Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
Important stuff first - TRIGGER WARNING for bullying/violence in the second half of the chapter (so from the break. Nothing to do with Snape, so don't anyone panic!) Harry doesn't get hurt (much . . . I don't think), but the threat/potential is there.

Secondly, I blame my beta for the beginning of the chapter. We were discussing what kind of animal Fudge's patronus might be - just in case it comes up again later - and it went from "something weasel-y" to llamas to . . . well, this. It's very hard to say no to your beta when she's demanding stuff!
Chapter 11

Severus was in a roaring temper. His potions were waiting for ingredients he’d ordered from the Apothecary in Diagon Alley, and yet here he was, three days later, still waiting for his order to arrive. And in the meantime, his potions were being ruined. He’d managed to salvage some of them, once it had become clear that the order wouldn’t be arriving straight away, by putting them under stasis charms, but several of them wouldn’t react well to that, so he was reduced to constantly checking the temperature of the flames under the cauldrons. Two of them had already over-boiled, and one had somehow managed to cool down so much that it had practically frozen.

 

“How long does it take for you to put together an owl-order?” he barked at a hapless assistant through his Floo. “I have been waiting three days for this order, and several potions are ruined! If my orders are going to be a problem, then I can always find another apothecary,” he threatened.

 

“But sir, we did send your order,” the assistant protested, almost in tears. “We’ve tried sending it half a dozen times, but the owls keep coming back. You have to remove whatever ward you’ve got up before they can get through.”

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Severus growled. He folded his arms and glared at the young witch. “I do. Not. Have any wards up to prevent owls!” he said. “And even if I did, do you really think I am so abysmally stupid as to leave them up when I am expecting an owl?”

 

“N-no, sir, of course not,” the assistant stammered, the colour draining from her face.

 

“Then you obviously have defective owls,” Severus growled. “Kindly find one that isn’t, and deliver my order immediately!” And he cut the connection so fiercely that he swore he heard the assistant squeak as she was forced out of the fireplace.

 

Scowling, Severus did one more check of all the cauldrons, then stalked back up the yard to the house.

 

Potter was curled up in his armchair, resting one of his Muggle notepads on his drawn-up knees, his Transfiguration textbook balanced on the arm beside him. He glanced up as Severus slammed the back door shut behind himself. At least this time, the brat’s look wasn’t wary, with a slight edge of betrayal. Severus had no idea what the boy thought he’d done this time, but at least Potter had enough sense to keep it to himself.

 

“Still no sign of your owl, Potter?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

 

“No, sir,” Potter replied, slowly shaking his head. “No sign of any owls at all.”

 

“Hmm.” Severus frowned again. This was getting beyond a joke now.

 

As if to emphasise this thought, a large silvery shape suddenly darted through the front wall, coming to a prancing halt in between Severus and Potter. Both wizards gaped at it.

 

“Severus, really, now, this cannot continue!” Albus’ voice came out of the thing. Strangely, it seemed to have an echo about it. “I must have that potion, and am running out of time! Kindly send it at once! Or tell me when it’s ready, and I’ll come and fetch it.”

 

Severus glared at the patronus – which looked like a llama – in front of him. “Albus, for the last time, I have received NO OWLS! I – I – wha –?” he stuttered to a halt, as not only did the silvery llama head in front of him glare at him, but a second head swivelled around from behind the first to face him, too, its ears pinned back and a very unfriendly expression on its face.

 

“Sir, what is that?!” Potter exclaimed.

 

“I . . . I . . . I have no idea,” Severus finally admitted. He blinked a few times, but the strange creature didn’t change in any way. He took a hasty step back as the second head wrinkled its upper lip at him, exposing large, off-white teeth, and made a low grunting noise in its throat.

 

The first head suddenly whipped backwards and sideways, head-butting the second head. The second head gave a low grumbling sound, but straightened out its lip so that its teeth were hidden again. It also suddenly snapped around again to face behind it, causing Potter – who’d slid off the chair to examine the creature more closely – to jerk backwards with a yelp and almost fall over the armchair.

 

“Ah, Albus, I haven’t added any new wards. You are welcome to come and see for yourself. And perhaps you could give me the details about the potion you want at the same time,” Severus said to the thing, hesitantly. He gave a short nod, indicating that he had no more message to give, and the . . . whatever it was gave a rolling snort, did a strange sort of bow with its knees and head, and then galloped backwards away from him and out through the front wall again.

 

Severus ran a hand over his face and blew out his breath in one short expulsion. He had no idea what on earth that creature had been, nor how Albus had come to change his patronus, since the last time he’d seen it, it had been a brilliant phoenix.

 

When he looked up again, Potter was still gripping tightly to the back and arm of the chair. Severus had just opened his mouth to say something – although he had no idea what. Was he supposed to comfort the boy somehow? – when there was a muted crack from the back yard, and with barely a tap at the back door, Albus was striding into the house as though he owned it.

