Summer of Bonding by Magica Draconia
Past Featured StorySummary: It was the summer of love . . . er, no, not really. Left waiting for the Dursleys, Harry is found by the last person he'd expect to see. Written for the Summer Fic Fest 2015.
Categories: Teacher Snape > Professor Snape, Parental Snape > Guardian Snape, Fic Fests > #18 Summer 2015 Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required)
Snape Flavour: Canon Snape
Genres: Family, Hurt/Comfort
Media Type: None
Tags: None
Takes Place: 2nd summer
Warnings: None
Prompts: Bonding Experience, Abandoned
Challenges: Bonding Experience, Abandoned
Series: None
Chapters: 29 Completed: Yes Word count: 78164 Read: 212671 Published: 24 Jul 2015 Updated: 03 Jul 2019
Chapter 13 by Magica Draconia

No, no, NO! He curled his hands into fists, and rapped them sharply against his temples. This wasn’t supposed to happen! He thought he’d been so careful – so clever – warding the house of the professor and the young master, and ensuring that auxiliary wards were tied to them, so that no owls or other post reached them – at all – anywhere. It was a safety measure, for the times when he was unable to oversee things himself, when he was . . . called to his duties.

But now they’d come to Hogwarts, and Mistress Hogwarts did not appreciate strange wards clinging to her professors. He had felt his auxiliary wards fail the instant the professor and the young master had stepped through the gate. It had not taken long before the frustrated delivery birds had found them.

How could he not have thought of this? There were other ways, ways that Mistress Hogwarts would not have objected to – or, at least, would not have noticed to object to them. But he had not thought the professor or the young master would approach Hogwarts so soon. It was well whispered that the professor always made his escape as soon as possible at the end of the school year, and never set foot again near Hogwarts’ grounds until the very last second that he could get away with. And the young master . . .

He rapped his fists against his temples again, restraining a squall of anguish. The young master should not have come back to Hogwarts. Danger lurked here, crouching, waiting for the young master to approach so it could pounce. The taint of it was so Dark that he almost gagged on it. The young master was to have remained well away from it, safe, protected. Let the headmaster deal with the Dark; let the professors banish it or not as they chose (Oh, yes, he knows very well what is on this professor’s arm).

The young master was the Vanquisher of the Dark, and the Saviour of them all. He had to be saved from the machinations of the Dark’s followers, from those that would take him and eat him trying to bring back the unholiest of unholies that should never see the Light again.

Nodding firmly to himself, his resolve shored up, he disappeared with a tiny, unheard pop.

 


Ron Weasley had spent most of the past three days staring mournfully out of various windows.

“Oh, Ron, dear, do cheer up,” his mother sighed, as she turned around and almost stumbled over him for the fourth time that day.

“Why hasn’t Harry replied to me, Mum?” Ron asked. He kept his gaze looking out of the window, scanning the sky for any sign of an approaching owl.

“Maybe he’s busy, love,” Mrs Weasley said, patting her youngest son on the shoulder. “Or maybe he just hasn’t had the opportunity to send a letter yet. Didn’t you say his family are muggles?”

Ron scowled as he thought of all the things Harry had told him about his family . . . and all the things he hadn’t said. “I don’t think they treat him very well, Mum,” he said, turning to look up at Mrs Weasley with a pleading expression. “Couldn’t we just go and get him?”

“Don’t be silly, Ronald,” Mrs Weasley said, sharply. “I’m sure Harry will send you a letter soon. And in the meantime, if you need something to keep you occupied, the garden needs de-gnoming.”

Sulkily, Ron plodded outside. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. He’d tried writing back to Harry, offering to let Harry stay with him at the Burrow for a few weeks, but Errol, their family owl, had been away for three days before returning – with Ron’s letter still attached to his leg, unopened. Ron had tried again, asking Percy if he could borrow his new owl, Hermes, but within a day, that letter had come back unopened too.

“Something the matter, little brother?” a voice to his left made Ron jump.

