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Anger lapped at Harry’s insides as he glared at his adopted father, who sat across the kitchen table from him, looking defeated.
It was him.
Red ate at the edges of Harry’s vision, and he hardly felt himself stand and circle the table.
It was his fault.
Unmoved by the drained look on Snape’s face that would typically have unnerved him, Harry brought his fist back.
He’s the reason mum and dad are dead.
CRACK
They’re gone.
SMACK
Voldemort killed them because of Snape.
THUD
It’s all his fault.
SLAM
All his fault.
WHACK
All his fault, all his fault, all his fault.
Harry blinked. A cool breeze caressed his face.
He was outside.
Taking a deep breath and finally calming the hateful beast writhing around inside of him, he looked around. The street was empty, as usual. The front steps he sat upon were cracked and lopsided, as usual. The house was quiet, as usual.
Harry stood.
He was almost to the door before he realized that he did not want to go back inside. He did not want to face Severus Snape, his adopted father. Because if not for him, Harry would have likely grown up with his real father.
Severus had been the one to deliver the prophecy.
A prophecy Harry only knew about because Severus had deemed it necessary for him to know.
The boy dropped his bruised and aching hand from the dull brass doorknob and turned away.
No, he did not want to go back inside.
So instead, he jumped the three short steps off the front porch, exited out the broken front gate, and stalked off down the street.
Memories echoed noisily in his mind as he went. His parents’ last moments surface first, making him angry. Making him think of the man who first sold them out. Then, he would think of the second man who sold them out, and think of the night that Severus tried desperately to save Harry and his friends from a man he assumed was a vicious killer, and feel that perhaps he could forgive him. Then, he would remember why Wormtail even had the option to sell them out in the first place, remembered their deaths, and was livid again.
The cycle continued on and on, self-perpetuating and fierce, each spiral bringing Harry deeper and deeper into his own mind.
Then, he bumped into somebody.
“Watch where you’re going, boy.” A gravelly voice snapped, and Harry looked up.
There were lots of people milling about, including the scruffy-looking old man who he had just collided with, who was now walking away. For a brief moment, Harry wondered how he had seemingly wandered into a populated part of a mostly-abandoned town. Then, his eyes met a sign reading ‘Cokeworth Cross’.
Oh. He was at the train station.
Built in the big boom of the mill that now sat, decrepit, in the middle of town, the train station was meant to bring commuters to work. Now, it mostly brought people looking for someplace cheap to stay, drug dealers, and shady folks who were probably on the run from the law.
Still, it was a train station. Still, it could bring Harry to almost any place he wanted to go. Still, it could take Harry away from the place where the man who effectively killed his parents lived.
So, without a second thought, he stepped inside and joined the queue for the ticket counter.
Once it was his turn, he slipped off his shoe, flinched as he flexed his hand, and in turn disturbed the mess of bruises and lacerations on his knuckles, pulled out a tenner he always kept hidden underneath the insole, and bought a ticket to the station nearest to Ottery St. Catchpole.
He knew that he really shouldn’t be taking the train all the way to the Burrow, but he hadn’t grabbed his broom and he really, really needed to be with Ron. Ron would back him up. Ron would comfort him. Ron would let him stay at his house for the rest of the summer, as he had done once before. So Harry knew that he needed to be with Ron. The Weasleys probably wouldn’t mind that he had shown up there, or that it was still a week before the quidditch cup, and five days before they were supposed to come get him. The Weasleys were good people like that.
Unlike Snape.
Harry’s train of thought soured and then ground to a halt as he sat in a lonely seat in a car towards the back of the train.
He cast another look around, hoping that nobody was watching him. He didn’t want to deal with wannabe Death Eaters or drug dealers or criminals looking to take advantage of a tired 13-year-old kid. He just wanted to go… home.
Where was home anymore?
The train hissed and jolted into motion as he had that thought, and it only made Harry’s gut spin.
Where was home? It certainly couldn’t be the run-down little town of Cokeworth that he was watching slip away through the grimy windows. It couldn’t be. Not anymore. He had been so hopeful that he would call Spinner’s End and the town it laid within his home for the rest of his youth, for the rest of his life, but that simply wasn’t possible anymore. Not now that the person who made it home was revealed to be the catalyst for all he had suffered.
