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Chapter Text

"Mr Potter?"

The voice was sharp, unforgiving. Harry flinched, his eyes snapping to the left, where the potions’ master was hovering over him like a bad omen. He raised his eyes. Confronted by a deathly stare, he swallowed a lump in his throat. He did not feel up to acting in the gryffindor way and brave the man's bad temper, not today.

"Sir?"

His voice came out less than a whisper. Snape raised an eyebrow, and waited. Getting the hint, Harry cleared his throat, and said, with a louder, although shakier voice:

"Yes, sir?"

He winced at how weak he had sounded. The man in front of him stayed impassible, as if he weighed out options. Probably thinking what types of humiliating comments he’ll come up with today…, Harry thought bitterly. He hadn't had but a few classes with that teacher yet, and he already knew he was in for a dreadful year… well, no, dreadful years, as there seemed to have but one teacher per subject, which he found ever so weird (and might explain the man's foul mood?), although he supposed the student body wasn’t as large as most muggle schools, but still… Yes, there was no escaping the man’s temper and prejudice. Not that his snark was anything compared to what the Dursleys would come up with… He shivered at the thought, concluding that, at least, the dungeon bat couldn’t hit him without risking to lose his job, or so he hoped. Maybe wizards were into stricter forms of punishments? Maybe there was no regulation, and it was left to the teachers to discipline as they saw fit? Could they hex students? Make them drink awful potions? Not that he had any proof of that in the few weeks he spent at Hogwarts, but, what if- what if… He felt himself grow smaller than he already was, bombarded with anxiety riddled scenarios- growing desperate, he wondered if his teacher’s glaring would ever end- eventually, the man said in a surprisingly neutral tone:

"You’ll do well to focus on your brewing. Your cure for boils is bound to overheat, if you keep getting distracted. Stay on task."

And without anymore comment, he passed him over in a flow of billowing robes to examine another station; Neville’s. The shy, anxious boy immediately recoiled in fear, punching over a flash on his desk, earning a rumbling “dunderhead”- and as the professor vanished the shattered glass and went on and on about potions’ class protocol (something about one’s station was to be kept organized and one ought to be monitoring at all times where one’s limbs were at), Harry met Hermione’s questioning eyes, and he discreetly shrugged, as dumbfounded as she was. He would have thought that Snape would jump on the occasion to slander him and take points from Gryffondor, but… he didn’t. Actually, he had yet to take points from Neville. Whatever was up with Snape today? Well, better focus on the potion now, he might have been fair once or twice, but I do not need to give him any more stones to lynch me with…

"What’s up Harry?", came the simultaneous voices of Fred and George.

Startled, the first year jumped back- they had come from behind him, and he simply hated being taken by surprise. He plastered a smile on his face, and greeted them enthusiastically. They practically didn’t acknowledge him as they went on:

"Where’s Ron? He told us that the bat hadn’t taken any point from Gryffondor today?"

"Now that hasn’t happened in years, probably decades-"

"Not that we would know, we haven't been here that long, but-"

"It certainly feels like it."

"I say Ron’s full of dragon dung-"

"And I say Snape’s got his brain all mushed up by potions’ fumes, after all, the period just before got the fourth years brewing a Calming Draught-"

"And you know how amortentia’s fumes have an effect, so-"

"Could be about the same-"

"So, we decided to take a gamble for it-"

"Ron’s affubilating-"

"Or Snape’s high-"

"And we’re waiting for you to settle the matter."

"So what happened?"

Harry’s smile was a bit frozen then, and he hoped he didn’t look too horrified. He truly loved the energetic duo, their pranks and wits were the highlights of Gryffondor, but they could also be quite overwhelming, and he had felt so tired lately, and overly confused… he always had had a hard time to focus, but it had been getting worse, his headaches more frequent, and as they unloaded a great deal in the shortest possible time, he felt completely drained. He did his best to answer as nonchalantly as he could:

"You heard right, but I, eeer, don’t know what came over him, honest."

Seeing the look of disappointment dawning on their face, he frowned, searching for words that would rid him of them while playing along with their game. He sighed.

"Look, I don’t know, maybe that… yeah, the potions’ fumes theory might be it? I mean, it was just so weird, Neville broke a flask and he didn’t take any points…"

He shrugged indistinctly, carrying forward that he did not have anything more to add. He did not mention his own failings, protective of his bizarre habit to blank out, worried he might get in trouble were the word to get out… Forever the freak, right, Harry?, he heard his cousin’s voice spat in his head; he forced down a grimace.

Satisfied that he didn’t know anything, the twins got past him, involved in a never ending argument, and as their gaze left him, he let his smile fall. He took a few seconds then, bracing himself for the Great Hall, taking deep, shaky breaths, when he spotted a black silhouette at the far left corner of his vision. He glanced there briefly and saw Snape, discussing with a Slytherin prefect- he could have sworn the teacher had been staring at him, and with a chill running down his spine, he bolted towards the feast, suddenly eager to blend in with the crowd.

"Come on Harry, eat something!"

Hermione’s high-pitched voice rang between his ears, making him cringe. He clutched at his fork and stared right ahead as a scenario played at the front of his mind. He heard himself retort, clear as day: What, who do you think you are? My mom? You don’t want to be her, believe me. She’s DEAD. He felt a strange urge to chuckle that left him feeling simultaneously shameful and light-headed. He finally took a glance at Hermione, who was watching him with barely veiled concern. Damn, he was really acting like a maniac, wasn’t he? Deciding against shattering the pretense, he put on his most reasonable smile, nodded, and stabbed his carrots with his fork. It took a lot of painful munching and swallowing before the young girl saw fit to let him be, and strike up a conversation… well, monologuize, truly, with an unbothered Ron Weasley, too focused on devouring his food to take offense of her rambling. Seeing him gorge himself with food made him nauseous- it reminded him of the way Dudley used to eat- except in his case it had been much, much worse, he thought with a strange mix of pity and disgust. The last bite he took was terribly hard to swallow, but he managed. He discreetly put down his fork, and sipped a bit of water, waiting impatiently for lunch to be over. He could not stomach any more food- ironic, he thought, how he had wished for years to eat to his heart content, and when finally provided with enough food, he simply couldn’t find the heart for it. Although he wondered if his heart had anything to do with the matter- maybe it was just a force of habit? As he had nothing else to do, he observed his surroundings, wincing at the permeating noise saturating the air; he gazed at the ceiling, trying to focus on its magnificence and take comfort in it- a small part of him rejoiced at the sight, the floating candles, the open, magical sky- but a dizzying mix of confusion and detachment brought his eyes down. As they fell, they ended up fixed on the head table, and green met black. Snape averted his gaze, feigning interest over whatever Quirrell was stuttering about. The shy man stretched to better face his interlocutor, his turban facing outward.

Then Harry winced in pain, but stopped his hand from reaching his scar. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. At the feast, he had had an inkling that the pain might have been linked to Snape; in retrospect, it really, truly hadn’t been. First time it happened was the welcoming feast: just as today, the defense professor had been sitting next to him- and after that, whenever Harry had spent time in class with the shy professor, he had felt many pangs at his scar, namely, whenever that awful turban was facing him. It was ever so weird, and he had rationalized it by supposing that, as the teacher seemed to be scared of his own shadow, he probably carried potent wards about him at all times, certainly in the guise of his turban, and that those artefacts reacted with his scar. It seemed logical. From what Hagrid had disclosed to him, his scar had been obtained through a very dark curse, indeed. He wasn't going to share his theory with anyone, though- it was yet another thing that made him, even among wizards, an anomaly. A freak. And nobody ever cared to listen anyway, now, did they? Deep in thought, he had unconsciously been rubbing his forehead. He thought in jest about the “must know at all times where your limbs are at” from potion’s class, and snickered. An instinct dragged his eyes back to the head table, and he caught once again Snape’s eyes on his own. He immediately went back to pretending to eat, much freaked out.

He might have let Snape off the hook regarding the reason his scar ached, but all this staring was starting to feel a tad creepy. Maybe the menacing wizard did bear ill-intent, and had been fair today to ease him into a false sense of security. He had seen his relatives make use of this technique many a time, and would not fall for it. The potions’ professor was up to something, alright.

On that account, Harry had been right.

On all others, he had been dead wrong.

Chapter Text

That night, Harry woke up biting down a scream. He laid there, eyes wide opened, trying to control his laboured breathing, tense and alert. He waited for a few minutes that way, not moving an inch, limbs cold and numb, attentive to any disruption in the dorm’s silence. He prayed feverishly that he hadn’t woken any of his roommates up with his nightmare, whatever it had been- he couldn’t recall.

He briefly wondered if the beds were charmed to keep out the noise, but thought better of it, as most nights, he was graced with the not so subtle snoring of his first ever mate, Ron Weasley. The boy had been nice enough, but Harry couldn’t help but feel foreign to his preoccupations and banters, although he tried not to show, not wanting to alienate the only friend that he had ever made. The boy might seem to lack a bit of perspective, but he was nice enough, and really, who was he to ask for anything more, when that already was a gift he wasn’t worthy of.

By the sound of it, or lack thereof, the inhabitants of the tower were still blissfully unconscious. He sighed, and his muscles relaxed, if just a bit.

After a few more minutes of staring into the void, he felt compelled to move out of his four-posters bed, the dark, enclosed place starting to feel obnoxiously tight... Bursts of nervous energy were nagging at his mind and body, and he eventually gave in, drawing the curtains as silently as possible. Leaving his bed with a featherlight step, he went down to the common room, hoping that nobody else hung around the place. Unlikely at this hour, but one was never too prudent.

His trip down went without raising any alarm, and he felt relief wash over him as he took in the sight of the empty common room; the fireplace was still slightly alight and outlined of the costic furniture in a warm hue- with nobody in sight, its messiness was evident, as many books, items of clothing, a few gobblestones and other unidentified objects were disseminated all around the place; how such a clutter could exist after only a few weeks of school was beyond him- aunt Petunia wouldn’t have cared for it one instant; he made his way through the room, trying not to step on any rogue object, wondering briefly if the place was warded against students going out after hours. He quickly remembered the mischievous twins and all the nightly excursions they boasted about, and all the talk of students being found out of bed- Really, you’d think they’d just close the bloody door and be done with it, he thought, astonished by the lack of practicality. Not that he was complaining on this peculiar instance- it wouldn’t have fared well with him to be stuck within the confines of the tower, not as such restlessness was taking hold of him. Thinking of which, a sense of doom was slowly growing inside of his chest- he needed to move, now. He made his way to the back of the portrait, and opened it with utmost care- the Fat Lady was none the wiser, and stayed fast asleep. The sneakiness he had acquired to make himself scarce at the Dursleys’ was coming in handy, he thought grimly.

When he reached the staircase, it was all he could do not to gallop forward and chuckle in delight at his new found freedom. The night held both nightmares and dreams alike, and as he left the firsts behind, he now felt up to grandiose feats and had to restrain himself from jumping down the stairs. It was weird how exhilarating the damp and cold air of an old haunted castle could feel, in retrospect. He smiled at the thought, and resolutely strode forward, barely minding his step, and almost fell a couple of times. After almost falling over the edge as a stair moved, he chastised himself for his recklessness, suddenly sobered up. I guess I really do belong in Gryffindor then; take that Hat !, he thought in jest, and that was enough to lift his spirits again. He was well aware of how irrational he was behaving, however he couldn’t seem able to care and it did not make a single dent in his new found euphoria. It was as if, in his tired state, belonging to the House of the braves was giving him free reign to indulge in his most impulsive, carefree tendencies. He playfully roared, pissing off a few portraits, and went blazing down a corridor without one afterthought as to where he was headed, Harry wondered if that was how it felt like to be happy. Or a child. Or a happy child.

He went through a magnificent corridor, long arched windows cutting a moonlit sky and casting glowing fragments on the cold stone floor. He jumped from light to light, cursing whenever he touched a shadow- on his last streak he efficiently avoided all dark spots and chuckled with glee.

He kept going down, and down into the castle, passing rows and rows of blissfully unaware, snorting paintings, and the dim light provided by the full moon and the occasional torches started to grow dimmer still, until he slowed down and came to halt, realising how thick the darkness surrounding him had become.

He was considering walking back and realizing that he hadn’t a clue how to do so when a low, dangerous voice erupted from the shadows. He jumped, all traces of euphoria vanishing, replaced by a paralysing fear. He recognised the voice immediately; it dawned on him with the weight of a truck. If he had been one to cry, he’d have burst into tears, here and there. It spoke as follows:

"Explain. Yourself. This. Instant."

Earlier this evening:

Severus Snape wasn’t the type to trust just about anyone -or, more acutely, he wasn’t keen on trusting anyone at all, even the people he’d spend most of his life dealing with. That said, there were a few exceptions to that rule, and even with them, he tended to put on a decent amount of both physical and emotional distance. There were many reasons for it; his natural tendency to avoid human interactions being one; the necessity of not forming attachment as a longstanding pawn in ‘Dumbledore’s Grand Game for the Greater Good’ being another. And yet, in his many years as Hogwarts’ Potions’ Master, some social habits did form, namely on most friday’s evenings, at the stubborn insistence of one Minerva McGonagall.

He could recall an old awkwardness, from when he was a young teacher, at the change of dynamics in the relationship- adjusting to not being her student, but on equal footing, had been slightly confusing. She still had a tendency to sometimes see him as the child he once had been, although it was more fondness than superiority, and really, could he blame her, he himself couldn’t shake his role of older, wiser master when he stumbled upon old students of his. And he wasn’t half as pleasant about it as she was. At first, completely alienated with grief and guilt, he had tried to cut off the outside world- but, as Head of House Gryffindor, she definitely had a great deal of tenacity, which paid off eventually, for he had accepted her offer for tea.

He hadn’t, and still didn’t, mind as much as he thought he would; the witch was brilliant, admirably stern, as well as utterly immune to Albus’ nonsense, calling him out when necessary. A feat that was, for lack of a better word, quite delightful to observe.

There was a professional angle to these meetings, of course, as it allowed more coordination on the teaching front, and talk of important Head of House matters. Now, if there was the occasional roasting of a variety of political figures, colleagues, and unruly students, that was nothing but a most natural slip after overwhelming hours of teaching, grading, supervising… Elaborating snarky remarks was also a strategy in and of itself, as they made a habit of having these talks while playing a game of wizarding chess, and there was nothing like a biting retort to try and destabilise one’s opponent.

Minerva was a fierce adversary, which he appreciated more than he’d care to say; the intellectual stimulation was a relief from the crass boredom of dealing with idiotic children all day, every day. Many negotiations were also influenced by the outcome of a game- some irreconcilable dissensions best settled through the use of bets. They referred to this technique as ‘reaching a mutual understanding’. Because of it, he had been tasked a few years back with admitting to Hagrid that his Christmas treacle fudge, which he delightfully offered the staff every year, was… slightly overwhelming in taste. Minerva didn’t hold it against him when he ultimately failed to do so. He was not a very nice, compassionate man, sure, but to break the giant’s blissful ignorance and festive glee simply felt… too uncomfortable to fathom. Most of the time, they played for ways to favour one house over the other; house rivalry had never been so amusing. The tea and biscuits weren’t too bad, either.

Though recently, their conversations had tended to stubbornly bring up a topic he wasn’t overly inclined to discuss. He was holding a teacup near his lips, eyes set on a rather calm chess set (with the two of them, the pieces were frightened into submission), when Minerva broke off the silence:

“So, I trust your potions’ class with the first years is going well.”

She didn’t specify which one of the two classes she was referring to, but it seemed fairly obvious at this point.

“... I put on a bet with interested parties, so tell me what was the reason for you to be so… compliant with my house, for once?”

He slowly shook his head. He had noticed the Weasley twins betting antics. Minerva and her competitive spirit needed to be kept in check. He pushed around a pawn without much thought, keeping a facade of focus. She went on with a gleeful tone that infuriated him all the more:

“If you must know, there are three different categories : one stating that it is nothing but hearsay, another saying that you intoxicated yourself with calming draught fumes”, he snickered loudly at that, “and another going for ‘various other circumstances’. So, which one is it?”

She had made her move during her tirade, moving her queen. Seeing an opening, he played almost immediately, drawing forth the fool and defeating a knight, who fell off his horse with a chilling scream. It is with a strained amiability that he indulged her line of reasoning and calmly asked:

“Your ideas so far?”

“Well. Varied, disinterested sources all claim the events did happen, so there goes the first hypothesis. As for the second, such an oversight would be unbecoming of you, so, it’s a hard no.”

She then paused, seemingly pondering her next move, as Severus tried his best not to summon some firewhiskey to accompany his tea.

Oh, Merlin. Why were they making such a fuss about it? It could have been any number of innocuous things.

He supposed it was his fault for consistently removing points from Gryffindor. Or not removing enough points from Slytherin. However, he simply couldn’t change that, could he? It would be a foolish political move. Slytherins had far too much decorum to react well to public slander.

