August 1, 1996
Draco Malfoy bit into his apple and continued along his walk, taking in the well cared for roses that his mother loved and the albino peacock that flew above him that his father was quite fond of, and then he looked down at his left arm, his eyes closing as they went over the hidden mark on his forearm under his long sleeved shirt. He was a death eater. The thought still made him shudder.
Draco shook himself and brought another apple out of his pocket and brought it to his mouth, sinking his teeth into it, before continuing on his stroll. He hadn’t gone much farther before his name was being called. He stopped but didn’t turn to look at his mother.
“Draco, I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Narcissa Malfoy said. “Come inside, dear, you must get ready to go to Lydie’s.”
Draco suppressed a groan and instead nodded, trying to find a way to get out of going. It wasn’t that he hated social visits like this, just that this particular one involved Lydie Parkingson and her daughter, Pansy whom his parents continually insisted he would marry. Draco could shudder at the thought, and regardless, even if he were interested in Pansy, which he wasn’t, she was in love with Blaise Zabini, not that Blaise was interested in her, who would be? But he hated being paired off with her. If he had to hear Pansy whining about how Blaise didn’t like her one more time he didn’t know what he was going to do.
Draco followed his mother back to the house. His mother was rambling on about something or other, gossip—he recognized—when she mentioned Mrs. So-and-so’s son who had just married a muggle-born.
“The nerve of such people!” Narcissa exclaimed when she had finished telling the story and they were upon the house.
Draco nodded slightly, and moved into the foyer, trying to find an excuse for his not going, and then he felt a shock go through his arm, but the usual pain didn’t follow. Still he gasped in shock. His mother looked at him questioningly.
“My arm feels—I don’t know…weird—” He trailed off.
His mother looked at him concerned and then, “If he were to call you,” she said, thoughtfully, then shook her head. “Fine, get your way then, Dragon.”
Draco nearly smirked at how lucky he was, even though it came with Voldemort’s doing. He looked at his arm warily and sighed. His mother gave him another look and walked away calling for her
personal house elf.
Relief filled Draco as he walked up the stairs to his room. He wouldn’t have to see Pansy and pretend to act as if he liked her and laugh about the last few muggles that had been killed by death eaters. In fact he didn’t want to see any of his friends. He couldn’t hold his mask forever and not end up as messed up as his father. He wasn’t a death eater—he wasn’t a killer.
Draco pushed his bedroom door open and closed it behind him, leaning back against the door as he looked around his grandiose room. It was stupid, he knew, to even consider wanting to give everything up for a future he may or may not get to have being not only the son of a death eater but a death eater himself—as reluctantly as he had become one. He had considered changing sides, becoming maybe a spy for Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, but for one didn’t know
how to go about it, and for two, he didn’t know how he could betray his family. It was simply put, a suicide attempt. He’d have to wait until he got back to Hogwarts to even attempt considering betraying Voldemort and his family.
His room was too big. Draco had always thought it was too big, looking empty in its almost too clean state the house elf took care of. It looked like an unused room, almost. He walked across the room and threw himself into his queen-sized bed and leaned back against his numerous pillows and closed his eyes. He’d have to wait just one more month and then he would be at Hogwarts where—if he played his cards right—he could get protection from Dumbledore or—if he could hope to convince him he had changed—from Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. He’d contemplated Potter since the beginning of the summer holidays. Potter had everything. He had the whole wizarding world at his feet and yet he didn’t seem to use this power. Draco sighed. He would need to get on Potter’s good side soon. He needed to stop thinking so critically of him.
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Harry’s room was larger than Dudley’s second bedroom, and only slightly bigger than the room he had shared with Ron at 12 Grimmauld Place, but Harry had found a certain peace come over him when he had entered his new room in his new home.
“I take it this is to your liking, then, Potter,” Snape said, watching Harry as he looked around the room.
“Yes,” Harry said simply.
“Probably less than you’re used to with the muggles,” Snape sneered.
Harry glared at him, but quickly turned away. He hadn’t been expecting one of his cutting remarks, so as he looked at the room he tried to remember that this was still Severus Snape—even if he was his father. “You more than anyone,” Harry found himself saying as he stepped forward, “should know that isn’t true.”
