August 7, 1996
Lucius Malfoy shifted in his sleep, allowing himself a groan as he came to consciousness. He lifted his head gingerly and looked around. He was in a cell like room, though the door to the cell was non-existent. He slowly sat up and groaned once more.
In the dim light from the small window for above his head he could make out his hands, his pallid skin caked with bits of dried blood. He wiped his hands on his clothes as best as he could without making much movement, before he closed his eyes and pressed his face against the cold stone wall. He had hoped to never be in Azkaban again, but there he was—sitting in a cell in Azkaban.
He heard a wail from somewhere to the left of him, and then a man wearing nothing but rags appeared before him. He was dirty, and had a somewhat foul stench, but Lucius ignored this.
“Lucius,” the man drawled. “Back again. And you were the dark lord’s favorite.”
Lucius said nothing.
“What did you do to wind up in here, again, eh, Malfoy? Slip away again to help some muggle?”
Lucius remained silent.
The other man continued, “Of course the great Lucius Malfoy would never admit to being a muggle lover. Malfoys are better than scum like the Weasleys, aren’t they?” He allowed himself a smirk. “She died, didn’t she, Lucius,” He stopped for dramatic effect, or so it seemed. “Screaming; pleading for her life at our lord’s feet, where she belonged.”
Lucius simply stared into the distance, though a glint in his eyes showed that he was listening, and that he was remembering something—he was deep in a memory.
“Poor little Lucius,” the prisoner went on, “stuck in Azkaban replaying your worst memories.”
Lucius moved slowly, until he was facing the other man. “What do you know about me, Rookwood?” You know nothing!” Lucius hissed.
Rookwood smirked. “I know more than you can ever expect, about you, Lucius.”
Lucius looked at him blankly. “You know only things that remain irrelevant today.”
“Do I, Lucius?” Rookwood laughed. “I know you still are not loyal to the Dark Lord. And how can you be? After what he did to you, does it matter that you deserved it? I know your old mate Dumbledore was the reason you left this place last time.”
No one knew that. Lucius didn’t give away his surprise. Rookwood laughed again, and he continued laughing as he walked away. “You will pay for your betrayal, Lucius, you or that son of yours. A half-blood, isn’t he? How would Narcissa react to those news?” Rookwood sneered at him.
This time Lucius had a harder time keeping his surprise from his face. Rookwood couldn’t know about that. He just couldn’t possibly be aware of that!
With thoughts running through his head, and pain hitting him every time he shifted to a different position. Lucius found himself wishing that he hadn’t been as stupid as to approach Severus. The greasy haired potions master had no doubt gone to Voldemort. There was no other excuse to why Voldemort had known about his betrayal. Dumbledore wouldn’t get him out of this one, this time and now his son—his dragon—was going to pay for his stupidity. If he could only die so that Draco could live.
Lucius groaned again, this time it wasn’t the pain of moving that made him so, but the cold feeling that had come over him. And then he spotted the hooded, gliding figure. Everything inside him went cold, and then he could hear her screams within his mind; the calls of his name, and of their dragon. Her dying breaths, and then, finally, his cold, cruel laughter. He could almost picture her dead, slumped body, surrounded by a pool of blood lying at Voldemort’s feet. Her beauty unblemished by everything Voldemort had put her through.
“No!” Lucius screamed.
He heard the laughter from across the room and then everything went completely and utterly black.
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Severus dwelled into Potter—no, Harry’s—thoughts and found the right string of thought; the dream—nightmare—that had just clouded the boy’s night. He grabbed onto it and was soon watching it. That Potter had allowed him this much was still a surprise to him, and then all thought was driven out of his mind. His eyes widened considerably, and he began to try and put everything together. Part of it had to be a dream—part of his imagination perhaps or his subconscious trying to figure out the other part of the ‘dream’—but other parts had happened, that very night in fact. Severus shuddered. Potter—Harry, his son—had dreamed his and Lucius’ entire conversation earlier that night.
