Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello lovely readers, here is chapter two for you. Sorry for the delay in posting. I'm not 100% happy with how it turned out but I've been spending the better part of two days twisting, turning and editing it and I don't think there's anything more I can do to change it at the moment. I guess I'll just post it now and leave it alone before I ruin it with too much editing.

I would like to thank every single person who took the time to review this story so far--your comments literally make my day. Whenever I receive an email notifying me of a new review, I feel like doing a little dance.

Happy reading!


WARNING: This chapter contains violence and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised.
Lily

 

The mugginess of the afternoon is oppressive with the promise of another storm as if Cokeworth has been snatched off the map and placed inside a looped Atmospheric Charm.  It is dark too, Snape thinks with irritation, as he spells the lights on with a flick of his wand before averting his gaze back to the N.E.W.T. papers he started marking an hour earlier. It is a welcome routine, sitting at the desk in his tome-packed lounge, filling in the margins of some unlucky Hufflepuff with a cascade of angry red writing. And under different circumstances, the pile of marked papers would have been somewhat larger by now.

As it is, he finds himself unable to stop thinking of the raven haired teenager sleeping upstairs. After the incident in his basement lab, the Potions Master laced the boy’s Calming Draught with a mild dose of Dreamless Sleep, partly because Potter seemed mentally exhausted after the ordeal, but also because Snape needed time to think. Yet the more his mind nitpicks the details of Potter’s behaviour, the more disconcerting he finds the realities of the boy’s trauma. Because Snape knows what Voldemort is capable of. He has seen the disturbing aftermath of the Dark Lord’s torture sprees, the hollowness within his victim’s faces after Cruciatus has liquefied their minds and tousled their limbs. And he can clearly picture the acquiescent relief behind their eyes when the jet green light of Avada Kedavra ends it all in a flash. It is always relief.

But not Potter. The boy will not suffer the same fate as Voldemort’s nameless victims, no matter how broken he is and how impossible the job of bringing him out of his trauma suddenly seems to him. Because Harry Potter is not just a strategic asset in the war, regardless of how many people discount his worth except as it relates to helping others. He is a child, made of bone and muscle and annoying, dishevelled hair. He is her child. The child she gave her life to protect.

Yet he is also a child he never took the time to really know. The most he ever saw in him, through eyes perpetually pointed in aversion, was that his resemblance to James Potter only sharpened as the years passed. After that, it was solely the perfunctory looks he gave him in class. And even when he had Potter in detention, it was his father he saw when he sneered at him. Not that the boy ever made much effort to look at him. Perhaps if he had done so, Lily’s eyes would have softened his taunts and insults.  

How easily his bitterness had grown as the years passed. How easily he reclined in his ignorance and allowed his resentment at the boy’s father to cloud his better judgement. And every time Potter crossed his path, he simply allowed himself to indulge in his frustration, picking on him every chance he got, feeling his satisfaction grow every time the boy’s face contracted in hurt, confusion and then, in later years hate and defiance.  

But they are not at Hogwarts now, and Snape cannot placate his conscience by thinking that his prejudice towards the boy simply solidifies his cover. Because it has never been just a cover. His dislike of the boy has never been just superficial. And yet now that he is away from the eyes of Hogwarts, Snape has to face this intolerable truth, this huge paradigm shift that seems to have crept upon him when he least expected it. Because loath as he is to admit it, the boy is not his father.

Sighting, Snape drifts his eyes to the muggle hardback protruding from underneath a pile of third-year essays, and he finds the sight of its bright yellow title already galls him: Treating Traumatic Stress in Children and Adolescents. As if the old coot’s intentions were not obvious enough during his visit the previous night, Snape thinks with burgeoning distaste.

Bonding.

He sneers at the word as if it personally wronged him because the prospect of delving even deeper into the haze of Potter’s dented psyche does not fill him with enthusiasm. Nevertheless, he feels a sense of responsibility he cannot ignore as his eyes drift somewhat ominously towards Potter’s school trunk which sits incongruously next to the fireplace. Dumbledore had sent it through the floo earlier that day together with that blasted psychology book and a bag of sherbet lemons. Drawing his eyebrows together in unmasked irritation, Snape abruptly puts his self-inking quill away and stands from his chair.

