To be continued...
White fog greeted him.
Well. This was it, then.
He knew he was dead. He had to be.
He had expected more pain, to be honest, but, well, here he was, lying on something that looked and felt a lot like a patch of foggy grass.
For a moment, he thought he could hear a rustle beside him. He thought he could feel a set of eyes on him, reminding him of the Grim's gaze before he had accidentally hailed the Knight Bus after blowing up Aunt Marge.
But he couldn't tell for sure; the fog was obscuring his view — it did not let him see past his arms.
Perhaps he should be alarmed by his lack of sight — You want to be more careful, he remembered someone telling him — but since there seemed to be no sign of a gloating Voldemort or the like, he decided it was probably safe to find out first where exactly he was.
He groaned, a low noise in his throat.
"Potter. Really?" a voice sneered above him.
Harry scrambled up, wand in his hand before he even had to think about it.
"What — what the hell, Snape!"
The man looked more like a vampire than ever, with his greasy black hair falling over his face and the deep purple shadows under his eyes, and his ever-unchanged black robes.
Harry wondered for a moment how it was possible that his wand had just appeared in his hand, seemingly out of nowhere; but as the piece of wood was humming with its familiar, comforting warmth, he wouldn't question that too much.
Not with Snape standing before him.
"I must have been drugged in my sleep to dream of such an absurd scene — or murdered in my sleep, more likely," Snape mused aloud. "In that case — this must be some sort of afterlife — Hell, literally, if I were to be stuck with a Potter for all eternity."
Hell.
Yes. That had to be it.
"I very much do not fancy seeing you here, Potter."
How the hell could the bastard just stand there and —
"Same could be said for you, traitor!"
Harry hadn't realised he had raised his hand and wand until it was pointing at the man's neck.
Snape shrugged. "Go ahead, then, Potter. Curse me all you want. It does not matter, does it? Since we seem to be already dead."
At Snape's nonchalance, white-hot anger built in Harry's chest, shoving the wand in his hand into the vulnerable flesh. He exhaled through clenched teeth to stop himself from cursing the man on the spot.
He wanted answers.
Snape's sneer deepened. "And — I may have been many things in my life, but not a traitor to the Order. Small-minded as you are, Pot- "
"Liar! "
The word was out before Harry could even think.
Snape's brow rose, as it often had when he had found a comment of Harry's particularly questionable in the past.
"That I was as well."
The man sounded almost… smug about it. As if it were something to take pride in. "But again, I can not expect your Lilliputian brain to understand the necessity for deception. Apart from that, it seems…"
Snape's expression turned mocking. "Your 'sheer dumb luck' must have run out this time."
"I only wanted to pay my respects to my parents in peace. Your Master," Harry spat right back, "used his biting and strangling snake to trap me — " not that Harry thought the man would, in any way, be affected by his statement, seeing as Snape had watched Burbage being eaten by said snake without batting so much as an eyelash.
"— I must have died before Voldemort got to me."
Harry took a deep breath through his nose. He wasn't sure he would need to breathe in this strange foggy world, but it helped sharpen the swirling chaos clouding his mind — into anger. Onto Snape, where it belonged.
He would not think about having, once more, lead his best friend into another of Voldemort's traps.
Bugger. Hermione.
Hermione, who could be dead as well, if not stuck in this hellscape.
Snape made a noise in his throat that sounded like a mix between a groan and a growl, and it stoked Harry's anger to unprecedented heights.
Because, had Dumbledore's murder , by that man before him, not sent them on this wild goose chase, he would never have ended up there. There, where his parents had died, because, again — Snape had given Voldemort the prophecy.
There, where said prophecy had ended in Voldemort's victory, and Harry's own demise — and possibly his best friend's.
"I assume you would be happy that I am done in for good — if it wasn't for the fact that we are stuck here in this hell, with each other. Is it not?"
With a step forward, Harry found himself eye to eye with Snape, challenging him to say anything to the contrary.
Snape glanced at Harry's wand arm and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter, why would I have saved your neck over and over again if I wanted you dead? The opportunities were rather endless."
"I don't know," Harry answered. He pressed his wand firmly into the man's pulsing artery.
Snape's actions did make little sense most of the time. He had demanded Harry and his friends be expelled at every opportunity — and yet, he also had… for instance, he had refused to give Umbridge poison when he could have.
