Chapter Three   Consequences

Voices. Angry voices, low but menacing, stirred Harry from his deep slumber. Harry woke; but somewhere behind his mind, instincts were screaming at him to stay still, to continue feigning sleep. So he did, regulating his breathing with a skill he didn't know he possessed. A deep ache was throbbing somewhere along his back and a huge heavy blanket of weariness hung over him. All he wanted then was to go back to sleep.

The voices were still too low for him to make out the words, but he could hear from their tones that they were not exactly docile. Aggressive words were spat out once in a while, and Harry flinched silently every time their voices rose in volume. He snuggled closer to the comfortable softness underneath, searching for a measure of comfort in this world of unfamiliarity. Surreptitiously, he eased his left hand from under his body to his face, sighing slightly in content when his lips settled on furiously nibbling a spot on his thumb.

He focused again on the angry voices; they continued on in their hushed rant, unaware of Harry's return to the conscious world. His lips eased up on his slightly red thumb, his shoulders slumping minutely. His body felt strange, everything else a mass of peculiarity, like a suspended dream.

He sighed again.

He let his mind drift off; closing his mind instinctively against the mass of unintelligible voices. Oddly enough, he detected the fresh scent of lilies, a lingering scent from a faraway memory. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it. But it did offer a sense of security, so he held on to it, pulling the smooth fabric underneath him closer, wishing it was lily-scented. He drifted off to the in-between world of half-sleep and dreams.

"Harry."

Half-conscious, his ears perked up. Did someone call him?

"...need to know...James isn't going to... keep a secret..."

That voice. He knew that voice. Individual images assaulted his mind, his senses running wild; the taste of carrots and warm milk, flashes of red and green, the smell of both oranges and fresh lilies...

"...your daddy, Harry... probably won't remember this ... we love you very much, Harry..."

His eyes snapped open, the light dawning in remembrance. "Mummy," he breathed in wonder. The word lingered upon his lips with surprising familiarity and he couldn't help but utter it a few more times.

He could almost feel the warm arms around him every time he said the word. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry curled up even more tightly in his blankets, pushing his face into the mushy pillow beneath, his arms moving awkwardly to wrap themselves around his body in a mock hug. There was an odd compression on his chest, growing so tight he thought he'd suffocate from it. His shoulders felt awfully empty, and he yearned to have the lily-scented arms wrapped around it once again.

"...will not have you disturbing Mr. Potter here in the Infirmary, Severus! He needs the rest too much, even without the damages to his mind and body alike! Merlin knows how much sleep he'd had the past week."

Harry's eyes snapped open again, his body freezing as the slightly feminine voice cut through the air from behind him. He had no idea why his body reacted that way-and it frightened him slightly that he had no control over his reactions-but he gave in to his instincts and resumed his act of deep slumbering. He didn't even dare to make any movements as the woman clucked her tongue several times, even when he felt something poking him in various parts of his body.

"I'm sure Mr. Potter will sustain no more brain damage than usual, Poppy," One of the voices said acerbically. Harry's eyes brightened. That voice again!

"Severus," this voice was a bit more gentle than reproving.

The voices morphed into blurry imposing figures on the far side of the room as Harry's eyes adjusted to the brightly-lit room. Harry's heart gave a tiny lurch as they moved closer. He could make out his daddy behind a strange old man with a long flowing beard, his face screwed up in a furious scowl. He wanted to shout out to his daddy that instant, to announce his presence. But as the dark man approached, Harry sensed a deep unfamiliar loathing, radiating from both himself and the man, so strong that he recoiled immediately.

His body went into lock down. It's as if his instincts had taken over his body, and all his limbs were locked into place by some unknown power at work. Terrified, he could only watch from below his covers as they walked towards his bed. They were close enough that Harry had a clear eagle-eyed view of them as they turned towards the woman who was poking around at his body.

"I've done as much as I could, since he's passed out before we can assess the damage done to his mental capabilities," the woman paused to glare at his Daddy, who smirked slightly. "I've done the preliminary diagnostics, both the physical and the magical. His magical core sustained no major damage, but," She turned to the old man, an eyebrow raised, "the level of magical activity within is abnormally high, even though the diagnostics shows that nothing is influencing his magical core."

The old man tapped a finger against the bedside table. "No magical wounds?"  

"I've ran through all the diagnostics I could think of for that, but so far, no. Not one scrape on the boy's body was magically inflicted."

Harry couldn't understand all of it, but he thought it was pretty serious from the looks they were wearing. Dumbledore was frowning slightly now, his hand stroking the tip of his long white beard slowly. "A spell, perhaps?"

"The only magical traces in his body is his own, so unless he casted a spell on himself, no."