Severus pulled back and let go of the sixteen year old’s head, crossing the room to the hearth. With a wave of his hand the fire came to life. He reached for a flower pot atop the mantle and drabbed flood powder from within it, throwing it into the fire. Without turning to Harry, he put his head in the fire and shouted, “Dumbledore’s office.”
Albus Dumbledore, as Severus had expected, was in his office, wearing a nightgown in a shocking purple, but still in his office.
“Severus,” He said when he saw him, stuffing a few pieces of parchment within a drawer that Severus noted almost at once, had some sort of protective shield around it.
Ignoring this for later consideration, Severus spoke quickly, “Headmaster, I’d appreciate you stepped through in a few minutes. There is much to be discussed.”
When Severus returned to Potter’s room, he found him sitting up at the side of his bed, eyes closed, gripping tightly to something that Severus couldn’t see. It was best, he decided, to let him be. He walked across the room, to the window. He still couldn’t wrap his mind completely about it. Harry Potter—no, Snape, Severus rolled his eyes at himself—had seen as clear as it had happened, a conversation between himself and Lucius Malfoy earlier that night, and even though it had been mixed within a dream from parts of it that he knew could never be remotely close to the truth, there had been the end which he didn’t know if he could doubt or not. The Dark Lord being there in his dream, and Lucius’ screams. It had been accurate enough, and it wasn’t like Potter—Harry! He really had to get a hang of the name thing—didn’t have a connection with the Dark Lord.
Severus turned when he heard Dumbledore step into the room.
“You sounded urgent, Severus, what’s happened?” Dumbledore asked at once, before he spotted Harry.
Severus followed his gaze to where Harry was sitting. His head was resting against his knees now, as he had pulled his legs up against his chest, while his eyes remained closed, but his lips were moving, whispering something that Severus could not quite hear and then Harry let out a scream.
Dumbledore rushed to the sixteen year old’s side, asking all the while, “What happened, Severus?”
“I arrived from the meeting just a few minutes ago. He was having a nightmare. I came in around when he woke up. I then proceeded to view the dream through legilimency—”
“You used legilimency on him?” Dumbledore looked aghast, almost murderous at Severus, as if Severus had committed a heinous crime, which Severus though ironic, considering the number of things he did as a spy. He shook his head at the thoughts. He needed to focus.
“With his permission,” Severus continued. “His dream, it was more of a vision. I was asked to stay behind by Lucius, he wanted to talk to me. Po—Harry saw the entire even just as it happened, I believe. Part of it could be a dream, but I do think the Dark Lord was there near the end, or at least he allowed Harry to know he had seen the dream near the end.”
Dumbledore turned back to looking at Harry and reached to him. He grasped Harry’s shoulder.
Harry opened his eyes and gasped. He looked disoriented and for a second it seemed as if he was getting ready to attack, and then he relaxed.
Severus watched this with a blank expression, wondering—not for the first time—exactly how much he didn’t know about one Harry Po—Snape, he wasn’t a Potter, he was a Snape and it was time he accept it. Harry was his son! He wasn’t Potter’s son.
“Professor Dumbledore!” Harry explained suddenly.
Severus watched as Dumbledore allowed Harry to calm down and then spoke in a low tone to him. Harry nodded, and laid back down into bed.
“A calming draught, and maybe dreamless sleep will help him now, Severus, in the meanwhile, I do believe we could talk about the meeting tonight and what Lucius wanted with you.”
Harry settled back into his bed.
After Harry had drunk his potions, and he had fallen back asleep, Dumbledore took Severus by the elbow and pulled him out of the room.
“I can see that maybe you’ve begun to see him in a different light.”
Severus stopped and stared at the door leading to the boy’s room.
“You told me he wasn’t his father.” Severus stated. “Even without knowledge of who his father truly was. It is true that he is not James. But he isn’t me. In the time I’ve had with him, I’ve begun to see the difference between the boy I’ve made myself see and the boy that actually is. That is all.”
