Snape stared in disbelief at the wardrobe spread out before him. The boy didn't own a decent piece of clothing. Did the headmaster know? Or was the little cretin simply so ungrateful and reckless that he ruined anything given to him?
No, Snape reminded himself. He had seen himself the Muggle relatives the headmaster had seen fit to entrust the boy to. And mere minutes in their presence had been enough. He needed to break himself of this reflex. James Potter's son or not, he was still a child. And he had likely suffered enough under the roof of his sorry excuse for an aunt and uncle.
Not to mention what Albus Dumbledore would do to him if he suspected Snape of treating the precious Harry Potter maliciously.
One more week, he reminded himself. No longer, not even if Dumbledore hemmed and hawed and tried to insist that he had been unable to make the proper arrangements.
Snape sighed and, slipping his wand back into the holster in his sleeve for just a moment, tried to take mental inventory of the worn-out garments before them. Most looked as if they would swallow his young ward whole, just like that horrid mustard sweater he'd donned to hide his boils. Resizing them to appropriate dimensions would be a simple matter, he thought, though it was best to do it while the boy wore each outfit, in order to assure the best fit. Fixing them up into something decent, however, would require just a touch of brushing-up on his part….
Transfiguration had never been his favorite subject. Not that Snape had not excelled at it. There were few subjects that had given him difficulty during his Hogwarts years. And sprucing up Harry Potter's abysmal wardrobe would be nothing too complicated—not even a change of state or life, he thought. Maybe he could just refresh himself on the proper incantations. Usually he could simply intuit the magic, but he'd rather not have to take the boy out too soon for clothes-shopping should he, by some off chance, botch the job beyond reparation.
Snape picked up a holey navy t-shirt that likely would have hung a bit loosely even on his frame. He held it with just his index and thumb, eying it with disgust. He wondered if he should start having the boy wear proper clothes rather than modified versions of his Muggle castoffs. But that would mean a robe-fitting, and more of the famous Harry Potter turning heads and chatting up random strangers, even when he had been given strict instructions to avoid such a thing.
He sighed and briefly massaged his temples. He would speak to the boy later and see what was to be done about his wardrobe.
Slipping his wand back out with practiced ease, he waved it once to send all the clothes spread over the bed back into the boy's dresser. And then Snape proceeded to cast the appropriate cleaning charms—Scourgify for the floors, a few freshening charms for the sheets and curtains. He'd already done most of the downstairs level, save for his lab, which he planned to do that evening by hand seeing as the volatile residue did not tend to interact well with cleaning charms.
A pity, he thought, that he didn't have a dearth of disobedient children to do the labor for him. Perhaps his young ward would do something in the meantime to justify having to scrub cauldrons….
Speaking of, it had been a good hour since Snape had glanced out in the yard to check on the boy. If he'd had any sense, he would have modified the wards to keep the boy in bounds. But the several times he'd looked out to check on the Potter boy, he'd found the child bent down on his hands and knees, well within the confines of the yard, seemingly fully absorbed with the strange castle set he'd picked out. Snape had noted that he was content to keep far back from the front walk.
He'd known that he would not be much longer with his cleaning, and since the boy had behaved all morning, he'd seen no need to fuss with the wards.
He descended the stairs, his thoughts already shifting to lunch. He supposed that they were both likely sick of sandwiches by then. But Potter was a young boy, likely finicky and not too refined in his tastes, meaning that Snape had no idea what to prepare. He certainly could just make whatever he damned well pleased, and tell the boy he could go hungry if he didn't like it.
But there had been no ugly tantrums thus far. Snape knew that his nerves frayed easily, and while he was certainly accustomed to dealing with the throngs of children at Hogwarts—mostly, as one of his old First Years had put it, by keeping them scared witless—he wasn't certain his tried-and-true tactics would work on a young Harry Potter if he truly got out of hand.
After all, he could hardly threaten the boy with points. Not yet.
But maybe he would get lucky and avoid any major episodes. And one simple way to avoid that was by keeping the food he prepared as palatable as possible. Well, he would ask the boy what he wanted when he called him inside.
Snape made his way to the window and peered out, expecting to see his charge sitting just where he'd left him.
But the castle set stood abandoned. Severus could see that chaos had broken out in the ranks of the little transfigured men, who were fighting amongst themselves.
So where was the boy?
He stepped out onto the lawn, scanning the area. He wouldn't leave his little set unattended, that much was clear. Snape had been rather impressed with how well the boy cared for his toys. He even handled his blasted quidditch book as if were Merlin's own grimoire.
"Potter!" he bellowed, scanning out beyond the yard. Would the boy be foolish enough to set foot beyond the wards? He certainly didn't appear to be out and about anywhere in the little cul-de-sac.
Maybe the boy had gone to relieve himself.
