Time to Choose by RitaRevenant

Chapter 2

Twenty-eight hours is a very long time to remain without sleep. This was particularly true for a teenage boy who, filled with anxiety about his return to his miserable home life, had slept little for the past week and had eaten even less. Apparently, no matter how dire the circumstances, there does come a time when the human body simply decides that it is time to shut down and recuperate. Thus, despite the inhospitable surrounds of Platform 9b at King's Cross Station, Harry slept.

“You brainless little twit!” The irate hiss penetrated Harry’s subconscious simultaneous to a piercing, joint-wrenching grasp which closed heavily on his right shoulder. The unidentified assailant hauled Harry roughly into a seated position against the metal bench from where he had a moment ago lain slumped forward in boneless sleep against his school trunk.

Dazed and groggy with the remainders of his deep slumber, Harry blinked at the dark blur that loomed menacingly above him, heart pounding in his throat as he realised his vulnerability in this situation. Slowly, he repositioned his glasses, which had apparently twisted askew on his face when Harry had finally succumbed to his fatigue some 45 minutes earlier, resting his head on his forearms for what he had intended to be a very brief respite from his sheer exhaustion.

“Exactly what, in Merlin’s name, do you think you are playing at?”

The low and silky tone threatened violence in a way that no shout could ever hope to emulate.

Harry gaped in astonishment as his stumbling brain finally caught up with what his eyes had registered. Towering above him, with an expression of murderous fury on the drawn and sallow face, stood Professor Snape.

“Have you been transfigured into some species of codfish, Potter?” the irate professor sneered. “Or perhaps your thrill at yet again stepping beyond the bounds of decent and considerate behaviour has rendered you entirely mute?”

Harry felt the heat of a blush slowly travel its way from neck to hairline as a combination of embarrassment, rage and, curiously, incredible relief, overcame him at the sight of the furious professor. At the same time, he felt strangely disconnected from the situation and more than a little confused about why he was waking from a doze to be greeted with the sight of the overbearingly strict Potions Master.

“Erm…I – “ unsure of exactly how to respond, Harry lapsed into a fretful silence as he continued to stare up at Snape’s furious countenance.

There was a moment’s pause as some unidentified emotion flickered briefly in the black-eyed gaze. Snape then sighed impatiently and muttered something under his breath that sounded as though Harry’s intelligence quotient might be being compared somewhat unflatteringly to that of a flobberworm.

“Wh- what?” Harry stuttered stupidly.

“Shut up, Potter.”

The same iron grip that had continued to clench Harry’s shoulder throughout this conversation, if one could call it that, now hoisted him to his feet as if he weighed no more than a rag doll.

“But – “

“Shut. Up.”

Snape readjusted his brutal grip as he seized the handle of Harry’s school trunk with his free hand. Suddenly the pair were moving forcefully through the crowd on the platform. Stumbling awkwardly to keep pace with the long strides of his professor, Harry’s muscles protested at the unanticipated movement and he again felt a sensation of watching the scene from a great distance, as if he were not fully present in the moment. Before Harry could further process what was happening, Snape had manoeuvered them both into an inset archway in the brickwork of the station wall where they were hidden from direct view.

With a sickening feeling of claustrophobia, Harry realised that he was now trapped between the solid brick wall and the equally hard and unyielding surface of Professor Snape’s chest. So close was his contact, that Harry could clearly see the crisscrossing warp and weft of the weave of fabric in Snape’s black woollen pea coat. He had a dazed moment to wonder that he had never once seen his professor garbed in anything other than flowing black wizards’ robes before an intensely uncomfortable sensation overwhelmed every last one of his senses.

The world folded in on itself and Harry could no longer tell hand from foot nor head from knee as his entire body was squeezed, twisted, folded over and then stretched out into a tautly held narrowness of being. He was vaguely aware that, somehow, he seemed to have once again reformed into his usual physical state when an uncomfortably high-pitched whine overrode all else. Harry’s vision narrowed alarmingly until he could perceive only the smallest pinprick of light as the droning in his ears became impossibly louder and more intense. His shaky legs buckled under his weight as he lurched sideways, colliding with something warm and solid.

As darkness claimed him, Harry knew no more.