Was home The Burrow? No. No matter how much Harry wanted it to be, and how much he wanted the Weasleys to be his family, he knew they weren’t. Not really. He had not seen the place be built up, brick by brick, spell by spell, like Bill had. He hadn’t left scuffs and burn marks on the wall like Charlie. He hadn’t gotten one of the few large rooms all to himself through sheer hard work like Percy. He hadn’t left dents in the walls and stains on the ceiling like Fred and George. He hadn’t turned a tiny room into a blazing orange furnace in an effort to make it his own like Ron had. He hadn’t even skipped down the steps and drawn little cats on the floorboards like Ginny. He held no memory there. There was no evidence that his presence there had ever existed. He would never have a scuff or scrape that was all his own. He would never have a hand on that special clock. Harry Potter would never be a Weasley.
Harry knew where he belonged. With who. He wanted it to be Hogwarts. He wanted it to be the wide corridors and secret passageways that held the memories of so many students that it would be impossible to separate one from another. But he knew that wasn’t where his home would end up being. It would be Privet Drive. It would be his cupboard. It would be hatred and ridicule, like it had always been. That was home. A place where all memories of him were hidden deeply away. In a dark cupboard. In a securely locked room full of broken toys. Those places were where Harry belonged. Really, Harry should have bought a ticket back to Surrey, but Uncle Vernon probably would have shot him dead if he had dared to set foot there again.
Harry’s head tapped the cool glass of the window and he realized, in his sorrow, he had started to doze off.
With a huff, he let his head hit the glass and stay there. He might as well sleep. It was still an hour until his stop, and he could use a nap. It would be better than sinking deeper and deeper into sadness and regret. It would be better than letting himself come to terms with the fact that he had no home and no family after all.
— — — — — — — —
There was a gentle rattling coming from somewhere, but Harry didn’t even bother to guess where. It could have been an elephant stampeding towards his bedroom window for all he cared. It didn’t matter. In fact, nothing mattered. Nothing except the fact that he was sitting on his own bed, in his own room, with a soft blue blanket, a nice pillow, and most importantly, his da, mattered.
His da almost never fell asleep with him after a nightmare anymore, so it must have been a special occasion. Or he’d been too scared or upset to go to sleep on his own. Harry got like that sometimes, when things reminded him of the Dursleys, or when something terrible happened at the school. Or the anniversary of his parents’ deaths.
It was his fault.
Harry sat up and leapt off of the bed, suddenly disgusted. It was Snape! Snape had sold out his parents! Snape was the reason he had lost his family!
Harry swung around, ready to confront Snape. Ready to yell and scream and make all of his anger and anguish known. But he halted, terror trickling down his spine at what he saw.
The man he had previously been curled up to surely wasn't his father, because that man surely wasn’t alive. His nose was crushed. His mouth was hanging open, cracked and chipped teeth on full display. He was still. Far too still. He was dead. He was surely dead.
The head of the dead man lolled forward and blood and broken teeth spilled out of his mouth and onto his typically pristine nightshirt.
“I may have been the reason you lost your first family, Harry,” the corpse lifted its head, showing Harry its bashed-in face and cold, black, unseeing eyes, “but you are the reason you’ve lost your second.”
Harry screamed.
The scream of the brakes of the train jolted Harry awake, the last, horrifying image of his dream still seared into his mind.
He sat bolt upright in his seat and desperately tried to get his breathing under control, but he simply couldn’t. His hand bumped against the metal wall of the train and pain spiked through it. The scabs on his bruised knuckles split open again and began oozing blood. Harry hardly noticed.
He’d attacked his dad.
He was the one that had beaten him like that.
He was the one that-
No. No, the corpse in his dream was lying. Severus wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. Harry could not have killed him.
But he had to get home.
He had to get home, to Severus. He had… he had hurt him pretty bad, but if he got home right away, he could give him potions, or do one of the few healing spells he knew, or-!
The Weasleys! He could use their floo! It would be the fastest way home, and he could get Mrs. Weasley or Mr. Weasley or even Percy to help!
Harry jumped to his feet as people began filing past his seat, and through a series of “excuse me”s and “sorry”s that he could hardly wheeze out between desperate gasps of air.
Once he had finally burst free of the confining metal tube, he sprinted through the tiny station and onto the sidewalk below. The town he was in- he hadn’t bothered to remember the name- was still three miles from Ottery St. Catchpole, and the Burrow was another mile beyond that! How was he going to get there? He could never run that far, and he didn’t have enough for bus fare. Hitchhiking was out of the question too.
Left with no other choice, Harry started walking. Every step felt laborious. Every breath hurt his lungs. He was panicking and he knew it, but he didn’t have time to stop. He had to get to the Weasleys.
His pace hastened. He was jogging.