Harry barely saw him nod before he turned and left, though not before Harry recognized that he had wanted to say something else but hadn’t.
Harry walked farther into the room, wishing that Remus had stayed and could be there talking to him, but the werewolf had Order stuff to work on, that he wouldn’t identify to Harry as it was confidential. Harry had found it almost amusing to see Snape as confused as he was about whatever Remus was working on which had clearly showed him that Dumbledore didn’t trust Snape as much as he claimed.
Harry sat down on the window seat, to look out into the back of the house, which he was surprised to see had extensive grounds. It would be perfect to fly out there, and he’d been missing quidditch.
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July 17, 1996
Severus Snape stepped out of the fireplace in the drawing room of the 12 Grimmauld Place. He walked forward and turned back to look at the hearth, waiting for it to turn green and Dumbledore to step out. He didn’t have to wait long before the headmaster did, and putting an arm around Severus, Albus Dumbledore led him to the kitchen.
“Tea, Severus?” Albus asked.
“No, thank you, Albus,” Severus said, looking around the kitchen with something akin to disgust. “You said you had something to ask of me.”
“Yes.” He waved his wand at the table, where a cup of tea appeared. Snape rolled his eyes and sat down, watching the headmaster as he too took a seat, brought his cup of tea to his lips, and sighed with pleasure.
Severus waited with as much patience as he could, watching Dumbledore.
“I shared with you, two weeks ago, what I had suspected about Voldemort’s mortality,” Dumbledore said. “I told you that my suspicions were correct that night you helped fix my hand, even if the cost for this knowledge was—will be—my life.”
Severus shook his head. “I’m working on a potion for you, you won’t die, Albus.”
Dumbledore smiled sadly. “Severus, not everything can be solved with potions.”
Severus glared at the glamour around Dumbledore’s hand that gave the impression nothing was wrong with it.
“And so what do you need of me?”
Dumbledore hesitated a moment before he spoke, “To take care of Harry once I’m gone.”
“Potter!” Severus Snapped. “Take care of Potter, of all people. I can’t stand the attention seeking, self-important brat, and I need not care for him, not to mention he hates me too.”
Dumbledore listened to this without interruption, and then when Severus had stopped talking and spoke, “Assumptions are never good, Severus, you of all people should know that. You’ve seen his memories, my boy, he is far from being this boy you describe.”
Severus scoffed.
Dumbledore continued, “I want you to continue your lessons in occlumency with him this summer, and I wish for the two of you to get along. Harry is not James, Severus, and spending just one day with him in a civil nature will show you this.”
Severus rolled his eyes. “Albus, wouldn’t it be easier for him to learn to block his mind from you?”
“No, my boy, I wish for Harry to not rely on me, not what my fate is so decided.”
“You wish him to rely on me.” Snape all but snapped, sounding scandalized as if the matter was to do with something worse than someone possibly learning to depend on him. “I don’t want bloody Harry Potter anywhere near me.”
“Severus, that boy is not who you think he is, and he is in need of someone. After Sirius died—”
Severus interrupted Dumbledore with a mutter of, “his death was his own fault.”
Dumbledore gave him a weary look, and continued, “—Harry was broken, Severus, I have not seen him since he unleashed his anger onto my office but I doubt Harry is over the death of his godfather. I love him too much to watch him in pain, to see him changed so much. Harry needs someone that will understand him in a way I can’t.”
“And I am that man.” Severus laughed. “How about Lupin? He cares for the boy.”
“Yes, Remus cares, but Remus is also busy with his own things and doesn’t know occlumency as well as you, my boy.”
Severus made a face.
Dumbledore took a sip of his tea, cupping the cup with his aged hands. Severus could see the shimmering around the headmaster’s left hand.
“Promise me, Severus,” Dumbledore insisted. “Promise me you will do your best to take care of him.”
“I gave my word to Lily once that I would care for her and hers.”
Dumbledore nodded. “He isn’t James,” he repeated to Severus. “Far from it.”
Severus rolled his eyes.
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August 1, 1996
Dinner was an interesting affair.