***

Severus could think of few times in his teaching career when he had been so angry to see one of his students as the moment when he had rounded the corner from Platform 9 ¾ to Platform 9b and had stumbled upon the sleeping form of Harry Potter. What could possibly have possessed the little imbecile to curl up for a nap in the middle of a Muggle tube station? The reason utterly escaped him. Surely even Potter could not be so stupid, so completely oblivious, as to believe that he would be safe in such an exposed and defenseless state?

For one terrible moment, Severus had thought the boy unconscious or…worse…but as he had neared Potter’s inert form, he had heard an unmistakeable snore emanating from the brat’s drooling mouth and it had confirmed the truth. For reasons unfathomable, Potter had chosen to fall asleep in the middle of a busy train station in Muggle London, leaving himself completely open to attack.

He had been quite proud of his self-possession in dealing with the little fool. The Headmaster had been clear in his instructions that he was to locate Potter and then transport him immediately to Severus’s own home, without engaging in any form of reprimand or recrimination.

There was so much that could have been said or done in that moment. Severus was sorely tempted to hex the boy into oblivion for his reprehensible disregard for his own safety and the Potions Master felt that he had shown considerable restraint when he had roused the idiot from his semi-comatose state. If he was honest with himself, Severus would readily admit that he was somewhat surprised when Potter had shown genuine relief at his stern professor’s arrival. What had that been about? Merlin only knew why the stupid boy had chosen to run away from his relatives and head back to the train station. Obviously, Potter had not counted on the fact that the Hogwarts Express would not be running over the Christmas break and had then found himself stranded…but then why had he not summoned the Knight Bus?

It was when Severus had side-along Apparated the boy back to Spinner’s End that events had conspired to reveal that there was perhaps more to this story than he had originally considered. No sooner had they arrived at their destination, when Potter had pitched some kind of bizarre fit and collapsed into him, nearly knocking Severus completely off his feet and onto the pavement. Reflexively, he had grabbed hold of the boy’s upper arms, even as he had grunted at the unexpected dead weight of an unconscious teenager slumping against him. Casting a surreptitious Featherweight Charm, he had then proceeded to carefully hoist Potter into his arms and carry him over the threshold of his home like some hideous parody of a pair of newlyweds arriving at their honeymoon destination.

Now the boy lay unresponsive on the threadbare settee in front of the sitting room fireplace, as Severus contemplated his next move. Obviously, his first priority was to contact Dumbledore and reassure him that his Precious Potter was alive. Without further thought, Severus cast his Patronus, murmuring the message that he wished to be delivered to the Headmaster confirming his rescue of the boy. This task completed, he then turned back to the unconscious form currently taking up space in his home.

It was curious that Apparition had affected Potter in this way. Severus knew from personal experience that the first few times a wizard Apparated could induce nausea and vomiting, perhaps even dizziness, but he had not previously encountered a complete loss of consciousness.

Sighing, he crouched beside Potter’s prone form and placed his fingers to the pulse point at the boy’s throat. A slow but steady beat reassured him that there was no immediate risk to life, but Merlin, the skin under his fingers was ice cold!

A quick Summoning Spell brought a feather duvet flying through the hidden doorway to the upstairs bedrooms of his home and an Incendio was the work of an instant to get the hearth lit. Severus frowned with distaste as he placed his arm around the shoulders of the unconscious boy, resting Potter’s upper body momentarily against his chest as he wrapped him carefully in the warm duvet.

Potter’s head lolled in an alarming way as Severus lowered him back onto the seat cushions and for the second time that day, he felt a sense of unease at the apparent condition of the boy. He considered casting an Ennervate to rouse his charge, but decided the silence afforded by a comatose house guest was infinitely preferable to the inane prattle of a cognisant Boy-Who-Lived. Instead, Severus waved his wand in a complicated pattern over Potter’s prone figure and murmured the incantation of a Diagnostic Charm. Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed. Potter was suffering from the early stages of hypothermia.

Had the insufferable moron spent the entire night wandering the streets before heading to the train station? Nothing else made any sense; it was clear that the boy had been exposed to cold temperatures for an extended period.

Dumbledore hadn’t had the time to explain exactly how or why the little fool had gone missing from his home when he had brought Severus into this rescue mission. Was it possible that Potter hadn’t returned home at all prior to his little foray into the streets of London? Had he spent the entire night at the station? Surely not.

Severus’s musings were suddenly interrupted by a crack of Apparation from the street outside.

The Headmaster had arrived.

