Snape paused for a moment before his mantle, trying to gather his thoughts. There was too much to do, too much to consider. How could he possibly prioritize?
The conjured jar containing the arachnid Bellatrix was secure for the time being, he thought. He'd cast every ward on it he knew, including a good number of anti-Apparition wards and a powerful Stasis Charm that would prevent her from changing forms. He had an idea of where to keep her until he could decide on her fate, but securing her in the basement was not the most important thing at present.
Perhaps best to contact Albus…. But Snape had his reservations about that particular course of action, selfish though they were. He did not know how Albus would react. If the headmaster lost confidence in him—or worse, for some deranged reason believed him to be involved in Bellatrix's escape—he did not know where that would leave him. Certainly many years had passed since his trial, and potions masters were difficult to engage, but he knew that his sordid past was still prevalent in the minds of many parents, not to mention Ministry officials.
And if the headmaster decided he was incompetent… well, it was only Dumbledore's considerable influence that was keeping him from a cozy cell in Azkaban. And if word of any of this got out, even Dumbledore's support might not be enough. The Ministry might jump to conclusions, as usual, and decide that an ex-Death Eater was as good a scapegoat as any for this little fiasco. Because Magical Law Enforcement certainly wasn't about to publicly own up to their incompetence in allowing a high-security criminal to escape.
Bellatrix's breakout hadn't even been reported, he thought. There had been nothing in the Daily Prophet. So the Ministry was trying to keep things under wraps. That, or they hadn't even realized that Bellatrix's cell was empty—likely, he thought, since most of the prison's day-to-day affairs were managed by Dementors. Whatever the case, the whole mess was still under wraps.
And Potter was safe, however hard he'd tried to make himself into a target. The little fool…. If he'd not been there, Snape could have dispatched of Bellatrix much more quickly. As it was, he'd decided to exhibit a great deal of restraint and precision in the hopes that the duel wouldn't get too out-of-hand. He'd been pretending to give it his all to lull her into a false sense of security, hoping that she would eventually grow overconfident and careless. Not that Bellatrix was a weak opponent in any sense, especially since his Legilimency was of no use against an accomplished Occlumens such as her. Yet he'd hoped that his patience and strategy might allow him to win out and break their deadlock.
But no, the little Gryffindor brat had decided to lob a rock at the witch's head, of all things. It had worked, at least, but Snape still shuddered to think of what curses an enraged Bellatrix might have unloaded on him if his little stunt had failed.
The boy. Yes, Potter was his priority now. Everything else could wait.
Stashing the glass jar on top of the bookshelf, Snape returned his attention to the pale boy who sat, arms wrapped tightly over himself, hunched on the loveseat. With a flick of his wand, Snape transformed the coffee table into a stool and seated himself in front of his ward. Another flick and he'd summoned four potions from his storage cupboards.
"Sir," the boy stammered softly, his voice broken.
Snape merely shot him an icy glare in response before proceeding to push the boy's sleeves up.
"Sir, I'm so sorry for—"
"Silence," Snape hissed. "Now is not the time for your pathetic blathering."
The boy flinched. Snape ignored him.
"What spells did Bellatrix subject you to?" Snape kept his tone professional, clinical, as he drew his wand and began healing the minor abrasions.
"I—I dunno," the boy stammered, sounding as if he were on the verge of tears.
Snape growled to himself. Of course the boy wouldn't know. Foolish of him to ask. He finished healing the boy's arms before turning back to the potions he'd summoned. He selected a vial containing a light-blue substance, a Calming Draught, and turned back to the boy. He uncorked the potion and pressed it to the boy's lips.
"Drink," he commanded, tipping the contents into the boy's mouth.
The boy sputtered at first but quickly complied, downing the whole thing without a word of protest.
Snape drew a deep, calming breath, then tipped the boy's chin up so he could meet the child's eyes. Those green depths, he saw, were filled with more fear and guilt than he would have thought possible. He swore mentally, vowing to make Bellatrix pay tenfold for every bit of agony she'd inflicted. "Potter," he said quietly, fighting to keep his voice as calm and even as possible, "I need to know exactly what happened. The fastest and easiest way will be for me to see the events in your mind. Is that acceptable?"
Potter swallowed thickly, his fear hitching toward panic. Apparently the draught was not working quickly enough. "You want to read my mind?" he stuttered, squirming back slightly on the loveseat.
Snape tightened his grip on the boy's chin. He desperately wanted to snap that he'd just said that and scold the idiot child for wasting his time. But he knew the boy had just suffered a trauma and allowances had to be made. So he forced himself to draw another calming breath.