Then why…?
Opportunity was the keyword here.
"Maybe, perhaps… you wanted to wait until the right moment for me to die," Harry answered his own question.
Snape's face showed no recognisable reaction to Harry's words.
But — perhaps it was from the way Snape held himself, more stiffly than before.
From the way his eyes went even colder, impossibly emptier.
Perhaps from the way his breathing had evened out into an almost counted rhythm — Harry was sure he was on to something.
"What? Did I guess right?" Harry's tone became frigid. Had he listened more closely, he might have noticed how similar it sounded to Snape's at his most furious. "Out with it, Snape, just admit it."
The man didn't answer, didn't move, didn't even blink.
"Harry, stop."
A female voice had joined the fray. It was not loud by any means, but could be heard perfectly echoing through the silence though there was nothing for it to echo from.
Snape flinched.
Harry felt his limbs go numb. He would know that voice anywhere. He had heard it often enough in the presence of the Dementors in his third year. In the graveyard in his fourth year.
"Mum?"
"Sweetheart. Stop."
"No!" Harry didn't dare to take his eyes off Snape — who stood there, almost petrified — but shifted so that he could watch the figure approaching from behind the man.
"No! You can't be her! My mother would not be telling me to — "
"— Cedric — Cedric Diggory — asked you to take his body back to his father, in the Little Hangleton Graveyard."
Harry felt his hand drop to his side.
"Mum? Is it really — ?"
Snape snarled, spinning towards the redhead. "I will not be fooled so easily. What was the last flower Lily Evans sent to me?"
Snape had pushed himself before Harry, holding an arm out before him.
Even without a wand, Harry thought the man looked imposing.
And his mother… She looked just as young, and just as beautiful as he remembered her being from that day in the graveyard. Or perhaps more like years ago in the mirror, when she had been presented to him, as real and vibrant and solid as any living person.
Except — this time, her smile held more sorrow than joy; her green eyes, once sparkling, were now dulled with grief.
"A withered blue lily."
Snape slowly let his arm drop, though his posture remained guarded.
"I'm sorry that it took me so long to see your perspective, Sev." Lily looked like she wanted to reach out, but caught herself at the last moment. "I'm so sorry."
"Mum? You — knew — " Harry was too astonished himself to see Snape's eyes widen at his mother's words.
"Yes, I've known Severus for a long time, sweetheart. And I'm sorry that I hurt you so much — you both. Harry, — "
"Potter," Snape snarled, "has been nothing but insolent, disobedient and seeking trouble with his idiotic friends. And look where that has gotten him. He is no better than his good-for-nothing — "
"That is enough, Severus Snape," Lily cut in. Harry couldn't recall having heard such anger in her voice before.
Snape's tirade stopped abruptly.
"Considering you are supposed to be one of the Order's most successful spies, Severus, you are being a blind fool — especially for convincing yourself that Dumbledore's idiotic plan would have meant anything but both your deaths. I would suggest you refrain from further judgement until you are conscious of all the facts."
Snape blinked at her, mouth slightly open. It was the first expression of emotion Harry could remember seeing on the man's face — besides disdain, hatred, and occasionally rage, like after the failed Occlumency lessons in his fifth year.
The surprise was a nice change.
Lily waved a hand to dissipate the mist in front of them. It revealed the interior of a familiar house — Number 4 Privet Drive — at night.
Harry gasped.
"This is the memory of Christmas Past. See for yourself."
"Mum — ?"
"Lily — ?"
Ignoring their instant protests, Lily gripped them firmly by their hands and stepped in, taking Snape and Harry with her.
To be continued...
Harry did not have the time to contemplate how his mother's grip felt so surprisingly solid, and familiar, before the world reformed around them, and Lily let go of their hands.
He immediately found himself missing the touch, and folded his arms. To his irritation, Snape, too, had crossed his arms in front of his body, the usual sour look on his face.
Harry dropped his arms immediately.
The three of them were standing in Number 4, Privet Drive's entrance hallway, facing the kitchen. The stairs, with the cupboard beneath, were to their right-hand side. As usual, the house was orderly and pristine — not a thing out of place, and not a smudge of dirt anywhere.