And the lions did earn his ire. Potion making was a delicate, subtle endeavour, and the brashness of Gryffindor House was simply in opposition with the required traits.

A few examples of good brewers among gryffindors came to mind but he discarded them quickly, for exceptions were not the rule.

“I do have more of a personal theory, but it needs your input.”

He raised a single eyebrow, waiting for whatever she was about to throw at him. She looked him straight in the eyes as she moved her queen once again. Checkmate.

“Harry Potter.”

… The old wily witch does have a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she. He watched as a malicious smirk expanded on her face and almost rolled his eyes. Now that is the look of a cat catching a mouse. He was not amused.

Her input irritated him on several levels. Firstly, it hardly qualified as a theory, it was just a name. Secondly, why did it always have to be about Potter? Thirdly, and most maddeningly, she was entirely right. He growled an half-hearted acknowledgement.

“No love lost there, uh?”

“None. Obviously. But since you insist on bringing it up, we might as well discuss the blasted child.”

He took a breath, composing himself behind occlumency shields, and declared:

“...There is something wrong about Potter.”

The retort came quick and witty.

“Now now Severus, I am surprised you’d say that something is wrong with him, you’ve done nothing but sing high praise of the boy ever since he set foot in these halls-”

Her irony flew entirely above his head, and he interrupted her impatiently:

“I do not mean that he IS the problem.”

“Don’t you?”

Her teasing disbelief irked him to no point. He struggled to articulate his next words with how clenched his teeth had become.

“... I meant to say that he has one.”

There, finally!, he thought with relief. He could see in the change of her stance, the focus in her eyes and the whole together careful air she now arborred : she was starting to listen seriously.

“Meaning?”

“An inkling. Corroborated by a thorough observation of the subject.”

“Subject? Planning to use him in one of your experiments anytime soon?”

...And the sarcasm was back again.Enough. He suddenly rose from his chair and started walking back and forth the office, his voice struggling to contain the urgency propulsing his slightly frantic motion.

“The boy doesn’t seem to have a clue about the wizarding world, which can be explained away if Albus’ entrusted him in the care of muggles, which I hadn’t thought he would, but I suppose I can see a few reasons for that- still, nursing this kind of ignorance in the boy seems irresponsible when he could become critical in the future if matters took a turn for the worst. But that is not all.”

He stopped himself, towered over his chair and pressed his fingers into the green fabric covering it. He took a deep breath before carrying on, his black eyes set between the ground and the desk, intensely focused on a mental image.

“He is jumpy, secludes himself, and would succeed in doing so if the student population wasn’t so invested in him. He’s way too small and skinny for his age, barely eats anything, blanks out in class and it seems to be only getting worse. If I didn't know any better, I’d say the boy has been abused. But as it is Dumbledore who chose his placement, I doubt he would let such a thing come to pass. So it begs the question: what is wrong? A sickness of sorts? Something linked to his curse scar, perhaps? I can only make wild guesses at this stage, but I do believe we should look further into it.”

She didn’t answer, her lips a very thin line, stubbornly staring at the chessboard with something of a storm assembling behind her eyes. Suddenly feeling exhausted after his long, fervent speech, he sighed, sat back down, slightly slumping in his chair- a strand of dark hair fell in front of his face as he confessed:

“This is worrisome, Minerva.”

He felt defeated. Oh did he hate to admit it, but yes, he was, in fact, worried. If the boy had been nothing short but the perfect depiction of health and success, it would have been so easy to hate him. He wanted to. He had tried to, both as a means of revenge on James Potter (perfectly unfair, but then again, he wasn’t nice was he?), and as a way of making certain any slytherin onlookers (namely Draco Malfoy) would report to their parents how antagonistically he behaved towards the Boy-Who-Lived. However, the disparity between what he thought the boy would be like and what he actually was like had taken him off guard. He supposed it had been foolish of him, not bothering to take points- he couldn’t allow himself to be set off balance so easily, he had a reputation to live up to. Better pretend he was high on potions’ fume than admit he had relented for fear of hurting Harry Potter’s feelings.

The witch in front of him seemed lost in thought, and had paled slightly, he noticed.

“Well, you always… had an eye for that sort of thing, Severus. Which we’re all grateful for.”

Yeah, sure, his messed up childhood did come in handy, when he could pinpoint the telltale signs of abuse and neglect by simply comparing a child to his past self. Don’t mention it. A terrible oversight from both the wizarding and muggle world, to not train teachers to detect such things. He wondered briefly if he could implement any systemic changes -it wasn’t really his role, though, was it? He picked up on quite enough cases in the different houses, and he did watch out for his slytherins. Doing more would be harmful to his spying role in the remaining Death Eaters circles, which he simply couldn’t afford.

Minerva sighed, looking suddenly much older than she was.

“I did notice… a few of the things you mentioned. I thought the boy was perhaps struggling with his new environment, as many a student before him, but… You raise a compelling argument.”

He could tell there was more to it- her whole face was constricted in a frown, as if she’d bitten in a particularly vicious every-flavour-bean. A few moments of tense reflection passed, and she seemed to come to a decision: she raised green eyes veiled in rightful anger, looking right at him with such determination that he immediately straightened up in his chair.

“Severus, there is something that I know and you are not yet aware of; I believe that this fact, confronted with one of your hypotheses might lead us to pursue an investigation that will severely disrupt the game as it currently is…”

... Ominous.

“I was there that night, when Harry Potter was placed with these... people.”

The contempt he heard in the last word did not advertise a good end to her explanation. She carried on, every word sharp as a bite.

“... The address 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

He was listening carefully when she joined her hands, put them on the desk before her and looked terribly solemn as she finished:

“... Home of one Petunia Dursley, her husband and her son.”

Chapter Text

Back to present time:

A bright blinding light had appeared right under his nose, and Harry took a reflexive step back, raising a hand to protect his eyes from its unforgiving glow.

“Potter.”

It was quite impressive how this man managed to make a name, his name, sound like an insult. There was a mastery to it that Harry found almost admirable. He would have appreciated it, were he not currently busy reconsidering all his life choices leading up to this point. The glowing wand receded slightly, and he put down his hand, squinting through the halo of light, trying to discern Snape’s figure- the man must have noticed, for he put his wand further down. Now that Harry could see his face, he regretted it. An acerbic snarl was drawn on the man's features as he said in a voice dripping with contempt :

“I should have expected as much.”

He felt anger rise in his chest, and thought to ask why and how it was to be expected, as he had been nothing short of a model student so far, (well it wasn’t true but he hadn’t done anything so foolish before, had he? Well, except for that little incident in flying class… but that ended pretty well, didn't it?), however, he knew better than to speak out of turn in such a dire circumstance.

“50 points from Gryffindor”

Harry tried to hold down the bubble of desperate laughter trying to push a way up his throat. The world has reclaimed its balance! Professor Severus Snape has taken points from Gryffindor! His unreasonable desire to bark with laughter smoothly turned into barely repressible tears. He tried to appear unaffected, but he couldn’t help the nervous swallowing and too frequent batting of his eyelashes. His eyes stung.

Everybody would hate him, now, wouldn’t they. Well. It would not matter for long, because he was going to be expelled, wasn’t he? Now, he thought, hollowness growing in his chest, if I do get expelled, nothing will matter anymore, so, they might as well hate me, I won’t care.

“Surrender your wand.”

Still shell-shocked at the enormous amount of points lost and dizzy at his spiraling thoughts, it took him a few moments to register the man’s order. Well, that’s awkward, Harry concluded sarcastically, remembering that he left his wand on his bedside table. He forced his mouth open in an attempt to answer:

“Er, eeer. Well, see, I. ...I don’t-”

He stretched the word in an attempt to avoid finishing his sentence, but eventually gave up the pretense and dropped it all. Snape seemed to have gotten the gist beyond his impaired speech, for he scolded, seemingly outraged:

“Not only a first year, but one deprived of a wand ! Has it crossed your feeble mind, Potter, that you’d be as helpless as a muggle, were you to encounter any threats? Not that your wand would be of much aid, as you so clearly do not possess the necessary instinct to protect yourself.”

Well, that was unfair, Harry thought. It wasn’t his fault that the first years were basically as helpless as newborns, magically wise. And with the Defense Professor that they had, it would take no less than a miracle to gather the necessary knowledge. He tried a new angle, hoping he could eventually escape a part of the man’s wrath:

“What threats? I mean. This is a school, sir? We’re safe here, right?”

A sort of dark, short chuckle erupted from the man. It transpired such deep contempt that Harry almost regretted having played the part of an innocent, wishful child. He had been pretending, but it still stinged.

“Oh, yes. It might have escaped your foolproof attention, Potter, but there are many ghosts roaming these halls who were, before they met their untimely end, students of this institution.”

The Lumos was casting dreadful shadows on the man’s face, making it resemble some sort of horribly distorted mask; one of his eyebrows was raised grotesquely as he spoke, the cold voice striking Harry like lightning.

“And from that, I let you draw your own conclusions.”

His eyes suddenly unfocused, the boy simply stated, his face a blank:

“Oh.”

… Was he going to die tonight? Was it why Snape had been staring at him all day long? Because he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get rid of a nuisance? Another ‘student of this institution meeting their untimely end’. Who would care? He had thought that perhaps, he would be safer here, but nowhere was safe, wasn't it, and now, he was going to die. Good riddance!, the hateful smirk of Aunt Petunia greeted him from the shadows.

A tired, overworked part of his brain tried to keep him from panicking by telling him that, if the man had such plans, he would have acted on them already, and would have been glad at his absence of wand instead of wrathful. In his current state, though, anything his reason could come up with wasn’t convincing enough to snap him out of the blinding, paralyzing terror which had caught him off guard. But Harry had learned early that running, screaming and fighting were useless, unrewarding strategies, so he reacted as he always did: by shutting down.

His reaction, or lack thereof, wore the remainder of Snape’s patience thinner still, and it showed. The young boy didn’t find it in him to rise to the occasion and find a more subdued, apologetic answer. He felt himself back up more and more deeply inside of himself, his surroundings starting to get fuzzy and clogged as if stuffed with damp cotton. He felt a shiver, then nothing. Nothing at all. Was he floating?

… Haha, that felt funny.

Minerva's office, a few hours ago... :

It was an understatement to say that Severus had been pissed when he had heard the news.

It had been an uproar.

“Petunia ?! Petunia Evans, of all the people who would be willing to take him in?”

The old witch was clutching her hands on top of the desk, stretching her face between the pull of her tight bun and that of her pursed lips. She tilted her head slightly in thought and specified:

“Well, she wasn’t willing per say, but…”

Snape was up and running down the office once again, deploying all his will power not to strike the bookcases parching the walls in frustration.

“Of bloody course she wasn’t! What was Albus thinking?!”

He stopped in his tracks and turned accusingly towards her, eyes squinting hard, voice cutting and cold:

“What were you thinking?”

Minerva briefly froze, then breathed in, rose up on her feet, pushing back her quilted chair and sending her most piercing stare his way. She smoothed over the folds of her green robes, her chin held high, and retorted:

“Oh but I was thinking perfectly straight my dear, and I told him things just the way they were, alright, I told him these muggles were the worst imaginable, but he wouldn’t listen. He raised... reasons and they seemed perfectly legitimate at the time, he said that it was better for the boy to grow up far away from the spotlight, and I agreed, and I'm sure you agree too, at least on that point. ...He seemed to be certain that no harm would come to him there...”, Severus snickered, “... BUT we both noticed Harry is not in the gud, healthy state we excepted him to be, so there's that.”

Her tone was proud but her words were nervously rushed, betraying a subtle sense of vulnerability that immediately sobered him up. He wasn’t the only one to feel guilt, obviously. And on top of that, he now felt guilty for having made her feel more guilty than she already did. Oh Merlin, the headache…

He grimaced an attempt at an apologetic smile, and asked, trying to hold off the usual bite in his words:

“What are we to do, then?”

“Well…”

She set her eyes on the chair and then back on him, raising a meaningful eyebrow. Catching her meaning, he begrudgingly regained his seat, arms crossed. She smiled gratefully and sat back. With a flick of her wand, black and white shards reassembled, swirling in the air:

“We keep doing what you started. We investigate, evaluate, then...“

A variety of complaints erupted from the broken pieces as they mended.

“... depending on our findings…”

And with a final drop, they all regained their rightful place on the chess board.

“... We act.”

Present time again :

“Now, answer. What type of mischief were you up to, galavanting the corridors in the dead of night? Hm?”

Indeed. What had been the boy’s plan, to get him so far down there, so close to the dungeons? Severus hadn’t even been on a night round, he had just come back from Minerva’s office with a restless mind and spent a few hours grading papers to try and stop thinking about what -who they had discussed, and had been heading back to his quarters when he'd heard footsteps. Maybe it had been a dare? After all, he could easily portray it : the house of the braves, challenging young students to prove their valor by doing a trip down the snakes’ pit and back.

… Or perhaps the boy had heard about the Philosophers’ Stone and went to investigate? Minerva had told him that Hagrid had been the one to fetch him from his home, and knowing the man, there was a possibility that he would have let something slip. But, no, that hypothesis didn’t stand to reason, for he was too far away from the third floor. Then what?

Snape looked him up and down -too skinny, too small-, and noticed that he was going barefoot; the man’s face managed to sour even more than before. He was going to ask about that with a snarky remark when it struck him: Potter had gone really, weirdly still. He snapped his name. Once. Twice, louder. A third time, with a faint concern veiled with anger.

The boy, transfixed, finally answered the question with an uncanny detachment and sluggishness:

“Night-...”

Snape moved his Lumos closer to Harry’s face, startled at the complete absence of reaction to the light.

“...-Mare”

The vacant look in the green eyes was a chilling sight, all too reminiscent of the way Lily had looked when… Merlin. Something was off- dreadfully off. Now he knew for certain : he’d been right to worry.

Well, that settled it.

He needed to act. Now.

He slowly crouched until he was at the boy’s height, and tried to soften his tone, still sounding fairly commending :

“Listen, Potter. You need not fear. Abide by the rules and you will remain safe. They are here to protect you. So are your teachers.”

So am I.

The boy didn't look at him. Severus might as well have been a ghost, the way he stared right through him. A pained look creasing his face, he ordered, his words barely above a whisper:

“Now, follow me.”

He then put a careful hand on the boy’s shoulder, wanting to guide him on the way to the infirmary, as he didn’t seem in a good enough state to properly understand his words- well, that had been the plan, but at the moment he reached out, the boy suddenly went limp and crashed on the floor.

... what.

Chapter Text

Harry was floating. When did he learn to fly without a broom? It was nice. And warm. And it smelled like potion fumes. …. Weird. Oh well. Did it matter what it smelled like?... It kind of did, apparently. The information kept creeping up at the forefront of his thoughts like it mattered, for some reason. He tried dismissing it a few times, relinquishing in the feeling of carefree bliss, but it only grew stronger, disrupting his peace, and he started to become more aware of his surroundings. He felt discomfort at the back of his head, a sort of vague pain accentuating whenever he focused on it, so he simply tried not to. Instead, he put his attention on the sound of a heartbeat, and on the sensation of walking, except he wasn’t walking, was he, he wasn’t moving his legs- oh. The realization struck him like lightning, in one short instance of lucidity : I’m not moving, I’m being moved.

… He was being carried, wasn’t he?

The last coherent thought Harry managed to form was:

Carried? Ah! That has never happened before.

And he fell back into oblivion.

When Poppy Pomfrey woke up at the sound of the infirmary alarm going off, she didn’t expect to be greeted by the sight of a panicked Severus Snape, carrying an unconscious Boy-Who-Lived in his arms. She stared unbelieving for a second, for that was perhaps weirder than the time she found him carrying angrily a whole bunch of puffskeins after Kettleburn’s carelessness brought on an invasion of magical creatures in the castle. Snapping out of it, her professional instinct kicked in as she ordered:

“Put him on the bed, quick.”

As he did, she pestered him to be more careful, more out of habit than anything, for he took extreme care when he placed the boy on the sheets, prompting a pillow under his head, and gently removing the glasses from his face- taking in the sight, Severus noticed that without them, the boy wasn’t the spitting image of his father anymore- there was more of Lily at play here, in the arch of brows, in the curve of the nose and shape of the mouth- and as the nurse started her examination he stepped back, his throat tight. His eyes swapped around the infirmary, he noticed another student down the row of beds, head barely rising up from their sheets, and staring at the newcomers in the most failed attempt at discrete snooping he had ever had the displeasure of noticing- royally annoyed, Snape threw him a vitriolic look as he drew the curtains around the offender’s bed with a swift and angry bit of wandless magic. He immediately did the same around Harry’s bed, and performed a Muffliato charm, just to be safe. He then took a deep breath in, and with a carefully controlled voice, said:

“He hurt his head when he fell.”