Stepping around his desk, he walks up to the offending item, bends down and brusquely opens its lid. He doesn’t exactly know what he is trying to find, but as he starts rummaging through the contents, his lips purse in distaste at the colossal mess of old socks, crumpled pieces of parchment, oversized clothes and empty candy wrappers. There are a couple of old school books piled up in one corner, a number of broken quills and empty inkwells, an old Gryffindor tie and a number of plastic toy soldiers which make Snape’s eyebrow arch inquisitively. Why would Potter want to keep such inane pieces of plastic?

Narrowly avoiding cutting his hand on a piece of broken mirror, Snape delves further into the trunk and snatches out a large leather-bound book which turns out to be a photo album. Intrigued despite himself, he begins flicking through it, quickly turning the pages dedicated to the boy’s obnoxious friends until he finds one of Lily and Potter senior on their wedding day. A deeply buried bitterness washes over Snape as he watches her smile and wave at the camera before Potter swirls her away towards the dance floor, her ivory coloured dress floating in the mild summer breeze.

The naïve fool. If befriending the likes of Pettigrew in school had been thoughtless enough, trusting him with their lives had been downright idiotic. Loath as he is to admit it, at least the flea-bitten mongrel they chose to be the boy’s godfather would have been a loyal Secret Keeper.

And Lily might have been alive.

Yet she is not. She died as much because of the rat as she did because of him. And every day since, Snape wakes up wishing he were dead instead.

He abruptly closes the album because the knowledge that he knew her more than her child ever would makes his chest contract with a tightness he has not allowed himself to feel in years. Because Snape can remember the exact shade of her hair in the sunlight and the way her brows furrowed when she concentrated on a particularly complicated charm.

But Potter will never truly know such details. The most the boy remembers of his mother is her body falling to the floor in perpetual lifelessness. That and her piercing scream beforehand, a detail Dumbledore did not fail to mention during one of their meetings a couple of years ago.

Suddenly, a spectral idea begins to take from within the Potions Master’s head, steadily growing in strength and boldness.

Perhaps there is a way to help the boy.


At an unspecified time in the afternoon of July fourteenth, 1996, the Dreamless Sleep administered to Harry Potter by Severus Snape earlier that day loses its potency and is fully absorbed by the former’s magical core. Slowly, as the indistinctive fog lifts, hues, forms, and shapes begin to stand out inside Harry’s head, growing in strength until his surroundings are as bold and detailed as a scene from reality.

An inexplicable sense of danger takes over his body as his anxiety suddenly surges to life and hits him full force. The grey blanket covering his body is tight, too tight and he begins thrashing about until he manages to liberate himself from its folds. Even then, however, he does not wake up.  

Once the clicking of boots on stone becomes audible, Harry begins to tremble with such intensity that the cluttering of his teeth is almost painful. He forgets about the cold, about the gruelling thirst and the dull pain in his stomach from not having eaten in days. All he can focus on is the regal silhouette of Lucius Malfoy as he steadily approaches from the distance. He nearly trips over the heavy chains spelled around his ankles in a futile effort to get as far away from the bars of his damp cell as possible. But, like the day before and the day before that, what comes next is inevitable. And on some level, Harry knows it too. Because the stoicism with which he prided himself upon first meeting Voldemort is almost fully gone, and he has screamed out in pain far too many times to still care about his dignity.

Still, Malfoy’s torture is of a somewhat different calibre to Voldemort’s, and not necessarily in terms of sadism and intensity, but rather in terms of creativity. Voldemort does not experiment on Harry, he is far too busy nitpicking answers out of him to devise new ways of shattering his bones or peeling his skin and then re-attaching it to his muscles.

No…a simple Cruciatus here, a carefully controlled Transmogrifian there...that is the extent of the Dark Lord’s patience with Harry’s bodily torture. It is Malfoy who has the time and forbearance to inflict his morbid cruelty upon Harry. And as long as by the end of each session he is still in one piece and relatively sane, Voldemort does not object.  

Harry is suddenly jolted out of his thoughts by the sound of the iron-barred door abruptly opening, its screeching noise bringing a chill to his spine. It sounds almost like a dying animal, crying out its pain and sorrow with its last breath. Through the mop of messy black hair, Harry gives Lucius Malfoy a quick, apprehensive glance, already deducing that the man is not in a good mood. Everything from his stiff posture to the rigid way he holds his cane suggests it and Harry winces, already anticipating a great amount of pain coming his way. As soon as Lucius is fully inside the cell, his frozen eyes begin glinting venomously at Harry and a lopsided grin appears on his face.

