Harry struggled to push his trunk back to the foot of the bed. His new bed. He couldn't help but grin at the thought. And this was his room, too, with ne tall, narrow window that overlooked the garden, a wooden dresser, a tall mirror, a bedside lamp…. It was a real room, still a bit smaller than even Dudley's second bedroom, but still worlds away from the tiny little cupboard space he'd called home for too many years.
Even if Snape seemed extremely strict, Harry instantly got the feeling that this would be better than the life he'd known with the Dursleys. There would be no Dudley to sit on him or take pleasure in tormenting him, no Uncle Vernon roaring threats at him, no Aunt Petunia to bury him with criticisms and punish him when Dudley invented lies to get Harry into trouble.
And Snape was a wizard. One of his own kind. The thought still made Harry giddy.
It had only been a few days since Harry had learned about the secret world of wizards and magic—and about his parents, who were a witch and wizard themselves. A strange old man with a long beard had turned up unexpectedly on the Dursley's doorstep, much to his uncle and aunt's dismay, in star-dusted periwinkle robes and a funny sort of cap. He'd introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, though Harry thought he looked a lot like Merlin straight from all the movies about King Arthur.
It was Dumbledore who'd first showed Harry the existence of magic by a few small but impressive demonstrations. The man had produced beautiful shapes and colors from his wand, made objects fly, even heated the Dursley's teakettle with a simple tap of the wooden instrument. The displays had left Harry delighted, filled with an uplifting sense of wonderment.
Naturally, they'd had the opposite effect on the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon had tried to forbid the man from practicing "that rubbish" in his home, but Dumbledore had calmly ignored him. Eventually all three had retreated into the basement and locked the door, as if an air raid had suddenly commenced and they'd decided to hide themselves away until the danger passed.
Dumbledore had explained everything to Harry, including the string of inexplicable occurrences that had plagued him since his arrival at the Dursleys'. Dumbledore had told him all about his parents and their brave sacrifice, and the truth behind the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
Dumbledore had been accompanied by a very large man with an enormous shaggy beard, who'd introduced himself as Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. He'd been almost too large to shoulder through the Dursley's front door, but he'd managed despite Vernon and Petunia's vehement protests. Hagrid had been jovial and bursting with enthusiasm, practically tripping over himself upon meeting Harry. He'd shaken the small boy's arm so vigorously that Harry had worried that the giant of a man might pull it right from its socket. Hagrid had remained mostly silent while Dumbledore had explained Harry's situation to him, though occasionally he'd cut into the situation with anecdotes about Harry's parents or tangents on particular subjects, especially once Dumbledore had begun discussing Harry's future enrollment at Hogwarts, which was, according to Hagrid, "the best wizarding school of all time, I'm tellin' yeh".
Harry wondered why he couldn't just go live with Hagrid. Dumbledore had said that there had been no one but Snape, who had known his parents and agreed to take him in. Harry sensed that, for some reason, Dumbledore wouldn't have approved of him taking up residence with the massive gamekeeper.
Living with Snape wouldn't be so bad, Harry thought. He wasn't warm or inviting, but at least he didn't seem to revile Harry as much as the Dursleys had. And he was a wizard, like Harry. Maybe he would even start to teach Harry some magic soon, like the trick with making Harry's trunk float. Making objects fly around would be a useful skill.
Harry glanced out the window down at the garden. He could see the strange rows of plants he'd never seen before—purple and red vines that seemed to be growing by the second, mushrooms that puffed out a constant olive-colored cloud, even a plant that resembled a Venus flytrap, except that Harry could have sworn that it was sleeping like a living creature. It seemed to even occasionally toss its head, as if some small sound had disturbed its slumber.
Snape hadn't forbidden him from exploring the garden, harry thought. He'd only warned him to be careful.
Harry gazed longingly down at the rows of magical specimen for a little longer, mired in indecision. So long as he was very careful, he decided, he could certainly go get a good look. If something looked too dangerous, he would just steer clear.
He hurried down the stairs, his mind spinning at the thought of the kind of garden someone like Snape might keep.
Harry paused in front of the locked door leading to Snape's laboratory. He briefly considered trying to get a peek inside, but Snape's stiff warning echoed in his head, and he immediately thought better of it. Best not to get into trouble if he could avoid it.