The severe nurse already had her wand drawn. She asked swiftly as she was scanning Harry’s body with diagnosis charms :

“Fell how?”

“The boy went for a night stroll. I was on my way to my quarters when I found him walking around. And then. He. … Fainted.”

He grimaced. He still couldn’t believe the turn events had taken. He expected her to ask how, to ask why. She didn’t. Was a child fainting in his presence so likely that it didn’t raise any questions? Rude. But, also quite understandable. He supposed he could be a tad threatening. Even unwillingly. And most of the time it was on purpose. Or out of habit. So, really, no reason to feel insulted. He was quite convinced the issue stemmed from a more serious cause, though, so he pressed on, voice low:

“Listen, you should know, Minerva and I have come to the conclusion that something might be off with the boy’s home life.”

“Potter?” she asked, startled at the notion. She received a dead serious glare, and she quickly pushed away any preconceptions she could have had on the Boy-Who-Lived. Severus was always spot-on, when he brought up such a case. And she knew better than most that abuse could fester in the most unlikely places. Going back to her spells, she frowned deeply, startled at the readings she was getting. She muttered under her breath:

“Well I suppose he isn’t in a very healthy state, for an eleven year old boy.”

Severus must have heard because he stepped forward urgently and hunched over the bed.

“What do you see?”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, shooing him away. As he barely moved, she turned towards him with a fearsome glare, using her most severe and professional tone :

“He’s stable. Just a bump on the head. No concussion. Give me some room, a couple minutes and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

At that she momentarily pushed away the curtains with a flick of her wand, then silently accio’d a chair on the other side of the bed, and pointed at it commandingly. She immediately went back to work, dead focused on her task, and Severus stupidly wondered why women were constantly urging him to sit, these days. He reluctantly stepped back and obeyed, taking place on the stiff wooden chair. Arguing with Poppy Pomfrey was always a strategic mistake, and he was far too exhausted to start a fight he was bound to lose. Not that he would otherwise look for one- he wasn’t a gryffindor, after all.

He tracked every single one of her movements and reactions, trying to decipher how bad things were -but she remained perfectly stoic : whatever she was thinking, it was hard to read. His eyes kept wandering on Harry’s limp form, looking frighteningly small and vulnerable- whenever he closed his eyes, he could see himself shouting at Albus, letting free reign to his feelings of betrayal, anger, guilt… Quickly, these images called forth other ones, and added to his inner turmoil. Voices overlapped, taunts from the past, their screams scratching and banging inside of his skull for a way out. He tensed in his chair and clenched forcibly at the armrests in an attempt to blow off some of the building tension.

He focused on his breathing, on the soft, orange glow sipping through the white curtains; on the precise, caring gestures of the nurse, and on the shine of a few vials gracing the top of a bedside table. He had regained some control over his personal chaos when Pomfrey tapped over a piece of parchment and presented it to him with a strained, dour face:

“Read.”

He reached out for it, extending his arm slowly, apprehensive. His fingers closed down on the cold paper, and he pulled it closer to his face with an even slower gesture. Diagrams came in sight, categories, results sometimes accompanied by scribbled down notes. His blood got colder as the words he read translated in his mind as reality.

Patient: Harry James Potter

Age: 11 years old

He braced himself and rapidly scanned the results, targeting the most important bits of information.

Underheight, underweight, lack of body fat and muscles, slightly below average temperature, slow respiratory rate, weak pulse, a rather low blood oxygen saturation, a definitely low blood pressure, obvious signs of malnutrition, a weak immune system and signs of magical exhaustion (probably a consequence of his overall state, for his magic must have been compensating for the lack of nutrients, his compromised immune system, protecting him from diseases, and keeping him warm, as he would undoubtedly be constantly sick and freezing as things were). … Badly mended broken bones. Scarring...

He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“We really ought to start implementing obligatory medical exams for the first years, Poppy.”

She answered with a small, hard chuckle, more desperate than humorous.

“I’ve been trying to get the Board to authorize it for years, but you know how they are. Stubborn fools.”

He sighed deeply.

“Well. I mostly know that they have some things to hide, and would rather no one discovers the way that they treat their own children.”

They exchanged a knowing look. Then Poppy shook her head helplessly, shrugging. They had little to no power over these things, and they knew it. Severus closed his eyes once again, ruling over the deep anger boiling in his veins. He took a moment, breathed in, then asked, his voice unfaltering :

“So. What is our plan of action?”

“He needs rest for now. We’ll start a potion regimen immediately after he wakes up. I don’t know if we’ll be able to erase all of the lasting damage, but the sooner we act the better. As for the mental scarring… I can’t do much about it, I am no mind healer, I can only hand out careful amounts of calming draught and dreamless sleep when needed. … On a final note, I must say that it would be… counter-productive to my therapeutic efforts if he were to keep living with whoever inflicted this on him.”

He nodded stiffly. He had to use the entire extent of his willpower not to crinkle the parchment in his grip. He tried to keep the murderous thoughts at bay, for burning up a house full of muggles, although satisfying, would be a particularly bad strategic mishap. Realizing he had stopped breathing for awhile now, he took a deep, controlled inhalation, and whispered firmly:

“Poppy. I must ask for the utmost secrecy. No one must know”

“Well of course, who do you take me for, I’ve been a licensed healer for-”

“Including Albus.”

She fell silent, a suspicious frown deepening on her face.

“Why?”

He leaned forward and looked at her intently, furiously trying to convey the importance of his words.

“I have reasons to believe he had, to some extent, knowledge of this, and as long as I don’t know what his plan was, I cannot risk him learning about our… inquiries.”

She seemed to think it over. Severus waited anxiously, his grip on the armrest tightening again. Poppy looked at the boy, then back at him. Slowly, she nodded.

“... I see. A bit paranoid if you ask me, but fine, I’ll keep schtum and build a nice file.”

“Make four copies. One for you, one for me, one for Minerva and one for whatever channels we’ll decide to use, if and when it comes to this.”

He rubbed his eyes; the day certainly hadn’t gone smoothly, the build up of fatigue and nerve was starting to burden his body and mind -yet, he still had so much left to plan. Noticing his exhaustion, the nurse addressed him a rare, thin smile, and taking back the parchment from him, patted his shoulder reassuringly. His muscles tensed, weary of any contact. Her voice admonished him gently:

“He’ll be alright now.”

Casting one last glance at the sleeping child, she then left for her office.

Those files weren't going to duplicate themselves.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Severus Snape still sat exactly in the same spot, his dry eyes going over a list of potions prescribed to a certain Harry James Potter.

His usual dark circles had grown darker still, his aura of gloom more prominent than ever, as he waited for the boy to wake up. Thankfully -or unfortunately, he wasn’t sure which, the chair was far too uncomfortable to fall asleep in. He vaguely wondered what time it was; it must have been the morning by now, the dawn was breaking, if barely, and Minerva was an early riser. He ought to contact her through the floo, to keep her apprised of the latest development, and have her watch over Potter in his stead -she was, after all, the boy’s Head of House, and had a largely better relationship with the child than he did. But leaving without clarifying the night’s events felt wrong, and he felt too defeated by what Poppy’s had learned about the boy’s state to move an inch anyway, all traces of energy syphoned out of him. … He needed, at the very least, to be there when the boy woke up. To discuss things, yes. But, and it was a surprising thought, it was mostly to see the actual waking up happening, and not leave with the uncertainty of whether he would or would not, except he was going to, obviously, as Poppy had said, he was going to be alright, but. Looking back at his thought process, Severus found it all too messy and irrational for his taste, but that’s what worry and sleep deprivation did to the human mind, and at this point, he didn’t have the energy to care about that anymore.

When Harry finally opened his eyes, he was greeted by a different sight than usual- instead of red, velvety posters encasing him, he saw a high, sculpted ceiling, softly glowing in a warm shade, as if dawn had set fire to the stone. It felt peaceful, warm, and he breathed in, catching some sort of smell reminiscent of disinfectant and something else he swore he recognized from before- propelled to look around him, he almost jumped out of the bed when he saw the dark, lugubrious figure looming at his bedside.

The memories of the night suddenly came crashing back and he gasped. The shadowy silhouette moved, probably noticing he was awake. He closed his eyes again, gathering his strength- don’t let them see your pain- and declared with a tight throat :

“I’ll… I’ll just go packing, then.”

“Packing?”

The man’s voice sounded confused. Was he mocking him, on top of everything else?

“Well, you’re going to expel me, aren’t you?”

Harry felt pissed, and ready to fight. He stretched his neck to try and face his interlocutor, and grimaced at the soreness at the back of his skull. It didn’t hurt much, but it felt really uncomfortable. The man seemed to notice, for he said next:

“Apologies, I should have been able to catch you before you fell. I… well. The. Fainting was unexpected.”

He had fainted? Oh, yes, right. Oh, no, not right. The embarrassment ! Fainting ! In front of Snape, of all people ! … wait. ‘Apologies’. That’s what Snape had said, hadn’t he? He hadn’t dreamed that up? But his teacher didn’t leave him much time to let that sink in, as he pressed on :

”Drink this. It’ll help alleviate any discomfort you might be feeling. You’ll have other potions to take afterwards- I shall fetch Madam Pomfrey when we're finished.”

He then handed Harry a vial containing a green liquid, and the boy eyed it worrily, his brain concocting a thousand horrible ways of succumbing to poison. Knowing that his teacher’s patience was usually on the short side, he urged himself to take it. He dislodged the cork, brought the bottle close to his mouth- and stopped there in a final hesitation.

“Potter, I am an efficient individual. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so already. This is a medical prescription, not poison. Now drink.”

Harry took a quick breath, scrunched up his face and desperately prayed to whoever was listening, as he gobbled down the nefarious liquid, trying not to barf it right up. Snape vanished the empty vial from his hands with a flick of the wrist, and Harry opened wide eyes, realizing the man had performed this trick without a wand. That managed to snap him out of his fear of being poisoned. Impressive. Could he learn to do that too? Oh. That potion was working, wasn’t it? He felt so energetic, all of a sudden. It was like a weight had been removed from his skull. Seemingly oblivious to the wonder lightening up the boy’s face, Snape went on:

“As for the matter of punishments. 50 points were already taken from your house. Detention will also be in order. However. No one is expelling you, Potter. Unless you try and murder one of your classmates, it will probably never come to this. Even in this case, history has proven that a favoured few can, and did, get away with literally anything.

He was rambling a bit, his tone increasingly bitter, and at this moment, in spite of his blurred vision, Harry realized how exhausted his teacher looked. ... wait. What time was it? What time had it been when Snape had found him roaming the castle? … Did he stay at his side all night? Why?! Was the nurse on leave? Why hadn’t he called McGonagall? Fuzzy with interrogations, he tried to muster some of his usual defiance, just to get a bit of normalcy back in an unfathomable world. Raising his chin and squinting his eyes, he said fiercely:

“I don’t plan on murdering anyone, sir.”

His teacher’s face did a weird thing that almost looked like a very thin, very strained smile.

“Well. Give it a few years.”

Was this… humour? If so, Harry totally missed the joke.

Snape’s face regained its usual composure in a flash, making him doubt his anyway unreliable eyes. Then, the man asked, low voice rumbling in the quiet:

“Now, tell me, Mister Potter. What happened tonight, exactly?”

Oh no. Time for questioning. His instincts screamed at him not to lie, for he was sure this man could spot dishonesty from a mile away.

“Well, I just… didn’t feel like staying in the tower.”

Wow, that justification sounds weak as hell, Harry remarked as soon as it had left his lips. His teacher was also quick to notice, raising a doubtful eyebrow and repeating slowly:

“You. Just. Did not. Feel like it?”

Harry sighed and looked away. He couldn’t get out of this one without disclosing more. He fundamentally didn’t want to, though. He mumbled, crossing his arms defensively.

“Had a nightmare. Needed to move.”

He expected a blazing commentary, accusing him of being a pathetic, entitled child, but the voice remained neutral as it simply stated:

“I see.”

From the corner of his eyes, Harry saw him underlining something on a paper that he held in his hand. What was that? Was he taking notes? Snape’s eyes went back on him, and Harry hurriedly turned his gaze towards the curtains facing him, squinting hard as if trying to see what lied beyond. Seconds passed in a tense, increasingly awkward silence, eventually broken by his teacher as he pressed on:

“Do you know why you. Fainted?”

Harry bit his lips, uncertain if he should say anymore.

“I’m not sure. Usually I just blank out, but stay upright.“

“Just blank out when?”

Harry was starting to lose his patience. He certainly hoped this little interrogation would be over soon, and that he’d never have to say anything remotely personal to his teacher ever again.

“...When I feel threatened, sir.”

He looked at Snape accusingly. The man didn’t bulge. Well. Harry supposed he couldn’t exactly leave it at that, but he also couldn’t say more without shredding the relative peace that seemed to have established itself in this conversation. He thought it over, and increasingly unsettled under the scrutiny, he rushed his words out.

“Sorry, sir. It’s just… You don’t like me very much, and I caught you staring at me a lot tod… yesterday, so I thought you were maybe planning to. Murder me?”

The flegmatic posture of his teacher seemed to tighten at that; he wasn’t moving much before, but now he seemed to have become a statue; the only things left looking alive were his eyes, and they were blinking frantically. Harry vaguely wondered what one was supposed to do when confronted with someone having a stroke, but Snape finally spoke, in a voice so slow and detached that it made him feel deeply unsettled.

“Why. On. Earth. Would. You. Think. That.”

This time Harry didn’t turn away; he raised an unimpressed eyebrow and deadpanned:

“I literally just said why, sir.”

Snape promptly bit back, his dark eyes sharp and focused :

“Mind the cheek.”

Harry almost smiled in relief. Oof, the dungeon’s bat was back to normal. For what came next, the boy quickly backtracked on that thought:

“Had I wished for you not to notice, Mister Potter, you wouldn’t have caught me staring. As it were, I wasn’t concerned about making you uncomfortable. I was much more intent on assessing your behaviour, and making you aware that I was doing so. That way, our next talk would have skipped over contingencies and gone directly to what I deduced from my inquiries. However. I can see my assessment has been misinterpreted in a rather dreadful way, which consequently caused you some amount of… distress. I should have anticipated such an outcome, with the suspicions that I had. I apologize.

Wait. Snape… apologized for the second time? Snape, apologizing twice? Magic is real, there’s an entire world hidden in plain sight, and Snape hands over apologies like candies? What kind of bizarre timeline was he in?... He was so disturbed by the idea that he didn’t completely register all the talk about suspicions and inquiries. He simply looked up at his teacher, his eyes widened in shock. The sight seemed to annoy the man, and he looked close to rolling his eyes, but Harry couldn’t help it. Seriously, was he in a coma? Would he ever wake up?

He must have spent some time staring mouth agape, because Snape cleared his throat impatiently, looking right about to snap. That woke Harry up alright, and blinking his eyes a few times, he thought it over, and delivered in the most humble and honest way he could manage:

"Thank you, sir."

Snape’s frown eased up a bit at that. And then, most casually, he brokered horrifying news:

“Also. No more Quidditch, Potter.”

He was going to protest when the professor raised an imperious hand, interrupting him on the spot.

“It would be imprudent for you to partake in such a strenuous, highly dangerous activity, as it were. I’m certain Minerva will agree, when she learns about tonight’s events. I’ll be sending her over shortly.”

Then the man fell silent, apparently deep in thought. Harry was steaming, but kept his mouth shut. As a first year, he hadn’t even been supposed to play, so why did it sting so much? Well, probably because Snape was using this one small incident to penalize the entire Gryffindor team, like the unfair git that he was. Harry hoped he’d be able to convince McGonagall to let him play: he couldn’t let his house down, what would they say? The silence stretched on, and he started to feel horribly awkward. Finally, Snape asked in a voice Harry found off for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint :

“Is there anything else you feel worthy of mentioning, Mr Potter?”

Why did you watch over me? Why did you not take points in class? Why did you just apologize twice? Why were you investigating me? Why-

“... No. Sir.”

“Very well.”

The man’s posture collapsed slightly, making him look older and more tired than before. He then got up in a slow, heavy way, dark eyes inattentive to the outside world. Harry wondered if he had said something wrong. Snape grabbed the curtains and was pushing them out of his way, ready to leave, when the boy’s nervous brain, perhaps aggravated by the excitability of the potion he took, tried to fix whatever it was that went askew. He urgently rambled, holding him up:

“Er. Thank you, sir. For, hm. Not murdering me? And getting me to the infirmary. And staying. And, er, apologizing. Twice. That was... er, nice. … I’m sorry.”

Severus laughed.