When Harry entered the dinning room, he found Snape sitting at the head of the table reading. He didn’t look up, but raised a hand to stop Harry from speaking, his eyes moving across the page. When he looked up his black eyes met Harry’s.
“Sit,” He instructed.
Harry walked to the table Snape had motioned to and pulled it out, sitting down.
“What’s for dinner?” Harry asked.
“I’m not sure,” Snape replied. “In any case, it should be here soon.”
Harry gave Snape a befuddled look.
“House elves, Potter. The Hogwarts house elves often provide food and other help for the staff, even away from Hogwarts as they don’t have much to do during the summer holidays.”
Harry, who had never wondered what the house elves did during the summer holidays—like Hermione probably did—thought it was somewhat logical for them to continue helping out the professors, even in their own homes.
When the food appeared ten minutes later, silence had fallen upon them. Snape had picked up his book again, and Harry had silently stared at the wall wondering if dinner would always be like that, with them both just sitting there not talking; only sometimes bringing up a subject that could only be considered as small talk.
“I have a potion for you,” Snape told him, when he had once more closed his book to eat his dinner.
“A potion? For what?” Harry asked.
“Nutrition,” Snape stated, reaching into robes to pull out a blue colored potion, which he set in front of Harry.
“From certain eating habits observed by Lupin in the past week we have noticed that you are terribly malnourished.”
Harry stared at Snape—no, his father—had that been the reason Snape had made him a late breakfast, even after he had pointed out that he wasn’t hungry.
“You’ve always been small for your age, Potter, not at all like—” He trailed off and frowned.
Harry looked at the blue potion warily as he ate him chicken, savoring the Hogwarts food that he nearly always missed during the summer unless he was with the Weasleys. That thought made his eyes widen. He felt Snape’s eyes on him but ignored them.
Ron and Hermione. What would he tell them? First Ron would laugh and tell him he was joking, and then when he recognized Harry was serious, the trouble would begin. Ron would turn as read as his hair, first, and then continue on to tell him how terrible it was for Harry to find this out. Harry could see him acting sympathetic, and then upon further realization that Harry was okay with it—he imagined at some point he would be okay with it or at least used to it—he would scream and act as if Harry had committed the worst treason. Harry groaned. He didn’t want to deal with that. Hermione would listen to him, at least, but Harry couldn’t imagine her understanding any of it. Knowing her, she would nag at him about it and annoy him to no end until she either got him to totally agree with her or she understood every last detail. Harry groaned again.
“Potter!”
Harry nearly jumped, and looked towards Snape.
“You were staring into space for quite a while,” Snape told him, “Anything you’d like to share, Potter?”
Harry considered it, took another bite of his dinner, and then spoke, “My friends,” He said. “What should I tell them? I mean, I doubt I’ll see them until school but they won’t take these news as well as I have—I guess. I could keep it a secret like…anyway, it would be hard, knowing them, but—I don’t know.”
Snape pursed his lips. “It is best no one but Remus, Dumbledore, and the two of us knows about this, at least for a time. It is harder to keep something secret if there are many more people in the secret.”
Harry didn’t like lying to his friends, in fact he didn’t really think he should do it, but he was already keeping the prophecy from them. Keeping the fact that Snape was his father from them was just one more thing that they did not need to know, for their protection.
Harry nodded. “I hate lying to them,” He muttered. “I’m not very good at it.”
Snape looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“I shall of course. They wouldn’t take it well anyway, and if Ron got annoyed at me, who knows who he would tell.”
Snape nodded once, and returned to his meal. Harry had the impression that Snape had been waiting for him to protest more, from the way he seemed to just take in what Harry said without bother.
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August 7, 1996
Harry had a strange dream some nights later.
He was in the middle of a forest, walking along as if he had nothing to worry about. Then he came to a stop, looking with wide eyes at two people arguing, though not loudly enough for him to head them. Another person he had missed when he had first seen the other two, came into his vision a second later, almost as if he had appeared out of thin air. He was hooded, standing stiff, hidden half in shadow, though Harry could make out his platinum blond hair.