However, it was not how Harry had left it months ago before he came of age. The low glow of the twinkling, star-shaped lights hanging from the walls spoke of a different time.
And Harry remembered.
Every year, the Dursleys would make him watch them put up that whole crate of red and green and gold and silver decorations all over the house. They would joke and laugh and cheer Dudley on. Harry, meanwhile, had to sweep the floors and scrub the windows, and clean the tables after their mess; woe behold him if even a speck of dust could be found when they hung up the ornaments.
That year had been no different.
He must have been six or so, in his first year of primary school — only that year, Petunia had put up twinkling lights in the hallway. She never did try to hang them up again — she'd had quite enough of Dudley's permanent wailing after a week-long tantrum.
Bright light bulbs flared when a woman descended the stairs. She was neatly dressed, as if she were about to go to church any moment — her wine-red knit dress without a wrinkle, the white woollen Spencer over her shoulders pressed to perfection.
She walked straight past them, and promptly ripped the cupboard door open.
"Up," she hissed. "Get up! Now!"
"Tuney," Harry heard Snape growl under his breath.
Tuney? As in, Petunia ?
Wait , Harry thought. Hadn't his mother just said they'd known — ? How long had they — ?
"What are you doing — " Snape's hand twitched towards the blonde, just as Lily said, "Don't. They can't interact with us, and vice versa."
The woman turned back as if, contrary to Lily's words, she had indeed heard Snape's comment; but her stare went beyond them, up the quiet stairs.
Harry had never seen them side by side, face by face before, his mother and his aunt. And in that one, flickering moment, he found that, in spite of her blonde hair, long face and pale eyes, Aunt Petunia's resemblance to her sister was striking.
The primly-dressed woman turned away after a moment, striding off towards the kitchen, leaving Harry to stare at the image of his mother uncomprehendingly.
"So why exactly are we here, then?" Snape demanded.
The man's voice sounded… strange. As if Harry were hearing it through a badly tuned radio. If not for the lack of coldness, he would almost have thought — Dementors —
Soon, these thoughts evaporated.
Meanwhile, a slim boy was crawling out of the cupboard. His general air seemed to distinguish him from the rest of this cleanly house — perhaps it was his messy black hair, or his bleary green eyes that looked nothing like the twinkling lights overhead. Or, more probably, it was his clothes, large and stained and worn unlike anything in this house; the way he huddled himself into his large, thin t-shirt, his bare feet peeking out from overlong and fraying trousers.
Everything about him looked out of place.
Harry shivered.
The foul egg in your fine family , an invisible voice declared, pierced by the bulldog's bark echoing through the room — or was this in Harry's mind? You can see that mean, runty look from a mile away. I wouldn't waste my money on him.
Another voice was shouting — "Potter!?"
That voice sounded familiar, but Harry could not quite place it in the scene playing out in front of him.
"This was his room for ten years, Sev."
There was no answer.
The disbelieving silence was finally punctured by the blonde woman's demand of, "Well? Why are you not up yet? Prepare the sausages! Get a move on!"
The boy stumbled to obey; when he entered the kitchen, she turned towards him. "Don't you dare let it burn. Everything has to be perfect for Duddy's Christmas!"
This was also the last time that the Dursleys had ever demanded sausage casserole for breakfast.
With the familiarity of routine, the slim boy gathered the sausages from the refrigerator, bent down to take a skillet from the cupboard, clambered on a stool, reached blindly overhead for oil and spices, and set to work at the hob.
He was still so small that he had to remain standing on the stool so that he could safely reach the stovetop. His stomach started growling at the sight and smell of the food.
That earned him a hiss of "Quiet!" in response.
Harry could feel the hole in his stomach nagging at him.
The woman stood at the sides, watching the boy with a suspicious frown on her face while she set out two glasses of milk — just in time for another boy to come barreling into the kitchen.
This child was blond instead of raven-haired, of similar age, and much larger.
"Mummy! I want my presents!"
Freaks don't deserve presents! that voice would also shout.
Jealousy rang in Harry's ears. The blond boy always received so many gifts, only for them to be discarded sooner rather than later, and he himself would receive, year by year — nothing at all.
At the sight of her son, the woman's demeanour immediately changed — her face lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree in the corner of the room.