"Yes. It will not hurt and it will be quick." Snape watched the indecision flickering in the boy's eyes. He was about to Legilimize Potter without his consent when the child finally spoke up.
"Okay," he whispered.
Without further invitation, Snape pressed into the boy's mind, questing for the memories of that morning. Unsurprisingly, he easily found what he was looking for floating near the surface. He ignored the prominent memories—of pain and terror laced with Bellatrix's high-pitched laugh—and instead waded back to the boy playing quietly in the yard. Snape pressed through, watching as the boy scrambled off after his errant little pikeman.
Stupid boy, Snape thought to himself as he watched Potter traipse off with the merry band of children. He knew the boy could sense his disapproval. After he'd been warned, after he'd been explicitly told to stay put…. And the nonsense about enchanted toys. Really, how gullible was the boy?
He pressed on through the timeline, switching his focus to loose ends that would need to be tied with. Yes, the children would have to be seen to… though it looked as if Bellatrix had already made an effort to cover her tracks. He recognized the spells she'd cast—Obliviate and what appeared to be an Imperius Curse. Still, he would have to find a way to discretely check on them and make certain that any traces of their interactions with the fugitive were obliterated.
But those were fine details, ones that would have to be sorted out when he finally decided how to deal with this. Because he was not entirely certain that it was wise to go through official channels at this point, or even through Dumbledore.
Snape tucked those thoughts away for later, pressing on in the boy's memories until he could see and taste the pain of Bellatrix's Cruciatus curse through Harry's mind. Even Snape, who'd seen more than his fair share of horrors during his career as a Death Eater, had to shudder at the violence and unadulterated terror woven into fabric of those scenes.
He counted bouts of the curse, feeling his physical body tighten every time Bellatrix raised her wand. Five. The boy had endured five rounds, when most full-grown wizards could barely stand one….
Snape prepared to withdraw then, having learned all he'd needed for the time being, but a glimpse of the boy's wandering thoughts caught his attention. Withdrawing back to the very surface of the boy's mind, Snape felt the burgeoning worry that was overtaking all of Potter's conscious thought. He was fixated on his punishment for his latest transgression, frantically comparing this act to all the things he'd done while staying with his relatives.
Snape saw the boy being thrust into a tiny, claustrophobic room, a man's deep voice booming behind him, of a small Harry weeding out in a well-kept garden, struggling to lift the large bags of mulch he was using, of Harry cowering as his horse-faced aunt shrieked at him, brandishing a wooden spoon as she gestured wildly to something charred and smoking on the kitchen countertop.
There was no need to delve any deeper. From just those few insights, Snape was able to piece together the main elements of the boy's home life, if it could be called that. The fear and misery pulsated palpably in every episode, and now the boy was certain that he would be relegated to some cupboard, or beaten within an inch of his life.
Snape withdrew, trying to settle what he'd just learned within his own mind. Well, he'd certainly intended to chastise the boy for his reckless, irresponsible behavior, but the fears running rampant in Potter's mind were ludicrous. The boy would need to be reassured in some capacity… Dumbledore would not be happy to see the boy whipped into such a frenzied state, and even the Calming Draught could only calm the physiological symptoms of the boy's panic.
If Snape ended up calling Dumbledore. He still hadn't decided on that matter.
The potions master sighed, running a hand through his hair. The boy was still staring at him blankly, his eyes shining with apprehension.
Best to finish dosing the boy, he decided. Gathering up the three remaining vials, Snape conjured a glass from his cupboards and began measuring out portions of the three concoctions. Once he'd titrated the mixture to his satisfaction, he swirled it three times to combine and passed it to the boy, pressing it into the child's too-cold hands.
"You've had quite a shock," Snape stated, once again striving for his most clinical tone. "I've already given you something to calm your nerves. That will help with any residual discomfort, and it will help your body heal from what you've endured. I've also added something to help you sleep."
The boy stared at the glass in his hands blankly, as if uncertain of what to do with it.
"Drink," Snape ordered, his tone notching toward frosty.
After a second more of hesitation, the boy obeyed, shooting back the glass and pulling a face as the substance hit his tongue. "Ugh," he muttered, shuddering. Then, shyly, not lifting his eyes, he mumbled, "Thanks, Professor."
Snape snorted disdainfully and vanished the glass from the boy's hands. Then, working the complex wand-pattern required for the spell, he transformed the loveseat into a small bed before summoning a blanket from his bedroom. He tossed the blanket to Potter and, standing, returned the stool he'd been sitting on to a coffee table. Finally, he lifted his wand above his head and uttered the series of low incantations that would adjust the wards correctly so that there would be no repeats of the morning's incidents.