But Snape could not find his ward anywhere, not in the house, not in the backyard, not in the greenhouse (though he swore that he would flay the boy alive if he was foolish enough to venture in there).
It wasn't until Snape made his way back out into the front yard that he began to truly feel the panic. Why, he berated himself, had he not taken greater care? What had he been thinking, trusting an eight-year-old—a son of James Potter, no less—to stay put? He would be lucky if the boy hadn't meandered down to the river and drowned himself in the filthy, polluted waters.
It was at that moment that he noticed a piece of parchment fluttering down from the sky. It had been folded into a delicate bird, but Snape could tell from the occasional glance at its thin wings that it was a message of some sort, judging by the glimpses of thin black writing.
The feeling of dread in his stomach congealed like a botched potion.
The bird message landed lightly in his outstretched hand and stilled, its enchantment spent. Snape unfolded it, his fingers trembling slightly. There was a terrible familiarity about it that he could not quite place.
And then he caught sight of the delicate handwriting that he knew well from his past, from messages passed covertly in his darker days. Not as delicate as her sister's, though just as perfect, with a hint of a tremor now, particularly in the larger loops.
Snape did not want to believe it because it was impossible. She was supposed to be in prison, drained into a near-catatonic state by a host of Dementors. She could not be here, could not have possibly gotten her hands on the boy.
But the message was all too clear.
Sev,
Come meet me in the forest clearing. You know the one, I think. Oh, and do hurry. Your precious little boy is a wee bit squeamish, and I don't think he'll like the games I have planned.
Do be sure to come alone. I think you know why.
Can't wait to catch up!
XOXO
Bella
Snape felt his blood ice over. It was her. He could feel it deep in the pit of his stomach. But how? How could she be here? How could she have known about the Potter boy being here? About his address?
He pushed back the whirling thoughts. There was no time.
Suddenly, the note flared with an evil-looking fire, a bright green flame that, to Snape, presaged a terrible tragedy in the making. He released the parchment immediately, knowing that whatever charm spelled into it would make certain that the message could never be pieced back together.
Without a second thought, Snape called to mind the image of the clearing not far from the bank of the river. He'd played there as a child quite often; in fact, it held some of his fondest memories. She could not know, he thought, but it seemed as if she had chosen the place on purpose, as if to taint it now with whatever atrocities she had planned.
With a barely-audible crack, Severus Snape vanished from his front lawn.
XXXXX
"There's a lot of trash around here," Harry remarked.
He wasn't complaining, particularly. Sure, there had been a park much nicer than this close to the Dursleys, but he never got to go there. Or, when he did, he just ended up getting chased around by Dudley and beaten up by his little gang. Harry would have rather spent his afternoons playing beside this grimy, polluted river with the children of this neighborhood than in the pristine park on Privet Drive.
"You get used to it," Peter said. "Just so long as you don't look too close. The woods isn't too bad."
Harry grinned to himself a little. He liked the idea of being close to the woods. Maybe the professor would let him come out here after all, once he trusted Harry more.
Harry's stomach clenched suddenly with a surge of guilt. Once he trusted Harry…. If the professor found out about this, Harry certainly wouldn't be coming out here again. He likely wouldn't be allowed to leave the house again, even to play in the front yard. The professor might even lock him in his room for a while, which would be better than being locked in the cupboard, but not by much.
If Harry got caught, that was. And he didn't plan on it.
"Your little soldier's finally stopped complaining," Marcus noted, quickening his pace to stroll alongside Harry.
The stupid pikeman hadn't shut his mouth at all, not until they'd wound their way through the streets and down to the end of the road that met the river, next to the small swath of woods outside the residential area. His incessant complaining had at least been muffled by the fabric of Harry's pocket.
And now he'd finally fallen silent. Harry wondered if he'd shouted himself hoarse, if such a thing was even possible.
"He's probably sulking," Harry muttered darkly. "Figures. He never did anything but whine."
"The nice witch will get you a new one," Peter promised. Then, his tone turning a bit greedy, he added, "I wonder what I'll get this time. She promised me something real good for coming back."
"You should ask her for a wand like hers!" Haley suggested. "I know she said she couldn't last time, but just imagine!"
Harry's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't dared to ask the professor about a wand, not after the man had bought him so much during their last outing. But that was what he wanted, more than anything in a world, to have a long elegant wand like the professor's, and to whip it out and make dishes float through the air and the soup stir itself and all kinds of other wonderful things. And maybe, just maybe, this witch would give him one, because he was, after all, a wizard. He'd made things happen before, strange things.
Maybe the other children couldn't have wands because they were Muggles. Maybe this witch would only have to take one look at Harry and she would know. And then Harry could go back and show the professor, and the professor could teach him how to make his trunk fly and his cuts vanish and all sorts of useful tricks.
