Chapter Text
Clearly, Snape is surprised that Harry comes to his doorstep. After the war, after Hogwarts, it seems they could call a truce and cut all ties
“I wrote to you,” Harry Potter announced, somewhat muffled with the scarf he has wrapped up his neck.
“And showed up because it went without an answer,” Snape noted, looking rough in a wrinkled white button-up, equally wrinkled jeans. He moved his way from the door. “I'll put on tea then. I imagine it's interesting.”
Harry looked a bit amused, a look Snape didn't catch from behind the back, but quite heard in his voice. “Have you been keeping up with the news?” Harry asked.
“No,” his voice echoed from the right, to which Harry moved toward. “No, I've been quite held up the past few days.”
If Harry had to pick a descript for Snape's kitchen, it would've been “quaint.” He liked it. It was a little small, the window above the sink did little to lend extra light, but the floors, table, and chairs were made of wood and looked comfortable, warm with use. After Snape had finished setting up the tea kettle, he turned to the table and motioned.
Harry sat. He was warmed to see an old-fashioned tea kettle, black, worn, going to work above a fire. He drew his cloak closer. After frowning a moment at the kettle's slow pace, Snape sat opposite of Harry and propped his head up one one hand with his pointed elbow on the table. “Continue.” It would've been a comical pose on anyone, but Snape did so with a sort of elegance. That was a strange word to fit with the old Potions Master...
Harry played with the ends of his cloak a moment. A prick started at his forehead. He sighed. “I'm – well, I, er.” He cleared his throat. “I'm going to die – sometime within the year.” He let those words sink in, tried to acknowledge the truth of them himself. “I've been to St. Mungo a few times – I felt off, really weird, you know. I mean, I guess you... don't? Sorry. They ran some tests and it's all weird, but they know it has something to do with, uh... with Voldemort.” He took in some air. “With being – being a horcrux. People aren't supposed to be horcruxes.”
Snape pitched forward hard onto the table with a great snore, only to jump back up at the tea kettle's sharp whistle. Harry prepared a cup while Snape blinked rapidly and yawned a few times.
“I haven't slept in a few days,” Snape said, nursing the cup against him.
“I just told you I was dying, by the way.”
“Oh. Right.” the man muttered. “The... uh...”
“Horcrux,” Harry repeated. “I was a horcrux.” Wasn't there a muggle show with that kind of title? I Was a Teenage Horcrux .
“Right,” Snape said.
He blinked red-rimmed eyes at Harry, then pulled at the black tea before him. “How long have you got?”
“Maybe a year. No one knows. There's never been a case like mine.”
“That's... interesting.” He acknowledged. He paused to sip, seeming to gain clarity. “The object that breaks as a horcrux, I imagine you've seen, becomes damaged. Utterly irreparable. In a person one would think the effect as devastating, but you, in fact, were killed, dead for a moment, and... hm...” he trailed off suddenly. “I'm thinking outloud.”
“No, no, it's fine. I'm getting use to being an experiment.”
Harry let the man ruminate a moment, then chose his next words carefully.
“I was diagnosed yesterday, and I've had 57 offers so far on a personal researcher finding a cure. People from all over the world. Some of them are offering to pay me for the opportunity to investigate the effect of horcruxes and what it means to have a soul and all that. I mean, it looks like the research community hasn't seen much of anything since-”
“The successful completion of the philosopher's stone,” the other man supplied.
Harry fingered his own teacup, tracing the green floral design on the side. He took a breath.
“I think that kind of information could be used by the wrong guy. I'm not going to pretend I understand any of it, but it looks like some big stuff. So I want it to be someone I know and trust.”
“You want to offer it to me?”
Harry nodded.
Snape looked stunned. Harry could tell he was interested, already it looked like the gears in his head were working full force, now with permission. But would he go for it? He did hate Harry – that much had been clear. But Harry also knew that Snape had a thing for his mom – and that might count. Snape might be afraid of killing Harry in experimentation – but wouldn't he gain respect in the community by being picked by Harry personally? Unless people thought Snape forced him into it. There would always be people like that, but he had already planned to make an official announcement.
“Why are you picking me?” Snape croaked.
Hadn't he already answered that?
“I trust you, you're qualified, I need to pick someone before it gets completely out of hand.”
“And how do you know I'm qualified?” he asked, a bit stunned.
“I looked it up,” Harry admitted. “Dumbledore trained you personally, I think that counts for something.” What Harry didn't admit was of a faint certainty; Snape had also been trained by Voldemort.
“And for an abbreviated time, merely to qualify me for teaching. He's trained others with much more attention. I imagine you've had offers with truly prestigious credentials.” For added effect, he rattled off a short list. Indeed, Harry recognized some.