From Harry’s perspective, it seemed more like a choking sound. Or some sort of coughing fit. Oblivious as to what had actually happened, he worried. Did he make things worse? Oh, yes, he totally did make things worse with his big, running mouth- wherever had his self-preservation instincts gone ? Oh, no, if he wasn’t bent on killing me before, now he definitely will be. As he silently panicked, his professor passed the threshold formed by the curtains, then turned around, facing him one last time. For all the gloom, murk, and large variety of negative emotions usually displayed on this face, Harry had never seen as genuine a sadness as the one that greeted him then in the guise of a slight, imperceptible smile:

“I’ll see you soon, Mister Potter.”

And at that, Snape nodded stiffly, closed the curtain, and disappeared behind.

Chapter Text

When Severus Snape finally returned to his quarters on Saturday morning, he did three extremely unusual things.

Firstly, he willingly lost control of his magic, ruining his entire sitting room in a way that wouldn’t be easily fixed, even with the extensive use of Reparo.

Secondly, although he had an absolute, drastic rule about not ever succumbing in any way shape or form to the lure of procrastination, he postponed all his grading work to a vague, preferably far off future- a future he found himself to not even care about.

Thirdly, he drank himself to sleep, something he’d swear he would never do again, when a decade ago, overworked and obsessed with grief, he had spent a few consecutive days relying on alcohol to function and noticed that it got him acting pretty much like his dearly departed father- a realization that had been a rather efficient, and almost permanent, way of sobering up.

Those three actions were performed in an overlapping, chaotic way, and after a solid hour of mental breakdown, he managed with no small hardship to find a way to his bedroom.

He was going in and out of consciousness, lying on his bed still fully clothed -he had tried to remove his teaching robes, of course, but the buttons had proven themselves to be the most formidable of foes, and he had failed to vanquish them. His mind a pleasant blur, he let darkness pull him under, when the sound of himself chuckling, or crying he wasn’t sure, pulled him closer to the surface. Exhausted, not giving a damn in the world, he simply let himself sink again, an ugly smirk on his face.

The last coherent thought Severus managed to form was:

Defeated by garments? Well, that has never happened before.

And he fell back into oblivion.

When Minerva received the news from Severus, she had acted calm and professional : no matter how much it cost her, it was what the situation asked for. He told her to wait until the next day to confront Albus, that they would go together, and that in the meantime, there was no need to tell Harry what they had figured out, unless he came forward by himself- no need to force the truth out of him, it would only cause distress and mistrust. She solemnly agreed to these terms. If she imagined herself making a straight beeline to her oldest, most trusted friend’s office, and swiftly slap the old fool in the face, well, she guessed a little daydream couldn’t be helped, sometimes.

She flooed over to Pomfrey’s office, stiff as a brick, and the nurse handed over one of the files she had compiled for her- Severus hadn’t gone into details, and now that she was discovering them all, lined one by one, each a stab to her chest, she could feel a lump forming in her throat.

What would James and Lily think of them all, who couldn’t keep their little boy safe? Her eyes stung suspiciously, but she straightened up, snapping out of the self-pity. She would have time to cry later.

Right now, she had a duty to perform, and Merlin knew she was not going to fail Harry Potter ever again. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself otherwise. She thanked Poppy, packed the files, and hurried to his side.

Harry had still been blinking stupidly at the curtain behind which Snape had disappeared when it reopened- he half expected seeing the tall and dark silhouette of the dungeon’s bat, so it was with a bit of confusion that his expectations collided with the green robes of Minerva McGonagall.

“Mister Potter.”

She nodded sternly. There was a chair right beside her, but she stayed upright, her posture regal and stiff. Harry swallowed, uneasy. He was in trouble with his Head of House after losing so many points, wasn’t he?

“Hello, Professor McGonagall.”

His voice wasn’t as assured as he would have hoped, and he shrank on his bed, shoulders tense.

She rolled her eyes, and with an indulgent smile, sat down, making herself as non-intimidating as it was possible for her to be. She slightly shook her head as she said:

“You’re not in trouble, Mister Potter. Well. You’d better not get out after curfew ever again, but there is a more important matter that we have to discuss.”

“Quidditch?... I’m so sorry, he told you I couldn’t play anymore, didn’t he? I’m sure he was exaggerating, I’m perfectly fi-”

She raised a hand to stop his rambling and Harry wondered if Snape had learned that… teacher authority trick from her. That was an amusing thought, for it opened to a world in which the dungeon’s bat hadn’t always been the dungeon’s bat, and had just grown up to be. That was a very peculiar idea indeed, and he brushed it aside when McGonagall addressed him sternly.

“Mister Potter. You are indeed in no state of partaking in the Quidditch team. And you’ll learn that Professor Snape would never compromise the physical welfare of his students. This has nothing to do with House Rivalry.”

Yeah, sure, Harry thought. Good choice of phrasing. If Snape might have cared about the ‘physical welfare of his students’, he obviously enjoyed compromising their mental, emotional wellbeing. He pouted, resisting the urge to say so out loud. ‘Greasy git’, Ron’s voice cursed in his mind.

“I’m ever so sorry, Mister Potter. I wish I’d have known sooner, so we wouldn’t have had you going through all of that…”

Oblivious to the bigger picture, Harry felt confused. Known sooner that he was too weak for the Quidditch team? Well, sorry for losing your time, I guess. He would have scuffed at that, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to react. He did not want to do anything at all. He felt positively defeated by existence. His eyes emptied of any light. Both his arms laid limp on his sides, palms facing the ceiling. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It-

“When you’ll get better, though, obviously you’ll join back the team- we are not going to waste such talents. And you’ll get to practice again, whenever Madam Pomfrey clears you.”

He nodded slowly, trying to not display his disappointment and worry, and failing dreadfully at it.“I just don’t understand, Snape told me that he was suspicious of me for something, but I don’t get what-”

“It is ‘Professor Snape’, Mister Potter. And. He was… suspicious of your health state.”

Worry started creeping back up the surface, scratching at his tentative indifference; he felt his face blanching, but forced a smile forward- if they got worried about his health and investigated just a bit too hard, they would figure out what he truly was : a freak. And it was alright to mistreat and break and spit on a freak, so that’s what they would do. No escape. The nightmare would follow him to the land of dreams. Everything would shift for the worst. They’ll soon understand I have been fooling everyone, and they’ll treat me worse than ever before. But why would it matter? None of this is real. None of this is happening. Keep pretending. Keep smiling.

“Oh. I see. But it’s nothing, really. I’ve always been a bit sickly. Just the way things are. No big deal. Never even had to go to the doctor for it.”

Oops, that last point might have missed the intended goal. He was pretty sure normal parents brought their kids to the doctor when they showed signs of being ill. He had disclosed too much, hadn’t he. He felt himself backing up further and further away in his own mind, while his hands gripped the sheets as if they were the only thing preventing him from falling down.

She looked at him with the same unsettling sadness that he had seen on Snape’s face, although in her case it was less shocking than just, well, sad. He really didn’t want to make her feel this way, so he added cheerfully, trying desperately to convey how fine he was, and he did, truly, that green potion had worked wonders, it had:

“When can I go out, Professor McGonagall? I feel much better. I can’t stay here all day.”

“As a matter of fact, you can, and you will. Madam Pomfrey has a lot to explain to you- you’ll have quite a few potions to take for a while, and we’d rather not have you fail to take them properly. Also, it is much better for you to take things easy for now, you did give us all a fright last night.”

He raised a doubtful eyebrow. Us all? Why would anyone care? Well, apparently she did. Did she? Ugh. Everything he knew about himself and the way things tended to work out told him that she didn’t. But she did make a compelling case. If this was acting, he wanted to clap madly- both out of admiration and betrayal. At least, he didn’t have to worry about Snape caring. … Did he? Ugh.

The world felt too complicated at the moment- the energy surge from the potion had left him, and he suddenly felt drained. He stifled a yawn. Damn, he felt properly exhausted now.

“Well. I simply meant to check on you, and inform you to wait for Professor Snape’s notice, regarding the detentions you’ll spend with him. I won’t hold you from resting any longer, Mister Potter. Behave. And, if you need to talk about anything, anything at all, my office is always open, you know that?”

He blinked at her suspiciously. Whatever was it with the teachers, trying to get him to talk about… things? Ugh, he was too tired to focus… He simply nodded, his eyelids heavy, and she absentmindedly commented:

“Gud, gud.”

She patted the armrest, and seemed about ready to leave. Harry closed his eyes, and vaguely wondered if these adults were hiding something from him. He couldn’t figure out what, or why they would, though, for he immediately fell asleep.

Sunday morning at breakfast, as a potion vial appeared next to his breakfast plate, Harry shrugged off his friends’ questions, stating that he simply got a bit sick, sneaked out of the tower early on saturday morning, and spent the following day and night at the infirmary, and that he was feeling much better already, thank you very much. The discussion quickly reverted to an ecstatic recollection of the best quidditch performances in all the history of quidditch- which reminded him anxiously of his sacking from the team, which was yet to be announced. Waiting for the news to break was throwing him on edge. He took the vial in his hand, examining it absentmindedly. The enthusiastic voices surrounding him quickly morphed into a buzzy, irrelevant background noise. Harry tried to focus on munching his toast, but his mind was not there either- no, it was replaying for the hundredth time the bizarre evening and subsequent unfathomable morning he had spent a day prior.

He methodically traced back all the events in his head, trying to go past the fuzziness of his recollections, for he had not been in a very performant state and his memories had struggled to stick to his brain- and what was there to remember when you were already barely conscious, anyway?

He didn’t think much of it at the time, too shocked by the out of character way Snape had apologized to him, but now that he had had some time to ponder about the conversation, he felt profoundly worried. What had Snape noticed while he was investigating him? Did he see that he was perpetually wearing a mask, faking his way through every interaction ? Did he know how empty he felt inside? Did he somehow deduce that he had to beg the Hat to not put him in Slytherin, did he figure out what an impostor among Gryffindors he had been, was he going to put him back in Slytherin where the bad, empty, double-faced people like him belonged? Was that darkness inside of him the mark of a dark wizard ?

And why did they all look so… sad? Maybe Harry had dreamed it up. Maybe it had been the potion, playing tricks on his mind. Maybe that was Snape’s plan all along. Wait, why would he do that. Eh. Did he figure out about the Dursleys? Was he going to use it against him? Snape might, but McGonagall wouldn’t do that, would she?

Cold sweat grazed his forehead, and he swiftly downed his potion, praying that no one was watching him. He paid extra attention to the colour, taste, smell : Madam Pomfrey had been specific as to when and how to take the potions, but didn’t tell him exactly what they were, keeping it vague. He had to know. He had to know precisely what it was, so he could understand what the adults were hiding from him.

Well, he supposed it was time for him to get more familiar with the library. He had tended to avoid the place. The librarian made him think of his aunt, books being the equivalent of… roses and tidiness, in her case.

It also made him anxious, standing in the middle of all this information, with no clue where to start, and the certainty that he would never get to read it all, not even in a lifetime. He always felt weary of reading long materials- he couldn’t focus for long, kept rereading the same sentences, and his eyes started to hurt after awhile. He quickly got headaches, and the ones he got in DADA were just adding to it. This tendency was quite troublesome, but he was used to it, and learned to clench his teeth and go through the pain without complaining- doing so had never been met with rewarding consequences, quite the contrary, so he had quickly lost any will to share his discomfort with others.

As the potion’s effect started to kick in, he felt more energetic, clear minded, and aware of his surroundings. He could see the shine of the light on the varnished table, the cutlery, the glasses, and the purity of a clear sky through the high, arched windows. Everything seemed so… real, that it felt unreal. He had a hard time understanding what he felt. It was like all these things hadn’t been there before, and he was only now seeing them. He didn’t know what that potion was, but it seemed to work. He felt better than he had felt in… well, forever, actually. It was a pretty similar feeling to the one he had with the potion Snape had given him. But not exactly. That other potion had eased his pain, and gave him an intense, although short lived, surge of energy. Here, it was more subtle, he simply felt. He felt. Healthier? Having no means of comparing, as he couldn’t recall ever feeling healthy, he simply put that thought aside for later, and looked around him.

He noticed Hermione staring at the vial with a suspicious look that made him feel self-conscious. He wondered if, with her superior bookworm knowledge, she perhaps knew what potion it was. He wouldn’t dare ask her, though. Glancing at the head table, which he had carefully avoided to do the moment he had entered the Great Hall, he was surprised to see just how sparse it was. There was no McGonagall, no Snape, no Dumbledore…

He wondered where they all went.

Frowning, he stood up, telling Ron he’d catch up with him later, and went straight to the library, abandoning a half eaten toast on his plate.

Chapter Text

On Saturday afternoon:

Severus had told her to meet him on Sunday morning, so they could advise on what to say to Dumbledore, and go put some sense into the old fool together. However, after visiting Harry, she had spent the rest of her Saturday sick with worry and trepidation. She had tried everything to put her mind off the issue. Grading, playing a chess game on her own, trying her hand at heavily complex and experimentative transfiguration spells, and when even that didn’t manage to soothe her nerves, she resorted to morphing into her animagus form, walking unseen among students, and catching unweary troublemakers in the act. Many points had been subtracted, many egos bruised, and she had still an entire evening and night to go through. Cursing Severus under her breath, she decided against waiting- for, really, the sooner the better, and why would he expect her to wait so long, why would he even need to wait so long, if he had too many homeworks to grade, well, that was on him for assigning so much in the first place, and, school matters could wait a bit, couldn’t they?

Still in her feline form, she decidedly rushed to the dungeons, scaring a few students who, because she was running so fast, didn’t take a good look at her and thought Miss Norris was angrily stalking a prey- namingly, a student.

She finally arrived at a barely lit, cold and damp corridor in which it seemed no soul ever ventured; she transformed back, and arranging her already perfectly dignified green robes, glasses and hair, she announced herself to a seemingly inconspicuous wall. After a few seconds, it started to shake slightly, the grey stones changing into a heavy, dark wooden door, encased in iron straps, pinned with massive nails. She rolled her eyes; it wasn’t the first time she came down here, but she still found it a bit on the nose. Teachers’ quarters tended to adapt to their owner's personality, and this hidden, menacing doorway was both spot on and a tad ridiculous.

She took hold of a heavy door-knocker, trying not to touch the metallic snake circling the handle, for it had once hissed at her indignantly, obviously not too fond of being gripped and thrown against a door. She waited for it to slither away and safely nest far from the incoming impact, and then knocked three times, with the strength and momentum of a barely contained impatience. She waited. And waited some more. And knocked again, relentlessly.

No response.

Maybe he was out ?

Of course not, the quarters didn’t even show themselves when he wasn’t there, which, she had to admit, was a rather efficient way of repelling any potential thief or otherwise nosey individual.

She frowned. What could hold him up so long, then? It wasn’t like him to not answer the door. Well. It actually was like him, but he hadn’t tried that with her in years, seeing as her stubbornness could outlast even his. She crossed her arms, tapping her foot.

She waited for another minute, when she noticed something off. The tiny metallic snake. It seemed restless, drawing an endless eight with its body. It looked. Worried? Well, that was something. She wondered if she should talk to it, but transfigured creatures weren’t usually very cognicent. Then again, it was the castle’s magic that had produced him, so perhaps…

“Can you let me in?”

The snake stopped its nervous slithering, raised its tiny head in her direction and froze.

It was quite unsettling, but she didn’t let it phase her, and raising a severe eyebrow, she pressed on:

“I know he’s here. Why is he not answering?”

The snake didn’t react. She guessed it was probably not an awfully efficient question to ask, as the creature couldn’t speak. She opted for something else:

“Is he alright?”

The snake looked at her for a few more seconds, unmoving. She was wondering what on earth had possessed her to try and talk to a door-knocker ornament, when it suddenly shook its head in a fairly obvious and frantic attempt at answering “No.”. She gasped.

“Let me in.”

The snake seemed to think it over, and she added in her most imperious, determined tone:

“Now.”

No creature, human, beast, or transfigured steel could possibly refrain from cowering at her signature commanding voice, and the small snake rushed to the door handle, disappearing through the keyhole. It unlocked in an audible click. The door creaked, opening slightly, left ajar. A very faint light was emerging from the crack. It was all very ominous. Anyone but Minerva would have hesitated to enter. But the Head of Gryffindor was not one to let silly harrowing aesthetics get in her way. In one swift motion, she grabbed the handle, pulled the door wide open and barged inside.

The sight that greeted her was so cataclysmic, she drew her wand at once.

Severus didn’t exist anymore. It was a rather… pleasant feeling, he found.

Waking up usually was a difficult endeavour. Whether one emerged from a wonderful dream, or a haunting nightmare, the process of going from one state to another, and dealing with reality no matter the state the night had left one in… that was nothing but different shades of unpleasant, in Severus’ opinion. Waking up and facing the world wasn’t an appealing prospect : however, it wasn’t always traumatic. Sometimes, it could be. This time, it definitely was.

“Oh Merlin. Wee lad, you’re a mess !”