“Up boy!” he suddenly commands and Harry tries to comply because he doesn’t want to be cursed just yet. He is unable to fully stand, however, the toll on his body having already caught up with him, and his legs wobble a little before his knees give way and he falls to the ground. The room, together with Malfoy’s sneering face begins to swirl around him, but then a vicious kick to his ribs brings the dark cell back into focus. He hears a decisive crack and a muffled sob escapes his dry lips. “Do not make me hurt you again, Harry. The Dark Lord has requested to see you. You mustn’t make him wait. Now do as I say. Stand!” he orders, his voice deceptively soft.

“Voldemort can go fuck himself,” he suddenly says, not quite knowing where the defiance come from.

“Really Harry, such foul language ill becomes you. There is no need to be so reticent. Have you already forgotten our little lesson on proper manners?” Lucius seethes, pointing his wand at Harry. “Perhaps you simply need a reminder. Crucio!”

Harry screams, loudly, his body convulsing with the sensation of a thousand hot knives stabbing his body. The pain is blinding...he can taste the bile in his throat, and every breath he takes intensifies the agony that seems to be spreading all over his body. And then, just like that, it is all over. 

“Now look what you made me do,” Lucius intones rather distastefully. “Stand up!”

Harry begins thrashing about in bed as if his body wishes to wake him, but the efforts are futile and his nightmare persists.

He notices the smell of rotting flesh even before his knees graze from the impact of being pushed to the floor. The damp, circular room he finds himself in spins slightly and the stone pillars encircling it remind him of the bars from his cell. When his stinging eyes manage to regain focus, Harry realises two things: the first, is that Voldemort’s red orbs are regarding him closely, his lips curling into a bone-chilling smile the minute Harry looks at him. The second thing is that save for the two of them, there is no one else in that grand room, not even Malfoy who seems to have simply delivered Harry and left.

It is strange, Harry thinks. Usually, Voldemort likes having a grand audience when he tortures him.

“Harry, how good of you to join me so promptly,” Voldemort suddenly says, his voice clear and cold. “Please, do stand.”

Harry feels a huge force swirling him to his feet as Voldemort holds a blue-tinted hand towards him. He is relieved his knees do not buckle this time and wonders for a moment if Voldemort’s magic is holding him up. “Just kill me already, Tom,” he finds himself saying in a hoarse voice and is surprised when Voldemort’s laugh echoes through the room.

“Oh, I will, Harry. But first, a gift,” he intones, his voice suddenly serious as he motions for Harry to come closer. For a moment, the anticipating glint in his red eyes reminds Harry strangely of Dumbledore and he can’t help feeling foolish for having been so angry at the headmaster the last time he had seen him. A grief-stricken longing fills Harry and he can’t help wishing he could see his mentor’s kind blue eyes one more time before dying. “Come, Harry,” Voldemort’s voice hisses, bringing Harry out of his reverie as his legs begin talking him of their own accord to where the Dark Lord is standing.

He doesn’t fight it, he knows he can’t fight against Voldemort’s spell. His scar begins throbbing and then burning as the space between him and his parents’ murderer is slowly reduced. By the time he is standing next to Voldemort’s tall frame, it takes all of his resolve not to clutch his forehead and cry out in pain. The smell of rotting flesh becomes more prominent and Harry is finally able to locate its source: somewhere behind Voldemort, Nagini’s coiling body feeds on what appears to be a partially decomposed human body. Even so, Harry is able to make out that the victim is a young, red-headed female. His stomach drops to the floor as an image of Ginny comes to the forefront of his mind. Ginny, who has always been so full of life. It can’t be, can it?

Following Harry’s gaze, Voldemort’s lips curl into a disturbing smile as he says, “Muggles. Yes, Nagini seems to have developed a taste for them.”

“You’re sick!” Harry exclaims but is nevertheless relieved. Not Ginny, he repeats inside his mind. Not Ginny. He attempts to step back as the pungent smell infests his nose, but he is unable to dislodge the spell Voldemort placed on his body.

