Daily Prophet, London, November 6th, 1991

THE BOY WHO LIVED - TWICE?

In September, young Harry Potter shocked his admirers by being Sorted into the very House the darkest wizard of our times belonged to as a student (see DP 91/0902, “Hogwarts: Harry Potter Slithers In”, by R. Skeeter). Not even three months later, the boy who vanquished You-Know-Who may well have repeated his famous feat.

Did we expect great things from a boy who seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth for ten years? Inside sources reveal that Potter did not look the part of a boy hero when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Small for his age and trying to blend in with the crowd, he was “no different from the rest of that lot [Slytherin students, A/N]”, as his Gryffindor yearmates commented in private conversation at their House table.

Yet looks may be deceiving. As one of our intrepid field reporters discovered, Harry Potter recently encountered his old nemesis for a second time, and survived yet again. The confrontation took place in a hidden catacomb under the school, established by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to guard one of the most sought-after artefacts of our times, the Philosopher’s Stone. You-Know-Who, believed dead by the wizarding public for ten years, appeared in the school under circumstances unknown, with the intention of stealing the Stone that would allow him to return to full strength. Dark Arts expert E. Drounsing comments: “We may be dealing with a manifestation of His spirit, or even a corporal entity He possessed. Be that as it may, it is shocking that Dumbledore would hide such goings-on from the wizarding public.”

Dumbledore’s inclination towards secrecy notwithstanding, the Daily Prophet can reveal exclusively that the wizard known to his followers as the ‘Dark Lord’ was defeated a second time in an epic battle under the supposedly safe halls of Hogwarts school. In the terrifying climax of the fight, Harry Potter was hit with a Killing Curse cast by none other than lauded Mugwump and Wizengamot Elder Albus Dumbledore. Whether he was merely in the way, whether Dumbledore’s aim is not what it used to be, and why a first-year student was in the catacombs in the first place, one may well ask – not that Albus Dumbledore will provide any answers. Our undaunted field reporter witnessed a shocking conversation between longstanding Head of Gryffindor House M. McGonagall and school nurse P.Pomfrey, in which they revealed that Harry Potter literally woke from the dead a few hours after he had died at the hands of his greatest protector. “That poor boy, he was in shock,” Pomfrey comments. “They say You-Know-Who’s gone for good this time, and I believe it.”

Whether or not one agrees with such trusting words, it appears that Harry Potter indeed repeated the impossible and survived the Killing Curse a second time. Requests for an exclusive interview with the young hero were denied by his Head of House S. Snape, a shady character whose youthful follies deserve an article of their own (coming soon, “Hogwarts Teacher Given Bad Mark?” by R. Skeeter). In the meantime, Harry Potter’s wellwishers must hope that the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice continues to dodge death and enjoys a peaceful first year without any further Dark encounters.

As always,

Your Rita Skeeter

Snape closed yesterday’s newspaper with a sigh. The Skeeter woman had been most persistent, sending him owl after owl and finally accosting him in the Hogsmeade apothecary. When he told in no uncertain terms that he would not let her within twenty feet of Harry Potter, she had flounced off, her Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling furiously. Not that he cared about the rubbish she wrote. The only thing he really wanted to know was how her “field reporters” managed to overhear conversations that were supposed to be private, within the walls of the school no less. Albus had merely sighed when Snape brought up the subject, muttering about closing the windows to keep the insects out.

As was to be expected, Skeeter’s wild speculations had brought an avalanche of owls upon the school. Dumbledore received so many Howlers that he finally just banished them to an empty classroom high up on the North Tower, where they could be heard banging and shrieking all the way down to the fourth floor. Snape received a few himself, but most were letters of encouragement not to let the media vultures get to their young hero (although some suggested that he do the right thing and hand Harry over to McGonagall’s House where he belonged, as if the boy were a parcel that could just be passed along).