Startled by the puzzling words, he frowned deeply, suddenly made aware of his pulsating headache, neck strain, and rising nausea. He couldn’t quite remember where he was, or what had happened- he was quite certain he had just heard someone, but it had seemed quite distant, and really, he was not in a state to open his eyes just yet- yes, whatever it was, whoever it was, it could very well wait for him to-

He could not finish that thought.

A torrent of cold water submerged him, head to toes, electricity blasting through him as if he’d been struck by lightning. He simultaneously gasped, choked, and propulsed himself out of bed, ending up a shivering, wheezing mess on the cold hard ground. He frantically tried to reach out for his wand, his eyes blurry with sleep and dripping water. He was downright panicking when the voice spoke again:

“Welcome back to the world of the living, young man.”

His short, quick breathing got caught up in his throat. As he turned towards Minerva, the circumstances of his misfortune suddenly clear to him, he felt a childish urge to crawl beneath the bed and hide there forevermore. However, as he stared up at her severe frown and irate posture, another feeling started to boil down his guts. Anger. He snarled as unpleasantly as he could, praying to all the gods that she’d get the hint and run off.

“And WHO gave you the right to-”

“The snake ornament opened the door for me.”

He glared fixedly, her words struggling to register. I am not drunk enough to cope with this... He closed his eyes in a grimace, trying to get some sense back into his skull. He failed to do so, as he only managed to utter:

“He did what?”

With a flick of her wand, the Head of Gryffindor engulfed him and the room in dry, hot wind, drying him efficiently, although his hair was now a downright mess, sticking out in the most ludicrous ways. He vaguely tried to smooth them down- it wouldn’t do if he started to look like Potter, on top of everything else. She huffed and shrugged, stating with something akin to reprimand in her tone:

“It was worried about you.”

He squinted. What on earth was the old woman blathering on about?

“It was what?”

She didn’t dignify him with an answer. Instead, she simply raised a judgemental eyebrow, and properly sneered, a very short, thin smile curling her lip:

“Did you manage to fry your brilliant brains out?”

He answered with a strained, hypocritical attempt at a smile, which rapidly fell. A deep frown now plastered on his face, he sighed- now that the shock was wearing off, exhaustion was catching up with him. He tiredly dug in himself for a bit of his usual seething irony.

“My my, I had no idea it had free will. This is… genuinely upsetting, I must say. Do you think I should give it a name?”

He had tried his best at seeming genuine, but such a thought felt so foreign, Merlin, the situation itself felt so surreal, that he couldn’t hold back a dark chuckle. It quickly morphed into something less manageable, and he buried his head in the crook of his elbows, breaking down in a laborious, slightly maniacal laughter.

She stood there and watched, unamused.

“You’re drunk.”

Ironically enough, that sobered him up. He raised his head, his face a blank, and scathingly retorted :

“You’re trespassing.”

Crossing her arms, she shook her head in distaste.

“Young man, I’m severely disappointed in you.”

He snickered darkly.

“As most human beings who had the displeasure of dealing with me -myself included.”

An inescapable flicker of pain passed on the woman’s traits.

“I’m worried about you, Severus. I haven’t seen you like this since...”

The rest of her sentence never got past her lips, and yet, the words rested heavily in the air between them.

... since she died.

He looked away, clenched his teeth, and, tripping over himself embarrassingly in the process, managed to climb back up on his bed. He tried to sit as upright as he could, draping his cape over himself in a show of dignity. … The anger was creeping back on him- it pushed against his ribs like waves of nausea. He snapped.

“Don’t bother. You know the way out. Say goodbye to your pet snake on the way -it’s the last time you’ll see the disobedient little bugger.”

“Severus!”

The affront sipping through her voice was so strong it could have been funny- but it felt more like a slap, for it was too loud and he was too hungover. She was not going to let him be, was she? He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then, coming to a decision, he rolled his eyes, and said curtly:

“Fine. I assume you are here for a reason- let’s at least go to the living room, so we can discuss in a more proper sitting.”

“You mean the one you thoroughly destroyed?”

He paused, trying to not display the sting of humiliation he was currently feeling, at having her see him in such a pitiful state. He answered slowly, feigning nonchalance:

“Ah, yes. Well. The study then.”

He heard her sigh heavily- her voice, although still ferm, was lighter : she’d won the battle.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

He rose up slowly, anticipating his head to throb and spin, which it did. He grimaced and pushed his way through the room anyway. He was used to less than ideal physical conditions, and he was not putting himself through anymore ridicule. Thankfully, the study was exceedingly close, the first door when he went out in the corridor, and as he opened it, he held onto the handle as if his life depended on it, barely stabilizing himself. He cordially invited her in before him, as a way to justify his sudden stillness. He went in after her, and when he finally got seated at his desk, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief.

He saw her notice, and in the tight frown she displayed, he read how obvious his being in a poor state was to her. The sheer amount of self-consciousness he felt made his skin crawl. He decided that he would thoroughly avert his gaze away, for the time being, as to not lash out from the stress of reading pity in her eyes. He sat back on his chair, and staring at a homework pile on his desk with an offended look, he drawled with forced courtesy:

“So… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Severus, we must first discuss the state you’re i-”

“We won’t. What were you visiting for?”

She huffed, not standing for the rebuttal one bit, and replied in a mockful tone:

“Well, it is quite obvious, don’t you think?”

He rubbed his eyes painfully and sighed.

“Potter.”

Silence stretched heavily between them- understanding without looking that she was not going to surrender the information unless he displayed some modicum of interest, he asked, his impatience carefully repressed :

“Any news on that front?”

She took all the time in the world as she answered in a pleasant, lively tone (winning battles, Minerva, he thought bitterly, but not the war.):

“Well, he’ll be out tomorrow morning, Poppy said that there was still a number of things she would have to do, for instance resetting badly mended bones, but that it would do for now- it’ll take a bit more time, and since we’re trying to, well, be discreet about this… he has a plethora of potions to take- yes, we stayed vague as to what they were, as you said, better not distress the boy with details- naturally, he didn’t talk about his… circumstances, although I gave him the opportunity to confide.”

“... Then, must I understand there is nothing new, and you were trespassing for the sake of ruining my day more thoroughly?”

She jumped from her seat; startled, he turned to her, something he had been carefully avoiding to do. As he watched her fume and pace, he wondered if that’s what he had seemed like, the day prior, when he couldn’t stay still as she told him the truth about Potter’s placement. He winced as she roared:

“I couldn’t possibly wait another day to discuss this matter, Severus! We must establish how we are going to deal with this, and quick- the commotion the news will make when-”

“The public will never know, if we can prevent it. It is essential for Potter’s safety that such sensitive intel is not spread around. Utmost discretion is in order.”

She stopped in her tracks, her tone calmer, though pointed.

“And how do you think we can manage that? The boy is under scrutiny already, I’m sure if he were to be moved, it would be known.”

“I’m certain we can find a secret and safe enough place, if we put all our minds to the task. That is not something we can start considering before establishing what led us to this. Potter has spent a traumatic childhood, thanks to Albus' placement, and his reasons for it remain to be seen. He either didn’t know a thing about the abuse, in which case, he’s growing senile. Or, he knew, but felt that, for whatever reason, the benefits outweigh the risks. However, he also could…”

“Well?”

Under her fierce, sharp gaze, he almost decided against finishing his sentence. Breathing in deeply, he delivered as casually as he could :

“He could have planned for Harry to be abused.”

There was a moment of pause he didn’t care to examine- he ostensibly looked in the far distance, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Severus Tobias Snape!”

He winced at the use of his full name- she pressed on:

“You can’t possibly thi-”

“Neglected children are much easier to manipulate.”

She stared at him, unbelieving, trying to read on his face something akin to the truth. Slowly, carefully, she sat back down.

“... No, he wouldn’t. He would not.”

She was, understandably, upset. As he went on, a part of Severus took a twisted pleasure in exposing more of this theory- it hurted him as much as it hurt her, but there was something… delectable about opening trusting eyes to the world’s true propensity for viciousness.

“It is but a simple hypothesis. Yet, it does add up. Potter doesn’t know the first thing about our world, his role in it, and frankly, seeing with whom he’s been living with, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know the first thing about who his parents were- not as war heroes, but as people. With no access to any kind of role models, care and validation, he’d be starved for approval, and would be ripe for the taking by any interested parties.“

All life had been drained from his colleague’s face- he almost managed to feel guilt.

“... How can you say this?”

He couldn’t hold an ironic, cruel smirk as he went on:

“Simply recognizing some old patterns. It is, in fact, so much easier to prey on scared, disoriented children, they are ever so malleable. I know at least one other infamous individual who used such methods effectively.”

She looked at him with a piercing gaze, lips thinner than ever, catching his meaning all too well.

“He would not do that to Harry. Or anyone, for that matter.”

At that, he simply shrugged, feigning disinterest.

“I am as loyal to him as you are, Minerva, arguably more, as I owe him my life, and he could forsake it easily if he so wished. However, I’m not blind, and I can assure you that he would, in fact, do such a thing. Perhaps not willingly. Or consciously. He did in the past, and whether this mess was planned or not, he will be using it, Minerva- it is too tempting an opportunity to pass. Anything for the greater good.”

During his speech, he had turned in her direction, watching her reaction. Her eyes were lost in thought, wandering aimlessly on the ground. Victory, Severus remarked, had never felt so hollow. After a few suspended seconds of contemplation, her face hardened, and raising her chin back up, she said:

“I truly think this is your paranoia talking- I am certain Albus has been misguided, that is all.”

Recognizing the desperate adamancy of an injured gryffindor, he lost any will to fight and replied wearily:

“We shall see. No matter your stance on this, we must both remain prudent in our interaction with him. Please, no out of bounds confrontation, we must play by his rules until we understand what game he’s been playing at.”

She looked him straight in the eyes, once again unwavering.

“Very well. But you are wrong, young man.”

He held back a chuckle.

He did admire her strength of character- he sometimes wished he could be as idealistic as she was. However, he had never been able to afford it.

He took a pile of homework, and went to work, wordlessly discarding her. He could feel her disapproval weighing on him right up until she left, and even for a while after- finally alone, Severus let his quill fall out of his grasp, and hiding his face in his hands, admitted under his breath:

“... I truly hope you are right, Minerva.”

Chapter Text

On Sunday afternoon, the sun was still soaring splendidly through the sky, and as such, the library was left mainly deserted. To the exception of a few Ravenclaws and a bunch of older students, no one wished to remove themselves from the rare, last strings of automnal sunlight; Harry, for the first time willingly, found himself among the readers. Looking up at the immense stacks of books, and the seemingly infinite rows of shelves, he felt himself grow dizzy.

And yet, he was soon enough buried in books, sitting as far away from Madam Pince, or any other human beings for that matter, as possible. He had first gathered as many potion manuals as he could, randomly picking up volumes from the seemingly never-ending section, paying a peculiar attention to those connected to healing magic. While he had been carrying the pile to a nearby desk, his eyes had stumbled upon a book he remembered Hermione mentioning, ‘The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts’. He had put aside his potion research, fishing out for some information about his parents.

It had been an enlightening, if utterly depressing read. He realized without surprise that there was still a lot that he didn’t know. Namely, he learned that his parents had been betrayed by a friend of theirs. A certain Sirius Black*, a man he had never heard about. He had blanched, nausea rising at the pit of his stomach, a feeling so strong he couldn't decipher it nagging at his mind. He pushed it all down, promising himself to look further into this later. It felt crazy that no one had told him such things sooner.

Yes. It definitely wasn’t a fun read. After a thorough study of his parents’ sacrifice, which completely ruined his already messed up mood, he pushed the offending text aside, feeling disgusted with the entire world. He was not looking forward to the Halloween feast anymore. How could he feast and rejoice when it was the anniversary of… this? He did the math : Halloween would take place in half a week, on Thursday. He shivered, shook his head, and decided to focus on devouring every single potion book he had found.

Hermione would have been proud of him.

He discovered many things. Firstly, that the vague information he had gathered about his potions didn’t really account for the sheer amount of recipes there were. Secondly, that potion brewing was actually a fascinating subject, and it was a shame they had such an ill-tempered git teaching it. Thirdly, that going in depth was much more challenging and, in return, stimulating than following steps blindly, hoping for the best.

The interest and excitement he had felt for the subject, before his first class went all types of wrong, was back and kicking. He crawled over the parchments, eyes squinting hard, headache going strong- he was struggling, and yet, he simply couldn’t turn his eyes away. There was so much to learn, so much to discover. There also was a much larger part of creative thinking to it than he had originally thought- with the right correspondances tabs and a good knowledge of tools and the different ways of using them, a potionneer could invent just about anything!

After many failed attempts at figuring out what his prescription could be, he did manage to be fairly sure about his night time potion. “Sleeping Draught (Dreamless Sleep Potion)”. He remembered telling Snape about the nightmare, and him noting something on a piece of parchment afterwards. Was it thanks to the man that he had been prescribed this?

Surprisingly decent of him.

Frowning, he discarded the thought and carried on with his research.

He was pretty sure the potion Snape had given him in the infirmary had been a Wideye Potion. … He kept looking, marvelling through dozens of names… cure for boils, burn healing paste, blood replenisher, wiggenweld… Well, wiggenweld might have been one of them, perhaps?... So, wideye potion check, sleeping draught check, wiggenweld check… Then he saw it. The potion he had taken at every meal since he’d been admitted to the infirmary.

Nutrient Potion.

His eyes frantically swept through the page. Used in times of famine… whipple disease... anorexia … cases of severe malnutrition... neglected childr-

He closed the book in a loud thud.

For a few seconds, he just stared at nothing, thinking that, yes, the nurse had noticed, and yes, the teachers probably knew as well. Would they contact his relatives? If the Dursleys learned that he had let it get out, they would kill him. Would the teachers treat him differently now? Were they going to send him home, now that they knew what kind of troublemaking, ungrateful little freak he truly was? Would the whole school know, and mock him like Dudley always did?

He was wondering if he should start to panic, but all he felt was emptiness. It was as if he hadn’t come to that conclusion, hadn’t had these thoughts creep inside his skull; as if nothing had actually happened, or as if none of it mattered that much. As if the entire world, himself included, had ceased to exist : why care about a narrative that felt so remote from him? Why care about a character he didn’t identify with?

On autopilot, he pushed the book away, and opened another one off the pile. He guessed he would just keep reading, as if this gut-wrenching revelation had never occurred.

He would stop thinking about it, eventually, wouldn’t he? He just had to apply his usual forgetfulness to the task, yes. He only had to keep himself distracted. The old, battered copy of ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’ he had picked would do the trick, hopefully.

Before this day, Harry had never dared study anything in depth- he couldn’t be better in school than Dudley, if he didn’t want to be punished, and since he was at Hogwarts, the world had seem too confusing and somehow hostile to even try and decipher- now that he had had the impulse to start, and was experiencing the knowledge for himself, he couldn’t imagine living without it anymore- it was such a relief, filling his blank, confused mind with anything but his own thoughts.

I could get used to this.

It was in that state of hyperfocus that he remained until curfew. Pince’s mean voice pushing students out of the library made him snap back to the present time.

He bit his lips.

It was so late, he had forgotten to eat his meal. And to drink. And to go to the loo. He wondered if that meant the potion he was supposed to take was left abandoned at the Gryffindor table. He was hurriedly tidying up the desk when he noticed a vial next to his pile of books. Well, that was interesting. He had thought that perhaps, they were only appearing in specific places, on the table for meal time potions, on his bedside for nighttime ones. But apparently, it was meant to find him directly. He wondered how it worked. He shrugged mentally. That would be a research session for later. He took the vial, downed it, trying not to think about what it was. He put it back down, guessing it would soon disappear- and it did, in a popping sound that got him blinking his eyes in wonder. Yes, he was definitely going to investigate this- he then yawned forcibly, his day of intense studying catching up with his body.

He scratched his eyes, put his books back in place, and waited, as he saw Hermione exiting the library- well, he had been lucky not to cross her path, he certainly didn’t want to talk about what he had been doing here all day. He was the very last to leave the library, escorted out by a grimacing Pince.

He hurried to the closest lavatory, lapping tap water and making quick use of the loo, before rushing up the staircases. When he finally arrived at Gryffindor tower, he wanted nothing more than to swallow one last potion, take a dive in his bed, and disappear to the world. He had no such luck. The moment he entered the dorm, he was stopped by a seemingly upset Ron, who sat on his bed with crossed arms.

“I thought you said you’d catch up?”

Oh, damn. He had totally forgotten he had told Ron that. Uh.

“Sorry, I got lost in, um, homework, you know. “

“Ugh, whatever.”

The boy rolled his eyes and got into bed. He added before closing the curtains:

“Don’t go and become Hermione, mate, that girl is a right pain.”

“Yeah.”

