Chapter Text

Chapter 1 – The Alzheimer Incident

Alzheimer’s. A disease from which even wizards were not immune. It usually did not manifest until well after the hundredth year of life, but at some point it became clear that the person was confused, forgot things, mixed them up, and could no longer find their way properly. It was a bitter fate—one that, among wizards, immediately led to the revocation of all autonomy and the confiscation of the wand.

But what did one do when one of the most brilliant, most powerful wizards suffered from Alzheimer’s?

For years, Albus Dumbledore had convinced them all that the Dark Lord would return, that they had to be prepared, that one day they would have to support the boy—Harry Potter—in order to face the threat once more. And although there was not a single piece of evidence that the dark wizard who had ruled Severus’ youth could, in fact, return, they had all believed him. For almost six years, Severus had resigned himself to having to play a role, to live up to the ingenious plans Dumbledore was already weaving.

Of course they had all noticed that he was becoming forgetful, that he frequently searched for his glasses, missed appointments—but how could they have guessed that the beginnings went back much further?

Yet there was no point in dwelling on the mistakes various people had made, in asking what could have been done better. No, now they had to cope with the situation. Albus Dumbledore would be cared for for the rest of his life—that much was clear. Now the focus was on those he should have taken care of. On finances and responsibilities he should have managed. Naturally, the school board had immediately appointed Minerva McGonagall as headmistress; that was only sensible. His seat on the Wizengamot had also already been reassigned so that full assemblies could continue to take place. Dumbledore would not become Minister either, even though Minister Millicent Bagnold had begged him to accept the position. Now it looked as though that idiot Fudge might prevail in a few years’ time. Well—there were still almost three years to go; who knew what might happen in politics by then? Admittedly, none of that interested Severus in the slightest.

No. Everything that interested him was hidden in the small, dull suburban house across the street. A house in a row of many identical, dull houses, with dull front gardens in a dull neighborhood where all the streets bore dull flower names.

Ironic enough, wasn’t it?

On the other hand, it was of course absolutely fitting for Petunia Evans. No— not Evans. Dursley. That was her name these days, since she had married that Muggle. That was, essentially, all Severus knew about the further course of her life. That, and the fact that the two of them apparently also had a son, who must be around Harry Potter’s age.

Harry Potter—the boy who had survived the Dark Lord—was the reason for his presence in this dreadful Muggle settlement. The son of his former best friend, who, after the fall of the Dark Lord, had been brought to his relatives by Dumbledore so that he would not lose his connection to his family, as the headmaster had repeatedly emphasized.

And of course, he had been right. Severus would simply have to overcome his childish aversion to what had once been a dreadful girl, especially since he would have to deal with her repeatedly in the near future if he fulfilled his new duty. He had been appointed the boy’s guardian, as Dumbledore, naturally, could no longer carry out this task either. He had had to read and sign roughly two dozen forms and documents. Sirius Black, the godfather chosen by Harry’s parents, was sitting convicted in Azkaban, so the Ministry had appointed a representative, and there had been a fair amount of bureaucracy to ensure that everything was done properly. Severus had had to disclose his finances, which, in principle, was no problem. He might not be the richest man in the world, but he managed well enough, and since the goal was to leave Harry with his relatives, no one seriously expected that he would ever have to take the boy in himself. That would only come into effect should something happen to his relatives.

In addition, Minerva had had to issue him a certificate of good conduct, not least because of his past, and he had been questioned under Veritaserum.

Last night, then, the court had reached the verdict that Severus was an acceptable guardian. Once he had introduced himself to Harry, the shock over Dumbledore had been processed, and Harry could imagine getting along with Severus, he would take care of the boy’s finances. Of course, he could have done so yesterday already, but he wanted to introduce himself first. Harry was, after all, only seven years old and accustomed to a bearded face, whereas Severus himself was still very young and possessed a rather grim one. And he admittedly had no experience with such young children at all. The first-years at Hogwarts had always been a challenge for him—but he must have been doing something right, given that he had been Head of Slytherin House for two years now. Would little Harry also end up in Slytherin in a few years’ time, or would he take after his parents in that regard?

Severus shook his head. What useless thoughts! He should cross the street instead, ring the bell, explain that Dumbledore would no longer be able to come by, and then speak with Harry. That was why he was here, after all—not for useless predictions about the future. By Merlin, perhaps Trelawney was rubbing off on him? He should ask Minerva to have him moved to a different seat at the staff table.