The brunt of the letters, of course, were addressed to Harry himself. Snape insisted that the house elves checked everything that arrived and came to him with anything that looked suspicious. There had been a few Howlers, yelling at Harry for being famous or for being in Slytherin, and the usual perverts who delighted in sending obscene pictures and suggestions to an eleven-year-old. The house elves had brought him these quivering with indignation, and Snape had Incendio’d them right in front of their eyes, much to the little beings’ satisfation. Most of Harry’s mail, however, consisted of the expected thanks and praises, and of course, gifts. And what gifts they were. Snape could only wonder at some people’s grasp of reality; who in their right mind would send a young boy a medieval longsword “befitting a hero”? Or, for that matter, a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky. Harry hadn’t minded when Snape confiscated the latter, although he did give the sword a somewhat longing look.

“Never mind, Uncle Sev’s going to keep it safe for you, right? So you can use it when you’re older.”

Draco sat cross-legged on Harry’s bed, surrounded by the latest pile of parcels that had been deemed safe by the house elves and Snape. Snape suspected that his godson enjoyed himself even more than Harry did, opening gifts, evaluating their worth and sorting them into rapidly growing piles. The Malfoy genes were definitely coming through.

As he shrunk the sword and put it in his pocket, Snape congratulated himself on the decision to stay in the hospital wing to supervise the present-opening. Who knew what other dangerous objects some demented old warlock had sent the boy.

“You’re not supposed to play with swords,” Miss Granger chimed in. She was sitting on a chair next to Harry’s bed, a stack of books on her lap. Draco had decided to entrust her with all the books Harry had been sent, because “you’ll know which ones are worth keeping”. “You could hurt yourself, and besides, it’s probably really old and valuable.”

“He’s not going to play with it.” Draco sounded offended. “But girls don’t understand about weapons, I guess. Here’s another jumper,” he said before Hermione could express her indignation. “Looks home-made.”

Harry picked up the card Draco had carelessly dropped. “It’s from Ron’s mum. I met her at King’s Cross. She says she wants me to keep safe and warm, so she made me a Weasley jumper.” He held up the emerald green, hand-knitted garment. “That’s nice of her.”

Draco looked sulky, as always when the subject of Ronald Weasley crept up. “Well, here’s a gift basket from Honeydukes. Better than an old jumper, if you ask me. Put it with the rest of the sweets.”

There was a tapping on the window, and Snape spotted another owl on the window sill outside. “I’m going to see what it is,” he said before Draco could jump up. “You know you’re not to open any parcels on your own.”

Ignoring Draco’s long-suffering sigh, he opened the window. The owl, a huge grey Eurasian Eagle, stared up at him out of haughty amber eyes, clearly waiting to be freed of the lengthy parcel it was carrying.

“That’s Midas!” Draco cried excitedly, but Snape had already seen the return address on the parcel: L. & N. Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Location Undisclosed. He untied the string from the owl’s leg and lifted the parcel, which was surprisingly light for its bulk. A quick screening spell told him that its contents were harmless… or as harmless as Malfoys bearing gifts could be. Not that he was surprised to see Lucius and Narcissa joining the ranks of Harry’s well-wishers. Ever the politician, Lucius had probably decided that a sign of allegiance was in order.

“Oh, I know what that is,” Draco said, apparently trying hard not to sound too smug. “Father sent me mine last month. It’s-”

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” Hermione scolded. “Open it, Harry.”

Harry ripped off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid off the long, narrow box. His eyes widened. “That’s never-”

“A Nimbus 2000,” cried Draco, bouncing up and down in a most un-Malfoyish manner. “They’re even better than the Streak of Glory line – from zero to one hundred and twenty miles in ten seconds! Father must have ordered it specially from Italy, he told me mine was the last one Quality Quidditch Supplies had in stock-”

Hermione ran a careful hand over the broom’s polished handle. “That’s a really good broom, isn’t it?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s the best one there is! It costs... er, well, a bit more than the usual brooms.” Recalling his etiquette lessons at the last moment, Draco blushed a little. “Father does have good connections with the Nimbus company.”

Harry was holding the broom as reverently as if he’d been handed Merlin’s wand. “And he bought it? For me?”

Draco was beaming with pride. “You like it then?”

Snape had never seen Harry so in awe, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining. And all over a bloody broomstick. “It’s brilliant! Your dad’s so cool!”

Obviously, Lucius’ little scheme had paid off; Malfoy Senior seemed to have bought Harry’s eternal admiration by sending the boy the top-of-the-range racing broom all the little dunderheads were hankering after. Snape picked up the card that had come with it, recognizing Lucius’ elegant hand-writing at once.

