Duty by tambrathegreat
Summary: Hedwig, Harry's loyal owl, delivers a message to Professor Snape. The fallout from that letter will be long lasting. Will Harry ever be able to live with Snape knowing his deepest secrets? Entry in the 2009 Challenge Fest. In Response to the Morning Post Challenge by Jan_AQ.
Categories: Fic Fests > #7 Challenge Fest, Misc > Strictly Canon Universe Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required)
Snape Flavour: None
Genres: Angst
Media Type: None
Tags: Alternate Universe
Takes Place: 6th summer
Warnings: None
Prompts: Morning Post
Challenges: Morning Post
Series: None
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 2932 Read: 6753 Published: 01 May 2009 Updated: 01 May 2009
Duty by tambrathegreat

Harry's brain felt sore. It had since Professor Dumbledore had forced him to take "Remedial Potions" with Snape. Professor Snape!, he could almost hear Hermione say in his sore brain. He winced as he stepped out of the portrait hole. Ron, who had been waiting impatiently for him for the last ten minutes, pulled Harry's sleeve. "Come on, mate, it's Belgian waffles today. We never have those."

Harry smiled, even though his stomach churned at the thought of all that rich food along with his sore brain. "All right, Ron. We'll get there."

"You look peaky," Ron said as he walked backwards away from Harry. "You all right?"

"I"m fine," Harry said, working hard to modulate his tone. Ron had been a mother hen since Yule, what with all the excitement over Harry's vision and the Occlumency lessons. Harry hated it.

The clatter of hard-soled shoes behind them alerted Harry to Hermione's presence. She rushed breathlessly to catch up with the boys, grabbing Harry's arm as she slid on the slick stones at the top of the steps leading to the Great Hall. She pulled him to a stop. "You look ill, Harry. Are you..."

"I'm fine, both of you." Harry's tone was sharper than he meant it to be. "Sorry. It's just that Professor Snape-" his eyes darted nervously to Hermione, "-told me I had to have class with him this afternoon, instead of at our regular time. I'm not looking forward to it."

"But it's Saturday and we had plans," Ron gawped for a moment. Harry smiled and Hermione giggled. He looked like one of those bubble-eyed goldfish, with his ginger hair and bulging eyes.

Hermione finally said repressively, "Ron, do stop, you'll catch flies. And besides, you know how important these Potions lessons are."

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Could Hermione be any less subtle? Stressing the word potions only served to make it sound like he was getting help for anything but that with Snape. Professor Snape!, his sore brain supplied in Hermione's bossy tone.

Harry ran his hand through his hair, wishing he could just go have a lie down and skip the heavy breakfast, the bickering, perhaps the whole damned day. No achy brain, no remedial potions, said like it was anything but that, and no Snape. Professor Snape!

Harry snapped ahead of his friends, taking the steps two at a time, barely missing the sticky one, and rocketing down to the bottom. He entered the Great Hall, found his usual seat, and took his usual pumpkin juice. He really didn't think he could manage more.

Hermione sat beside him, with a huff of indignation, only moments later. As she speared a bit of fruit and dipped some porridge into her waiting bowl, she looked pointedly at Harry's empty plate. She whispered with a frown, "At least eat some toast."

"Yes, Mum," Harry said with a lopsided grin that he didn't feel. He snagged a bit of toast and the pot of marmalade from the centre of the table. As he took his first bite, owls started arriving with the morning post.

Ron mumbled over a large bite of banger, which he had speared before he even sat, "'s'that Hdwug?"

Hermione frowned as Harry looked up. His snowy owl swooped down the centre of the room with a single letter tied to her leg. Harry awaited her arrival impatiently. He had no one he wrote to besides his godfather, and Sirius wouldn't take the risk of a letter being intercepted, no matter how well he disguised his scrawling scribble, or even if he used his nickname. Harry's heart lurched as Hedwig approached, and then passed him. She settled before Snape (Professor Snape!) and he fed her a bit of owl treat from his pocket after he untied the letter.

Harry watched Hedwig swoop away as the professor dismissed her with a sharp nod. He read the letter with a scowl affixed to his face, his usual expression. Ron swallowed audibly and coughed out, "What's the Greasy Git doing with Hedwig?"

"Professor Snape, Ron," Hermione corrected automatically as she turned her own face toward Harry, searching for the same answer. Ron snorted and Hermione added, "I'm just saying, he's a professor and you can at least show him the proper respect."

Harry still watched ProfessorSnape's face for signs of anger, gloating, smugness; all familiar emotions he had seen on the man's face a million times in a million different embarrassing or infuriating situations. He saw the man's eyebrows draw down, the lines in his face deepening, his nearly nonexistent lips disappearing as the git read.

Harry gave up the pretence of eating as the professor's black gaze flicked to his own and then back to the paper. Harry wondered if Aunt Petunia could have written him, but she had no reason to know anything about his school, or his professors, and even less of a reason to write to the Greasy Git. Harry squinted at the paper in the professor's hands, wondering if the stationary was vellum, paper, or something else. He couldn't see it clearly, and so he settled for hugging his arms about his stomach, which had begun aching in counterpoint to the soreness of his brain. He hated not knowing. He absolutely hated it.