"There," he announced once the walls of his home had ceased glimmering a bluish-gold. He pinned the boy with a hard glare. "Lie down and rest," he commanded. "I've business to attend to. The wards will not allow you to leave the interior of the house for the time being, and I doubt you'll wake with that potion in you, but call if you have need of me. And do not, on pain of death, think to remove yourself from that bed unless it is to relieve yourself or for an emergency. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Potter?"
The boy nodded vigorously. When Snape arched a displeased brow at him, the boy stammered out a feeble, "Yes, sir."
Snape continued to glare at the boy until, finally taking the hint, he folded his legs up onto the makeshift bed and started to settle himself beneath the blanket.
Snape's glare deepened into a scowl. "Shoes," he snapped. "And your glasses, you idiot boy."
The child flinched and hastened to pull off his trainers, letting them thud carelessly onto the floor, before removing and folding his glasses. Snape reached out wordlessly, plucking them from the boy's hand to set them on the coffee table. He continued to watch as the boy nestled into the blanket, his lids slipping down like curtains over his worried green eyes.
Snape waited until he was certain that the boy had fallen into a deep slumber, then heaved a deep sigh. What was he going to do? He cast his eyes back to the disgusting spider in the enchanted jar. He didn't doubt his spellwork, but he knew it was best to take no chances with Bellatrix….
Besides, he thought with a grim smile, he had just the place to keep her.
It took Snape several minutes to unlock all his warding spells on the door leading to the cellar. Even before Dumbledore had forced the Potter boy on him, Snape had been in the habit of keeping this particular part of his home sealed up tight. He certainly didn't have as impressive a collection of Dark Artifacts as, say, the Malfoys, but for a half-blooded potions master teaching at a public school, the items he'd gathered and kept for study were quite remarkable .
Most he kept in spelled display cases, behind layers of wards and enchanted glass, just as a safety precaution. Dark magic was notoriously volatile, given to leaking out and corrupting all it touched, and Snape had no desire to see his home become any more foreboding by carelessness on his part.
There was also the matter of Albus Dumbledore's infrequent visits. The man only ever came in the summers, and rarely at that, preferring to set tea dates in his office when it was time for Snape to give him updates. But still, Snape had every intention of keeping his little menagerie a secret, knowing that Dumbledore certainly wouldn't approve.
Though sometimes, Snape thought, he was certain that Dumbledore did know. The man's intuition and resourcefulness were sources to be reckoned with.
Snape passed by the first few objects—a glove that, when donned, compelled the hand to commit murder through any possible means until it was removed, a goblet that unfailingly poisoned the drinker, pearl earrings that would fill the wearer's ears with agonized whispers of dead loved ones. The kinds of things that would be consigned to oblivion should any Ministry officials get their hands on them.
Not that Snape intended to use them for anything but research, of course. But his past alone would be reason enough for a steep sentence, should these particular possessions ever come to light.
Snape reached the mahogany cupboard standing at the far side of the cellar. It was one of his most prized possessions, a Dark Artifact by definition considering the cost of its creation. Not that he had paid the price himself. It was an acquisition from his early days as a Death Eater, a gift for services rendered. And distasteful as Snape found the origins of the object, he was far too pragmatic to give it up when it was so dead useful.
It had, after all, been bound specifically to him through an obscure and obscene ritual involving ancient blood magic. Now it was nearly impenetrable as a vault at Gringotts, since not only was it warded against penetration, but objects stored in it ended up in a small pocket of space that existed only to Snape himself. No other being on the face of the planet, not even the Dark Lord himself, could force it open. It was rare and powerful magic, and for that Snape was unwilling to part with it.
Snape ran a hand lovingly down the panel, smiling faintly to himself before touching the handle and feeling the whole thing come blazing to life as it recognized the blood in his veins, and his free, unadulterated will that it should open. The magic thrummed almost pleasantly in his fingers.
He pulled the cabinet open and briefly swept his gaze over the contents contained within. He did not have many things that he felt needed to be kept so carefully. A few potent potions that had taken a great deal of time, care, and expense to produce, the kinds of brews he kept on hand for very desperate situations. He also kept his rarest ingredients here—a full unicorn horn, a few phoenix and griffin feathers, a vial of mermaid tears, a jar of dragon heartstring. A few valuable grimoires on the Darkest Arts passed down to him by his mother, the entirety of his inheritance from the Prince family. And a handful of photographs and letters from… well, her.
At times it felt almost like sacrilege to him, allowing those precious keepsakes to be kept in that cabinet. And now, to force those few memories to share a space with the vile creature he held tucked under his arm….