Dear Mr. Potter,

My wife and I send you our most heartfelt greetings, and hope this modest little token of our appreciation finds you well. We were shocked to hear of your latest ordeal, and wish you a speedy recovery in the care of your friends and instructors. Please know that we appreciate the magnitude of recent developments, and support you wholly in this and any future endeavours.

We would be most delighted and honoured to welcome you to our home for our son’s birthday celebration on the 26th of December.

With our very best regards,

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Hogwarts Governor, Honorary Member of the Wizengamot, Chairwizard of the Pure Of Heart Charity Foundation, Financial Advisor of the Gringotts Bank Committee, President of the Peacock Appreciation Society, Premium Member of the International Dueling League

Narcissa Iphigenia Malfoy, Honorary Member of the Wizengamot, Chairwitch and Treasurer of the Pure of Heart Charity Foundation, Honorary Member of Wizarding Débutantes Alumni, Private Advisor of ‘Glamour and Spells’ Fashion for Witches, Author of “Pure Etiquette: A Guide to Social Adroitness for the Young Witch or Wizard”

Raising an eyebrow, Snape put the card down. If he interpreted Lucius’ graceful subtleties correctly, he and Narcissa had decided that loyalty to a Dark Lord only made sense if said Dark Lord held at least a modicum of power. If he didn’t… well, it couldn’t hurt ingratiating oneself with a boy who might, one day, wield very great power indeed.

“Look, sir!” Harry tugged at his sleeve, something the boy wouldn’t have dreamed of doing if he weren’t nearly bursting with excitement. “It came with a broomstick servicing kit, and it’s got my name on it! Look!”

Snape looked. Indeed, Lucius had spared no expenses. On the handle behind the company name, Harry’s name was engraved in gold letters.

“Well,” he said, “I trust you’ll remember your manners and won’t forget to send Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy a thank-you note.”

Harry nodded happily, stroking his new broom. Snape watched him. The boy still looked pale; some of the deeper cuts in his face hadn’t quite healed yet, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Pomfrey said he was recovering well – “for a dead man”, Snape had added, only to be given a stern look by the medi-witch. Apparently, students dying was no joking matter, even if they happened to come back to life.

“You don’t really have to write a thank-you note,” Draco said. “I never do, and they still send me loads of presents.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at his godson, who had the grace to look slightly abashed.

“I’ll write it anyway,” said Harry. “And one for Ron’s mum, for the jumper. It’ll be fun sending Hedwig to take letters to people.”

Draco obviously thought that a thank-you note for a hand-knitted jumper was overdoing it, but a side-glance at his godfather told him that it was better to keep that thought to himself.

“Does Harry have to write thank-you notes for all of these?” Hermione wanted to know, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the piles of letters and parcels. “I can help you, Harry, my mum says I have very nice hand-writing. I always help her write her Christmas cards.”

Snape shook his head. “Thank-you notes are only sent to acquaintances. People who feel the need to send importunate ‘fan mail’ should not expect to be thanked personally.”

“And my parents are acquaintances, right?” Draco said. “They will be, anyway, when you come to the manor for my birthday.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but then his smile faded. “If my aunt and uncle let me.”

Draco looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Draco, Miss Granger…” A look at Harry’s face told Snape that it was the right moment to interrupt the conversation. “I believe it is time you left for study hall.” He held up a hand to stall his godson’s protests. “You may return later, Draco, if Professor McGonagall tells me you’ve completed your homework to her satisfaction.”

“She’s supervising today?” Draco looked aghast. “She’s always on my back, just because I’m in Slytherin…”

“Perhaps the fact that you and Mr. Nott set a Gryffindor banner on fire plays into it, as well,” Snape said dryly. “Yes, Professor McGonagall told me, Draco, and you will be getting detention. Now, you don’t want to be late.”

He watched as Harry’s friends said good-bye, Harry and Draco exchanging a smirk at the idea of Gryffindor’s pride going up in smoke (Snape pretended not to have seen). He knew the boy was disappointed to see them go, but there were things Harry and he had to discuss that needed to remain a secret for now. Dumbledore had been very insistent on that.