 

“You did say I could come and see for myself,” the headmaster said as Severus swung around to face him. Severus scowled at him.

 

“I’m quite sure I didn’t mean this instant,” he grumbled, but Albus blithely ignored him and swept past him into the living room.

 

“Hello, Harry!” the headmaster said, cheerfully. “And how is your summer going?”

 

“Um, hello, sir,” was all Potter managed, blinking at the headmaster.

 

“Good, good,” Albus enthused, ignoring the fact that Potter hadn’t actually answered him. He withdrew his wand from the sleeve of his robe and brandished it in the air like a sword. “Now just hold still for a moment, my boys; this won’t take long!”

 

Instantly, Severus felt the build-up of magic filling his small living room. He worked his jaw, trying to make his ears pop against pressure that wasn’t actually there, and saw Potter shaking his head. The magic built even further, and the inside of the front door and the hidden door that covered the staircase began to glow a gentle golden colour, as did the two armchairs. Uttering a startled squeak, Potter let go of the chair as though the glow had burnt his hands.

 

Frowning at his wand, Albus shook it slightly, and then pointedly stabbed it higher in the air. The magic built up again, the non-existent pressure humming faintly against Severus’ skin. Potter winced, and began rubbing his hands up and down his arms. His hair was giving out deep green sparks now, and if it hadn’t been so terminally messy already, Severus would have said it was standing on end. His own hair was beginning to float at the ends, and purple sparks flashed over his robes as he folded his arms.

 

Albus was covered in flashing red sparks, but even so, he still looked unhappy. With a short huff of air through his nose, he brandished the wand even higher, looking grimly determined.

 

The air began to whine under the influence of the magic filling the room. Severus could see Potter gaping at Albus and himself – no doubt the boy had spotted the faint golden glow of their magical cores, although he obviously hadn’t seen his own yet.

 

“If you are quite satisfied, Albus?” he said, and his voice sounded overly loud, as though he was shouting to be heard over nothing. “Any more and my existing spells will be overloaded.”

 

With an exasperated snort, the headmaster brought his wand down to his side, giving it a shake as though to turn it off. The feeling of pressure in the air abruptly died away, and Potter staggered, reaching out to grip the armchair again.

 

“I don’t understand,” Albus complained, glaring at his wand and then at the walls as though they’d personally betrayed him. “You must have done something! It just isn’t possible that so many owls would get lost on their way here.”

 

“You just saw it for yourself,” Severus pointed out, reaching up to smooth down the flyaway ends of his hair. “I have no extra wards on this house. I have no idea why the owls aren’t getting through.”

 

Grumbling – almost – inaudibly, Albus sat down in Severus’ armchair. Severus sighed as he noticed Potter’s wide-eyed look at the headmaster. Apparently the elderly wizard’s words were clearly audible to him.

 

“When did your patronus change, Albus?” he asked, abruptly.

 

“Oh, I was paying a call on an old friend, whose great-granddaughter happens to be a squib. My friend’s grandson-in-law is a Muggle, although it is of course impossible to prove one way or the other whether that had any effect on poor Lucille not having any magic,” Albus confided. He’d perked himself up enough that he waved his wand to conjure tea for himself and Severus, and what looked like pumpkin juice for Potter.

 

Potter gingerly took the glass from the air, and tentatively sipped. He immediately pulled a face and spat the mouthful back into the glass. Apparently it wasn’t pumpkin juice, after all.

 

“Anyway,” Albus continued, seemingly oblivious to Potter’s bad manners, “little Lucille was watching the most fascinating thing on . . . oh, what was it called now?” Albus furrowed his brows. “Ah – telekvisheon!” he exclaimed, triumphantly. Severus rolled his eyes, and Potter turned his head away, biting his hand as he did so.

 

Television, Albus,” corrected Severus, shaking his head.

 

“Yes, that,” agreed the headmaster. “Anyhoo, it was showing a man who was able to talk to animals – oh, he had the most wonderful adventures because of it!” The twinkle reappeared in Albus’ eyes and swiftly grew to blinding proportions. “Someone sent him a very rare creature as a gift, called a pushmipullyou. I couldn’t help but think how marvellous it would be to have a conversation with an animal like that, and the next time I cast my patronus, out one popped!”

 

Potter was going to bite his hand off and choke himself to death if he bit it any harder, Severus thought, eyeing the boy, whose shoulders were noticeably quivering now, and small muffled sounds drifted over to him.

 

“Potter, isn’t it time you went for your daily constitutional,” Severus said, pointedly, and the brat nodded and instantly darted towards the front door. He gave a vague wave of the hand that wasn’t between his teeth as he hurried outside.

 

Severus shook his head as the door slammed shut behind the boy, and went to sit on the empty armchair. “Perhaps we should discuss how to find out what is happening to all the owls,” he began.

