mocked himself. "Albus refers to it as a 'shack,' I do believe. But short of Hogwarts, it's as safe a place as there can be. The entire meadow surrounding us is unplottable, and the house itself coated in wards. Of course there is no blood-protection here, but neither do any Death Eaters suspect its existence." Snape returned his gaze to Harry's. "I will return for Draco now, if you feel secure?"
Harry nodded, and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering a bit. Well, it was December... Ironic, really, that the dungeons were warmer than this cottage, but then again, Snape kept them well-spelled. Except for during the night... "Yeah, go get him," Harry answered. He didn't think he was nervous, really, but some part of him must have been, for he heard himself babble next, "he's probably been all around Sirius' house by now."
"Your house," Snape gently corrected.
"Could you help me get a solicitor or whatever wizards use?" Harry suddenly asked. "I don't want it. I think I'd like to give it away."
"That's a discussion for after the holidays, I believe. I will be back in a moment with Draco."
Harry nodded, and watched his father Disapparate.
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Draco was less than impressed with the cottage. "I thought we were going on holiday," he complained. "This whole place is smaller than the measly quarters they allot you at Hogwarts!" Harry elbowed Draco. Hard, but the Slytherin boy chose not to take the hint. "And just one bedroom," he continued. "And that bathroom looks like it hasn't been re-spelled in a hundred years! Honestly, how are the three of us supposed to survive here for two weeks?"
"We can always go back to the dungeons if my house offends your sensibilities."
Draco stilled. "Oh, no, not the dungeons." He gave a theatrical shudder. "I'd rather go camping than go back there just yet... wait. Did you say your house, Severus?"
Snape merely nodded, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Oh," murmured Draco in belated understanding as he sat down on his trunk. "Well, it's... ah, lovely, Severus. So... um, cozy, yes. And quaint."
"Give it up," Harry groaned. "You are one lousy liar."
"Am not. Weasley believed me when I told him you'd never slept in Snape's bed."
"As I recall, he didn't," Harry returned. He looked all around the small room they were in, which appeared to be some sort of general purpose space. A rather tattered sofa along one uneven stone wall, a rough-hewn dining table shoved up against another, and in between, nothing but a rug that looked as though it had been crocheted out of rags. There wasn't even any kitchen, though several crates on the table suggested that food might have been laid in. "Where should we put our things, sir?"
"I thought you and Draco could share the bedroom," Snape answered, waving toward the door.
Draco had already been in there. He nodded slightly. "Sure. I'll just transfigure the big bed in there into two smaller ones, like before." He drew his wand and flexed it as though already visualizing what he had in mind.
Harry couldn't believe the Slytherin boy's insensitivity. First insults, though unintentional, and now this? "We can't put you out of your room, Professor," he earnestly insisted, walking over to where Snape was beginning to Incendio a fire to ward off the pervasive chill in the cottage. "Really. I'd rather sleep on the floor than take your bed again."
Draco scoffed. "Wizards don't ever sleep on the floor, Harry. All you need is a stick of wood and a minimal knowledge of Transfiguration, and voil‡, a proper bed appears."
"Draco exaggerates but he does have a point," Snape murmured. "If I cared to, I could turn this place into something a bit grander. At any rate, I insist the two of you share the room. I want you both to have a happy Christmas."
Harry could have told him that he could be just as happy camping out in the living room, whatever Draco thought of the prospect. To refuse again, though, would be ungracious. "Thank you, sir," he softly said.
Snape gave him an irritated glance, which Harry supposed must mean that thanks weren't needed between father and son. Harry happened to think they were, but that was one more thing he decided not to argue about.