He sighed to himself. It was all in his head, he told himself, and he would not let himself be swayed by foolish notions of closeness and taint. They were highly impractical. He valued those memories of Lily more than anything else he possessed, and it was only reasonable that he should secure them where they could not be damaged or destroyed, either by accident or design. So they would remain there, safe, just as Bellatrix would remain there.
Still, Snape chose to clear a space on the bottom shelf where nothing personal lay. Then he lifted the jar and, staring at the spider contained within, he murmured, "I do hope your accommodations are acceptable, Bella. Nothing compared to Azkaban, I'm certain, but don't worry. We'll see you returned there shortly."
Snape wasn't certain his words had penetrated the glass at all, or that Bellatrix was even in a state to understand them. But it felt good all the same, after all the trouble she'd caused, to lord his power over her now, to reminder that he had absolute control over her fate.
He could just kill her, he thought, and no one would be the wiser.
Except they would, in the case that the truth ever got out. And then… he did not know what it would look like. A double-cross, perhaps, him helping a notorious Death Eater escape, one who'd already been unstable and who'd become further unhinged during her stay in Azkaban. An ensuing skirmish, perhaps one that forced Snape's hand and foiled his plans of clandestinely reassembling the Dark Lord's followers…. Yes, the Ministry would come up with something along those lines. They would not see it as the delivery of justice.
And death, he thought, was far too merciful a fate for Bellatrix Lestrange. A great deal of resentment still festered in Snape for the woman, who'd tried to drag him into that hellhole of a prison with her, who, even before the fall of the Dark Lord, had constantly belittled and undermined him, who had resented his rising status within the ranks of the Death Eaters. Who had never trusted him and sought to out him as a traitor at every turn. Who had cackled with pure delight the night that Lily Potter was to be slaughtered, who went on and on how the Mudblood would finally meet her well-deserved end. Who had scoffed at Snape's efforts to beg for clemency for the woman he loved.
Snape slammed the cupboard door shut, his breathing ragged. Now was not the time to cave to petty revenge fantasies, he reminded himself. He had much greater worries.
His standing with the headmaster, for one. Had Bellatrix not indulged her sadistic impulses, Potter could very well have been killed. Snape had allowed him to wander off, unsupervised, into the woods, where any crazed lunatic or ex-Death Eater might have made quick work of him. It was careless in the extreme, and once the headmaster learned of his grave mistake, there was no telling where he would find himself.
Oh, certainly he might finally get out of babysitting the insolent Potter spawn, but at what cost? Snape prided himself on being the best, at being discreet and intelligent and analytical. His services as spy and protector had been the currency with which he'd bought the headmaster's protection. And protection only, he knew, because trust was a near impossibility. Albus Dumbledore would never trust him. The headmaster might trust his self-interest, his unwillingness to put himself in an untenable position, but he would never believe that Snape was truly reformed. The headmaster's frequent little tests were enough to make that abundantly clear.
Still, he thought, what hope did he have of resolving this without Albus' considerable influence? There had been no reports of the escape yet. But Albus would be one of the first informed, especially given the Ministry's reliance on his talents. Fudge might even expect the old headmaster to recapture Bellatrix himself.
If Snape allowed Albus to take all the credit, that could buy him a significant political favor from the Ministry. And one could never have too many chips to cash in. That might be enough to mitigate Snape's own carelessness with the precious Boy-Who-Lived, enough to keep Dumbledore from deciding he was totally worthless.
The headmaster certainly wasn't about to keep him around for his extraordinary teaching abilities, the potions master thought with a small, bitter smirk. They didn't see eye-to-eye on instruction methods, as Albus continually chose to remind him that constructive criticisms and insults were not one and the same.
Snape ascended the stairs and began re-warding the door.
If he hid this from Dumbledore, he reasoned as he uttered the familiar incantations, and the truth ever came out, he would lose any semblance of faith the headmaster had in him. And he simply could not risk that. Besides, Dumbledore would be far more efficient in mopping up after this little fiasco. There were all those damned children to see to, not to mention their parents, and any other traces of Bellatrix's presence. And on top of that, handling her contact with the Malfoys, and navigating that quagmire….
Snape could feel a migraine coming on. He reached into his robes and fished around for the Headache Draught he kept on hand, the kind he'd brewed specifically for the schoolyear. It had been a necessity, given the number of potions accidents and his general loathing for children. When his fingers finally closed around the thin vial, he drew it out and downed it with practiced ease.