“No, Harry, I am extraordinary. My vision will soon perfect the defective world in which we live and muggles will finally be put in their rightful place. It is a shame you will not live to see the results. Had your fate been different, you might have had the potential to be a most loyal servant.”

“I’d rather die than be your slave,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“All in good time. But, like I said before, I am offering you a most valuable gift,” Voldemort says, drawing out his wand and summoning, from seemingly nowhere, what Harry immediately recognises as a Pensieve. “Come, I want to share one of my most beloved memories with you. I have taken the liberty of...somewhat altering the experience. I’m sure you will find it most illuminating.”

In that moment, Harry knows that what Voldemort’s gift will be much, much worse than any bodily torture he has endured so far. “No!” he exclaims as Voldemort’s spell presses on his back and forces him to lower his face inside the familiar silver mist.

“Hush, now Harry. This is not the way to accept a gift,” Voldemort intones from somewhere above him and Harry is unable to fight the cold hand that suddenly descends on the back of his neck and forces his face deeper inside the vaporous liquid. He feels a nauseating sensation as he is tagged downwards and he falls and falls and he knows it is all over. He knows Voldemort has won.

“Breathe, Harry,” a deep voice urges from seemingly nowhere. 

He awakes with a violent jolt, feeling suffocated by his t-shirt, but the room, even by the muggy afternoon air. With every frantic blink of his eyes, the nightmare loses its potency until it finally releases him from its gripping clutches. He sits up in bed, lost for a moment in the vague interspace between his nightmare and the reality of the room in which he finds himself.

Because he can still smell the rotting flesh, he can still feel Voldemort’s reptilian hand on the back of his neck. And he also knows that his nightmare was not a fictitious construction of his troubled mind and that every part of it is deeply hinged in reality. Because Harry has lived through it. All of it.

Rubbing his eyes, he suddenly realises he feels more awake than he has done in days, the fogginess of his mind having lifted enough for him to distinguish what is real from what is not. A million thoughts begin swirling through his head as his scrambled emotions begin to disentangle and grow in strength. Harry slowly breathes out and closes his eyes. He can do this. He is stronger than this. If he opens his mouth, he will start speaking, he will pick up the fragmented pieces of his life and go on like he always had. He is Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the chosen one. He has to be strong.

But when he does open his eyes, the amalgamation of colours and shapes are suddenly overwhelming and his breath hitches in his throat. Any previous conviction that he could face his fears shatters almost completely as his chest contracts painfully, first with the memory of Sirius falling through the veil and then with flashbacks of Lucius Malfoy’s torture sessions, all amalgamated into one big wave of pain and horror.

The skin on his arms starts prickling and Harry begins scratching himself, hard, until his nails draw blood. He doesn’t fully register what he is doing, but equally, he doesn’t mind the pain. Not so long as he controls it. He can put an end to it whenever he wants to. He isn’t anyone’s victim this time.

One by one, his memories, feelings and worries are swallowed up until Harry feels once more empty and muddled until that line between what is real and what is imagined is conveniently blurred. He stops scratching his arms; there is no need for it now that he thinks of nothing. Now that he feels nothing.

Because Harry would rather be insentient for the rest of his life than spend even one minute remembering what he saw inside Voldemort’s Pensieve.



It is early evening by the time Harry creeps out of his room and uncertainly makes his way into Snape’s tome-packed parlour. He can hear the sound of soft, unrelenting rain pelting against the window and the smell of stew wafts through the air, making his stomach rumble rather loudly. He doesn’t take much notice of his hunger, however, as he walks through the parlour and into the doorway of Snape’s hoary kitchen where various utensils are chopping, stirring, and mixing of their own accord. A levitated chopping board is lowering finely sliced onions into a sizzling pan, while a small knife is swiftly peeling the potatoes and carrots.

The precision of this household spell captures Harry’s attention for a moment and as he stands watching it unfold from the kitchen doorway, vague memories of a plump red-haired woman start creeping across his mind. Mrs Weasley. Yes, that was her name. She used a similar sort of spell before when I was staying in a different place. Ron’s house…what do they call it again?