"I wouldn't put it past Potter to hex himself, Poppy. He's a Gryffindor, after all." His Daddy smirked again. Harry felt like squirming at the unfriendly tone; his Daddy really wasn't happy with him.

"Yes, yes," The old man cut in absently. "But then, what could be the effects of the spell, provided that he did cast one?"

"Exactly. There aren't any visible effects, or any that my diagnostics could detect. The possibility of a spell is incredibly slim, Albus. No spell can cause that much of magical activity within the core."

"Unless it's coupled with a potion," his Daddy cut in. "Has it really escaped your minds that he, with his abominable potions skills, was caught brewing a highly complicated illegal potion-not to mention a spelled one-designed to dull the conscious mind?"

"You tested the potion yourself," Albus, Harry finally learnt the old wizard's name, pointed out. "He'd done it correctly, hasn't he?"

"From what I could salvage from the mess, astonishingly, yes," his Daddy said, "but the potion did explode, which is definitely not a part of the procedure nor the end result of the potion. And it is still not determined if Potter had imbibed any of the potion. The amount of potion left was disturbingly little."

"There are no traces of the potion in the boy's mouth," the woman said a little exasperatedly.

"That doesn't prove anything. He might have casted a Scourgify for all I know."

"What'd he do that for?"

"It is not my lifetime ambition to figure the boy out, Poppy," the man rolled his eyes skyward. "The better question would be, why can't he, for once in his miserable life, follow the rules and stay in the Great Hall for breakfast like all the other dunderhead students do, instead of hiding himself away to explode a potion?"

"Fair point," Poppy sighed. She threw Harry a glare; Harry shrank back into his covers, eyes closed. "I'll make sure to ask him that when he wakes." She turned back towards the two men. "And you still haven't figured out what could have caused such an explosion?"

His Daddy bristled visibly. "Potions are delicate, Poppy, this one especially. Half a drop too much of Belladonna and this boy here," he stuck a long finger towards Harry, "could end up in a potion-induced coma for twenty years. There are simply too many variables for me to determine the source of the explosion. For all I know, he could have thrown a firecracker into the potion after he finished it."

The woman ignored his last comment. "But he did it right. Surely that narrows it down a little."

"I'll have to refer to the other Potion Masters for a definite answer, but now, the most probable situation is that an unknown ingredient was added into the potion which may not have affected the potion, but reacted with the cauldron."

"It still doesn't explain why he passed out."

"The potion is designed, as I said before, to dull the conscious mind," the man's tone was growing more and more impatient. "How else do you think the potion would affect Potter, make him dance and sing in the Great Hall?"

"But from what I read, the drinker sleeps, not faints!"

"As I've said, there are too many variables. Potter could have-"

"Perhaps we should discuss this after Harry wakes, when he could provide some insight on his other injuries," Albus cut in. "What about his physical diagnosis, Poppy?"

The woman sniffed, but recited dutifully. "There are no major injuries to his torso for now, thank Merlin, though there are too many shards of glasses embedded in his back which I had removed. I've knitted the skin together temporarily with a spell, but he'll need one of your Tissue-Knitting potions soon, Severus. The spell won't hold for too long," She addressed his Daddy tersely. He nodded curtly, his lips thinning against whatever response he had.

Harry rolled the name in his head. Severus. And smiled slightly to himself despite the roiling confusion. The nibbling on his thumb continued.

"However, there's bound to be serious scarring if not treated promptly and closely enough," the woman clucked disapprovingly, then her voice softened imperceptibly. "It's not like the boy needs any more." After a few moments, she turned to the strange old man. "Albus, do you think we could..." She started tentatively, flicking a surreptitious glance at his Daddy.

"No," the black-haired man snarled at her suddenly, as if grasping the woman's intentions. Harry jumped a little. "You go too far, Poppy." The dark-haired man said coldly, and when that failed to elicit any response besides the woman's thinned lips, he spun towards the bespectacled old man. "I will not have him intruding on my private space. I do not want, nor do I need, to have anything to do with him. This is too much to ask, Albus. No." The last word lingered in the air, a foul curse.

Silence ensued. Harry's gaze moved from one to another, uncomprehending. A faraway bell tolled several times.

Then, an exhaled breath filled with disbelief, defeat and the weariness of a man bearing too many responsibilities he loathed. Harry wondered at the sound, marveling at how he could recognize that many feelings from a simple sound. He watched as his Daddy turned away from the crowd, eyes closed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The man named Albus merely gazed at his Daddy calmly, not even responding when Severus raised his head defensively. Harry couldn't really grasp what they were talking about, but he had a good idea that they were talking about him. He shut his eyes briefly when his Daddy glanced his way, his heart pounding furiously at the anger his Daddy's eyes held. A wave of something inexplicable swept over Harry, and a few bottles by his side rattled slightly.