***

Harry was warm. He felt so incredibly comfortable that he could simply lie where he was forever and never move again. He was aware of muted sounds from nearby, rising and falling in an almost musical cadence. It occurred to him that he should probably open his eyes to identify the source of these sounds, but his eyelids felt so heavy that there was no possibility of him prising them open. Instead, he allowed himself to float on a wave of fatigue, washing in and out of his semi-conscious state. After a time, he had the impression that the echoing noises had moved closer. Slowly, they resolved into voices and he realised that what he could actually hear was a conversation.

Harry tried to make sense of the voices, but it was all so difficult. They drifted to him in muffled tones that brought to mind the sensation of being underwater. Someone was touching his shoulder and moving his arm – long fingers were warm and gentle on his wrist, but he could also feel the chill of a draught across his torso that now pulled him closer to consciousness and he groaned with displeasure. The hands pulled away from his arm and the chill air disappeared after a moment, but he was not left in peace. Instead, a firm hand carefully cupped the back of his head, tilting his chin as the cold rim of a glass pressed against his lower lip.

“Drink up now, that’s it,” a deep voice drifted to him.

Obediently, Harry parted his lips and a wonderful warmth filled his mouth and throat, spreading out across his chest as whatever fluid Harry had just swallowed made its way down to his stomach. He felt a strange tingling in his extremities and a sudden feeling of wellbeing overcame him. The gentle hand lowered his head back onto the softness where he lay, and Harry regretted the absence of that simple touch. It had been so nice to be held like that, however briefly.

The same deep voice now floated directly above him, no longer so close to his ear. “…cannot allow you to…not fully aware of what is happening…” The tone held a different emotion now. Previously it had sounded encouraging and concerned while convincing Harry to drink and now there was irritation.

Drifting peacefully in a soft cocoon of heat, the voices continued to ebb and flow around him.

“…no longer an option…permission…irrelevant at this point.” This voice was slower…older and far more controlled. Perhaps Harry could lift one eyelid to see who was speaking, if he really concentrated.

“You know why I feel this is wrong…manipulations…expense of personal freedoms…won’t participate…your ridiculous schemes and plots, old man!” The deep voice was frustrated.

There – cracking his eyes open, Harry could see a little! The light in the room was dim and hazy. He tried to make his lips move to form a word, to let the voices know he was there and could hear them.

“Nnngh,” was all he could manage. Harry’s eyelids were slitted open, but everything was so hopelessly blurry and dreamlike that he had no hope of communicating clearly with the voices or identifying to whom they might belong.

“Harry?” One of the voices acknowledged him, the calm one, and a different hand, softer and cooler, was cupping his cheek. “Harry, I know you are probably feeling very tired right now, but we need you to take one more potion.”

“Headmaster, I implore you…as I previously expressed, I will not be a participant in this ridiculous venture without the boy’s full consent.” The deep voice was cold and filled with hostility. Harry thought it sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he had heard those vocal tones before.

“Very well, my boy.” The older voice shifted slightly, but the hand remained on Harry’s cheek. He had the urge to turn his head away. The hand was too cool against his skin. He wanted the warm and gentle hands to come back instead. “Harry?” the controlled voice continued. “Would it be alright with you if we gave you another potion to help you feel better?”

Feel better? He already felt okay. Harry was sure he didn’t need any more potions, although it was beginning to frustrate him that he just could not properly open his eyes or focus on what was really happening around him. Everything felt so distant and fuzzy. Maybe another potion would help with that?

“Potter is insensible right now, Albus. He is clearly still suffering the after-effects of exposure and not five minutes ago I drugged him to the eyeballs with a strong sedative – at your request!”

“Mmph,” Harry muttered in a non-committal way. He didn’t really mind taking more potions. The last one had made him feel so warm. He slowly shifted his unfocused gaze to take in the glinting of firelight on glass nearby. A pair of half-moon spectacles resolved themselves and twinkling blue eyes blinked at him. Harry knew those eyes! But they hadn’t truly looked at him like that in such a long time. He realised that he was likely dreaming and felt a little disappointed about that. Still, if this was a dream, then that meant that he could probably force himself to communicate more clearly with the man.

“ ’fessor Dummledore?” his lips clumsily formed the slurred words.

“That’s right, Harry,” the eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. “Now why don’t you just drink this final dose and then you can rest until morning?”