He had to get to the Weasleys.
He was running, his feet rapidly hitting pavement, then gravel, then grass. He was barely breathing now.
I have to get to the Weasle-
Harry suddenly couldn’t breathe at all. It felt, in that moment, as if strong, iron bands were rapidly tightening around his chest, or as if he was being squeezed through a very tight tube. It hurt. It hurt a lot. He needed air, but he wasn’t getting any. He needed someone to hold him together, but there was nothing and no one there. He needed his dad, but now, even he might be gone forever.
Suddenly, he was looking at the Burrow, in all its crooked glory, from about 100 feet away. Right about the spot where he, Ron, and the twins had landed the flying car two years prior.
Then, the world tilted and Harry was looking at nothing but grass and dirt, his face pushed against the ground.
Nausea roiled in his stomach and his body simultaneously wanted to throw up and lay very, very still. Harry hoped he wouldn’t throw up. It would get all over him. And his dad wasn’t there to clean him up.
But somebody else’s dad was.
Harry felt a calloused, yet gentle hand close around his shoulder. Then, he was carefully rolled over. It was Mr. Weasley. He was standing there, looking exhausted after what Harry was sure was a long day of work, worry in his eyes and glasses slipping down his nose.
“Harry? Harry are you alright? What happened? How did you get here? Where’s Severus?” The man asked as he got Harry to his feet and patted dirt off of him.
“S-severus…” Harry wheezed.
The crease of worry between Arthur’s eyes deepened and he started guiding Harry inside.
“C’mon, Harry. Molly will set you right. Then you can tell us what happened.”
Harry was finally, finally beginning to catch his breath when they reached the front door. He was with the Weasleys. The Weaskeys would know what to do. They’d help Severus.
As the front door shut, Harry heard voices from the living room.
“That’ll be Arthur now. I’ll send him out to look for Harry as soon as-”
“No, Molly.” a blessedly familiar baritone voice said softly, “I will go out and look for Harry. I would like the both of you to be here if this is the place he decides to come, which I’m almost certain it will be.”
“Oh, Severus, if you’re going to go out looking for him, at least let me-”
“No.” Snape cut her off again, “Harry has every right to punish me for what I have done in my past. It would be unfair for me to not suffer the consequences of my actions.”
Harry could almost hear Mrs. Weasley trying her best not to fuss as he and Mr. Weasley finally got across the kitchen and stepped into the short hallway leading past the living room and towards the stairs. A mere two steps later, and they were within sight of both Mrs. Weasley and Severus.
Mrs. Weasley, as predicted, was very visibly trying not to fuss. Severus, on the other hand, looked very calm. Harry would almost call it at peace if not for the slight furrow of his brow. Oh, and the split lip, black eye, crooked nose, and the couple of lacerations on his cheek and forehead didn’t help either.
He was hurt, but he was alive.
Harry felt a wave of relief pass through him that was so powerful that his legs gave out. Mr. Weasley let out a sound of alarm and caught him, but not before his knees made a heavy thud on the floor.
“Severus…” Harry whispered, tears springing to his eyes at the sight of his father.
The man sprung up and dashed to Harry’s side almost instantaneously, carefully gripping his face and checking him for injuries.
“Arthur!” Molly gasped, “What happened to him?”
Severus held Harry steady, looking softly into his eyes, even as the tears began to flow.
“Found him facedown in the front yard when I apparated home. Couldn’t get any word out of him besides ‘Severus’. What’s going on here?”
Harry reached two trembling arms up. Severus, being as observant as he was, noticed, and leaned forward to make Harry’s task easier for him.
Once his arms were firmly locked around his father, Harry took a breath for the first time in minutes and began to sob in earnest, apologizing for what he had done between gasps of air. Severus just wrapped his arms around him in turn and whispered things that meant both nothing and everything all at once.
It’s alright.
I’ve got you.
I love you.
Harry sat there with his father and sobbed and apologized until he felt as though his eyes would swell shut and his voice would go out. Severus only continued to kneel on the floor with him and hold him steady.
“I’m so sorry.” Harry whispered, clutching the fabric of his dad’s shirt tightly in his fist.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Severus hummed in his ear.
“I hurt you.” Harry mumbled back, his voice cracking in horror.
“And I am the cause of every terrible thing that has ever happened to you. I think that you are more than entitled to a few punches.”
“B-But-”
“Come, Harry.” Severus said, gathering Harry up and standing, “Let us go to see if Molly will allow us some tea.”