He straightened his shoulders and stepped decisively across the street, to the front door of the dull house, and pressed the doorbell.

The door was opened; for a brief moment he was given the opportunity to look into Petunia’s horse-like face—only for her to slam the door shut again immediately, and Severus could hear her frantically locking it from the inside. He raised a dark eyebrow. Evidently, he was not the only one who had not forgotten certain childhood days. And yet, he had done nothing more to Petunia than tell her that she was an utterly boring, nerve-racking person whom no one could really stand.

He cleared his throat and rang the bell again.

“Open the door, Petunia. I’m here because of Dumbledore!” he called, already irritated by her once more. Oh dear—hopefully she was not raising Harry to be just as dreadful a child? He knocked his fist against the door. “Petunia!” he called loudly. She did not respond. Severus grimaced and, on impulse, simply Apparated into the house, landing directly beside Petunia, who was fiddling with a lock on a cupboard. It truly did not interest him in the slightest what she kept in her cupboards!

“Petunia,” he began, but got no further, because she let out an exaggeratedly hysterical scream. “For heaven’s sake, stop that!” he snarled and rubbed his left ear, which was now still ringing. “I’m here because of Dumbledore,” he repeated darkly.

“We haven’t done anything! You have no business here!” she shrieked. Oh, by Merlin.

“Very well. I just want to speak to the boy. Dumbledore can no longer take care of him, so I will be doing so from now on. Just tell me where he is,” he asked, hoping this might calm her somewhat.

“Get out! I—I’m calling the police!” she warned.

“You do realize that I’m a wizard?” he asked dryly, turning his wand in his hand. “Here.” He pulled out the letter from the Ministry. “If you don’t believe me, it’s all written here,” he explained, waving the parchment about. Petunia only grew paler.

“You cannot speak to him!” she declared.

“Why not?”

“He can’t right now! You can’t just turn up here unannounced and expect to speak to him! You have no right to do that!”

Severus frowned, slowly growing genuinely angry.

“Of course I can. I am his magical guardian; he merely lives with you so that he can be with his family. That is a concession to you—not a right,” he remarked. Petunia lost the last traces of color in her face, and slowly Severus began to feel that something else was very, very wrong here.

“I want to see him. Immediately,” he stated.

“Mum?!” another child yelled from upstairs.

“Stay upstairs, sweetheart, Mommy will be there in a moment,” she called back in a sickeningly sweet voice before focusing on Severus again. “Then just take him with you!” she snapped, pointing at the cupboard under the stairs with the lock on it, and marched hurriedly past him, up the stairs.

Severus watched her go in bewilderment, but nevertheless stepped toward the cupboard, without knowing what this was supposed to be about.

“Alohomora,” he murmured, and the small padlock fell to the floor with a dull sound. He pulled the door open and nearly recoiled when he looked into large, utterly terrified green eyes. Well… one of them, because the other was so badly swollen that the boy could not open it.

“Harry,” Severus breathed, completely overwhelmed and shocked, and slowly sank to his knees in front of the narrow door. The boy was also sitting back on his heels, his thin hands clenched into his torn grey trousers, breathing in short, jerky gasps that made the far-too-large shirt slip lower and lower from his shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid,” Severus whispered, remaining where he was for the moment. “My name is Severus,” he explained, making an effort to put a little more warmth into his otherwise factual, even voice.

“Hello,” Harry whispered back, his gaze darting past Severus uncertainly, as though he expected them not to be alone.

“Why are you locked in the cupboard?” He was still speaking very softly, inching a tiny bit closer.

“I was bad,” Harry whispered. “I stole food from the trash bin,” he forced out, biting his lower lip guiltily.

Food. From the trash.

Looking at the scrawny little boy, Severus doubted he got much more than that. He drew in a deep breath.

“Is your room upstairs?” The boy shook his head slightly and pointed at the mattress he was crouching on. That was the moment Severus’ mood shifted completely. “You sleep in the cupboard? Always?” Unfortunately, his grim tone made Harry shrink in on himself, but the boy’s nod did nothing to make it better. He needed to know nothing more. At least not from Harry. “Do you feel safe enough to wait here for me for a few minutes?”

Harry did not truly seem to understand what was happening, but he nodded faintly. So Severus rose and left the hallway through the nearest door.