Especially not with an accomplished wizard who'd already hinted he was capable of turning Harry into a gerbil.
Harry crossed the sitting room, casting a furtive glance down the hall toward Snape's private rooms as a precautionary measure. Both doors at the end of the hall were still firmly shut, and there was no sign of movement from within. So Harry slipped out through the sliding door as quickly and quietly as possibly, making certain to close it tightly behind him.
Once he was out in the yard, Harry began closely examining the rows of fantastical plants.
The first specimen he stumbled across was a strange, coiled mass of what appeared to be green grass, wholly unremarkable but for its glossy emerald sheen. Harry approached the gardening enclosure carefully, keeping a wary eye on the flytrap plant, which he now suspected was only pretending to sleep.
But before Harry's fingers could even brush the grass, the plant reared up and twisted tightly into a thick band. Its bladed tips bent inward, creating sort of many-toothed mouth-like opening. The plant hissed evilly and snapped at Harry, who narrowly avoided being bitten by leaping back and out of the way.
The plant hissed one more time at harry before curling back up tightly, flattening its blades out once more, and seemingly falling dormant.
Harry dusted himself off, his heart still hammering in his chest. Maybe he wouldn't be getting too close to that one, he decided.
He scanned the garden for a less-dangerous species, passing over the fuming mushrooms, the prickly-looking vine creeping along the wall, and a squirming, tangled mass of tentacular feelers that undulated not too far from the flytrap plant.
At last his eyes fell on a planted that looked relatively harmless, a bulbous green thing that was just a little higher than Harry's waist and about as wide as he was. It was fatter at its base, and shaped rather like a pear sat upon a circle of thin, wiry leaves that protruded radially from underneath it. The surface of the body was irregular, covered in swollen nodules. The longer Harry stared at it, the more he was convinced that it was expanding and contracting in a steady rhythm.
Harry crept toward the strange plant, keeping an eye on all the other species in the vicinity in case they decided to attack. Centimeter by centimeter he made his way toward the strange, seething mass, a hand outstretched.
As soon as his fingers brushed against one of the nodes, the pocket erupted in a gush of thick, warm pus that stank like petroleum. It burbled up, coating Harry's exposed arm. As soon as it made contact with his skin it started to burn.
Harry cried out and scrambled back, trying to scrape the pus off of him. But that only ended up spreading the thick substance onto his other hand, and with it the burning sensation.
Harry stumbled out of the garden and back onto the lawn, where he began frantically wiping his arms off on the grass. That seemed to be more effective, as he was able to scrape most of it off, though ridding himself of the pus did not alleviate the burning.
He stared down at his forearms, which, to his alarm, had begun to bubble and break out into ugly, yellow-tinged boils. He started to panic. What if Snape was angry with him for disturbing his plant? What if he decided Harry had already caused him too much trouble? What if he was sent back to the Dursleys?
They'd probably already filled his broom cupboard. There would be no place for him to stay. He would have to sleep under the kitchen table, or out on their garden bench.
Harry pushed himself to his feet and tried to think. He still had a little time before he would have to see Snape again. Maybe the boils would disappear.
And if not… maybe, Harry thought, he could hide them well enough, at least until they started to get better. He really hoped they weren't serious. They certainly were painful enough.
Harry hurried back into the house and dashed up the stairs, closing himself into the small washroom. He immediately turned the cold water on. The tap stuck fast but after a little prying it let loose a decent gush of water, which allowed Harry to rinse the residual pus from his arms. The cold water did not, however, have any effect on the ugly, misshapen sores (although many of them did begin to ooze their own pus). Harry even tried scrubbing them with soap, but it proved too painful to continue with that. The boils were extremely sensitive to any kind of pressure, Harry found.
In the end, Harry dug up one of Dudley's larger hand-me-down sweaters, a hideous yellowish thing with several permanent stains, and pulled it on. Luckily his cousin was larger than him in almost every way, meaning that he had longer arms than Harry. So the cuffs of the sweater fell well past Harry's fingertips, covering the ghastly sores entirely.