Professor Snape refolded the letter, his long fingers stroking it almost like a spider's legs on a web, as he placed it back in the envelope from which it had arrived. He placed the letter inside his cloak and then calmly sipped his tea, ignoring the pointed attempts at small talk by Umbridge, who had arrived just as the professor put the letter away. Once he finished his tea, his gaze flicked to Harry again, his expression unreadable. He patted his lips with a serviette, inclined his head with bare civility to Umbridge, then swept from the room, robes billowing.

"Didn't know the professors could use student owls," Ron grunted. "Wonder why he had Hedwig fetch his post?"

"Dunno." Harry's answer was dull, even to his own ears. "I'm going to get started on that paper for Transfiguration. I'll see you after my lesson. Maybe we can have that pick up game if Professor Snape doesn't keep me too long."

"Yeah mate," Ron answered, turning his attention to his plate once more. Hermione gave Harry a tentative smile, but said nothing.

Harry rose and strode away, feeling the weight of both his friends' gazes on his retreating back. His brain was still sore, and his heart still thudded heavily. Things never got better for him.

&*&*&

To say that he was disturbed would be an understatement of mythic proportions. Severus Snape rarely made an outward show of his emotions, but the letter... He felt the need to take a stroll away from the press of prying eyes and pointed queries. He slipped his fingers inside his waistcoat pocket, the one that held the letter, the most disturbing missive he had ever read, aside from the one he had received in sixth year telling him he was an orphan. His mother had been the victim of homicide, his father a suicide. Both events had occurred on the same day.

Severus slipped out the doors of the castle, shivering only a little before he cast a warming charm on himself. The paper crinkled against his waistcoat, poking him in the side with the corner, causing him to itch. He shifted his shoulders and set out onto the grounds, heading for his favourite place, the one that held his fondest memories. The one where he might wistfully remember the boy's mother. Perhaps he could sort his feelings about the letter out there with the ghost of her memory to goad his nascent conscience to life.

It had all started with the Occlumency lessons.

Potter was Occluding and doing very well;, he simply did not know it. If Severus had not pushed him so hard after he caught the boy in a harmless prank, he never would have seen what he did. One simple set of memories, locked tightly away for so many years had spurred Severus to make an enquiry into the boy's home life. The Potions Master had come away from that enquiry reeling.

It is painful when delusions crumble. Severus had vast experience with that particular feeling. He should not be so disturbed by this latest dissolution, yet after reading the letter, he was.

Petunia Evans had always been a nasty piece of work.

Potter's life had been the antithesis of what had Severus assumed it was. He was not the darling of his family's eyes, the golden boy who triumphed over all. He was most definitely not waited upon as his family toiled away as if they were house elves. The memory that Severus had accessed had been disturbing.

Disturbing... that word again.

The sound of the word rolled around in his mind like a loose rumble of thunder in a clear sky, unexpected and round. Severus dodged several puddles automatically. Spring was coming earlier than usual and the melt-off from the most recent snows was making it slow going. The paper crinkled again, sending another sharp itching stab to his side. He stopped, shifting the letter to an outer pocket of his frock-coat, as he realised he had nearly reached his destination.

He drew closer, only to see that he had been precipitous in his assumption that the tree had remained undiscovered throughout the years. Perhaps the Notice Me Not Wards devised by Lily had failed. Severus could not remember renewing them over the years.

Two ragged trainers, accompanied by the baggy legs of worn trousers could be seen hanging from the branch. Potter.

Severus turned on his heel, ready to escape to his dungeon lair when he heard, "I know you're down there. You may as well stay." Then a belated and rather strained sounding, "Sir."

"Potter, come down here instantly." Severus strove for the normal harsh tones that he employed with the boy. He could sense the fail of the attempt even as Potter slid from his perch and landed lightly before him. The boy's expression lacked its militant mutiny. He seemed... resigned.

Potter scuffed his foot through the moist detritus of last autumn's leaves, left to protect the roots from the harshness of these Scottish winters. Severus willed the boy to look at him, to react as he would normally to his own hated presence. Severus needed the trademark Potter contempt to push him out of his raw emotional state. It was dangerous to feel anything for the boy but contempt. It was dangerous for them both.

Potter kept his eyes down, his face reddening with some strong emotion. Finally after moments of Severus' stony contemplation, the child said, "I suppose you found out about me then. Who was it that told? Aunt Petunia? I can't imagine Uncle Vernon writing to you. He hates the lot of us."

Severus scoffed, the derision he had sought finally coming into his tone. "What are you on about, Potter?"

"Hedwig." Potter's voice cracked as if he had been betrayed by his familiar. "I saw her bring you a letter. Owls don't just deliver letters to anyone that asks. I asked Hagrid when I first got her."