He clenched his teeth. Hermione could be annoying, but talking about her in that way, especially behind her back, didn’t feel right. Yet he couldn’t really disagree with Ron, could he? He couldn’t oppose his only, and first friend. Especially not when, soon enough, the news of him leaving the Quidditch team would be known, and with that, outrage would flood and drown him.

That, plus his detentions with Snape... He downed his potion, once again reminded of his terrible thoughts- they know, they know, they know, and closing the curtains around him, he closed his eyes forcibly, trying very hard not to think.

Thankfully, the potion made quick work of his resistance, and lulled him into a deep slumber. Before his conscience sunk entirely, he told himself in one last feat of irony:

I simply can’t wait till tomorrow.

It promised to be a fine day.

When he woke up, Severus felt like a dried and finely crushed potion ingredient. He drank water in unholy amounts, trying to make up for the alcohol induced dehydration -he preferred his mind to be clear of any potions’ influence, for what he had to do today would require a fine analytical spirit, and he couldn’t afford any mishaps. All the more, at the exception of a vague headache and a strong yearning for his bed, he hadn’t anything to complain about, physically wise. He had known much worse. As the Head of Slytherin, teacher of hundreds of students, and spy, he was used to exhaustion anyway.

He walked over to the Headmaster’s office, passing through the corridors like death’s shadow, scaring off a bunch of unwary students, who instinctively felt that he would murder them were they to even breath his way- it was, in fact, close enough to the true state of things that Severus felt mildly relieved at their avoidance. He really didn’t have any patience to spare today.

He quickly reached the second floor : a tabby cat sat in front of the Gargoyle, unsettlingly still. As he got closer, it turned towards him, its vertical-slit pupils getting narrower. Then, a fraction seconds later, Minerva McGonagall stood in its place. Severus greeted her with a nod, and drawled matter of factly:

”You are early.”

”You’re on time.”

And from her, it sounded suspiciously like “you’re late”. He rolled his eyes, and took a deep breath in, discreetly bracing himself.

They shared a long, conniving gaze. He could read fury in the green depths- he knew that, although he was more guarded, his emotion reflected hers. She offered him a tense, determined smile. He nodded swiftly, and with a simple gesture, offered her to step forward- he had never quite stood for the ridiculous passwords. She proclaimed it with such fierceness that, in that instance, the futile word seemed like a noble cry for war:

-Sugar Quill!

And the Gargoyle stepped aside, letting them ascend to the Headmaster’s Office.

A scarlet quill signed away of few stamped documents, resolving a tenth of the day’s matters- the mention read as follows:

-Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot

The old man rubbed at his temples and sighed. He was hunched over his desk, deep in thought; it was only saturday morning, and he had already averted three diplomatic crisis at the ministry, and dealt with numerous complaints from a few pureblood members of the Board about applying a Muggle Studies’ professor to such an important subject as DADA… as he kept working his morning away, Fawkes, standing tall in the prime of his life, was preening his feathers meticulously. All around, odd contraptions were ticking, globes rotating in orbits and leaving a trace of shimmering gold in the air; wondrous volumes rested heavily in high wooden shelves, or on random, weirdly angled piles, adding to the general sense of clutter; ever burning candles were perched above his desk, and their shine reflected on a plentiful of mysterious, puffing silver instruments, which in turn spread dappled light all around the room.

Well above his head, august paintings hung on the walls- the former headmasters were either sleeping away or watching on, a vague air of boredom floating on their immortalized traits. They were all too happy when the sound of the staircase moving announced a bit of entertainment.

Startled, Albus looked at his pocket watch, squinting at the twelve ticking hands- he wasn’t supposed to receive any visitor at this hour. He discarded it, and preemptively rubbed his eyes beneath his half-moon spectacles. He felt bone-tired. Being one hundred and eight years old while holding multiple posts does that to a person, he concluded playfully.

Well then, whatever it is, we’ll need sweets.

He summoned a cup full of sherbet lemons, picked one, and popped it into his mouth. He was contendly savouring the taste when he almost spit it out.

Of all the scenarios he had pictured as to what this unannounced visit was about, he certainly did not expect to see both Heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor barging inside his office like horsemen of the Apocalypse. He faintly hoped their ire wasn’t directed at himself, and saluted them jovially, a twinkle dancing in his eyes:

”Severus, Minerva, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Chapter Text

”Severus, Minerva, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Severus regretted not taking any potions before coming to the office. At the sole sight of his employer’s jovial smile, both his headache, nausea and sore back made themselves known with a renewed fervour. Clenching his fists, he took place at the left of the desk, Minerva taking the right side, both of them standing there with an acuteness akin to birds of prey. Dismissing the pleasant greetings, Severus answered with a snarl:

“I’m afraid this will not be a pleasant meeting, Albus.”

The old man, used to his potion master’s moods, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, and holding forward a cup of sweets, he offered them with an agreeable smile:

“You’ll take a sherbet lemon?”

They snapped a no in unison and the bony hand backed away, putting down the bowl. Instead, it started patting the long, white beard, and Severus held back an annoyed sigh at this stereotypical display of an old, wise mage deep in thought. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he said in a calm, wistful tone:

“Encountered trouble, you did? It doesn’t concern young Harry’s stay at the infirmary, does it?”

Severus felt the glance Minerva sent his way. Like her, he was frantically wondering who had told him, and just how much exactly he knew. Not that the night at the infirmary was secret knowledge- only the details were. But, how did he come by the information so swiftly? He remembered the other student present that night. Did he have spies among students? Did he get reports from paintings, or ghosts? Perhaps he had placed notifying wards on Harry. No. Poppy would have detected them. He would check again anyway, for the sake of his peace of mind. He raised a suspicious, careful eyebrow, stating casually :

“I see that word travels fast.”

The old wizard’s eyes twinkled even more, as he shared ominously:

“I know everything that happens on these grounds.”

Severus tried his best not to roll his eyes at this statement. He knew for a fact it wasn’t true. Although Albus was capable of gathering an unsettling amount of information about the ongoings at Hogwarts, there were many things he remained oblivious to- thankfully. What happened in his house, for instance, was out of his reach- Slytherins were naturally sneaky, and if it weren’t for his own reports and what he was willing to share, the Headmaster wouldn’t know much of what went down in the dungeons. Minerva, not fooled one second by the omniscient act, jumped forward:

“Oh, yes, Albus, you know all the latest gossip at Hogwarts! And yet, clearly, you don’t know anything that goes on beyond these walls. Yes, you better be unaware, and senile to boot, otherwise you’re the worst, manipulative vile man to have ever graced the surface of-”

The Slytherin cut her off, cursing himself mentally for having hoped that this would remain a subtle affair. Gryffindors. He forced a small conciliable smile out of himself, using his smoothest voice to try and de-escalate.

“What Minerva means to say, is that we came here out of concern for the boy’s... wellbeing.”

Severus observed the Headmaster’s reaction with care- the twinkle seemed to have dissipated from the man’s gaze. As if he had realised that this improvised meeting would take longer than he had expected, Dumbledore pushed away the documents he had been working on. A frown plastered on his face, hands clasped in front of him, he looked up at the potions’ master. He has the galls of looking worried, Severus thought dejectedly.

“Whatever seems to be the problem, my boy?”

He had imagined himself slowly easing the man into the subject, dropping hints and seeing how far he would go to avoid speaking of it- trying to assess whether the old man was faking ignorance or had simply been too dense to notice anything. All his plans crumbled at the sight of the old wizard’s genuine, grandfatherly stance. A strong feeling of betrayal, stemming from many unhealed past occurrences, overwhelmed him.

The permissiveness. The werewolf. The broken promise. The disgust. The lies.

Cold anger sipping through his body, he opted for a more aggressive approach, if only to see that benevolent, clueless look fall apart before him. He took out the copy of Poppy’s file he’d brought with him, and handed it swiftly, plastering a short, scornful smirk on his lips:

“This is the problem.”

He felt Minerva’s eyes weigh on him, but he ignored them, focused on the man facing him.

A thin, wrinkled hand took hold of the parchments- as the blue eyes swept through them, all trace of their usual twinkle was irrevocably gone- all colours were drained from his face. Several long, tensed seconds spread like strings across the room, wrapping themselves around their throats. The anticipation was so thick, Severus felt close to choking on it. Albus opened his mouth a few times, ultimately closing it without making a sound. The last of the two Heads’ patience was dying away when the old man finally spoke in a flat and feeble voice:

“I. This is indeed concerning.”

Severus chuckled darkly, earning himself another glare from his fellow teacher. Raising an eyebrow, he echoed with a sneer :

“Concerning?”

Dumbeldore paid no mind to the mockery- seemingly connecting Minerva’s accusations to the contents of the file, he raised his head towards her, sorrow deeply seated in his blue eyes.

“I couldn’t possibly have known.”

She answered in an affected, dispassionate fashion, as if she had to explain something awfully simple to a particularly dense student; yet behind this facade, her inner turmoil showed.

“You could, actually, have known. You could have visited, you could at least have put someone competent in charge of checking in your stead.”

“I did.”

“Who?”

“Mrs Figgs.”

“I did say someone competent, didn’t I?”

Severus snickered quietly at the deserved jab, making a mental note of visiting Mrs Figgs and evaluating precisely what her orders concerning the boy had been. Dumbledore opened his mouth to protest but Severus cut him off :

“Or you simply could have told me with whom you had planned to place the boy! I could have told you what a terrible idea it was. But then again, if you didn’t listen to Minerva, I do wonder why you would listen to me. Have I not earned your trust?”

There was as much self-deprecation as there was anger in these words, as well as a twinge of hurt Severus hadn’t meant to display- in spite of it all, he found that a part of himself still yearned for the old wizard’s trust and validation, and it positively infuriated him.

The old man shook his head pitifully- he did not seem surprised that Severus had discovered the truth about Potter’s placement- he looked more broken-hearted than anything:

“I know you don’t like Petunia, Severus, and I couldn’t let your animosity towards her prevent this. Apart from her own son, she is the only blood relation he has left…”

Minerva almost choked at that :

“And what good it did him!”

Eyeing him with her most piercing, crestfallen glare, she solemnly passed sentence:

“I am fairly disappointed in you, Albus.”

The words bringing back his memories of the evening before, Severus almost snorted out loud. Well well, Minerva was just going from one disappointment to another, these days, wasn’t she?

The parchments started to shake, revealing the slight tremor which had taken holds of Dumbledore’s hands. Quickly, the files were put down on the desk, and the hands carefully placed on top of each other, held and forced still.

Scrutinizing every small detail, Severus felt quite confident that the shock and distress displayed were authentic- a pang of guilt rose in his guts, which he quickly discarded, jumping back into his thought process. The Headmaster was either a formidable actor, or he was genuinely wrecked by what he had just learned. However, there laid the distinction between negligence and malevolence : was he shocked because he was just hearing about this, or because he hadn’t meant for it to be uncovered?

The old man seemed to have regained a bit of countenance, for he announced with a much firmer voice :

“I shall talk to his relatives today.”

It was Minerva’s time to chuckle, sounding both appalled and incredulous.

“Talk? There is nothing more to say! They deserve punishment for what they did.”

The Headmaster’s eyes looked far away as he mumbled:

“Yes, this… this is unacceptable- the terms of the arrangement!… broken bones! It simply cannot-”

Severus bit back, voice dripped in irony :

“You draw the line at broken bones? I suppose being starved and neglected is acceptable.”

The old man looked him over, very still for a second, then dismissed his words with a swat of the hand, and went back to his grandfatherly persona as he answered with more aplomb. He seemed confident, as if he had found an adequate solution to their issue, and Severus eyed him warily.

“Of course it isn’t, and I’ll make sure that they treat him fairly in the future.”

His tone was final. The display of certainty infuriated Severus, especially as he had uttered such a foolish idea. He pushed down the fury, noticing how close his temper was to boiling over. He spoke in a forcefully slow manner, with a dry and mockful tone :

“And how do you suppose you’ll achieve that? A little Impero, perhaps?”

Scoffing at his employer’s risen eyebrow, he went on:

“These people never change their ways, Albus. It will only escalate. The moment you’ll turn your brilliant head away, they will steadily go back to-”

“I’m afraid we don’t have another possibility, my boy, Harry must remain with the Dursleys, it is where he is safest-”

The reaction was swift- Minerva interrupted him in a screech, repeating the word incredulously:

“Safest! Safest! It’s lucky he’s still alive! I told you, Albus, that these muggles were the worst! But did you stop and consider? Did you even keep a closer eye, just in case?”

Severus, who had tried his best to contain himself, felt a dam break in his mind. He added sharply, bellowing out his words :

“Even if you do find a way to have them behave, you cannot possibly force him to go back and live with his abusers!“

Albus had slightly shrank in his seat at the double lashing, but at this, his eyes snapped back up, the twinkle in them reignited. He looked straight through Severus’ soul and said, his voice unassuming but the ghost of smile haunting his features :

“I thought you didn’t care for the boy.”

Occlumency shields raised at their full capacity, Severus put forward all the rancor and contempt he had first projected onto the child, a carbon-copy of his father. He couldn’t let anything else be known, lest Albus understand the length to which he was ready to go to keep the boy safe- he was ready to plot behind the old wizard’s back, in spite of the life he owed him (what life, really) if it became necessary. Harry Potter was Lily’s son : he had sworn to protect her, and failed- he would do anything to protect him. Her sacrifice would not be in vain. Having regained a bit of his composure, his voice back to its usual whispery quality, he drawled nastily :

“It pains me to admit that, although I couldn’t care less about the brat, what I personally feel does, in fact, not matter. I have a duty as a teacher to make sure students do not die on my watch, and at this rate, he will, Albus.”

“He will, if he leaves the place that is still protected by his mother’s blood.”

At that, both his attention and Minerva’s were picked -they exchanged a quick glance, checking if the other knew what Albus was talking about, only to understand they had both been left in the dark. The Headmaster had delivered this ominous statement the way a cornered gambler pulled out a joker, with a reluctant, yet proud triumph. Not willing to humor him, Severus reluctantly spoke, lips tight:

“Explain.”

He watched on with greeted teeth as the man spoke confidently, clearly assured he had regained control of the situation:

“While he can still call home the place where his mother’s blood dwells, there he cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. Petunia Dursley, as you know, is Lily Potter’s only remaining blood relative: he needs to return there once a year, at the very least, to maintain the wards.”

Severus listened, blood roaring in his ears, his bewildered brain trying to decipher the new information, as Minerva summoned a chair, quite pale, and sat, countering with a voice that sounded both stubborn and pleading :

“Voldemort is gone.”

“Yes, he is, only in the most literal sense. He will attempt to return. And if we’re lucky enough and he does not, young Harry still has many enemies we must be wary of.”

Severus was quite shaken, for the Headmaster’s explanation had, in fact, been sound. It did not excuse the lack of monitoring the Dursleys, but it did explain why he’d been placed there in the first place, and why he had to remain among them. Could they afford to put the boy through so much pain, if it meant keeping him alive? Were there any other valid solutions? As a former Death Eater, Severus knew more than most the type of danger Potter was facing. However… Was this plan as soundproof as Albus made it seem? Ah. There it is., he thought, coldly satisfied. He spoke, smirking:

“Have you perchance checked on those wards, recently?“

The old man stared at him, seemingly suspicious of his question. He answered carefully:

“I would be notified, were they to fall.”

“Notified, yes, after the fact. Care to monitor their state more closely? You did say they would stay in effect ‘as long as he can call it home’, and from the look of it, his time there hasn’t been too…”

He cringed, spatting the word as if it was leaving a foul taste in his mouth:

“... homey.”

Minerva, apparently quite exhausted, a hand placed over her forehead, murmured:

“Please, tell me you do monitor the wards, Albus?“

“Rest assured, Minerva, that I’ll do everything in my power to keep Harry as safe as possible. I am going to visit the Dursleys, as I already stated, and I’ll also check on the wards. Does it alleviate your concerns?”

It was quite obvious to Severus, with that answer, that the Headmaster had been taking the wards for granted. He took a step closer to the desk.

“Only if you let me come along. I shall make sure you don’t let your nauseating habit of under evaluating threats get the better of you.”

Minerva, who had been massaging her temples, prompted herself off her seat and announced:

“Me as well.”

Albus examined them carefully behind his half-moon spectacles. Severus noticed the tiredness starting to show on the old man’s traits as he nodded slowly.

“Very well. I am afraid I cannot leave current matters unattended. Shall we go tonight?”

“Immediately after dinner.”

“Well, then, if that is all-”

Severus cut him off, putting his hands down on the desk, for he still had an important subject to broach, the one he had been building up to for the entire conversation :

“Albus. Whatever you seem to think, the situation requires that the guardianship be changed. It would be best if you started thinking about… alternatives.”

The old wizard patted his beard, thinking it over, then said, with a smile so mischievous and eyes so sparkling Severus knew what he was about to say before he even opened his mouth.

“Why, you would make a solid replacement, of course.”