Once the dull throbbing began to recede, Snape drew a few bracing breaths. There really was only one course of action at this point, he knew, and it meant owning up to an unacceptable degree of carelessness. Oh, Dumbledore would be kind about it. The man would shake his head sadly and try to accept the blame for having entrusted such a delicate task to Snape. But he would see how unreliable the ex-Death Eater truly was, so hapless that he could not even keep his eye on a child for a week.
Best to face the music, he thought, stalking back to his study.
As he crossed the sitting room, he cast a glance back at the sleeping boy on the transfigured bed. The tousled black mop poking out from beneath the blanket. He sighed. Albus would know what to say to the child. He'd probably just scared the boy half to death, especially after what he'd seen in the boy's mind. Well, if this was to be the beginning of his fall from grace, he could at least try to squeeze in one final good deed for Lily's son. He would be certain to bring up the topic of guardianship once again, and force a promise from the old man that he would never send the boy back to his horrendous relatives.
But that was a discussion for later, once things had been sorted. He made his way quickly to his study and closed the door behind him, then paced over to his fireplace. Grabbing a pinch of Floo powder, he enunciated "Headmaster's office" and tossed the pinch into the hearth. A jade-green fire roared up.
Wasting no time, Snape knelt down and stuck his head in, feeling the familiar tickle as the magic flames licked the sides of his face. He knew he always looked ridiculous doing this, one of the reasons he rarely made Floo calls. His hair hung in curtains around his face, and he couldn't help but resent being put in such an awkward position.
"Albus!" Snape called, scanning the office as best he could for any sign of the old man. With his luck, this would be one of the days he was visiting the Ministry, or strolling about the castle and grounds.
But luck was on his side.
"Severus?" The headmaster hurried over to the fireplace to better speak with the potions master. "What is it? I was just about to contact you, in fact. There is a situation—"
"It's an emergency, Albus," Snape cut him off. "Can you come?"
The headmaster's normally placid face rippled with concern, and his normally soft eyes went hard. "Is Harry all right?"
"Fine," Snape bit out. "But the situation is time-sensitive."
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I'll step right through."
In just seconds the headmaster was dusting off his periwinkle robes in Snape's study, his concerned gaze seeking out that of his potions master.
"What has happened, Severus?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
Snape drew a deep breath. "Might I assume that the situation you wished to discuss involves a certain Bellatrix Lestrange?"
"She has been in contact?" Dumbledore demanded, his tone unusually sharp.
Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose, debating the wisdom of another dose of his headache potion. If he accidentally knocked himself into a coma, he thought, he wouldn't have to deal with this mess…. "After a fashion," he muttered. He drew in a calming breath. "I fear I've failed you, Albus."
And Snape proceeded explain every detail of the day's events.
XXXXX
It was late afternoon by the time the situation had been mostly rectified. Using Snape's memory of what he'd seen in Harry's mind, Dumbledore had been able to slip discreetly around the neighborhood and verify that Bellatrix had, in fact, cleaned up after herself quite thoroughly. The headmaster had banished all the strange trinkets she'd handed out, which hadn't been much trouble, given that the children had no memory of acquiring them in the first place.
After that they'd both taken up residence in the sitting room, mostly so that they could keep eyes on the still-sleeping Potter. Snape had prepared tea and biscuits at Dumbledore's request, even managing to hide the disparaging look that automatically wrinkled his features. He hardly thought afternoon tea was an appropriate way of discussing what was to be done with the murderer and Voldemort-fanatic he currently had locked away in his basement, but he didn't dare to contradict the headmaster.
At least the old man hadn't tried to offer him a lemon sherbet yet.
Snape tapped a finger against his porcelain cup, trying to rein in his agitation. Things were under control once more. Potter seemed to be wrapped in an easy sleep, which Snape knew was the best thing for the boy at the moment. Yes, they had to figure out how to handle Bellatrix. Her escape had only been officially noted that very morning, of course, and it was troubling that she'd been able to find Harry and lure him out so easily. But for the moment she was secure as could be, and Dumbledore had even offered to remove her from the premises to alleviate Snape's disquietude.
But what weighed on Snape the most heavily in that moment was the role he himself had played in the day's fiasco. Dumbledore had been all business, as usual, when it came to clearing things up. Together they had analyzed every detail of the conundrum, from Bellatrix's newly-acquired ability to her possible contact with the Malfoys, to the Ministry's potential role in delaying information about her escape. Not once had the conversation become remotely personal.
But now, Snape sensed, it was time to own up to his mistakes. Ignoring them or denying them would do no good; he was many things, but not a weak man, not in that respect. And especially not before Dumbledore. He owed the man more than that.
"I should have modified the wards," he said quietly, before taking another sip of his tea. "Potter never should have been able to wander off as he did. I never should have let the boy out of my sight."
