He brings Harry to the bed set against the far wall and lays him out. It is easy to maneuver around the cabin gathering the supplies he needs, because there is only one room. Severus is a man of simple means; when he procured this safehouse, situated in an expertly warded glen along the River Thames, he was not looking for extravagant decor. He acquired only the most basic of furniture - primarily, shelves for his copious stock of potions ingredients, a table, two hard-backed chairs, a large brewing cauldron, and the twin-size bed Harry now slumbers upon. There is also a small fireplace, unconnected to the Floo Network, with another cauldron inset. It is meant for cooking, but Severus snatches the pot up - this will do just fine for essence of murtlap.
He cobbles together the necessary ingredients with hardly a thought to the process, having made this same concoction so many other times previous. As a Death Eater, he is lucky if he returns home with nary but a couple bumps and bruises. Usually he is a sad, beaten, bloody, barely conscious sack. But that is the hazard of the job; the price to pay for serving a sadistic megalomaniac, even if he is doing it for the side of the light. Which truly, just makes his position all the more precarious; all the more dangerous should he fail.
Severus finishes the salve in no time at all. He flicks his wand and sends the pickled tentacles back to the shelf from whence they came, then turns to the boy, pot in hand. He dabs a handkerchief into the slimy virescent mixture, and begins to apply it carefully to the seeping wound. This is the safest solution right now, the potions prodigy thinks, without risking using magic on top of fresh dark magic. He knows little about curse scars, and he is not alone in that. They are incredibly rare among the general wizarding populous. In fact, Severus is aware of only one other. Map of the London Underground on his left knee, wasn't it?
Remembering Dumbledore and his strange pieces of trivia brings Severus' mind careening back to the issue at hand. With Harry's forehead situation relatively under control, it's time to alert the Order.
Severus draws his wand again. He points it at an open patch of space.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A silvery doe slips free, and Severus has to swallow harshly against a thick mass of emotion that rises and roils inside his throat. The beautiful lady deer tosses her head and paws at the hearth rug, awaiting instruction.
It takes Severus a moment longer to compose himself. The doe has a gentle look in her eyes - he swears he can see the ghost of Lily smiling back at him.
"Message for Albus Dumbledore. Send help to the safehouse. I have the boy. Godric's Hollow destroyed. Lily and Potter are..." Severus' hoarse voice fails him then, and he cannot get the words out. So he just repeats, "Send help."
He could go into more detail - perhaps mention Voldemort's disappearance and apparent defeat - but Severus does not want that kind of sensitive information getting out, should his message be intercepted. Besides - knowing Dumbledore, the wizened old man is probably already two steps ahead.
The doe bows her magnificent pearly head and then races off into the night, nothing but a coruscating streak against the pitch black sky. Severus watches her go through the window and when there is nothing left but endless abyss, he turns and begins to pace.
The floor is surely worn by the time a reply arrives.
"Stay where you are," the phoenix with Dumbledore's voice rings out. It is reassuring and vexing, all at once. "Help is on its way. I am making preparations to leave Harry with his last remaining relatives. He will be safest there. Until then, do not let the child out of your sight. I will speak with you once things are more settled on our end. And Severus - thank you for the tip about their hide-out... it has proven most providential."
There is a pause, and then, as the bright specter fizzles into near inexistent wisps, "Good luck, my boy. Make her proud."
Severus lets out a loud scoffing noise, clenching his fists. How dare he? How dare he use her like that? Invoking her name like some carrot to be dangled on a stick until Severus rushes to do the old coot's bidding...
And yet, some small part of him stirs, deep within, and points out that perhaps Dumbledore is right. Perhaps he does owe her this...
The dour twenty-one year old is tested much sooner than he expects when the bundle on the bed releases a sudden squawking cry. Severus can feel the dread coiling in his stomach as he realizes what he must do. He reminds himself - 'for her!' - before screwing up his face into some semblance of resolve and approaching like a man to the executioner's block.
The swaddled babe is writhing back and forth upon the mattress, howling like a banshee, though Severus thinks he would probably prefer the banshee right now. He peels back the murtlap-soaked handkerchief he had let rest upon the boy's forehead. It appears to have done its job; the lightning-bolt shaped wound is still glistening but it is less inflamed than it was before. A couple more swipes and Severus sets the dirty cloth aside. He frowns as Harry continues to scream.
"What is it, boy?"
He checks the usuals with supreme distaste. The child's nappy is wet, so he banishes the excess moisture. The nutrient potions he usually keeps on hand for himself are carefully fed until the baby's tiny belly is full. He even performs a warming spell, just in case.
Nothing works. Harry is still a mess, all red-cheeked and scrunchy-eyed. Severus growls in frustration.
"What do you *want*? I have tended to all of your basic needs! You should require nothing further!"
As if in protest, Harry's fussing increases. His fists beat the air with visible contempt. And then, the twist of the knife - his yowls become more defined, morphing into a language Severus can understand. Piteous pleas in the form of a single word that leave Severus trembling on the verge of his own breakdown.
"Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma-ma! Mama!"
"She's gone," he whispers, unsure to whom.
"Maaamaaa!"
"She's GONE!" Severus shouts. He stands up from the bed so quickly he is positive he startles the child, but he doesn't care. He storms over to the table and drags out a chair. The noise in the cabin is so deafening, Severus can hardly bear it, and still Harry chants that one awful word. Like a mantra, it plays over and over in Severus' mind, a ruthless condemnation. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT *UP*!"
He sinks into the chair and buries his countenance in his palms. His breathing is heavy, as if he has just run a mile. The greasy-haired Slytherin tries very hard to ignore the way it hitches, every so often. He sits and sits until he is calm, and even then some. Harry is losing steam as well, but still he cries, with great sniffling hiccups interspersed throughout.
The wind batters the door, sneaking in through the cracks. It creates a low moaning sound, and Severus swears it is speaking to him in her voice.
/"Please."/
"I can't, Lily."
/"Please."/ More insistent.
Severus closes his eyes. He sighs, rubbing the aching synapses. There's no way around this, is there?
He returns slowly to Harry's side, more uncertainly than before. It is at that moment that Harry looks up at him, dead on, and for the first time Severus notices the exact color of this boy's eyes. They are a vivid green, pure and bright...
Green like summer grass, and two children giggling in an outcropping as they lay beside a gentle river.
Green like his house crest, as she holds it between her fingers and strokes the insignia, promising him this won't change a thing.
Green like the potions they study over into the wee hours, honing their skills and friendship alike; this strange, unlikely, unorthodox, *wonderful* friendship.
Green is happiness, the happiest he can ever remember being.
It is also pain, the worst pain of his entire life - and that includes being beaten senseless by his drunk bastard of a father.
Harry's eyes are a perfect replica of Lily's, and the gaze he now bestows upon Severus is enough to steal the man's breath away. It's exactly like looking at her - the fathomless depths so full of innocence, imploration, implicit trust...
Severus is hardly aware of his own actions as he reaches down.
TBC