After examining himself in the mirror, Harry retreated back to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, groaning softly to himself. The boils were beginning to itch now, and he could hardly keep himself from scratching at them, which he knew would only send the pus all over his arms and possibly cause the boils to spread. And that was the last thing he needed.
Harry arranged himself as comfortably as he could on his bed (which was not all that difficult, since this bed was far more comfortable than the lumpy, worn-out mattress he'd had at the Dursleys). Once he'd found a good position, he closed his eyes, deciding that taking a short nap was the only thing to be done in the present situation.
XXXXXXX
Snape rapped the base of his wand impatiently against the table, glaring at the staircase. Of course the Potter boy would be slow to make his way down to supper. He didn't mind having people wait on him.
Snape pressed his wand to his throat again. "Potter!" he called. His magically amplified voice rang throughout the house, reverberating through the rafters.
Snape heard a door slam upstairs, the scuffle of footsteps, then the clamor of the boy barreling down the stairs.
Harry tripped into the kitchen, his eyes wide and nervous. He slipped into the seat across from Snape and scooted his chair up closer to the table. He was so small that the surface of the table was level with his shoulders.
Something was amiss, Snape observed, something different from before. Yes, he realized, now Potter wore an ugly mustard sweatshirt that was at least four sizes too big for him. The garment nearly swallowed the boy whole. Snape suspected there was a reason for the wardrobe change, and he intended to get to the bottom of it.
"Sorry I'm late," Harry mumbled into his empty bowl.
"What took so long? I assume you heard me the first time I called?"
"I was—sleeping."
The half-truth was obvious. Snape arched an eyebrow at the boy. "Sleeping? Is that right?"
Harry nodded vigorously.
"And was it a bit… drafty upstairs?" Snape continued sarcastically. "Or are you perhaps ill, Potter?"
The boy blushed. "No—"
Snape flicked his wand, forcing the boy's long sleeves up.
The sight of the boy's skin had him instinctively rolling his eyes. Layers and layers of oozing boils, and Snape could guess well enough where he'd gotten them.
"Decided to play with the bubotuber, did we?" Snape inquired coldly. "Was I not clear enough earlier? Or are you merely that stupid? Ah, but perhaps it is my fault for assuming that you would be a sensible boy, that I would not have to childproof every inch of my home."
"I'm sorry, sir," Harry choked out. "I don't think that I hurt it—"
"I believe I warned you about the garden just hours prior, did I not? Had that already escaped your tiny mind? Or is it simply that your skull is so thick that my words never penetrated it in the first place?"
The boy just sat there, his head hung, trembling slightly as Snape reprimanded him.
"Well?" Snape bit out. "Which is it, Mr. Potter? Or is it some combination of the two? Or better, is it a complete lack of respect for myself and the boundaries I have set for you? Because if that is the case, you can pack your things now."
"I just didn't think—"
"Yes, that is rather obvious. Exactly like your father. No restraint, no consideration for what trouble you might cause with your actions. So long as your curiosity is sated and you are happy in the end, you need not reflect on the potential damage you might cause. Well? Have you anything to say for yourself?"
Harry shook his head, his head tucked so far down that his chin rested against his chest.
Snape was hardly finished berating the boy. After all, he had acted incredibly foolishly. He would require a special draught to be rid of his newly-acquired affliction, which Snape guessed was rather painful. He had little patience for this brand of carelessness, and he dealt with it enough at Hogwarts. He wanted to be certain that he wouldn't be running after children in his spare time as well.
But as much as Snape would have loved to continue, Harry already looked completely downtrodden and on the verge of tears. And as much as the boy certainly deserved a long lecture, Snape found himself lacking the will to continue.
"Stay," Snape commanded tersely, rising from his seat. "And do not itch." He strode briskly out of the room, heading straight for his lab.
After locating the proper vial in his cupboards, Snape returned to the kitchen. He found the boy sniffling at the table, holding his arms out in front of him as if he expected them to be lopped off.
Snape drew up a chair beside the boy and set the bottle he'd retrieved on the table. First he drew his want and muttered, "Reducto", which caused the boils to shrink, leaving only a pattern of small open sores. Next he removed the stopper from the mixture he'd brought, a potent Cleansing Potion that he liked to keep on hand for emergencies. He carefully tilted the vial, dripping a few drops of the solution onto the boy's arm.