Dumbledore was smiling.
“I cannot, however, be a father to him. I need to focus on this war. I never wanted a son and I don’t want one now. For the sake of the order, I took him in, but as much as I could maybe tolerate the boy, I will never care for him the way that maybe he needs someone to care about him. Lupin will be better in that front.”
Dumbledore gave him a somewhat disappointed look and then he walked farther down the hall, opening a door on the right hand side and entering without waiting for Severus.
Severus followed with a scowl. Dumbledore didn’t seriously expect him to become a father figure to Harry blood Potter—alright, Harry Snape. He couldn’t even imagine that. Harry calling him—he could shudder at the thought—father, or even worse, dad. Harry coming to him whenever he had a problem. He actually did shudder at that thought. How could Dumbledore ever think that he would be open to any sort of relationship with the boy he had thought was the son of his enemy; the boy he had hated for five years, or at least shown every amount of the notion of hate to. He hadn’t even looked into the memories Lily had sent him yet, for fear of what they would contain.
“What happened? Anything of importance?” Dumbledore broke into his thoughts.
“It was the usual stuff. He was quite angry at the lack of information, and seems to have some sort of plan. At least he seemed very happy at something. Maybe that’s a bad thing, but he has shared nothing with me.”
Dumbledore shifted in his chair, and Severus was not surprised to see Dumbledore bring out a familiar bag. “Lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked.
“No, thank you, Headmaster,” Severus said, choosing to instead watch Dumbledore pull two lemon drops apart that had been stuck together, before popping them both into his mouth, with the zeal of a five year old.
“I have said it, time and time again, headmaster,” Severus announced a few seconds later, when he was sure that Dumbledore was no longer distracted by the sweets. “Lucius as much as he has helped the order, is not fit to be a spy. He cares too much for his son, and from what I saw he could very well be in Azkaban right now.
“I have no idea if this is true, but I have been lucky enough by the fact that I need to keep my agenda hidden from everyone.”
Dumbledore pursed his lips. “Severus, my boy, Lucius is a good man. You know this.”
“Yes, but he is still not fit to be a spy.”
Dumbledore chuckled. “Says the spy,” he said. “Severus, he doubts you as much as you doubt him. Maybe it is time to put differences aside. Lucius had nothing to do with her death.”
“He knew about his plans to attack them and he didn’t warn me, he didn’t warn them!” Severus snapped.
Dumbledore sighed. “You love her still, then?”
Severus laughed a humorless laugh. “Every day I see her. In everything I do,”—he allowed himself a falter in his usually blank expression—“in him,” he whispered.
Dumbledore smiled to himself, sadly.
Severus took his wand out and waved it at the floor.
Dumbledore nodded. “I’m sorry my boy,” he muttered.
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Harry woke up to smell of bacon. He smiled into his soft pillow and slowly opened his eyes with a yawn. Everything that had happened the night before suddenly hit him like a bolt of lightning and he sat up. Not even the bright light that drifted into the room could make him grin; the day before it had been raining and he hadn’t been able to go out and practice certain quidditch maneuvers he had found in a book in Snape’s—his father’s—library. But he was sure he would have time that afternoon to do so, even though the dream of the night before would be haunting him the entire day as those things often did.
He stretched and quickly threw on some fresh clothes, slipping his feet into his trainers as he left his room to get himself some of the bacon he had smelt upon first waking.
The sight that met him in the kitchen was not unusual. Snape was standing by the stove, cooking, but the strange serene expression on his face was somewhat unusual.
“Good morning, sir,” Harry said, picking up a piece of warm toast and biting into it.
“Harry,” the potions master said in way of a morning greeting which was more than Uncle Vernon had ever done.
Harry nearly dropped his toast at the realization that Snape had not only said his first name, but that two he had said without a snide remark following or preceding it and in a tone that did not give away any frustration with Harry that he might have.