As Harry opened his mouth to answer, he felt a vial press suddenly to his lips, its contents sliding into his mouth. Ugh! This was not like the warm and tingly potion the deep-voiced man had urged him to drink. A viscous fluid slid over his tongue and down his throat in a deeply unpleasant rush of bile-bitter flavour.

For a moment, Harry thought that it was all over, but then a sudden point of knife-hot pain lanced through his stomach. Every muscle in his body tensed in a rictus of agony, his very bones on fire even as he was dimly aware of warm, gentle, long-fingered hands holding him again, preventing him from falling down, down, the deep voice muttering meaningless words of comfort. There was the chanting of a spell as a prickly wash of magic numbed his pain, allowing him to drift away into nothingness.

***

Guilt and remorse were both emotions that the leader of the Light could ill-afford in these troubled times. As Dumbledore stepped out of the Floo and terminated the connection between Spinner’s End and the Headmaster’s Office, he squared his shoulders and straightened his posture in defiance of his true feelings.

It was bad enough to have Severus Snape glaring down his over-large nose at him with such recrimination in his eyes. Dumbledore sighed as he moved to sit at his desk. He regretted that the Potions Master had shown such displeasure at the Headmaster’s handling of Harry Potter’s present situation, but it simply could not be helped. In time, Dumbledore was sure, Severus would come to understand and perhaps even thank him for this latest ‘ridiculous scheme’. Hopefully, Harry would too.

Yes, he had indeed acted for the best. The execution of this latest plan was perhaps a little unorthodox, but circumstances had dictated the course.

His gaze rested momentarily upon the bell jar on his desk, reminding him that, just hours ago, Dumbledore had every confidence that this device would confirm that all was well at Privet Drive. He shook his head sadly. It was difficult to avoid feeling betrayed on Harry’s behalf by the unfeeling actions of the Dursley household. He cast his mind back to the events that had transpired only hours earlier, after he had discovered that Harry had never returned to Surrey after his departure from school.

Having sent Severus immediately to begin a tracking spell at Harry’s last known location – the Weasley family confirming that the boy had, at least, arrived safely at King’s Cross Station – Dumbledore had himself made haste to the Dursley residence to ascertain why their nephew was not at home. The conversation that the Hogwarts Headmaster had planned between himself and Vernon Dursley quickly became redundant when, upon his arrival at Privet Drive, Dumbledore immediately ascertained that the Blood Wards that he himself had invoked some fifteen years previously were no longer in evidence.
He was perplexed and deeply troubled by this latest development. As long as Harry could continue to call Privet Drive his home, the wards should have held. It seemed that something of great significance had changed.

Dumbledore had cast a quick look at his richly decorated wizarding robes and tutted in dismay before transfiguring the garment into a plum-coloured velvet suit that he felt more suitable for his pending interactions with a Muggle family. He briskly stepped along the pathway of 4 Privet Drive, noting the exceptionally ordered flower beds which bordered the facade of the house as he reached the door. Lifting his hand to the doorbell, the wizard noted a twitch of the salmon-pink curtain at one of the windows.

Ah, so his presence had, perhaps, been expected? No sooner had this thought entered his mind, when the front door was abruptly opened. The black-moustached figure of Vernon Dursley loomed large on the threshold, a grimace of extreme distaste on his florid face.

“The boy’s not here,” Dursley huffed. “And if you had bothered to read my reply to your…letter, you barmy old coot, you would know that the little freak is not welcome in this house any longer.”

“I am afraid that I must confess my ignorance concerning your response, Mr Dursley,” Dumbledore answered in a calm and measured tone. “I do believe that I have yet to receive correspondence from you regarding any aspect of Harry’s home life.”

The Headmaster tilted his head and pinned the large man with a piercing look. Both knew that the older man was referring to circumstances beyond Harry’s living arrangements for the Christmas holidays.

“Now, listen here,” Dursley’s cheeks darkened to a deep purple. “You, of all people, know that we never, ever wanted that boy! It was only on Petunia’s insistence that I took him in! All those years of funny business were hard enough on our family, but now we find out that the boy is a threat to our safety!”

Dumbledore frowned. He was wrong-footed here to say the very least, having no idea why the Dursleys should suddenly view Harry’s presence in their home as a danger of some kind.