Severus remained silent, his regard for the boy's intelligence going up a bit. Finally, after a few more squirming moments, he said, "Look at me."

He had not meant to cast Legilimens. He had not meant to smash the boy's weak, conscious defences, yet he had, and the streaming flotsam of memories from the boy's childhood blasted Severus' mind. The small abuses, the shoves, the slaps, the cursed imprecations at the boy, they all brought Severus' memories to the forefront of his own mind. He and Potter had so much in common. It was almost frightening.

Disturbing rolls of thunder filled their minds.

The dark and swirling miasma of each of their abused pasts coalesced into a horribly succinct dance, the give and take of their separate memories malignly graceful...Tobias shoved Severus down the steps to the basement where he lay in a broken bloody heap... Potter's face nearly superimposed over the image as his great oaf of a cousin did the same to him at his grammar school... Petunia Dursley popping Potter in the back with her fist, sending him flying, as Severus' body reacted to Tobias' glancing kick to his seat as he scuttled between the hallway and the kitchen nook... Tobias' drunken shouting at his small, dark, and homely son melded with Vernon Dursley's heavy tread as Potter experienced yet another nightmare of the Dark Lord's return and Cedric Diggory's death, the repeated slaps raining painfully down on the already hurting boys... James Potter's face became Draco Malfoy's, became the fat cousin's, became Sirius Black's, became...and Severus was lifted up, uttering those words to Lily that would forever break his heart... "Mudblood..." And Harry screamed that he hated Severus, cried out in pain at yet another lost opportunity to have normalcy, to have warmth, to have...

Words spun out of their minds, rung as if from the effects of a well-placed Cruciatus Curse...'Why am I unloved and unlovely... why am I... alive... when so many more worthy people are dead?'

And then Severus was blasted free, gasping as he clutched his aching head. Potter had finally broken the contact, had finally and irrevocably passed his Occlumency lessons. There would be no more.

Potter crumpled in on himself, sobbing softly as Severus cast an obscuring charm. It would not do for him to to be seen comforting the boy, no matter that there were no students around, and that Albus' twinkling eyes were currently in London at the Ministry. This moment was between only them, these two broken boys.

Severus swooped down, enveloping Potter in his dark robes, shaking as he did. Rarely did he allow himself the degree of emotional display that the boy was now receiving. Rarely did he allow himself the luxury of the giving of comfort, yet now with his greatest love's son, he did. The boy leaned into him, his sobs wracking his body as Severus' own pale cheeks remained dry and hot.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the boy asked, "So, who wrote you?"

"Mrs. Figg." Severus felt wrung out, destroyed, yet washed clean for once. There was no taint to his soul as he said the next words. "I asked her what she knew of your upbringing."

"Oh." Potter straightened, his cheeks staining red, his hands fluttering as if trapped at the end of his bony wrists. "Sorry, Sir. I... erm... I usually don't... I know you don't..."

"Silence, Potter," Severus commanded, casting a charm to freshen his robes. "We shall never speak of this incident again. It changes nothing."

It could change nothing. Severus was still guilty of his Death Eater past, and his role in the creation of the boy's miserable life. He was still a cold bastard who would have given the boy's life over to the Dark Lord if it would have saved Lily. He was still who he was, and the boy remained who he was. They each had their roles to play.

Potter's mutinous look returned. "Nothing? I know now, Sir. I know so much more and so do you. Can you still say that you don't care?"

Severus' reply was a lifting of his wand and a wordless Obliviate. He cast it inexpertly, not having to use it much in the course of the last few years. He hoped it stuck. He planted memories of Potter entering his Pensieve, and gave him the most innocuous of his worst memories. One that would give doubt about James Potter while cementing Severus' own taint in the boy's mind. The memory of calling Lily a Mudblood.

Once done, he stunned the boy and levitated him to his office. He played his scene masterfully, sacrificing a jar of Madagascar hissing cockroaches as he ended the lessons. He watched the terrified boy scurry from the room, and sealed off the pain in his heart. He could have had communion and understanding with the last remnant of Lily left to him, instead he chose duty. He had a job to do, and certain sacrifices were necessary. He would deal with the memories in his own way and in his own time.

Nothing had changed. He was still a creature of both Light and Dark. He was still a spy.

&*&*&

Harry had forgotten about the incident with the owl until Snape, with his dying breath, commanded, "Look at me."

Then it was all there, the morning, the post, the letter, the shared, yet separate memories. Harry reached into his former enemy's frock coat and snagged the letter with his fingers. He drew it out, looking at the surface of the envelope. Kittens gambolled in static joyfulness across the surface, littered with Mrs. Figg's fine script. The missive was worn, well read.

He put it inside his own torn and ragged jeans. He would never read it. The letter was unnecessary, extraneous to their story. Professor Snape had done what he needed to do, bravely and unflinchingly.

Harry vowed that he would return later and give his comrade the burial a hero deserved. Until then, he had a role to play to end this war, and he would do it with the same stoic bravery of Severus Snape.

The End.


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