Harry said nothing to show he had even heard him and continued onto the kitchen table, were he proceeded to pile as much food as he could onto his plate. It wasn’t like Snape minded and to be truthful, at times Harry felt as if Snape were trying to fatten him up, which he knew was a big possibility considering the nutrition potions the man kept making him drink. Disgusting, vile things they were too. He’d asked once if he could maybe make them taste better but his only answer had been a grunt.
During breakfast, things got somewhat stranger. Conversation was rarely something anyone would hear if they happened to stop by for breakfast at the Snape house hold, but Snape seemed to be in a good mood.
“Have you begun on your summer assignments?” Snape asked.
“Not yet, sir. I though I might begin in a day or two,” Harry answered.
Snape nodded. He opened his mouth to say something else but a tap on the window interrupted him, and he set down his napkin and fork to open the window.
Two owls flew into the small kitchen. One directed to Harry, and the other for Snape. Harry recognized Pig at once and groaned.
He had yet to send a letter to either of his friends, and had been putting it off for a while. Clearly they had gone to 12 Grimmauld Place to find him gone.
Harry took the letter, and gave Pig a piece of bacon to eat as a treat, and then he opened the clean unaddressed envelope. He recognized Hermione’s neat handwriting on the parchment inside.
Dear Harry,
Mrs. Weasley says we can’t really write much in here just in case. No one told us where you’ve been taken, but its part of your studies? Well, our old pal Moony said that. Ron was beside himself when he found out you weren’t staying with Snuffles’ dear old mom anymore. But as long as you are alright, and you’re well protected I guess we’re fine with it. Ron would love to know if this has anything to do with what happened to the Dursleys. I know you didn’t like them much, but they were your family and I guess you must have been somewhat upset about their death. Just don’t do anything stupid, Harry! Tom will pay for what he has done to them.
Hoping you’re okay, where ever you are,
Hermione
Harry sighed. At least she hadn’t pelted him with questions. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to see her. Not when it was somewhat possible that she would bother him until he accidentally let something important out. He knew she had restrained herself somewhat in her letter but in real person he didn’t know how he would be able to handle Hermione.
He looked up after he was finished reading her letter and folded it. He set it down next to his plate and proceeded to continue eating. Not even Hermione could put him off eating the amazing breakfast sitting in front of him.
Snape perused the Daily Prophet with a frown, and Harry waited for him to start talking about it. It was almost ritual like, the way the potions master would cut down the wizarding paper, be it for their miscomprehension of an event, the outright lies that had obviously been put out there by the new minister whom Harry was slightly surprised had yet to contact him, which was in itself a relief.
“Blundering idiots!” Snape let out a moment later as expected. “Of course it is alright to take credit for Lucius bloody Malfoy being found within Azkaban earlier this morning.”
Harry stopped with his spoon midway to his mouth. “He’s in Azkaban,” He whispered once he had shaken himself.
“Well of course he is, boy, where else would that buffoon be?”
Harry didn’t answer.
Snape rolled his eyes unceremoniously. “They don’t seem to find it suspicious at all that he was, again I repeat, found in Azkaban. Of course the ministry is attempting to cover up how or why Lucius is back, but to take credit for it.”
Harry was tempted to point out that allowing people to believe the ministry was in charge was the best way to do things. Especially with everything that was going on. It had become far different than that of the previous summer, when Voldemort had been hiding and using that as a weapon to hurt Harry. This summer he was out there, displaying his power for the world to see, making more people grow to fear him all the while destroying everything in his path that could give anyone hope.
They finished their breakfast in silence. When Harry stood and took the dishes to the sink to wash them as was usual for him the morning, however, Snape brought out his wand and muttered a spell that began washing them.
"Thank you," Harry said.
Snape barely nodded his way and then strode out of the room.
Harry remained in the kitchen for a while longer and then when he had heard his father's footsteps recede; he walked out of the house. He didn't bother heading to the broom shed and instead simply walked around the grounds, wondering just what he had done to deserve the messed up life he had.