“Harry is no threat to you,” the older man shook his head in disbelief. “He has lived here, in this house, with your family for nearly 15 years. In what way is a 16-year-old boy living in your home, especially one as mild-mannered as Harry Potter, something that could be considered a risk to your wellbeing?” the Headmaster’s tone remained light, but there was a steely undertone in his question.

“Don’t try to deny what you know,” Dursley spat the words through clenched teeth, a vein in his temple throbbing with his barely-suppressed rage. “It was that woman from one of your government departments who contacted us. Dorothy Umbirch? She…well, so far, she seems to be the only one of you people who understands anything of what we have had to put up with while looking after that boy. She told me all about the ruddy fits he’s been having at your school and the mental…instability. I always knew there was something wrong with that boy. Screaming blue murder at all hours of the night, wandering about the place like some kind of zombie all summer long!”

“Ah…I see you have had the misfortune to become acquainted with Dolores Umbridge,” Dumbledore touched his fingers lightly to the bridge of his crooked nose. “How, may I ask, did you come to meet the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic here in Surrey?”

Dursley’s face blanched.

“Don’t say that word! Don’t you dare say that word in my presence!”

Suddenly, the enormous man stepped back into the hallway of his house and gestured impatiently towards the Headmaster. “I won’t have this conversation standing on the doorstep where any Tom, Dick or Ha-Harry - ” here, he sputtered slightly at his own nephew’s name on his lips, before regaining his train of thought. “ - might hear you! Get in!”

“How kind of you to invite me,” came Dumbledore’s dry rejoinder. He did, however, step past Dursley’s paunch and, following a rude gesture towards the sitting room, moved to sit on one of the peach-toned leatherette armchairs as Vernon Dursley eased his bulk into the other with a grunt.

Gazing about the room with quiet interest, the old wizard observed the series of family photographs that graced the floral wallpapered walls of the room. Harry was nowhere to be seen in any of them. He shifted uncomfortably as he acknowledged the harsh prison sentence he had placed upon the toddler that he had left in the care of this family so many years ago. He had suspected at the time that Harry’s life would not be easy as a member of the Dursley family, but he had hoped that perhaps the child might find some form of sanctuary here, away from the prying eyes and judgement of the wizarding world. It seemed that the young boy had instead suffered the worse fate of neglect and disdain in this household.

“I never met her.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dumbledore had allowed his attention to wander too far and had lost the thread of the conversation.

“I never met that Underbritch woman,” Dursley snorted. “She wrote me. In the normal way – through the post.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Sent me all sorts of reports on the boy, notes on his behaviour at that school of yours, eyewitness accounts... Offered to take the boy off our hands altogether – said with all the abnormalities, even for one of your kind, he needed specialist care and that Minister you mentioned before was willing to pay for the inconvenience.”

“I see,” a subtle shift in Dumbledore’s countenance warned of his underlying anger. “And did you take Ms Umbridge up on her offer of ‘specialist care’ for Harry?”

Dursley cleared his throat uncomfortably and fidgeted for a moment. “I – er – that is to say, we…Petunia and I discussed it. Don’t really hold with all that head shrinking mumbo jumbo anyway, and we certainly don’t want any more dealings with your lot, so – erm – no…we decided not to accept the offer.”

“So instead, you both decided that the best course of action was to cast the boy out to fend for himself?”

Dumbledore could read between the lines. He realised that Vernon and Petunia Dursley were well aware of their failure to provide a nurturing and loving environment for Harry. Together, they must have decided that the risk of accusations landing at their feet regarding Harry’s ‘abnormalities’ was too great. In doing so, their decision to revoke sanctuary for the young wizard had broken the powerful magical protection that the Headmaster had cast on 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry could no longer call this place home. The Headmaster could barely stand to look at the disappointment of a man who sat before him. He paused for a moment before speaking.

“Harry is just a boy, Mr Dursley. A very lost and lonely boy, who has suffered far too much for one his age. He is the very same age as your own son, Dudley, I believe.”

Dursley gulped back whatever it was that he had been about to say in defence of his actions and simply stared at the tired and angry wizard.

“Remember that – if some day you should grow a conscience and regret your actions in abandoning him – Harry is, after all, just a boy.”

Having said all there was to say on the matter, Dumbledore rose from his seat and moved to the entryway. His time here at Number 4, Privet Drive was over, just as it was for Harry.