"Severus," the old man, Albus, finally said, if a bit hesitating. "You are the only one qualified for that, Severus. You know that."

"What's a few more scars to the boy?  This is not necessary."

"You know better than I do what it means to Harry, Severus."

Silence again. Albus seemed to frown for a moment, and then continued tentatively when the darkly-clad man refused to acknowledge the question.

"Severus, if this is Mr. Malfoy instead of Harry, would you say the same thing?"

The man's lips thinned. "That is not relevant, Albus."

"Should Mr. Malfoy lie here instead of Harry, I'd very much doubt your answer will be the same."

"Don't you dare, Albus!" His Daddy whirled around suddenly, his eyes blazing, his voice a low menacing hiss. "Draco has nothing to do with this. Don't you dare use his wellbeing against me like one of those disposable pawns in that blasted game you like to play!" His jaw flexed a few times, his eyes trained on the old man, challenging him to argue.

Albus didn't even flinch. He held the younger wizard's gaze, though his shoulders slumped minutely from the accusations. "That isn't what I mea-"

"Yes, it is."

"Severus, you are being unreasonable. What I was only trying to say is that they are both your godsons. There shouldn't be a difference in the way you treat them."

"Because Potter is so important in that game you play. So what if there's a difference? You never did care before, Albus."

"I did care, Severus," the old man corrected. His Daddy arched a skeptic eyebrow, but Albus continued to hold the man's gaze. "But I trusted you to not get carried away. I trusted you to do the right thing when the time comes. I trusted you, as Lily did sixteen years ago."  

The words came as a blow to his Daddy, Harry could see, and something inside him constricted painfully despite the loathing he still felt-why does he loathe his Daddy?-towards the man. But somehow he knew he couldn't go to his Daddy yet, couldn't risk to comfort-and to find comfort from-the man. So Harry swallowed back the desire and pushed himself further into the covers. His thumb was rapidly becoming sore; the nibbling almost frantic, but Harry ignored it. The scene in front of him began to unfold rapidly

**MS**

"I trusted you, as Lily did sixteen years ago." 

Despite knowing that Albus would, eventually, mention her, Snape had never thought it would come in such a way. It stung at his conscience, even though he knew Albus never intended it that way. Or maybe he did, as he eyed the calculation flashing across Albus' eyes. He'd never treated Potter fairly, and both of them knew it, however much Snape would like to deny it.

Snape took a deep breath, clamping his shields down together until he felt the cool indifference sweep over him again, though he could still feel the roiling emotions beneath the seemingly cool façade, willing his shields to fail. He had to leave this room, and he had to leave now.

"Enough of this," he said with as much calm he could muster. "I will not stand and take this anymore. Do what you will with the boy, but do not expect me to take him." He whirled around in a storm of fabric and stormed towards the exit.

The huge oak doors slammed shut with a muted thud.

Snape stopped short. Did he just...

The indignity of being denied exit like an errant student, coupled with the previous attacks on his conscience and the confusing-not to mention horrifying-encounter with Potter in the Room struck hard at his shields, and they fell, crumbled into ashes as the tightly controlled anger finally burst out of their confines.

He turned slowly, his limbs straining with the effort of restraining himself. The occupants of the room cringed visibly as he raked his eyes over each of them, finally resting his fiery gaze on Dumbledore. "Release me," he demanded, his voice barely a whisper.

"Not until you hear me out, no."

"There is nothing you have to say that is even remotely worth listening; nothing, you hear me?" the words, hisses now, barely making it past Snape's gritted teeth. "I have absolutely no interest in changing my mind about the Potter brat, nor do I wish for you to continue insulting my failure in coddling that hero of yours!"

"You cannot let your hatred blind you to your dut-"

"How dare you!" Snape finally broke, his voice rising dangerously as he stormed back to glare at Dumbledore. " I have carried out every task you set me, every single task, no matter how ghastly or unspeakable; risked my life for six years to protect that boy of yours whose life ambition is to break all the rules ever created, and you dare accuse me of not doing my duty?" He was shouting now, his fists tightly clenched. "What do you take me for, Albus?"

"Severus..." Dumbledore ran a weary hand over his face. "I recognize the sacrifices you have made, and I cannot fully express my gratitude.  If you'd hear me out, I was in no way insinuating that you've neglected your duty, merely that you should not let the past influence the future. We cannot change the past."

"You're absolutely correct, Headmaster," Snape all but snarled. "Then you must understand I cannot change how I feel towards Potter."