"Severus…." Dumbledore set his own cup down on the coffee table, his eyes strangely gentle.
Snape could not bear to hold them. If there was one thing worse than Dumbledore's anger, it was his pity.
"You couldn't have known. Today's circumstances have been nothing less than extraordinary. And Harry is a curious child, as we all were. He was tempted by the promises of his comrades, and in this case it led him straight into the arms of Bellatrix. That she was even able to escape confinement is nothing short of a miracle. You couldn't have known, and you cannot be faulted for not locking the boy up." Dumbledore took a moment to examine the plate of biscuits before him, and made a bit of a show of selecting one. "I confess, I myself would have allowed the child the liberty of playing outdoors, had I been in your position."
Snape sighed heavily. "My sole duty was to protect him—"
"And you have done so marvelously. You rushed to his aid. You captured a dangerous witch. You brought him back here and tended to him quite well. He looks comfortable, even peaceful, and that is no small thing considering the atrocities the poor boy has suffered. You need not blame yourself for this mishap, Severus."
"I was careless," Snape bit out, his hand tightening around his cup. "Foolish, I would dare say. I knew that Lucius had inquired about the boy. I knew that these sorts of dangers would plague him, considering his personal history. If I hadn't arrived, if Bellatrix had decided that she would rather kill the boy and be done with it, he would not be here now—"
"What point is there in dwelling on what could have been?" Dumbledore asked gently, breaking off a piece of his biscuit and dunking it in his tea.
Snape closed his eyes and focused on re-centering himself. His emotions were getting out of hand. "I never believed I could be a decent guardian for the boy, Albus, but clearly I am incapable of even acting as his protector! He is eight, scarcely of age to be of any real trouble, and yet I have failed him—"
"You have not," Dumbledore reassured him. "Harry is alive and well; I dare say that cannot be considered failure."
"But it easily—"
"Harry is staying on the upper floor, is he not?" Dumbledore inquired suddenly, his tone pleasant, as if he were making small talk.
Snape barely contained his huff of annoyance. He could tell that the old man was prepared to engage in some silly game with him, and he did not have the patience. "He is. But the matter at hand—"
"Tell me, would you blame yourself if Harry had tripped and fallen down the stairs and broken his neck? Would you curse yourself for not having removed the staircase?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Snape muttered. "This was no unforeseen tragedy—"
"Ah, on the contrary. You think it was foreseeable that Bellatrix Lestrange would become an Animagus, escape Azkaban, and use a handful of rumors and murmurings to track the boy here?"
Snape scowled at the ground. Worse, perhaps, than having Dumbledore blame him, was realizing how quickly he'd spiraled, how easily his insecurities overcame him. Perhaps, too, remembering how unfailingly magnanimous Dumbledore was, something that never failed to twist Severus' own guilt tighter into his stomach. It would have been easier to resent the man for his lack of real trust if the headmaster were less… well, good.
"Ah, it seems that your young ward is stirring," Dumbledore remarked, his gentle eyes moving beyond Snape to the place where Harry lay.
Snape flinched at the way the headmaster said your young ward. The boy was a guest in the potions master's home, nothing more. This was a waystation for the Boy Who Lived, and Snape was nothing to him, just a glorified babysitter.
Both wizards rose from their places and approached the boy slowly. Dumbledore took a seat at the foot of the bed; Snape transfigured the coffee table back into a stool and seated himself, careful to retrieve the boy's glasses before doing so.
Harry blinked a few times at Snape, clearly disoriented. "Professor?" he croaked.
Snape summoned a glass of water and offered it to the boy, using a hand to leverage him into a sitting position. The boy nursed the glass gratefully as Snape settled the boy's glasses back onto his nose.
"Professor Dumbledore is here as well," Snape murmured, mostly because he was unsure of what to say and hoped desperately that he could merely pass the baton.
"Harry," Dumbledore greeted the boy warmly, patting his leg through the blanket. "Good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"
The boy continued to blink owlishly, his gaze darting between Snape and Dumbledore. "I—er—I feel better now." He swallowed thickly. "Thank you again, Professor, for—for the medicine. It worked really well."
Snape dipped his head in acknowledgment, once again at a loss for how to respond. Didn't the boy realize that being provided a few remedies like that was a given?
Not likely, he reminded himself, a few of the memories he'd seen in the boy's head flashing to mind.
The boy struggled to free himself from the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He made to stand up, but Snape placed a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
"You need to use the restroom, Potter?" he asked quietly. He didn't fully trust the boy on his feet, especially after such an ordeal. The potions had likely restored him, but it would likely be at least a few days before the boy was fully recovered.