"Or money!" one of the other boys chimed in brightly. "Imagine all the stuff you could buy if she could just magic you a bunch of money—"
"She makes better things than all the money in the world could buy, you dolt," Marcus grumbled. "Money. Honestly, Andrew, you have no brains."
"You're one to talk!" Marcus cried shrilly. "What'd you ask for last time, huh? Magic shoelaces? Like you can't tie your own shoes—"
"Shut it," Peter threatened.
They'd reached the edge of the woods by then. There was a little path that looked like it had been used by wild animals that led deeper into the thicket of trees.
"You go first, Harry," Haley told him, a gentle smile on her lips. "We always let the new ones go first. Don't worry; she's really nice, I promise."
Harry drew a trembling breath. Up until this point he'd been just a little nervous, but now there was a terrible tightness in the pit of his stomach, as if a fist had clenched around the organ and was refusing to let it go.
There were too many fairytales about children being lured off by witches, he reasoned. And they were probably all written by non-witches and wizards who were jealous of the magically gifted. That was why he had a bad feeling now.
Peter cleared his throat, and it suddenly dawned on Harry that he'd been stalling for a good few minutes by then, grappling with the warring feelings inside of him. "If you're scared," the tall boy goaded, "maybe we should have left you behind."
Harry glared frostily at the boy for half a second before plucking up his courage. He strode forward, trying to project more confidence than he felt.
They didn't have to trudge far. Harry had to beat back some of the weeds and briars that encroached on the narrow path, which meant that he ended up cutting his palm several times on snagging thorns. The rest of the children tromped happily after him, chattering quietly to themselves.
Eventually they reached a small field. There were a few twisted trees in the clearing, and Harry noticed that the pollution of the riverbank hadn't failed to reach this quiet little haven. A few bags and plastic bottles littered the area, strewn amidst the field grass that was already beginning to brown in the heat of summer.
Harry turned back, looking for Peter, suddenly feeling very uncertain of himself. "Uh—the witch—"
The tall boy came up to stand beside Harry, clasping his shoulder reassuringly. "Don't be nervous. Really, she's so nice. You want to call her yourself?"
Harry balled his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets. "I dunno. Maybe you should? I just—"
Peter squeezed Harry's shoulder. "I get it. I was nervous when I first met her too. Thought she was going to bake me into a pie or something, you know, like the witch in the fairytale. But honest, she's not like that at all. She loves children." Peter cast a glance back at the others. "Are you ready?"
"I'll call," Haley offered, her eyes bright. She took in a lungful of air, then cried, "Hu-llooooooo!"
Her high, sweet voice echoed in the clearing for a moment, startling a few birds from their roosts. The distant cry of a perturbed crow echoed through the trees, a scolding cawing that caused the hair on the back of Harry's neck to prickle uncomfortably.
And then a woman appeared from behind a tree, grinning broadly. "Hello, kiddies."
Harry wasn't sure what it was about the witch that started his heart pounding in his chest. She was pale, he noted immediately, paler than even the professor. Her black hair—a thick, shining tangle of curls—was littered with leaves and twigs. She could have been pretty, Harry thought. Her lips were soft and full, and her features mostly pleasant, but she was so thin, and her hooded eyes had a wild, cruel light in them that reminded him of a feral animal.
The witch lifted the hem of her tattered black dress delicately, as if it were the finest of ballgowns, and advanced forward, her grinning growing wider as she approached Harry. "And who do we have here? Have you brought a new friend to me, my sweets?"
"This is our friend Harry," Peter announced cheerfully, giving Harry a little push forward.
A wicked glint entered into the witch's eyes. "Harry Potter," she pronounced, almost reverently. But there was something underlying the awe—disgust? Triumph?
In a flash, the woman had whipped a wand out, a curved, black thing that reminded Harry of a talon. She waved it a few times, sending out a few blinding bursts of blue.
Harry instinctively threw himself against the ground, though none of the spells were aimed at him. He cowered as the witch sent out another round of spells at the children, who stood still as scarecrows as they were successively struck by jets of greenish-yellow light.
"Run home, kiddies," the witch announced dismissively. "Harry and I have things to discuss."
Harry watched, his gut clenching as if squeezed by a fist, as the whole troupe of children flitted off without a word, without even a glance in his direction.
Harry pushed himself back to his feet, his temple pounding. "What did you do to them?" he demanded angrily. His every instinct was screaming at him to run, but his muscles felt locked in place.
"Oh, Harry," the witch chided, "such concern! Such a sweet boy you are, just like your parents."
"If you hurt them…," Harry began threateningly, but his voice hitched. What could he do? And against a witch? Oh, why hadn't he listened to the professor?