She took the whale of a boy into her arms immediately, squishing him tightly to her thin frame.
"Merry Christmas, Diddums," she said fondly as he squirmed out of her grasp, "And what should you say to Mummy first?"
The boy's face fell immediately. "Merry Christmas, Mummy," he pouted.
"Well done, Dudders," the woman beamed. "Such a well-mannered child."
"I want my presents now!"
He gripped her hand and leaned his not-so-inconsiderable weight into a tug-of-war with his mother's arm so that she would go to the living room with him.
It took her some effort to resist his yanks — considerably more difficult now that he started stomping his feet — but she finally managed to turn him around.
Seeing the tears gathering in her son's beady eyes, she said hastily, "Let Mummy finish breakfast first, alright? We're having sausage casserole today, Dudders."
At that, the pudgy boy's stomach grumbled loudly.
"Oh. Alright then," he huffed, after a few seconds of consideration.
The woman gave him a kiss on his forehead, then turned towards the small Christmas tree she had set up in the corner, for some last-moment adjustments.
"The only present Harry ever got from them was a fifty-pence piece," a hushed voice commented into the silence.
Was someone telling a secret the Dursleys were not supposed to overhear?
"And that was only because Petunia feared that even wizards might find it suspicious if Harry received nothing at all."
Wizards?
Magic. Oh. Right.
For a moment, Harry found himself jarred into the present again — in a fleeting instant, he could remember that, whatever this strange space was, it was… magic, not Privet Drive. Not really.
That the scene playing out in front of him was long in his past.
Yet he was helpless against the force of these memories. It pulled him back mercilessly, like his aunt's biting nails and his uncle's bruising grip.
The small child at the hob was pouring all his concentration into the task in front of him.
Beside him, the blond boy was inching closer, holding the second glass of milk in his hand.
Harry's skin was burning and itching in remembrance of the devious smile on the pudgy face and the gleeful glint in the watery blue eyes.
"Watch where you're going, freak!"
Milk went flying across the hob.
As soon as it touched the sizzling surface, hot grease popped over the rim, splattering everything — the kitchen floor, the counter, and the walls.
The smaller boy barely managed to shield his face with his arms before the oil splashed all over his front. He jerked away — and tumbled off the stool.
For a moment, he was still. Then, hissing through clenched teeth in a way no six-year-old should — he stood back up, clambered on the stool again, drew the skillet towards him, and worked on, as if nothing had happened.
The itch and burn have since faded from Harry's skin, leaving only the images playing out in front of him to fill the emptiness in his mind.
"Boy!" shrieked the woman. "What have you done now?"
The boy cringed. The ruckus must have earned him the woman's further displeasure.
Indeed, her expression turned nasty at the sight of the oil sprinkled around where he stood. Tears of pain were gathering in his green eyes, but he dared not make a sound as the woman advanced towards him.
The other child started howling, clutching his hand. The woman paused in her stride.
"Mummy! The freak, the freak d-did somethin' — 'sploded — and n-now — " Fat tears began to run down the pudgy child's face, immediately drawing the woman's focus.
"What happened, Sweetums? Let Mummy see!"
The woman took the remaining glass of milk and gathered the blond child towards her, guiding him across the kitchen.
To the other, she hissed, "Vernon will deal with you."
"Pet?"
Said beefy man was just entering the kitchen, no doubt having heard the commotion coming from the hob.
A quick sweep over the scene, and his son's wailing, told him all he needed to know.
A few long steps brought him towards the black-haired child who was still standing at the hob, stiff as a board. Meaty, bruising hands dragged the boy off the stool and towards the doorway, then instantly let go with an exaggerated show of disgust.
Yet the portly man did not back away.
He towered over the cringing boy. He rubbed his hands to rid them of the greasy mess from the child's shirt, but the way he cracked his knuckles sounded almost eager. His face was shaded an angry purple, yet, in the twinkling lights shining from the hallway, his eyes seemed to shimmer with a near child-like delight at the soft whimpers from the small form in front of him.
A large hand grabbed and twisted the boy's collar, shaking him with the force of its grip.
"Boy! How dare you ruin our meal? How dare you waste our food? How dare you harm our Dudley — you — you ungrateful little freak!"
He backhanded the whimpering child.