As if the contact with the desk had suddenly burned him, the potions’ master took a prompt step back and scoffed:

“Why of course, from neglectful, abusive muggles to child hating, former Death Eater. Why do people ever think you barmy, I wonder.”

Albus shook his head in disapproval, but it was more fond than recriminatory. Minerva nursed a nice scowling stare his way, but it didn’t hold any bite. All in all, the sarcastic retort had lightened the atmosphere slightly; from then on, the conversation was less confrontational. They agreed on keeping the issue a thorough secret, for the involvement of the Ministry or the Wizarding World at large would only produce more chaos, and to wait for the meeting with the Dursleys before taking any decision, or making any further steps.

Before they took their leave, Dumbledore had watched them thoughtfully, looking every year above one hundred years old, and said :

“Minerva, Severus. I am sorry.”

A few seconds stretched between these two- concerting with each other in a glance, Minerva was the one to talk for them both.

“You save that for the boy.”

When they finally got out of the office, it was close to midday. The hallways were empty- a magnificent sun shone outside. They both stood there a while longer, their back to the gargoyle, deep in thought. Minerva broke the silence, noticing pointedly:

“So much for ‘no direct confrontation’.”

He snorted at that, and retorted with a bit of cheek:

“It was all but a calculated risk.”

“But of course, dear.”

He rolled his eyes affectionately, although on his face, this gesture probably conveyed more annoyance than fondness. He wasn’t used to relying on someone other than himself, and yet, he felt glad that he could count on her. He was used to dealing with important matters on his own. Yes- no matter how heavy, confusing and infuriating this meeting had been, he did not regret this specific course of action one bit.

Then he heard sniffling, and turned towards her in a dramatically slow and aggravated manner, not wanting one bit to observe what he had already inferred.

He looked on as she cried, his own throat tightening slightly, something like envy rising up in his chest. It did seem to be dislodging a great burden off her shoulders. If he were being honest, he longed for such a freedom; however, he was stuck with a weight so formidable he couldn’t risk expressing the pain stemming from it anymore, less he broke down completely, and never rose back on his feet ever again.

He wondered if he should try and comfort her- he had no idea how to. He did have the impulse of placing a hand on her shoulder, but he couldn’t bring himself to move a finger. He grimaced in discomfort. A lifetime locked away in a dungeon had done nothing for his abysmal social skills, and he bitterly regretted not having a handy book about how to behave like a proper human being to the very few people you actually trusted and cared enough about to try and be supportive of.

He supposed that confronting her oldest, most trusted friend and discovering her immense confidence in him had been somewhat misplaced, thus resulting in terrible consequences for a child, was worthy of a small breakdown. At least, she had the emotional maturity of crying it out, not drink herself stupid like he had done.

As for him, his doubts weren’t quelched: the irresponsible, gullible persona could have been an act, hiding an ulterior motive. Or the Headmaster was just growing old and tired. Or he was pretending to be growing old and tired- this man was, after all, the grand Leader of the Light, and an influential, albeit reluctant, politician. Or Severus was paranoid. Or he was biased with a deep well of unexamined resentment for the man, one he better try and decipher sometime soon. Or.

Surprisingly, it was her who patted his shoulder empathically, and he felt with a gnawing sorrow and kinship that she understood what he couldn’t show nor tell. Getting a small grip as to what could be expected in such a situation, he summoned a handkerchief and provided it to her- if it had embroideries of the Gryffindor House colours, it was but a show of respect and deference for an esteemed colleague, not sentimentality- ’But of course, dear’.

She tapped her cheeks, a thankful smile overthrowing her tears, and said:

”I’ll see you tonight, Severus. Please take care of yourself.”

He nodded solemnly, all too aware of what she had meant. They both walked in opposite directions, regaining their quarters- on their way, they didn’t notice a bushy haired girl hurrying out of sight, ‘A Hogwarts History’ clutched against her chest as she ran off to the library.

Chapter Text

“I’ll see you tonight, Severus. Please take care of yourself.”

He had tried to follow Minerva’s advice. But what did taking care of himself entail? What he was sure of was, it did not entail getting helplessly drunk, so he resolutely crossed that out of his schedule. Not that he had planned on it anyway- then again, these kinds of things were not exactly thought out, were they. He certainly did not wish for a relapse, not when so much depended on him.

After having made that clear to himself, he was at a loss what else to do- he spent most of the day grading homework and brewing potions, nursing small experiments which might prove useful to the hospital wing (namely, a less addictive and lighter version of the Dreamless Potion he had just begun working on, not admitting to himself that his inspiration came from a certain nightmare-plagued, green-eyed boy).

He had trouble focusing on these tasks though, for he felt restless about the meeting with the Headmaster. His mind kept going back to the office, and the infuriating discussion which had taken place there : after almost chopping off one of his fingers, a rookie mistake that simply never happened to him, he decided to stop going against the flow and finally indulged in the need to review the scene in depth.

As such, he made use of his pensieve right up until dinner, reliving it over and over again, anxiously trying to decipher the implications of Dumbledore’s reactions, or sometimes, lack thereof. The old man had seemed troubled, but only for a fleeting moment- he had regained his composure ever so quickly. His calm demeanour had seriously unnerved him- then again, when did the Headmaster ever show any sign of being upset? Even during the first war, he had rarely seen him display any violent, or expansive emotions.

Clearly, Dumbledore loved to withhold critical information. Like the blood wards. If two of the most important members of the Order had never heard about it, he supposed the information hadn’t been disclosed to anyone, at all. Once again, the old fool was playing a lonely, dangerous game, without putting much actual trust in his allies-no matter how clever he was, there were many things he simply could not think of by himself, and an outside perspective was crucial to forming a foolproof strategy. This lack of cooperation was unnerving him: for his part, the potions’ master wasn’t prone to asking for help in the least, but he had expected better from the social, seemingly optimistic wizard. And ultimately, as recent events had shown, even Severus was able to put aside his tendency to do things on his own to better achieve his goals : namely, protecting Lily’s son.

He tried to make sense of this counterproductive attitude. Albus might have grown less inclined to share information after Black’s betrayal- from Severus’ viewpoint, it had been a mistake to trust the man in the first place, but, indeed, maybe was he trying, rather clumsily, to prevent any further fallout by keeping the most sensitive information to himself. Still. If he had decided to take the responsibility on himself alone, he should have dedicated himself more thoroughly to it, instead of, once again, putting his trust in the wrong people, namely the Dursleys. Well, that was, if the entire fiasco hadn’t been an obscure design to mold the boy in a specific way, for a specific purpose.

“Of course it isn’t, and I’ll make sure that they treat him fairly in the future.”

Was he really that blind? Did he really feel this arrangement was so deeply necessary that Potter’s pain did not have any weight in the balance? Was he so thoroughly ready to sacrifice the boy for the greater good, or would he eventually be swayed, brought back to reason?

Severus vaguely wondered if he should have been more threatening and absolute in his dealings with the old man. However, he thought better of it: he couldn’t let Albus understand how betrayed he felt, and how prone to betrayal it was making him in turn. The recent events had deeply impacted his faith in him : better stay prudent and let him believe that he was still under his thumb- if a bit upset, as a strict absence of reaction would be suspicious.

His awful misdirection, if not outright lies, still weighed bitterly on his mind. Making Severus believe Potter was being taken care of, letting him fool himself with the notion that the boy was pampered and surrounded by wizards! He should have noticed before that Potter wasn’t completely dense, but simply foreign to everything magical. There was one muggleborn who did fancy herself a know it all, but she was an exception, and all of her knowledge stemmed from books- he assumed that being raised by someone who, like Petunia, hated magic so thoroughly, couldn’t make the access to magical literature easy. Indeed, he shuddered at the idea of her stumbling upon Potter’s school books. They could well end up in the fire. Some of his, back in his own childhood days, had certainly ended up that way. He clenched his jaw in anger at the memory, projecting his anger upon the Dursleys, and once again, pictured the glorious bonfire their house would make, if he were to get his way. The memory playing in front of him pulled him out of the charming fantasy.

Rewatching the moment in which he had expressed how much the dissimulation of the truth had hurt him, he had to admit to himself that he was still under Dumbledore’s influence in part : he couldn’t shake away the hope that all of this was but a terrible mistake, and that the man was entirely innocent.

Come to think of it, he had done well not mentioning that the file he had given him was but a copy among three others. He didn’t know for sure that Albus wouldn’t try and erase the proof of his abhorrent oversight. Whether or not they would use these files against him remained to be seen. Severus had hopes that, from now on, the Headmaster would do his utmost best to redeem himself, and focus on Harry’s best interests first and foremost : that way, they could work together. But if he didn’t. Well. He had several backup plans in mind, and the one he favoured most was going through the muggle social services, first, as a way to shift the guardianship without the ministry’s oversight. In the most discreet way, of course.

Spending more than two minutes bearing Filch’s presence did have some perks- firstly, venting about students in a thoroughly exaggerated fashion was cathartic; secondly, and most relevantly, one could have a more thorough view on the squibs’ community. Turned out, lots of them weren’t as… ‘lucky’ as to work at Hogwarts, and, given the chance, were all too keen on plotting against a wizarding world which had rejected them. Most of them having been abandoned late in their childhood, for the parents had waited anxiously for them to display any trace of magical ability, they ended up processed in the social services system.

Apparently, and most conveniently for him, a few of those children, growing up, had decided to work within the system to try and give the future generations a chance. Now, Filch hadn’t been out of the castle in quite a long time- but surely, he could try, ask around and track some of these individuals and use their dislike of the wizarding world and their dedication to protect children as a means to an end.

Of course, he had several other alternatives in mind. Relocating Potter to some hidden safeplace, while placing a decoy at the Dursleys. Obtaining an illegal international portkey, placing him in a foreign country for the duration of the summers.

And, to make absolutely sure whatever place he’d reallocate him in was secure, the use of a Fidelius Charm, on top of all the wards he had planned out in his head.

He could also pressure the Dursleys so they would give up custody to someone adequate. However, without Dumbledore’s backup, that specific plan could easily backfire. Tuney would be too happy to ruin his plans, and make life harder on her nephew.

In any case, the finding of a new guardian for Potter would pose the biggest issue : however could they manage to someone capable of :

1) caring for the financial, physical, mental, emotional needs a child,

2) dealing with the aftermath of a lifetime of abuse,

3) not treating him differently regarding to his fame,

4) protecting him from great danger at the risk of their own lives, having the means to do so efficiently,

5) training him as to give him weapons to survive in a vicious world,

6)...

Severus stopped himself there, for he couldn’t think of any other box to check at the moment; he concluded that, ultimately, things would go smoother with the guidance and approbation of the Headmaster, and that he first and foremost had to try and gain his unfaltering support in this matter.

“Albus. Whatever you seem to think, the situation requires that the guardianship be changed. It would be best if you started thinking about… alternatives.”

He shuddered as Dumbledore’s playful words replayed:

“Why, you would make a solid replacement, of course.”

Severus cursed, and interrupted the Pensieve recollection abruptly.

At dinner, he barely ate. At first, he was only apprehensive about what the evening’s events would provide. Then, he noticed Potter wasn’t sitting at the Gryffindor table, and was nowhere to be seen. He wondered worryingly what the foolish boy was up to, this time. Well, at least his nutrient potion would find him wherever he was. He would have to talk to him about the importance of regular meals, though. He looked down : the irony of his half empty plate wasn’t lost on him. He sighed.

For the amount of time he spent monitoring Potter, he could as well have been one of his slytherins. But for some reason, he wasn’t willing to simply hand the matter to Minerva.

He told himself that, as he had a detention with the boy the next day, he would have more than enough time to get the information across, and that he therefore didn’t need to bother her. He shrugged off an odd protective feeling clutching at his chest. Yes; he had more experience with these things- he had been the one to notice the issue, surely he ought to surveil it himself. Also, Minerva had authority, but her lions did like to test it- rare were the students who dared disobey a direct order when he was the one giving it. Yes. That was sound thinking. Rational. Efficient. Very much like himself. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

As they headed out of the castle directly after dinner, they did not have time to change. Minerva transfigured both her robes and his, so they could blend in with the Muggles more easily- knowing Petunia, she would throw a right fit if robed wizards were to enter her home. He wondered in passing if she would recognize him, and whether he wished for it or not- watching the horror on her face could prove to be quite satisfying, but it might make the entire thing more explosive than it already had the potential to be. He pleasantly recalled a dream of flames raging and voices shrilling, trying to cast off the anxiety building in his shoulder blades with a cathartic mental sight.

He then took a glance at the muggle attire he was now sporting, and looked behind him in panic- thank Merlin, there were no students to witness such a humiliation. After a few seconds of deep breathing, he rolled his eyes at the all too real sight of an emerald shirt, pants, shoes and a trench coat, all various shades of a dark green.

As the shock settled in, he raised furious black eyes at his colleague, visibly appalled; she smiled at his horror, raising her eyebrows with mock worry:

“Whatever seems to be the problem?”

As he simply squinted in retort, she carried on, admonishing him with a sly grin:

“Now now young man, it’s not everyday I get to see you wearing colours!”

As the last word crossed her lips, the Headmaster transfigured his bright purple robes into an equally bright purple suit : at the offending sight, she shook her head in disbelief, earning a snicker from Snape. He leaned forward malevolently, whispering to her with a barely held back smirk:

“Is that colourful enough for you?”

She didn’t dignify his jab with an answer- he snorted, thoroughly amused at her vexation. Gryffindor pride...

“I must say it suits you well, my boy, you should give colour another chance- it would certainly bring a bit of pep to your outfits.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled wittily- but he rapidly cast them down, as both his colleagues awkwardly ignored his comment.

The old man swallowed and frowned, and for a second, Severus could feel that the gap the recent events had dug affected him- but as a breeze passed through the Hogwarts’ grounds, the headmaster breathed in the air with a thin smile, and announced, face cleared of all trouble:

“Let us go, then.”

The rest of the walk was spent in silence; the grounds were dark and gloomy, the sunny streak of the days’ prior had ended, and an autumnal wind carried scents of rotting leaves and burning logs through the air. The smell had a distinct melancholia to it, and Severus felt its cold dampness weighing on his shoulders as he walked.

Once they stepped out of the anti-apparition wards, he side-alonged with Minerva, as unlike him, she had been to the Dursleys before and knew where to apparate. A squeeze, a blur, the usual amount of vertigo, and here they were.

Severus scowled at the sight that greeted him.

Rows upon rows of identical, carefully lined houses. It was in a way reminiscent of his own street, except it was much less decrepit, and visibly much better off, financially wise. Yet it somehow felt worse- it seemed like the misery, if not apparent, was just swept under an immaculate rug. He could all too well imagine how Harry’s treatment had gone unnoticed in such a picture perfect, satinized place : anything to maintain pretences. If he had to hazard a guess, he would say that Potter wasn’t let out in public very often, and every sign of neglect and abuse shrugged off as something he was faulty for.

Severus hated vain lies. Gazing at the well-trimmed flower beds surrounding the parcel at 4 Privet Drive, the hypocrisy of it made him feel just that much more murderous. He watched the facade attentively: if there were wards, he couldn’t perceive them- which made sense, obviously, since any deserving ward wouldn’t make itself obvious- he, reluctantly, had to request the assistance of the only person who had ever had the leisure to study them in depth.

He turned to the Headmaster, who was gazing thoughtfully at something up in the air, eyes squinting behind his half-moon spectacles. He asked with a barely contained frustration:

“What about the wards?”

After a few more seconds of contemplation, a worried frown appeared on the wrinkled face. The old man sighed.

“I’m afraid you were right, Severus. They are but hanging by a thread.”

He frowned and sighed tiredly, and the Potions’ Master felt a torn sense of satisfaction: Good. If they were in bad shape, maybe he wouldn’t try and force the boy to go back there. Shaking his head, Dumbledore softly said, disappointment clear in his voice :

“This will not do.”

Then he tilted his head on the side, seemingly deep in thought. His eyes twinkled with a calculating shimmer, as he spent a few more moments watching the house, and then, nodding to himself, he turned to his colleagues, smiled agreeably, and invited them to follow him. Severus felt a growing paranoia at this display of confidence.

They went through an exceedingly well-trimmed garden- some of those flowers were absolutely not meant to bloom at this period, and, if he squinted hard enough, Severus could feel some form of residual magic on them- he deduced it had been Harry who had been tending to the garden. Why had a child felt compelled to direct accidental magic so precisely and efficiently to produce such a result, now that was a worrying, if not infuriating thought.

Minerva and him exchanged a quick glance as they stopped on the front porch- Dumbledore, leading the way, rang the doorbell. After a few agonizing seconds, a tall, thin, horse-faced woman hurried to open the door. She greeted them with a polite, forced smile, which quickly fell when she recognised who was facing her.

She first gawked at Dumbledore:

“You!”

Then at Snape.

“YOU!”