 

 


Once he was several doors away, Harry finally felt safe enough to let out the giggles he’d been trying to hold in. He had no idea what on earth the headmaster had seen, but since he’d seen it on TV, it obviously hadn’t been a documentary of any sort.

 

Leaning against a nearby wall, Harry gasped for breath, before looking around, trying to decide where to go. There really was nothing to do in the ‘park’ – he’d seen it all in the first ten seconds – and he didn’t want to go just for the sake of going.

 

The sound of loud shrieks of raucous laughter coming from somewhere nearby made him decide that, at the very least, he wasn’t going that way. Pushing away from the brick, Harry wandered down the street and ducked into a road that branched off on the right. It seemed to be even more deserted than Snape’s own street was – three out of every four houses was boarded up. It also dead-ended in a brick wall that towered over Harry’s head, so he sighed and turned to go back the way he’d come.

 

Unfortunately, it appeared the owners of the raucous laughter had found him.

 

A group of three girls and four boys were standing at the entrance of the road, not obviously blocking his way, but making it clear that he’d have to run their gauntlet to get past them. Since they all appeared to be in their late teens, Harry didn’t hold out much hope for that.

 

Feeling a terrible sense of déjà vu, Harry tried to quickly size up his options. He couldn’t go forwards – not if he wanted to come out of this encounter unscathed. He couldn’t go sideways – even if he miraculously found an un-boarded house with someone home, the chances of them opening the door, or even being willing to, before he got caught by the gang were not good. He couldn’t go backwards – that wall was still much too high for him to be able to scale it.

 

Miserably, Harry wished for his broom, or even his invisibility cloak. He couldn’t see any way he was getting out of this. At least Dudley and his gang had only used their fists and feet. Two of the boys in front of him were carrying long metal pipes, and one of the girls appeared to be wearing steel-toed boots. Harry gulped.

 

“Well, well,” sneered one of the boys. “What do we have here.”

 

“Looks like the little baby is well and truly lost,” giggled one of the girls. Even from where he stood, Harry could see that her eyes were wild and strangely unfocused. She was swinging a tied-up black bin bag by its knot, and something inside it appeared to be moving, although Harry couldn’t tell if there was actually something moving, or whether it was just the movement of the bag shifting whatever was inside.

 

And then his question was answered by the loud screech of a panicked bird coming from the bag. Harry’s blood ran cold. That was what the laughter had been for.

 

“You’re new,” one of the other girls stated, tilting her head to look at him.

 

“I – I just . . . came to live with Pro—, uh, Mr Snape,” Harry stuttered, taking a couple of quick steps back as the gang spread out in front of him. The girl who was high casually dropped the bin bag, uncaring of where or how it landed. The gang all ignored the loud squawk that came from the bag.

 

“Snape? That weird nutter?” One of the boys threw his head back and cackled. “He’s your dad?! Guess he’s too weird to want you before now, huh.”

 

Harry barely stopped himself from grimacing. Snape’d have a fit if he ever heard anyone suggesting that he was Harry’s dad. One of the boys with a lead pipe began tapping it against his leg. The other boy with a pipe had it resting casually on his shoulder. With one standing on either end of the line, Harry resigned himself to getting hit by one of them.

 

“I think the little babba deserves to be given a warm welcome,” giggled the junkie girl. Her eyes wheeled as she grinned at Harry. It was not a reassuring smile.

 

“Our turf,” grunted the girl wearing steel-toed boots. She took a step towards Harry. “Got to pay the toll to be on our turf.”

 

It didn’t take someone of Hermione’s brains to work out just how the ‘toll’ would be paid. Beginning to tremble, Harry’s thoughts raced, calculating his odds. If that girl stayed put, and that boy moved two steps that way, he just might be able to dart past them with maybe just a tap on the shoulder . . .

 

His heart rate increased as Harry shifted all his weight to one foot, preparing to run. Unfortunately, the gang did not cooperate with his plans, and that girl moved towards him, and that boy moved three steps the other way, leaving the only space in between the junkie girl and the one with the steel-toed boots.

 

“Get the squirt!” one of the boys bellowed, and the entire gang was suddenly advancing on Harry.

 

The next few moments passed in a blur for Harry. He ducked and twisted and dodged. Trying to avoid a girl’s grasping hands and one boy’s lead pipe, Harry almost fell over the bin bag. He felt the rush as the pipe just brushed over his shoulder, and suddenly remembered the emergency portkey that Snape had given him.

 

If he’d had time, Harry would have smacked his own forehead. Ducking down to grab the bin bag, he frantically slapped twice at his own collarbone. As something grabbed hold and pulled through his navel, the world disappeared in a sickening rush, and the last clear thing Harry saw was the lead pipe heading straight for where his head had been.
Chapter End Notes:
Of course, Albus is talking about the 1967 film version of Dr Doolittle, starring Rex Harrison.

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