A sudden movement startled Harry out of the memory — Snape, who was now standing next to him, must have flinched at the loud crack.
Or had it been the man's choking gasp?
Only now did Harry realise that his mother had, once more, gripped his hand tightly. The painful squeeze, he found, anchored him, kept his mind from capsizing into the scenes before him. Tears were pooling in her eyes, though she looked as if she could not tear her gaze away regardless.
Meanwhile, the long-faced woman was standing at the back of the kitchen. She gently turned the bigger child around so that he would not see the other boy, crooning softly at him, "Mummy's here now, Diddydums!"
But the blond boy was inconsolable. He was howling ceaselessly, even as his mother knelt with a slight grimace, and he buried his face in her shoulder.
"How about we get another present for you this year? Hm? Twenty-one presents, how does that sound, Sweetums?"
"No!" wailed the blond child into his mother's ear, "I want two!"
He immediately burst into tears again, thrashing in his mother's arms, sufficiently distracted from his father's thundering.
"Oh, my poor Dudley." The woman sighed and stroked her child's cheek. "Alright, hush, popkin. We'll get you two presents later. But let Mummy finish preparing breakfast first, alright?"
She cast a look across the room at her beefy husband — it looked oddly like approval. No glance was spared for the child in his grip.
The sausages were still sizzling quietly on the hob.
"Cupboard," the bulky man roared at the black-haired waif, "and no food for a week!"
For a moment, the scene flickered, superimposed with the interior of another house.
This kitchen looked smaller. It was much less tidy: unwashed dishes were stacked at the sink, bottles strewn across the floor; cigarette stubs littered the table next to overfilled ashtrays. The air was fogged with smoke and dust. Everything looked threadbare — the furniture worn, the colours stale from age and ash and grease.
The room was not decorated. A Christmas tree was not affordable, much less twinkling ornaments.
The cast was different. Another man, another woman, another child.
But the focus of the scene didn't change.
The equally bulky man — potbellied, one might say — was dangling another wide-eyed child by his collar.
This boy, too, could not have been any older than six years. He was also sporting a red handprint across his face. He was equally thin, swimming in clothes that, judging from their size and cut, could not possibly belong to him.
In the man's massive shadow, this child could almost have been mistaken for the other black-haired boy, were it not for some slight differences —this child was dark-eyed, instead of green-eyed; and perhaps his black hair was straighter, his nose longer.
This obese man was waving his own large fist in front of the child's face. His tone was, perhaps, hoarser from cigarettes and alcohol, but no less threatening when he growled, "And I'm warning you, boy, no more funny business from you. Not today, not ever. Have I made myself clear?"
Here, too, a woman was standing in the background.
She did not hold a child in her arms. Looking more closely, she would seem more emaciated than her counterpart in Privet Drive. And perhaps her face held fear, and sorrow, instead of approval.
But she did not step in, either.
As the scene flickered once more, both children acquiesced, in murmured unison.
And Harry realised that he'd seen the other boy before. Granted, the boy had been older then — but it was still the same boy he had seen in Snape's mind during those failed Occlumency lessons.
He flinched.
His mother squeezed his hand.
The scene around them had since returned to its original cast, but Harry could not find himself paying anymore attention. Too jarring was its resemblance to the brief moment in — wherever Snape had grown up.
Said man's eyes were far away, looking beyond the scene playing out next to him. He opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say — something. Anything. He hesitated instead; perhaps he was not sure whether his words would be welcomed.
Harry wasn't sure either.
The bulky man had now pushed the small, stumbling boy past them, down the hall leading away from the kitchen, away from his howling son.
"I wish — " Snape began — but then, his expression turned thin-lipped and blank once more.
"What's the matter, Sev?" Lily probed gently. Her voice sounded rough from swallowed tears.
Sev.
It sounded so much more like the boy Harry had just seen, than the man next to him.
And he couldn't help but wonder, had that boy ever seen happiness?
Behind them, a beefy hand unlocked the door to the cupboard under the stairs and shoved the small boy in with such force that dust rose from the tiny space.
Harry saw Snape's eyes flicker towards Lily's tight grip, then close.
The man clenched his fists. He shook his head.
"Nothing," he spat out. "Nothing."
The cupboard door slammed locked with an almighty bang, and the scene faded into whiteness.
To be continued...