After that, she didn’t bother looking at McGonagall, too focused on fuming in rage at the offending, sacrilegious sight of Severus Snape on her doorstep.

The dour man's face twisted up in a snarl as he drawled in the most obnoxious, courteous way that he could muster:

“Well well, good evening, Tuney. Although I suppose this evening isn’t good for neither of us, now, is it?”

Chapter Text

Severus stared at the comically long neck, the horsey features, and narrowing his eyes in contempt, he wondered for the hundredth time how this petty woman could be related in any way to Lily Evans.

Petunia, certainly aware of his obvious scorn, had seemed ready to bark something fairly unladylike his way when Dumbledore had stepped forward, a gentle smile placated on his features. The old wizard said with a sickening grandfatherly tone:

“Good evening, Petunia. Sorry to come by unannounced, but something quite unfortunate came up, and I had to see for myself.”

She was livid, her face twitching horribly. She spat, pointing an accusing finger at him :

“You swore neither you or any other freaks would set foot in my house!”

Freaks, hm? Is it what she calls magical people? He tried not to imagine her calling Potter that, on a daily basis, for if he wasn’t going to commit either murder or arson, he had better keep certain thoughts at bay. He breathed in and out discreetly, strengthening his mental walls with a rigour he only used in the most dire of situations.

Dumbledore took another step forward, towering over Petunia with his impressive height- even with his ridiculous outfit, his sheer presence forced respect.

“It came to my attention that I am not the only one who circumvented our arrangement. May I come in?”

And while he still seemed the nice, old eccentric man as ever- in his words, there lurked a certain coldness that made Tuney blanch further. Severus watched on with dark glee. Maybe all wasn’t lost about the Headmaster. She seemed positively subdued: in other words, things were looking up, when her husband showed up.

An enormous, reddish man had suddenly appeared from behind her, and seemingly able to assess their freakishness at a glance (his bulging eyes told it all), he barked at them threateningly :

“What’s this?”

Albus raised his hands in false surrender, and announced jovially:

“We are from Hogwarts, your nephew’s school. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster. These are two of our professors, Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape.”

The awful man, whom Severus could only assume to be Tuney’s husband (what a dreadfully grotesque couple) made an awful scoffing noise and blathered on:

“Is the brat already in trouble? I’m afraid we can’t help you, he’s your problem now, you can go back to your freaky school, we don’t want any of your kind here.”

A quick glance at Minerva made obvious she too was trying not to lose her temper and blast the damn muggle into oblivion. She was tightlipped, her eyes more severe than ever. The sight was quite endearing, in a way, for it made him think of how merciful, and superior, their stance was, compared to the one these pitiful muggles had adopted. For they could, if they so decided, draw their wands and be done with them- not that it was a realistic plan, wizarding law wouldn’t stand for it- however the fact remained that they were vastly more powerful and chose not to abase themselves so, reaching to their pitiful level.

“What do you all think, eh, disturbing good, decent folks like us, in the middle of the night!”

It certainly wasn’t the middle of the night, the evening had just set, but no one was going to argue with this ludicrous idea. As the man kept getting himself in a twist, Albus simply stared down at Petunia. She fretted uncomfortably under the unwavering gaze of the Headmaster. Ultimately, she shushed her husband, faking an accommodating smile, and told him in a voice so ridiculously sweet and submissive that Severus surprised himself feeling a twinge of pity amidst his overwhelming disgust:

“It won’t take long, Vernon dear.”

Begrudgingly, the awful man stepped back, letting them in. Never in his life had Severus seen a place both so pristine and lifeless. They passed a white staircase, under which was a cupboard, and Severus wondered why there was a lock on it. Perhaps there were valuables in there? Petunia seemed to notice where he had laid his eyes on, and by the way she quickly turned her gaze away and lunged herself in the next room, he found it relevant to file away the information for later.

He definitely had to take a look inside, now.

She led them to the sitting room. The place was the perfect embodiment of a constrained, petty suburban life: not a speck of dust anywhere, everything perfectly lined up, all furniture, walls and ceiling done in obnoxiously bland colors. It screamed normal in an unsettling way- it was too forced, too obsessively controlled. The Dursleys rigidly sat on a couch, Dumbledore on an armchair facing them- the old man gestured for both Minerva and Severus to take up place beside him, which they did, when suddenly, Petunia’s eyes shot up in alarm. It is with a trembling voice that she ordered :

“Dudley-kin, darling go to your room.”

Severus turned around to where she was looking and saw the recipient of this ridiculous petname : dangerously obese, with a face reminiscent of his mother’s, a boy stared at them, eyes wide with recognition, face white as a sheet. He suddenly placed his hands over his bottom in a protective manner (whatever was that about?). For a good second, he remained frozen, gawking stupidly at them; then he bolted out and ran upstairs, surprisingly swift for a boy so heavy.

“Remarkable offspring you have produced there, Tuney.”

His sarcasm was so obvious even Minerva quirked an eyebrow at him. He could have raised his eyes in annoyance. Yes, he wasn’t very good at keeping the decorum, so what? That horrible woman didn’t deserve much more subtlety. … Then again, maybe she didn’t like the jab at the child -after all, although he didn’t seem to have been through the same treatment as Potter, he was being raised in a toxic, violent environment- and obviously overfed, which wasn’t much better than being starved. He was lasily reevaluating his words when Petunia spat back:

“Not that you’d know what producing offspring is about.”

He almost choked.

He was ready to perform a most biting retort when Albus raised his hand to stop him.

“Now, now. As lovely as it is to see old friends reconnecting, and as I doubt you’ll offer us a speck of tea, I am afraid we must now broach the pressing subject of our visit.”

A formidable silence followed his words, as the tension in the air went up a notch. Tuney’s husband seemed to be trying not to burst, holding his breath, his face reddening: ready to spew hatred. Nonetheless, Albus kept going with the same unwavering calm:

“It has come to my attention that your nephew has sustained unacceptable mistreatment over the years.”

Severus’ hands locked themselves into fists as Petunia opened her mouth in outrage. However, the old wizard didn’t let her time to speak, and continued in the same innocuous tone of voice :

“Now, I will give you a time to tell us your side of the story. I can only advise you not to lie to us- it would both waste our time, and spend our patience.”

The threat under the last word was rampant; perhaps too much so, for Mr. Dursley all but exploded :

“The ungrateful brat went and complained, didn’t he? We already had the same problem with a goodie two shoe teacher at his school and lemme tell you: he’s the one causing all his troubles.”

In that instant, Severus damned his photographic memory : the long list of injuries, ailments, deficiencies superposed itself onto the perfidious words, highlighting how untruthful and unfair they were : he had to reign in the urge of reaching for his wand and make the offending thug burst open like a pignata.

Quite unaware of his interlocuteurs’ thought process, Vernon Dursley kept barking arrogantly:

“He’s a delinquent, always picking fights. And a picky eater at that, we can’t get him to eat anything!”

Severus grimaced painfully; to think he had once agreed with this oaf; what did that say about him; he had been foolish; he needed to make things right; he needed to ruin this family as they had ruined Potter; he needed to snap that gruesome, sweaty neck and delight in the marvelous snapping sound it would produce-

“He’s a menace and freak is all ! You wanted him? Now you have him! Deal with it and leave us in peace!”

Dursley seemed out of breath, as if his spite was so intense it was costing him physically- none too surprising considering how unhealthy he looked. Another silence stretched, more resounding than the previous one; Severus looked around for Minerva’s connivence, only to find that she was staring in the distance, terribly focused on something, her lips moving almost imperceptibly.

Petunia ended her husband’s tirade in a spiteful, yet almost plaintive tone - as if she could ask for their sympathy :

“It’s not as if we wanted him in the first place; and he had to turn out as twisted as his parents! We took him in our home, we risked exposing our poor Dudley to his freakish tendencies! We raised him, fed him, got him clothes, a roof over his head and yet he goes off and complains and throws accusations when he’s the one at fault!”

Severus knew he had to let Albus handle the matter. They had come to this agreement. He had to give him a chance to set things right. However, the more this disgusting couple raged and victimised themselves, the more he felt compelled to give them a reason to whine and despair. And he would have, if things had kept going this way an instant more- then, Dumbledore queried in a chillingly neutral tone:

“The blood wards. You know well what I am talking about, Petunia. How come they have failed, but if you made him feel so completely unwelcome that he couldn’t consider this place home?”

The obese muggle sprang on his feet in a surprisingly swift motion ; Severus automatically grabbed his wand, ready to curse, as the man threatened, redder than ever, a hand reaching back protectively on his wife’s shoulder (she didn’t seem reassured in the least by the gesture):

“Now, listen here you old fool, you have no right to start accusing good people like that ! We owe you nothing, we’ve never asked to be burdened with this frea-”

“ENOUGH.”

At the word, spoken loud and fierce, Severus felt the hair at the back of his neck rise- an ancient, overflowing power was coming from the Headmaster, spreading out in heavy, suffocating waves. Vernon Dursley sat back on the couch, crawling away from its source. The pathetic couple recoiled in fear.

The grandfatherly pretense had fallen off. The true face of Albus Dumbledore was showing. The most powerful wizard of his era. Righteous fury twinkled in the clear blue eyes. The walls started to shake slightly, encased photos and plates falling off and shattering to the ground. The muggles jumped on their seats with each breaking sound, pitifully squeezed against each other on the couch.

Petunia was livid. The big oaf at her side displayed a variety of colour, from white to blue to red, and finally settled to a sort of prunish undertone that did not testify to the man’s vascular health.

One could only feel dread in the face of true power, and Severus was dearly reminded why he had been so prudent as to not behave too out of bond in his earlier recriminations.

Albus Dumbledore might have fancied himself a nice, compassionate old man, however, he wasn’t harmless in the least.

Severus glanced at Minerva- she held herself as straight as ever, but her lips were too tight to fool him about how she truly felt. She wasn’t enjoying the overwhelmingly strong wave of magic either, not one bit. As it was, they were bloth glued to their chair by the sheer weight of it.

“Listen to me very carefully.”

His voice reverberated in the air, so powerful he felt it resonate within his bones.

“We know what you did, we have irrefutable proof. I gave you a chance to recognize your mistakes. You did not. Now, I will give you an opportunity to think hard and long about your behaviour. As I come to wonder whether or not any child should be entrusted in your care- yes, you may consider this a fair warning- please always expect an impromptu visit from- how do they call it? Social services, I believe it is, yes. I wonder if they’ll find your son might be better off somewhere else.”

At that, Petunia almost reacted- another pulse of magic, greater than before, pushed her back on her seat. Dumbledore kept going.

“The financial compensation alloted to you is hereby revoked. As it has obviously not been used for its intended purpose, expect any material purchase you’ve made with this money to crumble and rot. I do not know if the damage you have inflicted to the wards is redeemable. If it is and we happen to have need of it, do believe me when I say that you shall be closely monitored, and any transgression of our arrangement shall be sorely punished.”

Suddenly, the energy tampered down, and he looked older than ever when he said:

“It pains me that it comes to this… I thought that filial love would be strong enough… but you have failed it in a way I have rarely seen.”

The waves of magic got weaker and weaker, until things went back to normal - in the absence of those waves, the silence felt weirdly light, and yet, no one dared make a move. Albus sighed, and in a voice infinitely gentler, declared:

“Lily would be severely disappointed in you, Petunia. Were your place reversed, you know she would have cared for your son as her own.”

The Dursleys had sat still and wide-eyed, subdued for the entire talk, growing more and more hopeless: but the mention of Lily had seemed to ignite a spark in Petunia whose blurry eyes shed tears as she fumbled through her words:

“Don’t- don’t speak of her, it’s all her fault she- she should have never gone to that school- she-”

This time, Severus snapped:

“Don’t you dare put your own faults on her! You’ve never been anything but a jealous, petty girl, wanting to drag Lily down to feel better about your mediocrity!”

Minerva added :

“Young lady, the only thing you have on Lily Potter is that you still live. Now, it begs the question: isn’t death worthier than some ways of living?”

Severus, who was half risen from his seat, stopped dead in his tracks, turning to his Gryffindor counterpart with a carefully guarded expression. Beneath his mask lurked a mixture of shock, surprise, and admiration at the rather violent retort. He felt the irrational need to laugh. Instead, naturally, he scowled. Dumbledore, back to his usual, placating self, clapped his hands and said warmly :

“I’ll take that tea, now, if you don’t mind.”

Whether the brutal scolding from the three wizards had sapped all of their will, or whether they were just eager to get away, the Dursleys nodded urgently and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

Minerva seemed quite shaken up. She raised an eyebrow at Albus, bantered reproachfully :

“Enjoyed yourself, you did?”

A bit apologetic, he smiled gently at her and said wistfully :

“Believe me, Minerva, not one bit.”

Recalling a point in Albus’ speech which had sparked his curiosity, Severus frowned and asked:

“”Expect any material purchase you’ve made with this money to crumble and rot”? Was it part of some magical contract? That if they were to break the terms, a curse would be set on their belongings?”

“Oh no, I unfortunately haven't been so prevoyant. No, really, I was just trusting Minerva’s admirable spellwork.”

And he winked at her, and she smirked pridefully.

So, that was what she had done when he had seen her muttering under her breath. Cursing the entire household? Or something of the sort... Impressive. He felt wounded in his pride not to have done so himself. He slowly inclined his head in her direction and said reverently :

“Very Slytherin of you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The Headmaster had apparently asked for tea as a means to torment them further, for once they came back with the necessary attire, both looking quite pale and shaking, he got on his feet and announced they were leaving.

As they got up and followed Petunia on the way out -her husband staying behind, huffing and puffing with the indignities this evening had tormented him with-, Severus decided that, all things considered, the confrontation had gone quite well. Or, as well as it could without involving arson, torture or murder; no necks were wrung, no fat bellys gutted, no blood splattered across the annoyingly spotless rooms... there hadn’t been nearly as many screams as he would have wished for, however, Dumbledore’s feat, although surprising, had been the most relieving, satisfying of events. His resolve had seemed true and absolute: then again, Severus remained careful… if the old fool one day managed to rebuild the wards, he very well might find a way to force the boy back into that dreadful place.

Overall, as Tuney led them submissively to the door, he thought that, perhaps, everything would now be fine: Albus did seem to have -finally- regained his senses, and a bit of justice would finally come to this horrid household. And he didn’t even have to compromise himself in the process.

They were up ahead- as they said a few words amongst themselves on the threshold, he remained back- here was that cupboard Petunia had seemed so anxious about.

He hadn’t overthought it, had acted on impulse. With a simple flick of his wrist, the door had unlocked, the light inside had turned on.

There and then, he saw it.

A mat on the ground. A flimsy, tainted blanket. A few broken soldier toys. Spider webs. A rancid smell. A moldy piece of paper, on which colourful crayons tentatively drew up the letters “HARRY’S ROOM”.

It couldn’t be.

For a time, he forgot how to breathe. The reality of it was evident. He wondered why he felt empty. Couldn’t he process it? He should probably be angry. Whatever was happening now, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t rage. He didn’t know what it was. And yet, in spite of this hollowness, its unnerving stillness, he suddenly took a breath, and with it, something sharp moved inside of him, something rose and striked, as swift as a snake.

One moment he was facing the cupboard: the other, he had drawn out his hand, Petunia had crashed forward to him, and he had her in a chokehold.

”TUNEY YOU FILTHY B-”

”SEVERUS.”

Minerva’s voice over lapsed his own and rang like a slap- he released his grip on Petunia’s neck, and she immediately scurried away, sobbing.

His mind had gone blank. He stormed out, half running, and he heard Minerva call out his name, once, her voice too feeble to stop him, he was already far, too far away, he couldn’t listen to words the world was bleeding the streetlights were blinding every noise was soaring through his head rattling against his skull he needed calm he needed out.

He apparated away once, twice, thrice, getting as far away as he could, again and again until he fell to the ground, exhausted, knees deep in a sea of overgrown grass- wet, cold and lonely.

He breathed too fast. His hands trembled. Suddenly, a dry, heavy laugh shook his bones, and in between choking sounds, he managed to admit dryly :

“Well, at least I didn’t murder anyone.”

He forced his breathing to slow down- little by little, he rebuilt his occlumency shields, and retreated behind them. When he had finally stopped shaking and his thought process had regained stability, he thought carefully back on the events, wincing in disgust. He did not like losing control. He never did. Not to that extent. Not purposefully. Well, recently, it seemed he was quite bound to doing just that. Again and again.

He looked over at the pale hue of the moon, half obstructed by heavy clouds, and told it tiredly:

“Lily… Your son will be the death of me.”

His eyelids felt heavy, his body numb. He let himself fall on the ground and disappeared within, surrounded by tall curtains of grass. He breathed in the freshness of dew, thought vaguely about rising up and apparating somewhere else- he was half-way through that thought when his eyes closed, and he passed out from exhaustion.