"No, sir," the boy mumbled. "I—I just thought I should go… you know, pack."
Snape's brow crumpled. "Pack?" he inquired, shooting a puzzled glance at Dumbledore.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, shifting on the bed so he was sitting closer to the boy, "you are perfectly safe here now. Bellatrix has been dealt with, I promise you. You will not have to fear anything from her again. And as long as you remain with Professor Snape and do as he asks, no harm will come to you."
Now the boy wore an extremely confused expression. "I thought—aren't you sending me away?" His voice was very small, almost a whimper. "I—I know what you said… if I misbehaved—"
Snape heaved a sigh. "Potter, that is the last thing you should concern yourself with. Believe me, we will be discussing your lack of judgment and your disobedience, and you will be punished for that, but as I said earlier, today's events have been traumatic. Right now you need to lie back down."
The boy's wide eyes shifted back to Dumbledore. "You're not here to take me away?" he stammered.
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, of course not. Professor Snape told me what happened, and I came straight away to make certain you're all right. He was very concerned about you."
Snape shot the man a dirty look. Very concerned indeed. He'd been most interested in discussing the spider he'd locked away in his basement, not whether he'd coddled the insolent child sufficiently.
"It was my fault, though—"
"Harry," Dumbledore chided him gently, "you should have listened to Professor Snape today, but you are not to blame for that woman's deplorable actions. And you did not deserve to suffer so much."
Snape couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. The boy thought he was so cold-hearted that he would be sent out into the cold when he was in this state? Perhaps he should have been a trifle less harsh with his threats.
"Lie down," Snape commanded, before the boy could go rambling on about being sent away. "How is your stomach? Do you think you could manage a meal?"
Harry swung his wide, surprised eyes back to Snape.
"Severus, perhaps I could leave you to tend Harry while I send out some correspondence? I believe the Minister should be informed…."
"You have a story prepared?" Snape murmured, holding the boy's gaze.
"I believe I can spin out something suitable, yes. Nothing implicating you in any heroics, as you requested."
Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Dragging my name up would not implicate me in heroics, as you well know. Especially with the tale coming from you."
"Even so… perhaps I could take this troublesome spider with me before I return to Hogwarts?"
Snape at last broke eye contact with the boy and stood. "Finish that water, Potter," he commanded, turning his attention back to Dumbledore. "I'll be just a moment… I left her in the cellar."
"Just as well," Dumbledore mused. "One can never be too careful with Bellatrix."
Snape made the journey down as back as swiftly as he could, feeling the familiar prickle of shame and fear as he descended back into the musty depths. He did not like lying to Dumbledore, and this to him felt like a lie of omission.
But he was no longer a school boy, he reminded himself. And it was not as if he was harboring anything down there for a nefarious scheme. His interest in those objects was purely scholarly, apart from the cabinet, which he kept because of functionality. Dumbledore simply would not understand because he would believe Severus incapable of restraining himself. He would see it as temptation, pure and simple.
It was for that exact same reason that he was stuck teaching his blasted potions class year after year, watching children cringe and titter as they remarked upon all of the disgusting ingredients they had to work with. Or worse, having to deal with the aftermath of the nastiest students who liked to experiment when Snape's back was turned. And then he was always on the receiving end of Pomfrey's infamous Evil Eye, as if he were somehow responsible for the collective brainlessness of the adolescents he was forced to teach.
Snape finished re-warding his door just as Dumbledore appeared around the corner, a gentle smile on his lips.
"Harry thinks very highly of you," the older wizard remarked, his eyes twinkling from behind his spectacles. "He was just telling me how exceedingly fair and kind you've been—"
"Fair," Snape scathed. "We'll see how kind and fair he finds me after I've decided upon his punishment. Not only did he leave the yard, he disobeyed my explicit instructions to get himself away from this vile creature"—he thrust the jar into Dumbledore's hands—"and went so far as to try to distract her—"
"Rather courageous of him," Dumbledore beamed, "given what she did to him—"
"Courage! It was foolhardiness, a stunt that could have gotten him mangled or killed! He's not in Gryffindor yet, Albus, and I will not laud the boy for intentionally endangering his life, however noble his motivations may have been."
"Just don't be too hard on the boy, Severus," Dumbledore advised soberly. "Children are young and impressionable, as I'm sure you know—"
"I'm not going to flay the boy," Snape hissed. "I'm not even going to raise a hand to him. You should know better. He will, however, remember this lesson, because I will not have him testing the limits of my promise to his mother at every turn. I refuse to spend the remainder of my life chasing after a thoughtless, senseless, careless James Potter!"