He remembered sitting in the Headmaster’s office, once again wondering how he had maneuvered himself into this situation. From time to time, an owl bearing a scarlet Howler tapped on the window, and Dumbledore redirected it to the North Tower with a distracted flick of his wand. His attention was entirely on Snape.

“Punishment need not always be as drastic as a one-way journey to Azkaban,” the Headmaster said. “You know we cannot interfere with the Muggle justice system, Severus.”

“So they’re going to get away scotfree?” Snape thought of Gryffindors and werewolves and a dilapidated old building, and wanted to slam his fist down on Dumbledore’s desk. “You’re just going to ignore-”

“I never said that,” the Headmaster cut across him. “I merely said that we cannot waltz into their world and mete out justice. What we can do is apply to their authorities.”

“Meaning?”

“Poppy gathered enough physical evidence of what happened to Harry. It was easy enough to convert it into Muggle photographs and send it to their Social Services. My sources inform me that proceedings have been taken already. Here…”

He put a newspaper clipping on the desk. The unmoving picture in the middle showed a fat man hurrying to the door of his home, one hand raised to shield his face from the camera. The door of the house stood open a crack, and a scared woman could be seen peering out, her mortified expression caught on film for eternity. ‘Child Abuse Scandal: Surrey Boy Nearly Dies In Exorcism Ritual”, read the headline above the photo.

Snape scanned the article. Not quite as lurid as Rita Skeeter’s writing, it nevertheless related the gruesome details with a certain relish, mentioning “white-hot rods” more than once. “Young Harry P. will not be returning to his foster family, his temporary guardian (name undisclosed) informs us. ‘Harry is safe and sound, and doing better than he has in years.’ Meanwhile, Vernon and Petunia D. may soon be looking for a new home, after their Surrey house has been besieged by reporters and onlookers for days. Facing charges of severe child abuse, the couple has been shunted by the community and is currently under police protection to prevent possible retaliation. The Surrey Herald will keep readers updated on the upcoming court proceedings.”

Snape looked up at the Headmaster. “ ‘Temporary guardian’?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I had Harry’s guardianship transferred to me as soon as you informed me about the abuse. He cannot possibly return to that house, ever.”

There was cold anger in the blue eyes as he said it, and Snape knew that not a small amount of it was directed against Dumbledore himself.

“The boy remains at Hogwarts, then?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes.”

“And the blood wards?”

“Have fallen. It is a risk I am willing to take, even more so since I believe I have found a suitable alternative.”

Snape frowned. The Headmaster reached into a drawer, taking out a very old scroll that he unrolled on the desk. The letters on the ancient parchment were faded, but Snape could make them out well enough.

“There is no reason not to revive old traditions just because they have fallen out of fashion. Harry will be protected…”

Snape stared at the parchment for a long moment. “Yes,” he said then. “But it will be me.”

Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk and said nothing, merely looked at him.

“I gave you my word, Albus,” Snape said. “It is my duty, wouldn’t you agree?”

Dumbledore glanced at the parchment between them, and back at Snape. “And do you…”

“Yes,” Snape said, angry that the old man would ask this. “For once, give me the benefit of the doubt, Dumbledore.”

The Headmaster nodded slowly. “Very well then. You’ll want to talk to Harry, I believe?”

“Of course.” Not asking for permission, Snape took the scroll, rolled it up and slipped it into his robes. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”

He knew then, and did now, that Dumbledore would not include an eleven-year-old in decisions such as this, but Snape didn’t care. Things inside Slytherin House were handled his way, and he saw no reason not to teach his snakes responsibility from an early age. Harry would get a say in his own fate.

“Can Draco and Hermione come back later?”

Snape turned to the boy on the bed. Harry was still holding his new broom on his lap; no doubt the boy would insist on keeping the thing with him day and night. Good; Snape knew from long experience that confiscating a treasured object ensured obedience in most children, particularly Slytherins. And from now on, Harry’s obedience – yes, and his well-being – was very much his business.

He went over to the bed and sat down on the chair next to it. “Draco and Miss Granger may return after they have finished their homework,” he said. “At the moment, there is something else we need to discuss.”

He took the old parchment from his pocket, and unrolled it on the bed.

“Harry… are you familiar with the term ‘apprentice’?”