“Mr Potter,” says a familiar languid drawl from behind him. Harry abruptly turns around and takes a step back from the tall, dark man, whose eyes make no effort to hide their studiousness. “How good to see you have graced the living with your presence. I was beginning to think my old bed must have consumed you.”  Part of Harry notices that the man’s voice is not nearly as caustic as it normally is, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think the man expects him to either, for in the next instance, with a gesture of his head, Snape motions for Harry to step fully into the kitchen and sit at the table.

He does so, somewhat laconically, occupying the same seat he did at breakfast. Snape walks in after him, but instead of seating himself, he leans against the kitchen counter and crosses his arms, all the while his dark gaze not leaving Harry’s face. After a moment, he speaks again. “There are a few things we ought to discuss, Mr Potter. I know your…elective muteness will not be easily dislodged, but you will do well to listen.” The tone is strict, not dissimilar from the one he employs when teaching and Harry sits up in his chair, wearily watching the Potions Master from underneath a mop of messy black fringe. Content that he has the boy’s attention, Snape continues. “It is Professor Dumbledore’s wish that I help you overcome the predicament you appear to be currently entangled in. Due to the nature of our Occlumency lessons last year, I seem to be the most familiar with the meandering pathways of your mind. Whilst I am aware that under different circumstances the mere thought of spending an entire summer under my guardianship would fill you up with that obnoxious teenage angst you seem to relish in at school, you no longer have the luxury of such antics. As such,” Snape continues in a low voice, “I expect your full cooperation.”

Throughout his speech, Harry keeps his gaze on the man’s face without actually looking at him. It’s not so much that he is not paying attention to what Snape is saying; it is more that he doesn’t know how to react to the Professor’s instructions. Part of him is aware that he ought to be nauseated by the mere thought of Snape picking apart his mind, completely disregarding his privacy and having access to his most intimate memories. But that fragment is buried too deeply within Harry, and the reactions that would have otherwise accompanied such strong sentiments are fully repressed.

“Potter, do you understand what I am saying?” Snape asks, his tone taking a sharper turn.

It takes a moment or two, but Harry manages a small nod. Seemingly satisfied, Snape regards him closely for a second before crossing the small distance between himself and the table and lowering himself into a chair. “We will begin after dinner,” he informs Harry and soon enough, two bowls of stew promptly levitate themselves onto the table.

They eat in silence, Harry taking occasional drinks of his water, and Snape sipping his wine.

Afterwards, as the table clears and the dishes begin washing, the Potions Master guides Harry back into the parlour. “Sit,” he orders, pointing towards the armchair next to the fireplace. Harry does as instructed, enjoying the mild heat radiating from the flames. Snape occupies the other armchair which is separated from Harry’s by a small coffee table. He crosses his legs and laces his fingers together in his lap, a deliberate gesture on his part designed to make him appear more approachable.

“Nobody in this world wants to destroy you as absolutely as the Dark Lord does,” he begins after a moment, looking at the boy’s pallid features with more intensity than absolutely necessary. “Yet in the past five years, he has failed to do so on numerous occasions. Have you ever stopped to consider—truly consider—why this is?” he asks, deliberately lowering his voice at the end to emphasise the point of the question.

He doesn’t expect the boy to answer. Observing him closely as he has in the past day has made it clear that nothing short of a shock would make him speak again. But he lets the question sink in.

Because Snape knows—has known, even before he sat the boy down—that the cognitive wall Potter has constructed around himself cannot be broken with the brute force of one single blow. He also knows that forcing him to suddenly articulate his feelings will not yield any results; in fact, it could make the boy imprison himself even further into his mind. Any success has to be achieved through small, calculated steps. The conditions have to be perfected. Because Potter’s mind is suddenly a complicated, volatile potion. The wrong measurement, the wrong ingredient or temperature could create a dangerous catalyst that would quite possibly render him inert. He does not have much hope of succeeding, but he must try—cannot do otherwise.

“There is no doubt that your sheer dumb luck has kept you alive long enough for the Order to interfere, and at other times the Dark Lord’s verbal exultations prevented him from killing you when he had the chance. But that is not what I am getting at,” Snape continues after a moment, averting his gaze away from the boy because somehow seeing those empty green eyes makes his next sentence even harder to utter. “Your mother sacrificed herself so that you may live.”

