Chapter Text
Harry felt like he had just been punched in the face.
Earlier tonight he had blown up his aunt, been threatened with the beating of his life, been expelled, run away to Diagon Alley, and then been pardoned by the Minister of Magic himself; he had finally collapsed, exhausted, on his bed in his room at the Leaky Cauldron.
Now, as if that hadn’t been enough of an insane sequence of events, a rap on the door had roused him from dozing. In his sleep-softened state, it took him a moment to register what he was hearing, and a second, sharper knock sounded. Harry hurried towards the door, opening it with an apology on his tongue.
Harry stared.
Professor Snape stared back, filling the doorframe with his tall form, arms crossed over his chest. His black teaching robes billowed in the drafty hallway, and he looked thoroughly irritated.
“Potter,” he snapped in greeting.
“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, dismayed.
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“...sir?” Harry added hesitantly. He hadn’t even meant to be rude, he was just startled by his potions professor appearing at his hotel room at this time of night. Or, ever. He didn’t think that reaction was all that unreasonable. Clearly, by the cleft forming between Snape’s eyebrows, the man disagreed.
“Potter,” Snape bit out, stepping past Harry into the room as if he was invited (he wasn’t). “I sincerely hope you have not unpacked.”
Harry watched as Snape looked around his room, torn between confusion and irritation. He had not fully unpacked, just essentials he had needed to get ready for bed and take care of Hedwig, who had arrived at the Leaky right before he had. He had just finished talking to the Minister and had been too tired to do more than brush his teeth, but he didn’t understand how that was any of Snape’s business. He sighed inwardly.
“I haven’t had the chance yet, sir,” Harry replied, deciding that pissing Snape off before the term even started would not end well for him. He felt unbalanced in his confusion and lingering sleepiness.
“And you will not be given that chance, Potter,” Snape sneered. “You will not be staying here.”
He had not phrased it as a question, nor as an offer. Harry’s head snapped up, now wide awake. The warmth that had been slowly spreading through his aching body since arriving at the Leaky leeched out of him.
“Sir, the Minister said—” Harry started, shivering from the sudden cold.
“The Minister,” Snape interrupted, voice silky, “is an imbecile, and also decidedly not someone with the authority to determine where you spend your summers. He is not your guardian, and he should not have presumed to make decisions for you or made promises he could not keep.” Snape’s irritable tone turned exasperated, “Did you truly expect the Headmaster would allow you to reside in a pub until September? Even without a murderer on the loose, it would be unpardonably irresponsible to consider leaving you here unsupervised.”
Harry was swiftly changing his mind about whether it was worth it to piss Snape off. He met Snape’s eyes resolutely, green on black.
“I’m not going back,” he said stubbornly. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was letting anyone take him back to Uncle Vernon right now. He wasn't at all sure he would survive the beating, after seeing the man’s face as Harry had left Privet Drive, more contorted in rage than Harry had ever seen. How long would it take for anyone to notice if Harry died? Did the wizarding world keep close enough tabs on wixen children to be notified, or would his body be found bloated and rotting come September.
Snape rolled his eyes and waved his wand. Harry’s toiletries flew from the bathroom back into his trunk, which latched itself. The door on Hedwig’s cage swung shut. The snowy owl let out a startled hoot.
“Honestly, Potter, running away from your relatives? Does your juvenility and recklessness know no bounds? Wingardium Leviosa.” Snape waved his wand again, levitating the trunk and cage and turning back towards the door.
“I won’t go,” Harry insisted. “You can’t make me.” In all truth, Snape absolutely could make him, but Harry was hoping that he wouldn’t. Harry inched away from the dark, brooding figure, feeling vulnerable. “I want to talk to Dumbledore.”
“If Professor Dumbledore,” Snape snarled, “was available today, I would be working on the potion I have been brewing all week, rather than standing here arguing with an obstinate child and hoping my stasis keeps it stable until we get back.”
“I’m not a child.” Harry started angrily, and then faltered. “We?” He hated how tentative his voice was, but he was feeling very lost by the trajectory of this conversation. At the best of times, speaking with Snape tended to feel like attempting a crossword without the clues. And that was when Harry was well-rested and in an entirely different country from the Dursleys, safe. “What do you mean until we get back?”
Snape looked like he was in pain.
“The headmaster had the brilliant idea that a more structured environment might be conducive to improving your abominable behaviour. As your relatives are refusing to take you back—”
“I don’t have to go back?” Harry asked, tentative warmth once more spreading through his chest. “Sir,” he quickly added, not wanting to give Snape a reason to change his mind.
“Do not interrupt me,” Snape snapped. “You will not be returning to Privet Drive this summer, Mr. Potter, as they are too distressed in the wake of your Aunt’s recent endangerment, but you will certainly be writing your relatives a lengthy letter apologizing for your abhorrent actions. You will not be allowed to run rampant and unchecked through the streets of Cokeworth.”
“Cokeworth, sir?” Harry prodded uncertainly. “Who lives in Cokeworth?”
Snape’s lips stretched in a smirk. Harry felt horror mounting, sour between his teeth.
“Mr. Potter,” he said, his voice soft. “Surely, you do not believe that professors never leave the castle. My house may not meet your standards, but I am certain you will survive the experience.”
The bottom of Harry’s stomach dropped out and he found himself following Snape out of the room, his brain not yet catching up to the horrifying circumstances in which he now found himself.
Fuck.