A living room—neatly furnished, normal furniture as Muggles tended to have. A two-seater sofa and an armchair. Photographs stood everywhere. Petunia, her considerably bulky husband—and there it was… a grossly overweight son. No Harry. Not in a single picture, not even in the background, nowhere. He left the living room, went into the kitchen, and very nearly had a fit of rage when he saw the padlock on the refrigerator… and on the rubbish bin. There were, at least, enough seats for four people here… but Severus very much doubted that Harry enjoyed many proper meals in this room. Aside from that, the kitchen was almost clinically clean. The patio door led into the garden—lawn, flowerbeds, a tool shed, and a swing. One. Not two.

Back inside, he went into the utility room. Petunia’s clothes. Dursley’s clothes. And one set of children’s clothing in oversized dimensions. And smaller, older children’s clothing, also oversized.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured Harry as he passed him again, before going up the stairs, opening doors at random. In the parents’ bedroom, Petunia was holed up with her pink little pig of a son.

“Out of the house,” he demanded coldly. Petunia let out a whimper, but pulled her son along with her. Severus made sure they went straight out the front door without detours—and locked it magically from the landing.

He would dearly love to set the place on fire…

Instead, he briefly inspected the parents’ bedroom, which, however, revealed nothing of interest. So he went into the bathroom. Here, Harry at least seemed to own a toothbrush, and there were four towels… astonishing. He also found a small guest room that appeared to be almost never used, even though everything was just as clean as in the rest of the house; then presumably Petunia’s son’s room, which was crammed full to the ceiling with toys; and another room that—wait. He went back and examined the first room again. On closer inspection, most of the things here seemed to be broken, and there was no bed. In contrast, the other room held a large bed with colorful bedding, and the toys were intact. Instead of giving their nephew a room, they preferred to store their son’s broken junk in it.

Severus leaned against the wall in the upstairs hallway for a long moment. Though he hated every part of it, he called the images back to his mind in exact detail. He would not simply take Harry with him. He would report this to the Ministry. For that, he needed these memories, in case the Dursleys got the idea to rearrange everything quickly once he was gone. Not only did Harry need to be taken away from them—they needed to be punished.

“Hey, little one,” he said more gently, more controlled, as he came back downstairs. “Do you have any things here that you like? And that you’d like to take with you when you leave?”

Hesitantly, Harry rummaged behind a corner of the mattress. The small cupboard reeked of cleaning agents, stacked in one corner. Severus committed it to memory with painstaking care. The bare mattress, without blanket or pillow; the smell; the absence of a light source, aside from the slits in the door. Nervously, Harry cradled a small object in his hand.

“I won’t take it away from you, I promise. Will you show it to me?”

If Severus had expected a small, pretty toy, Harry instead produced half a clothespin and a tin soldier missing an arm, opening his hands just far enough for Severus to see before quickly pulling them back to his chest.

“Is there nothing else you have here?”

“My school things are in a rucksack a cupboard. But I’m not allowed to have them when there’s no school,” he explained. Well—Muggle school was finished for him anyway, only…

“Is there anything in your rucksack that you’d like to take with you, if you can?”

“I need the books,” he whispered.

“And if you were given new books—would you still need them then?”

Still uncertain, Harry shook his head faintly.

“All right, then come.” Gently, Severus reached out his hand to him. “Take my hand. I’ll take you with me,” he promised. “Away from here. Somewhere no one will hurt you.”

Harry hesitated visibly, which was hardly unexpected. When he finally placed his hand in Severus’, his fingers were ice-cold and trembling with nerves. And he could not manage to stand up.

“Does your leg hurt?”

Harry nodded very slightly and lowered his gaze.

“Okay. I’ll carry you, all right?”

Again, he hesitated noticeably before managing a nod. Severus bent carefully toward him, slipped his arms around him, pulled him close—and wrinkled his nose. Oh, Merlin…

Carefully, he lifted Harry up. He was tiny. He was feather-light. He did not look seven, more like five… or even younger. And he was, damn it all, barefoot—he was not even wearing socks.

“Careful… I’m going to turn you a little,” he warned him, then adjusted his hold so that Harry lay in his arms in front of him, so as not to cause his leg any more pain… or, possibly, the rest of his body either.

Instead of taking the front door and thereby opening it again for Petunia, he went out into the garden with Harry. In front of the house, Petunia was surely hiding somewhere in the bushes with her son. And who would take care of Harry if, in a fit of rage, he killed her and ended up in Azkaban for it? No—he Apparated directly from the garden. How the Dursleys would get back into their house was of no concern to him whatsoever.