There is suddenly a hint of emotion behind the boy’s glossy eyes and Snape takes it as a cue to continue. “You cannot let it all be in vain. Fight it, Potter. Whatever it is the Dark Lord has done to you, you can overcome it. Do it with the magic she has stored within you if you cannot do it of your own accord.” He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t need to elaborate. Because if this does not create a crack in Potter’s wall, then he doesn’t know what else would.

From a pocket of his robe, Snape takes out a photograph of a red-haired girl with emerald green eyes. It is not a photograph from the boy’s album, but rather his own, taken in the summer before their fifth year at Hogwarts. He hopes the boy will pick up on this, wonder why his hateful Potions Master would have a picture of his mother. Placing it on the coffee table between them, Snape sits back in his armchair and rests his hands on his legs, waiting for the boy to take it.

He doesn’t though. He doesn’t even look at it, and to Snape’s surprise, his body language considerably stiffens. Interesting.

“Take it.”

But Harry does not move. There is a painful lump within his chest and the room is suddenly too hot, the flames in the fireplace too oppressive. Snape is too oppressive. He doesn’t look irked by his inactivity, but the intensity of his obsidian eyes is somewhat frightening and Harry lowers his head in an attempt to shut it all out. He then hears a rustling noise and looks up to find that Snape has stood up from his armchair and is standing just before him, watching him from his imposing height. In one swift movement, he grabs the photograph and places it in his hands. “Look at her,” he orders, his voice tight.

But Harry turns his head away.

“Damn it Potter, look at her!” he suddenly snaps, leaning down towards the boy until his hands fall on either arm of the armchair, his face inches away from Harry’s, his eyebrows lowered rather menacingly.

Gulping, Harry glances at the picture in his hand, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. All his instinct scream danger, his mouth is dry, his arms are suddenly prickly and he cannot blink away the white spots in the side of his vision.

But he does look.

And when his mind finally registers the implications of that long red hair, that witty smile and kind eyes, all hell breaks loose.

In one swift movement, Harry jumps from the armchair, pushing past Snape as he leaps to the other side of the parlour, where he plasters his back against the wall and slowly lowers himself to the floor, bringing his knees to his chest. To Snape’s shock, indecipherable whimpers seem to escape from the boy’s parted lips and his eyes are wide and unblinking as though he mind is somewhere else completely. “Potter,” he says, taking a tentative step towards him.

“NO!” Harry suddenly screams, squeezing his eyes shut and, to Snape’s horror, he begins to viciously scratch his arms.

The Potions Master is kneeling before the boy in less than a second. He grabs his skinny arms and is surprised by the sheer force of Potter’s resistance as if the child is suddenly wrestling for his life with a vicious Hippogriff. Still, he easily manages to hold his arms in place. “Calm yourself!” he intones, but Harry gives no indication of having heard him. He begins thrashing about so violently that Snape very narrowly misses a knee to his ribs. “Stop it!” he orders as his grip on the boy’s arms tightens. “Potter, look at me!”

But Harry does not open his eyes.

“Whatever you’re imagining, it’s not real!” Snape says, making his voice as calm as possible. “You are having visions Potter—Harry. Look at me. We are the only people in this room. There is no danger.

Harry opens his eyes, and for a moment the look on his face freezes Snape’s blood. The roughness in those green orbs, the sheer terror, renders the Potions Master almost speechless. He recovers quickly though as the grip on the boy’s arm becomes slightly less tight.

Harry seems suddenly confused, looking around the parlour as though he doesn’t quite know where he is.

“Dad?” he asks, his voice ragged.

Snape feels the breath hitching in his throat. “No, Potter.”

“Dad, please. Please make him stop,” Harry persists, his eyes welling up with tears. “Dad, it hurts,” he pleads.

What hurts?”

“My head. Please, make him stop, get her out of my head!” Harry cries, his voice becoming more agitated. “I don’t want to see it anymore!”

“Then let me in,” he says in a soft yet urgent tone, holding on to the boy’s arms as Harry squeezes his eyes shut and starts shaking his head.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” Harry whimpers, trying to fight off the hands holding him. But the grip tightens and no matter how hard he thrashes, Harry cannot liberate himself from the Potion Master’s iron hold. 

“Look at me!” Snape suddenly roars, jerking Harry’s arms until the boy opens his eyes.

 And when Harry’s startled green orbs look at him, Snape does not hesitate. 


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