Harry allowed himself to be half-carried into the kitchen, where two steaming mugs of tea already sat. Severus made a small, pleased “hm!” sound, then placed Harry in a chair behind a mug.
Harry just sat there, hunched over, and stared at the deeply scarred wooden table as Severus took his own seat beside him.
“Drink your tea, Harry. You’ve had a difficult day.”
Harry, automatically, reached out and took his mug. He drank half of it in one gulp, barely feeling the heat or tasting the sugar. He blinked.
It was sweet. Really sweet. And the flavor was his favorite, English Rose. He didn’t know the Weasleys kept anything in the house except Orange Cinnamon, Peppermint, and Earl Grey. It’s what the entire family drank. Did Mrs. Weasley get some English Rose specifically for him?
Severus took a sip of his own tea. Harry watched it out of the corner of his eye.
“Mmm. I always was partial to things rose flavored. Such a strong flavoring. Makes it very easy to make a bottle of it last.”
Harry turned his face up to his dad and set his teacup down with a clunk. Severus was sitting there, looking like he had been hit by a bus, and making casual conversation with the person who had made him look that way.
Severus lowered his cup and raised a brow, giving Harry a questioning look.
“You are looking at me as if I have grown an extra head.”
“I thought I had killed you.” Harry stated bluntly.
“I’m hardly going to die due to the assault of an underweight thirteen-year-old boy.” Severus’ responded with a slight upward twitch of his lips.
“You should have healed them as soon as I was gone.” Harry murmured.
“I believe I was unconscious at that moment. Otherwise I would have at least placed a tracking spell on you.”
Harry gave him an incredulous look.
“I hope you never have to discover how terrifying it is to awaken in a pool of your own blood, only to discover that your son, whom you have hurt terribly, but love dearly, has run away in a fit of anger. It is quite frightening to not know if your child is safe or hurt or kidnapped or simply cooling off.”
Harry swallowed, feeling immensely guilty.
“No, do not feel bad. You are allowed to be angry with and attack me. It is necessary, even, in order to work through your emotions.”
“But…” Harry swallowed back tears, hardly looking up at his father’s face. “I hurt you so bad…”
Severus only hummed and sipped his tea. Harry looked down at his tea, but didn’t touch it.
The two of them sat in a thick silence until Severus’ cup was empty and Harry could feel his eyelids droop.
A warm hand grasped his shoulder and Harry looked up. Severus was standing, a soft look in his eyes as he gazed down at him.
“Harry, I am going back to Spinner’s End. If you would like to stay with the Weasleys for the summer, I will bring a bag of your things over. I’m sure Ronald will be more than delighted that you have come early.”
“Wha’?” Harry asked groggily, shaking his head a little in an attempt at clearing it up, “Don’ go home withou’ me.”
Severus looked a little shocked.
“You wish to return to Spinner’s End with me?” He asked.
“Yeah, o’ course.” Harry slurred as he stood out of his chair, then paused, “Unless you don’t want me to be there… I’ll stay here if you don’t want to be around someone who beat your face in.”
“I do want you to be there, Harry. And… although I doubt you will ever have a reason to be this angry with me again, I will stop you before you can attack me, if that’s what you want.”
Harry nodded vigorously, making the room spin a little.
Goodness, he was tired.
Severus gently took him by the elbow and directed him over to the fireplace. Strangely, the bruises on his face were seeming to recede.
“Your face looks better.” Harry says.
“Hmm, Molly must have put something in the tea.”
“Tha’s good. I don’ know that many healing spells. An’ I don’t want you to stay hurt.”
Severus scoffs lightly.
“Even if you know a thousand healing spells, I would still tend to myself. As soon as we get home, you are going to bed.”
Home.
Severus pulled them into the emerald fire.
As the living room spun into view, Harry took it all in. The mismatched colors of the sofa and armchair, caused by a transfiguration gone wrong. The oddly-colored stain on the floor where Harry had dumped almost an entire cauldron full of extra sticky hair dye he had been concocting for Fred and George. The hole at the base of the staircase where Harry had tripped down the stairs and landed knee-first into the wall. There were so many memories that the house held of him. There were so many things that proved he lived there and was oh, so loved. Severus could have patched up that hole or changed that chair back any time he wanted, but he left them the way they were. A piece of Harry, here and there. Every one, a memory. Every one, proof that Harry lived there, was intimately known, and was never going to be erased.
So as Harry stepped out of the grate and took the outstretched hand of his da, something in the back of his mind finally clicked.
When Harry looked around, he didn't see a rundown old house that he happened to live in.
He saw home.