Harry winced slightly as the solution made contact with his wounds.
Lastly, Snape raised his wand again and murmured, "Episkey". The skin sealed up instantly, leaving Harry's arms perfectly healed. Satisfied, Snape stoppered the Cleansing Potion and returned to his seat.
"You are very lucky," he began, tucking his wand back into his robes, "that your injuries are not more serious." He glared stonily at the boy, who still had not lifted his head.
Harry rolled his sleeves back down, shrinking further into himself as he did so.
"Several of the plants I keep here could very easily permanently maim or even kill you. By comparison, the bubotuber is relatively innocuous…."
"I'm really very sorry, sir," Harry mumbled. "Please don't send me back."
The boy's plea caught Snape off guard, and for a few seconds he did not know how to respond. He could see genuine fear in the boy's eyes. Perhaps Dumbledore had not exaggerated about the Dursleys after all, he thought.
Well, at least the Potter boy was properly ashamed of himself. It was something, to be sure.
"Not tonight," he said at last.
The boy seemed to sag down in relief. "Thank you, sir—and I swear it won't happen again—"
"It will not," Snape agreed, "because you will spend the remainder of the evening in your room contemplating this… fiasco. And the backyard will be off limits until I've had a chance to close off the more dangerous areas, since you clearly cannot be trusted to leave them well enough alone. Furthermore, if there are any other incidents following this one, I will be contacting Dumbledore directly about placing you in another's care. Clear, Mr. Potter?"
Harry nodded vigorously, still looking a little ashamed, but more relieved than anything. He stood, head still bowed, pushed his chair in, and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Snape demanded.
Harry looked up at him, seemingly surprised. "To my room. You said—"
"Without your supper?"
Harry's eyes lit up with gratitude. He tripped back to the table, seized his bowl, and waited expectantly.
"This isn't a soup kitchen. Serve yourself."
Harry immediately ladled himself a bowlful of the pumpkin soup Snape had prepared. He grabbed his spoon and was about to duck out of the kitchen again, but Snape stopped him with a snap of his wand.
"No dishes in your room, Potter. You'll eat your meals here."
Remaining for the meal didn't seem to bother the boy at all. In fact, it almost seemed to set him further at ease.
They ate their meal in silence, Snape slowly and deliberately, and Harry with great gusto. Snape would have chalked his enthusiasm up to the fact that he was a growing boy. But when Harry had all but licked his bowl clean, he only stared longingly at the pot on the table. He didn't ask for seconds or help himself, only eyed the remaining food a little forlornly.
After a minute or so of the boy staring fixedly at the pot, Snape at last asked, "Would you like more?"
"Yes, please," Harry replied eagerly, and filled his bowl again. Again, his eyes were filled with a deep gratitude, as if Snape had given him a new toy to play with rather than telling him that he did not have to go hungry.
Snape felt a twinge of pity for the boy. He disliked the child, that was certain, and it was painful to have the boy under his roof. But he still found it inconceivable that a boy whose name so many witches and wizards knew, who so many hailed as a kind of savior, had gone hungry in a muggle home.
"There's no need to ask for second helpings. Take what you wish during meals."
Harry turned beet-red at the mention of seconds. "Sorry, sir. I just… I'm used to fighting my cousin for seconds. Well, my seconds, his fourths. I didn't usually win."
Again, Snape found himself speechless.
Just because his relatives were monstrous did not mean that the solution was for the boy to live here, Snape reminded himself. Dumbledore was perfectly capable of finding the boy a good, suitable home. He was just a sentimental fool sometimes with a fondness for meddling. Undoubtedly he intended to "cure" Snape of his melancholy and brooding by foisting this boy on him, the child of his enemy and his greatest love. He could pity the boy without feeling bound to take him under his wing.
After an awkward silence filled only with Harry's borderline slurping, Snape commanded, "Leave your dish in the sink when you've finished. And not a peep from you for the rest of the night, or I will find a suitable punishment to keep you occupied tomorrow." Snape sent his empty bowl hovering toward the sink and, with a final stern glare at Harry, swept out of the room.
Chapter 2