Dumbledore seemed subdued. "Of course, Severus. Though I think it might be helpful to remember that the boy only stayed to help you—"
"And he would do well to learn," Snape shot back, "that he is a child, while I am a fully-grown and fully-trained adult sworn to protect him, not the other way around!"
Dumbledore looked as if he had much more to say, but in the end the older wizard only offered a kind smile. "I will see to this then," he said, lifting the jar slightly. "And I shall keep you informed of any new developments. If you need anything…."
"I will call or post an owl."
"Really, Severus, you should get one yourself. They're dead useful—"
"And insufferably noisy, and demanding, and one more responsibility that I do not care to take on, seeing as I've already had a child foisted onto me. I am perfectly content to make the trip to the post office. Shall I see you to the Floo?"
"I can find my own way. I believe your charge is in need of reassurance at the moment."
"About 'my' charge." Snape schooled his face into a completely neutral expression. This would be a calm discussion, he promised himself. He would not allow himself to lose his temper. "I've promised to keep him for the next week, Albus, but you've yet to propose an alternative guardian to his relatives. I can tolerate the boy, but I will not become his permanent guardian by default. So, who have you been considering?"
Dumbledore's lips pursed into a small, concerned frown. "Ah, about that. It seems that Lucius has been rather diligent in his efforts to gain custody of Harry, and due to an overwhelming amount of political pressure the Minister is backtracking on his firm stance of opposition."
Snape's brow drew together in consternation, but he managed to keep his tone even. "Mm, I am so very surprised," he drawled, his sarcasm caustic. "If only we had seen this coming…."
"I am doing all within my power to manage the situation, Severus, but the truth of the matter is that it might be best to have official guardianship rest with his relatives—"
"Absolutely not," Snape hissed, his calm façade shattering. "Do you have any idea of how they treated the boy? Arabella was right; it is not a suitable home environment."
"We have few other options," Dumbledore sighed. "The blood wards I erected eight years ago require Harry to have hearth rights in the home in which his aunt resides, and I fear the only way to ensure that is to keep Petunia legally attached and obligated to Harry—"
"Surely there are other ways to protect the boy," Snape insisted. "The Fidelius Charm—"
"There are few wizarding families willing to live in absolute secrecy, even for the Boy Who Lived. We could erect wards, but none would hold a candle to the protection of Lily's sacrifice. You know this, Severus. Blood magic is, after all, the most potent there is."
"But he cannot live there, Albus. The boy deserves better. They locked him in a cupboard, you realize. They withheld food as a punishment."
"Harry has confided this in you?" Dumbledore asked curiously.
Snape snorted derisively. "No, the boy hasn't poured his soul out to me. I was perusing his memories of today and a few of his experiences with his relatives happened to be in proximity. You cannot in good conscience send him back to that."
Dumbledore sighed tiredly. "I would not, but as I said, I fear we have little choice. Petunia Dursley, like it or not, is the pinnacle of the sacrificial blood wards. Harry must spend two weeks out of the lunar year in her residence in order for them to remain in effect. They cannot be extended without some focal point related to Lily, either her love or love of her."
Snape fought back a cold sneer. "Ah, so I am the only viable choice. Either he will live with his revolting relatives, he will be snatched up by the likes of Lucius Malfoy, or he will spend the majority of his time here, my ward in all but name. I am gratified you have given me a choice in the matter, though."
"I am still seeking out other options, but Severus, surely you can see—"
"This is not about what I want! Yes, I would prefer my peace and quiet, of course I would, but I am telling you, Albus, that I am an unfit guardian for the boy! I have no experience raising children, and as you've pointed out numerous times over the years, I have no patience for them."
"But you've done well—"
"For one week, yes, I've kept the boy alive. But feeding the boy and seeing to it that he keeps himself from harm's way is vastly different from actually rearing a child. I know what you intend, don't think I don't. You've had this plotted out from the moment you sent me to collect the boy. But you cannot maneuver me into adopting the boy, do you hear me?"
"As I said before," Dumbledore announced, an air of finality in his words, "I do not doubt your capabilities, even in this. But as I've already promised, I will continue to look into the matter and attempt to identify all of our options."
"Do so," Snape suggested in a tone icier than he would usually allow himself to use with the headmaster. "I expect to be kept abreast of any new developments with that," he added, jabbing a finger at the jar, "as well as with Potter's situation." And with those words, Snape swept around Dumbledore. He'd had enough of this conversation. And besides, the boy hadn't had anything for lunch, and the last thing he needed to round out this thoroughly enjoyable day was a temper tantrum from a hungry, cranky Potter.
Chapter 8