“Father,” the recently added person said. Harry could tell as he continued to spy on them, that this one word was said with a muffled groan that the boy—for he was shorter than the other two and Harry could tell his age from his voice—was trying to hide, perhaps from the two men, or only one of them.
“In a minute!” One of the other two hissed.
“Tend to the boy, Lucius,” Harry was surprised to hear the voice of Severus Snape say.
Lucius lowered his hood and Harry recognized the man instantly. The last time he had seen him had been months previous and he had taunted and made fun of him then with his sister in law. Harry had seen the man captured by death eaters and yet, there he was, standing next to Severus Snape.
Lucius turned to his son and lifted his hand to the boy’s head, pulling his hood down. Harry was surprised to see the strange paleness to his skin, the bags under his eyes, and the strange clammy like way his skin looked.
“I’m fine,” Draco insisted, answering the unasked question.
Lucius said nothing to this, but instead looked to the remaining man. Snape had lost his former expression and instead looked almost concerned as he walked closer to the two. Harry followed the man he should call father with his eyes and watched as he performed a diagnostic spell on Draco, nodded to himself, and began searching his robes for potions which he handed to Lucius.
Draco drank two full phials of potions before grimacing at the sip he took of the third, though Harry could clearly see a change in his enemy.
Snape having come to the conclusion that Draco was fine after giving him a long searching look, turned to Lucius.
“What do you want, Lucius?”
Lucius moved slightly. It could have been a nervous gesture only noticed by one that knew him well, but Harry could not be sure of this.
“You’ve skirted the subject since you asked me to remain behind.”
Harry did not hear Lucius’ response. At that moment, he had felt eyes on his back and something slithering towards him.
“Nagini,” Harry hissed.
The snake moved its head to the side and gave Harry a questioning look.
“Go back, Nagini, you have no business here. Tell no one you met me.”
The snake hissed at him threateningly. “You speak to snakes like my master,” she observed.
Harry nodded. “You will not tell him you encountered me, Nagini.”
“Much nicer than my master, you are,” the snake hissed back.
“So you will listen to me.”
Nagini gave what could be considered a vow and then she was slithering away in search of something to eat. Harry couldn’t believe his luck and turned back to looking at Snape, Lucius, and Draco.
“No, Lucius!” Snape had just said.
“Father,” Draco was whispering in an urgent voice.
“Severus, please.”
Was Lucius Malfoy actually begging? Harry would never have thought that even possible.
“He is nothing. He will lose and we will lose everything with him. We must do something.”
Snape seemed to consider it. “Forget your thoughts, Lucius, and do not speak of them to me again!”
Lucius said nothing, but he looked worried.
Draco spoke instead. “Do you care so little for people, professor, for that is what they are, people!”
“Do you care for them, then, for the muggles and mudbloods? Or is it only your skin that you think worth saving?”
Harry listened to this intently. Where the Malfoys trying to switch sides? Why had Draco looked so sick?
The dream changed suddenly and he was standing in a library, and Draco Malfoy was waving at him from across the room.
“Harry!” He suddenly called. “Oh, come on. We have things to do.”
Harry, however, did not walk towards the blond and instead headed towards a bookshelf, muttering to himself.
“What’s wrong with you?” Draco asked, coming up behind him.
“Nothing,” Harry said, almost stiffly. And then he turned, and it no longer was Draco before him, but Voldemort, and he dived at him.
Harry heard screaming around him. It took him a moment to realize it was his screams that he was hearing. His forehead was in searing pain, and a few words remained coherent in his mind. “Pleasant dreams, Harry Potter, you have given me quite some insight in certain matters.” Then the cruel laughter of Voldemort, and a scream that wasn’t his own. Then, Harry heard through his haze of pain, pleading.
“Azkaban for you, Malfoy! And your miserable son shall now suffer your sins.”
Another scream.
And then Harry was sitting up in bed. Two hands were on his shoulders and seemed to have been shaking him. He looked up at the eyes of Snape—his father—and sent a plea. Snape’s hands moved to Harry’s face. He hesitated as if asking if it was alright. One look at Harry gave him an answer, and then he plunged in. Harry felt a calm feeling came over him and he almost smiled at the comfort.