“But I know you,” Harry noted emphatically. “And you know me. I won't have to explain my whole life to you, I won't have to go through an interview process or any of that. And you won't pity me like the rest.”
Harry crossed his arms.
“And I don't need to spell out what this could mean for you, do I?” Harry added.
“You don't need to patronize me,” Snape yawned. “Very well.”
“You'll do it?” Harry asked, scarcely believing it.
“If you will compensate me from my work, then I will be your researcher.”
They agreed upon a set, weekly amount, which Harry also agreed to advance the next time they met. They shook hands to finalize the deal, with Snape agreeing to show up for an official announcement later the next afternoon.
“Bring me your medical records,” was Snape's final request.
Harry bowed a bit, stood, and shuffled out of the house. He walked up to the end of the road, apparated near a train station and took the bullet north, twenty miles to home. From there, he apparated to the door, shucked off his cloak and dropped to the couch.
Of course, Severus didn't waste too much time in locating a newspaper to see the headline himself, The Daily Prophet , of course, blowing the whole thing out of a proportion: THE BOY WHO LIVED IS DYING. What did they expect? The boy was outliving their expectations, and Fate had a way to retaliate to those that defied her wishes.Sleepily, he scanned the contents of the article while inhaling from his muffin stash (The weekly display of his culinary extent: spiced orange with chocolate)
The article, front-page and center, went on to recount much of what Potter had said, then followed with direct quotes, and another brief of Potter's heroic actions regarding the war. As if it hadn't happened six months ago. As if their ministry hadn't personally and completely denied the truth of Voldemort's return up until six months ago. It finally ended with musing how Potter's lover was going to handle the news. That did give him some pause – if not for the boy himself, but the people in his life that cared for him. Evidently, this news was a tragedy.
And entirely premature. Severus may not have all the necessary training, but he had an advantage of various training and felt fairly confident a solution would be found. Perhaps, even, he could stretch out the whole thing to secure a few more paychecks. Better than the little odd jobs he was taking every night and day. If not, well, everyone has to die, don't they?
He was itching to yank all his notebooks from the shelves and begin searching through his notes for bouts of wisdom either he had written or noted. He wanted to scan through his books, begin undoing the puzzle before him, but made it as far as his couch and crashed asleep, waking just an hour before his appointment with the Boy-Who-Lived. He showered, shaved, and drained a cold tea before all but diving into his fireplace.
And Harry, sitting by the covered fountain at the Ministry of Magic (Magic is Might, it bore underneath, desperately in need of a replacement statue), looked small and lost when Snape arrived. That, too, gave him pause. Snape watched him a moment as Harry picked at his scarf and stared at his feet, people around him rushed by without seeing. Promptly, he pushed down any feelings of pity or empathy – those kinds of emotions were unfamiliar and useless, the moral of his own story.
Potter jerked out of thought when the man came near.
“Ready?” He prompted.
Potter mutely handed him a roll of parchment with the terms of their agreement. Fifty galleons a week for his undivided research, one year of guaranteed pay. That was the part that mattered, but Snape took a breath and sat by the boy, scanning the entire document, mildly surprised to see it appearing so official, so meticulous . “In the event of sickness or death of Harry Potter, Severus Snape has appointed guardianship, is afforded open access regarding his research, and to be recompensed as per agreement which does not violate the written will of the deceased.” Very thorough. Snape signed with a flourish, dated it, and folded it carefully.
Potter tucked the document among other papers. “All that's left is a public statement - that's in about an hour - and you're free for the day. Hungry?”
“If you're paying.”
“Yeah. They've got pretty good sandwiches 'cross the way, you know, that cart.” He didn't know it, and didn't say so. “I'll be right back.”
Good Bacchae , it was heavenly. Roast beef, savory, juicy, smothered with cheese. A little skimpy on the meat, but Potter had purchased a bag of chips to curb any more appetite. Potter, he noticed, chewed slowly and stared absently at the clothed fountainhead – the self-important obelisk inscribed with Magic is Might. Why hadn't anyone put a new sculpture there yet? Seeing Potter, Severus imagined he should see some physical indicator of the boy's impending death. Maybe in the hollow under his eyes, maybe his clothes hung too loosely off his frame. He slumped, but the boy had maintained poor posture his entire life.
Snape watched him take two bites and tuck the rest in his bag, with the chips, and with the papers. Snape medicalized the knowledge: weight loss, little appetite, fatigue. He needed a notebook, access to research journals. He should've bartered for those expenses to not come from his personal stipend. No matter, he had after all asked for an advance then and thought longingly of a bottle of firewhiskey, a new pair of gloves, of the exotic ingredients he'd purchase. Lost in thought, he missed Harry's soft prompting, his slow shuffle away toward their meeting. He quickly followed after him.