“Is Lickle Ronniekins in trouble?” chimed a voice from his right.

Ron glanced between his twin brothers. “No. I’m just worried about Harry,” he told them. “My letters to him keep coming back.”

“Maybe his family’s gone on holiday,” suggested Fred on his right.

“As if that’s ever stopped owls before,” Ron scoffed at him. “Besides, I don’t think Harry’s family likes him.”

“What’s not to like about Lickle Harrykins?” George said, indignantly, on Ron’s left.

The twins looked at each other, and appeared to hold one of their silent conversations. It was mostly made up of various expressions and twitchings of eyebrows, but Ron was fairly certain there was an element of actual mental communication there, too.

“Tell you what,” said George, finally, putting an arm around Ron’s shoulders. Ron twitched, wondering if George had just planted something on him.

“If there’s still no reply from Harry in a week,” Fred continued, putting his arm around Ron’s shoulders, too. Ron twitched again. It could be dangerous to have the twins this close.

“Then we’ll see about mounting a rescue,” George finished.

Fred grinned at his twin. “After all, Dad’s just about finished tinkering with that old car,” he said.

The twins both patted Ron on the back. “Not to worry; we’ll sort things,” they announced in unison, and then rushed off, leaving Ron twisting around, trying to reach his back to ensure they’d not pinned any signs to him.

 


Hermione Granger stared at the snowy white owl, who glared back at her through dark eyes and hooted imperiously at her. She had been attempting to respond to Harry ever since she’d received his letter at the beginning of the summer, but every time she sent Harry’s owl off, it came back twenty-four hours later with the letter still attached and unopened.

Hermione was beginning to worry.

“Couldn’t you send him a letter the normal way, pet?” her father asked, looking over the top of the magazine he was reading at her.

“I don’t have an address for him,” she replied, feeling frustrated to the point of tears. “He wasn’t allowed to tell me. All I know is he was somewhere south of Berwick. I don’t even know who he’s staying with!” She could guess, from what Harry had started to write before scribbling it out, that he was with a professor – but she didn’t know which one.

Mr Granger lowered his magazine, and reached out to pull Hermione to the side of his chair, wrapping his arm around his daughter’s waist. “Don’t worry, pet,” he soothed. “Didn’t you say Harry let it slip he was staying with one of your professors? They’ll look after him. He’ll be fine, pet.”

Hermione remained unconvinced.

 


Where is it, where is it, where is it? He finally spotted the old, cracked binding of the book he wanted, and removed it from the shelf with a small smile of relief. It would not do to lose that book.

Moving behind the large desk, he seated himself and then placed the book in the middle of the desk, idly moving it until it was perfectly level with the edge of the desk. Then he sat back and brought his hands together, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

He had plans for this book. Plans that were going to chase that muggle-loving fool Dumbledore from his throne. His preparations were almost done. There was just one more nugget of information he needed to collect, and then he’d be ready to swoop in and take over.

Oh, yes, Hogwarts is going to change! he thought, gleefully. It was about time. Dumbledore and his ilk had sullied their heritage long enough. A cleansing was overdue, and what better place to start with that the supposed bastion of the Light.

It was also time he removed the book from his premises. That muggle-wannabe Arthur Weasley was making noises again about the need to confiscate Dark artefacts, citing the danger they posed. He scoffed just thinking about it. Providing the proper precautions were taken, Dark artefacts were no more dangerous than Light ones. In fact, in some cases, they were less dangerous. Light artefacts could be very powerful in their own right, but people always seemed to think Light meant harmless. They forgot just how very bright and strong light could be.

Still, no matter. In the very near future, Light and Dark would not matter. The only consideration would be Pure

The End.
End Notes:
A short interlude. I've been forced to attend a course, so my writing time has unfortunately drastically reduced. I tell ya, folks, being unemployed sucks! Consequently, I'm also using a different computer, so I apologise if the formatting turns out to be dodgy.


This story archived at http://www.potionsandsnitches.org/fanfiction/viewstory.php?sid=3239