The witch clucked her tongue and flicked her wand at Harry, sending out a length of rope at him. The rope snaked around his arms and bound him tightly, pinning his arms firmly against his body. "I wouldn't hurt them," the woman soothed him. "No, no, that wouldn't do. Fun as it would be… but no, that wouldn't do at all. Too many complications, too many inquiries. Oh no, Harry dear, I just sent them home."
Harry didn't know whether to believe the woman or not. But he sensed he had more immediate concerns. "What do you want?" he demanded hoarsely.
The woman flicked her wand again, and Harry felt himself propelled toward her, pulled by the magic rope she'd conjured. Harry tried to fight by digging his heels into the ground, but it was no use. The spell tugging him forward was too strong.
When he was planted right in front of her, held in place by the strangling grip of the ropes, the witch bent down to him. In some hideous parody of a motherly gesture, she gently brushed his black fringe aside to reveal the infamous lightning bolt scar that marred his forehead. Harry cringed as she traced it gently, almost lovingly.
"So this is the mark," she mused. "His mark…. The only thing remarkable about you, isn't it? And it's not even yours…."
Harry tried to pull back from her, but the witch laced her fingers in his hair tightly and held him in place.
She leaned down close to his ear, so close that Harry could feel her hot breath against his skin. "It was luck, Harry Potter. But your luck has run out today. Perhaps that old fool should have kept a closer eye on you, mm? Perhaps he should have known better than to entrust you to that coward and traitor…."
The witch stroked a hand over Harry's head, causing shivers to run down his spine.
"No matter," she continued cheerily. "This has worked out just fine, I'd say. Little Sev will come running to save you, so he doesn't disappoint his new master. And then we'll play for a bit… not too long, Harry, no need to fret, just long enough to make you both pay. Oh, the Dark Lord will be so pleased, you know, to hear that I've taken care of two nuisances."
"Voldemort's dead!" Harry spat. "Dumbledore told me—"
He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, because as soon as he opened his mouth, the witch lashed her wand at him. A blinding red light overcame him, and the next thing he knew his knees had buckled beneath him and he was writhing against the ropes constricting him, lost in the depths of the worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life. His bones seemed to bet twisting inside him, grinding against his muscles, as his skin threatened to split open. His skull throbbed like concrete under a jackhammer. He could feel himself screaming, though he was too lost inside himself to hear the actual shrieks.
After what felt like hours the pain finally receded. Harry lay panting on the ground, glasses askew, tears leaking down his cheeks. He could feel where the rope had chafed against his skin, rubbing it raw. His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, not that he was particularly keen on saying anything else at the moment. Not if the witch was going to torture him like that again.
The witch nudged Harry with the toe of her shoe, rolling him over onto his back. "Do not," she began imperiously, as if giving a lecture in primary school to a particularly unruly child, "call him by his name. And secondly…." She lifted her wand.
Harry felt himself being lifted up, directed by the point of her wand. When he was hovering before her, the tips of his trainers just barely brushing against the grass, his body sagging in the ropes, the witch leaned in again to speak softly against his ear.
"The Dark Lord will be returning. And this time, there will be no flukes, no nasty little tricks, to stop him from ascending." The witch leaned back and, with a flick of her wrist, let Harry collapse back to the ground. She hiked up her dress and stepped away from him, her movements light and excited, almost dancelike. "Now," she announced brightly, "to get down to business. Let us see… what message to send little Sev? Mmm… he will be surprised to see me. Very, very surprised."
Harry watched, his vision blurred by tears, as the witch summoned a piece of parchment from thin air.
"What do you think, Harry dear? We should let him know where you are, shouldn't we? Wouldn't want your dear caretaker to worry…."
Harry tried to think. The professor was a wizard, but he had no idea how the man would fare against this crazed witch, who'd dismissed a whole group of children with a wave of her wand. And if the man couldn't hold his own, he would be walking straight into a trap, with Harry as the bait.
All his fault, he chided himself angrily. What had he done? Maybe his aunt and uncle were right. Maybe he was just a burden, a rotten little boy who brought suffering to whoever had the misfortune of looking after him. He felt a few fresh tears slide down his cheeks.
And what could he even do? He was completely helpless now. Even yelling at the witch would only make her torture him more. If only he wasn't so stupid and disobedient… even in the best case scenario, the professor would be throwing him out on his ear after this. He wouldn't even wait for Dumbledore to come pick him up. Harry would be waiting out on the sidewalk.
"There!" the witch announced triumphantly. Harry watched in despair as the piece of parchment assumed the form of a bird and fluttered off. She turned her glittering eyes back to Harry, baring her teeth in a terrible smile. "He'll be along shortly. Very punctual, Severus. But in the meantime… Crucio!"
And with that, Harry's world dissolved in an oppressive mist of red and pain.
Chapter 6