This time, Dumbledore sighed, the heavy breath almost tangible in the tension of the room. "When Lily made you her son's godfather, she expected you to not only protect the boy, but also to care for him-and not just out of a sense of duty."

"Most unfortunate then, that she misplaced her expectations." It hurt slightly that he was insulting Lily, but he was already long past the point of control.

Albus eyes flashed. "I had assumed you knew what you were agreeing to when Lily made you her son's godfather, especially when Voldemort was on a rapid rise with you as a spy. She knew what she was doing, and yet she still trusted you with her son, as Narcissa Malfoy did. Or have you forgotten that?"

Nobody realized that the bottles lining the shelves that surrounded the room was trembling slightly as Snape made out his reply, loudly. "Then let me refresh your memory, Albus! She did not give me a choice! All she did was leave me a will, a single sentence that threw Potter to me; no further correspondence, no letters, no memories, nothing!"

"Then you should have questioned yourself why Lily did what she did! You should have tried, at least, to get to know Harry. He is not James, Severus." Dumbledore drew to his full height, the twinkle in eyes contorting to a blaze.

Snape snorted in disbelief. "You expect me to believe that, even after what he did not hours ago? He is exactly what James was-an arrogant, foolish, rule-breaking troublemaker! You keep telling me that, Albus, but he has not proved himself otherwise!" The clattering of the bottles increased in intensity, but in the heat of the verbal sparring, no one noticed. "He has never proved him otherwise! Or have you conveniently forgotten how he poked his nose in my Pensieve so he could gloat as his father taunt ‘poor little Snivellus'?" The last word was spat out with such contempt that even Dumbledore winced. "Has it finally slipped your mind how he raced to the Ministry last year despite all attempts to keep him here in the school? Or how he destroyed your whole office in his little temper tantrum?"

 "You see what you want to see, Severus," Dumbledore's eyes were positively steely now. "None of the professors find him so, and-"

Snape could hear no more-his temper was getting out of hand, not to mention his magic. His hand itched towards his wand, but before he could reach it, Dumbledore was thrown away from him towards the opposite wall, a loud ‘crack' reverberating when Dumbledore's head hit the wall. Dumbledore slumped against the wall, looking dazed as Pomfrey elicited a shocked gasp and hurried towards him.

Snape stared at Dumbledore in horror, his eyes immediately accessing their surroundings for hints of attack, and then finally making its way back to his hands. He had known his magic was uncontrollable sometimes, given his temper, but it had never gotten so out of hand. Dumbledore rose shakily, guided by Pomfrey, who was currently running a diagnostics over the elder wizard.

Dumbledore caught his gaze, a questioning look in his eyes. Snape cursed himself; there was no accusation in those blue eyes, not even a trace of hurt; only mere curiosity. His guilt tripled; he should have known better than to lose control.

Until he caught sight of a pair of large emerald eyes peeking at him from under the covers.

A few potion vials on Potter's bedside table were shattered, its broken shards a patterned perfect circle, each shard even in shape and size-a definite tell of accidental magic. Dumbledore seemed to have noticed as well, as he motioned for Pomfrey to cast a diagnostic on the frozen teen under the covers.

Pomfrey's nod confirmed that Potter was indeed awake, and yes, the accidental bout of magic had originated from him. Snape furiously turned to shout at him, but when he found the large green eyes staring back at him, filled with so much fear, hurt and confusion, he couldn't find his voice. In that moment, he was no longer Professor Snape, glaring at a frightened Harry Potter.

No, that very moment, he was Sev again, staring helplessly at a broken-hearted Lily crying over her father's death.

But he didn't have much time to ponder over that, for the next second, a white blur swooped into the Infirmary, almost knocking over a torch, deposited a single vial with a note attached in the middle of the air and swooped out of the room as suddenly as it had come.

The vial hung in midair for a few seconds before floating softly onto the ground with a soft clink, unbearably loud in the sudden stillness within the Infirmary. The note bore only two words, but the handwriting was enough to immobilize Snape's entire body.

For me.

There was only one person in the whole world Snape knew who curled the end of the "e" in such a telling way. His mind was screaming at him, the name reverberating in whispers, cries, pleas, and then, shrieks inside him, a frantic repeat, over and over again.

Lily. Lily. Lily.

Something inside him broke, and his knees began to tremble for no reason at all. He whirled away from the crowd, unable to withstand another minute in the room, fleeing for the matron's office, his strides hurried and distressed. He barely registered the whimpered "Daddy" that elicited from the dark haired teen, or the shock on both Dumbledore and Pomfrey's faces from the word. Nothing else mattered. All he knew was that he had to get away from here.

The Floo flared green, and then Snape was gone, leaving Dumbledore and the teen staring sorrowfully at the empty fireplace.