A light tapping roused Severus from his drowsy stupor, slouched as he was in the uncomfortable desk chair that he had pulled to Potter’s bedside some hours earlier.
“Albus?” he asked stupidly, before realising that the Headmaster could not re-enter the property without his own assistance. It had assuredly been too short a time for Poppy Pomfrey to have been located and for the witch to have packed the necessities, let alone for the pair to have completed the requisite Apparation hops necessary for her impromptu trip to Sweden.
The door opened slightly and Severus wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his wand as he leaned forward, prepared to hex the intruder and ask questions later.
“Severus, really,” Aunt Aggie admonished, as she stepped into the room with a stern glare, although her tone was light. “About to draw a wand on your aging aunt in her own home?”
“Aunt Aggie,” Severus sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes. His head still ached vaguely from the bout of Legilimency that he had endured at the Headmaster’s wand-tip only a matter of hours ago. It occurred to him that he still did not know the outcome of that unpleasantness, eclipsed as it had been by Harry’s sudden disappearance and subsequent collapse.
“I apologise, I was not thinking clearly. Ha-Henry has taken ill, and I was not prepared for receiving any visitors.”
“You mean other than Albus Dumbledore?”
His posture stiffening immediately at the mention of the Headmaster, Severus scrutinised his aunt’s impassive face. She gave nothing away and simply met his eyes as his search found her own. In the next instant, she looked away, her expression softening as she took in Harry’s sleeping form.
Severus watched as she bent down and smoothed a hand across the boy’s pale forehead and then moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. Harry did not stir at all, lying as still as he had been since Severus had placed him in the bed several hours ago. He closed his eyes, the mention of Albus Dumbledore conjuring an unwelcome image of the boy lying completely motionless on this very floor. That moment had been unexpectedly devastating for Severus to witness. What the outcome could have been…did not bear thinking on. Ever since Severus had lifted the child into his arms, he had been unable to truly regain control of his emotions and he felt shaken to the core. What if Potter - Harry - did not fully recover from his injuries? The boy’s heart had stopped beating, he had not been breathing. Brain damage was one possibility that had to be considered. It would be Severus’ fault. It was he who had known that something was affecting the child’s magic, most likely that damnable potion, and yet, he had blindly followed Dumbledore’s instructions and continued to keep up this farcical arrangement. Was it truly worth risking the boy’s life, simply in order to win back the favour of his aunt, for whatever reason the Headmaster had failed to share with him thus far?
He felt a sudden surge of blind anger. Whether his fury was aimed at Albus Dumbledore or at himself remained unclear. The intensity of his rage, nonetheless, made his hands shake and he clenched them into fists, trying to hide his emotional state from his aunt as she continued to stroke Harry’s brow with a gentle touch. She tutted softly and a fleeting expression of disquiet caused her brows to draw together for a moment, only to be replaced by exasperation. Still looking at Harry, she continued to address her nephew in a curt tone.
“The wards are attuned to my magic, Severus. Albus Dumbledore is an old colleague of mine, of course I was able to recognise his magical signature the moment he stepped onto the property.”
“I didn’t think-“
“Didn’t think that I might want to catch up with my very dear old friend during his visit here?” Aunt Aggie pinned Severus with a hard stare, her tone sardonic. He wondered at the implication that she was perhaps no longer quite so friendly with Dumbledore. “Or perhaps you didn’t think I would know that he was here at all? What exactly is going on, Severus? Your son is clearly unwell – he has been ailing since you first arrived – so you cloister yourself away here in the Gatehouse and do not ask for any assistance from the main house. And then the Headmaster of Hogwarts happens to show up unannounced, only to promptly disappear again. And then there is the matter of Kora, who was most unwilling to share with me the details of your activities over the past 24 hours, despite the fact that as mistress of this household, she is bound to me. It is all very mysterious, wouldn’t you agree?”
Severus shook his head. He was just so damned tired. It certainly had not been his intention to hide anything from his aunt, well, apart from the true identity of his ‘son’, but everything had become so complicated just recently.
He opened his mouth to say as much, but Aggie waved at him in a dismissive gesture.
“You need to learn to ask for help from your family when you require it, Severus,” she was suddenly earnest in her posture. “Why is it that you implicitly trust that meddlesome old man with your very life, and yet you refuse to share with me - your own flesh and blood - the most insignificant detail? I will be the first to admit that our relationship has not been one of trust these many years. But…I would like that to change.”
He blinked at her. Of all the things he expected her to say, it was not that. He had been operating under the assumption all this time that he would never be able to ask his family for anything but their forgiveness. That she believed the Headmaster to be ‘meddlesome’ was also interesting to hear. He allowed his curiosity about the matter to show as he openly regarded her proud face.
“Trust works both ways,” he spoke quietly.
Something shuttered behind Aunt Aggie’s eyes and she looked away from him. “Well, let us agree to build that trust between us. Now, you can start by telling me the truth. What is wrong with Henrik?” she turned her attention back to the small boy, watching his hitching breaths intently.
Severus observed Potter just as closely. The child had been breathing in that strange staccato pattern since Dumbledore had managed to revive him. Something was terribly wrong with Harry, and Severus was utterly powerless to help him. The anxiety was an unbearable well of emptiness that he did not want to admit was consuming his every waking thought. Merlin’s beard, if he were truly honest with himself, even his earlier restless dozing was interrupted by unwelcome thoughts that the Boy Who Lived may not come out of this mess altogether unscathed. He weighed up what to share with his aunt and decided to be as honest as he possibly could, without revealing too much.
“I nearly lost Henrik earlier this evening,” he murmured, hardly noticing that he had wrapped his arms tightly around his front. Aunt Aggie inhaled sharply and took one of Harry’s lifeless hands and folded it into her own.
“What happened?” her voice was subdued.
“I cannot say for certain,” Severus replied in an equally quiet voice. “Dumbledore was visiting with me for another reason, one that I am afraid I am not ready, or able to reveal to you just yet.”
Aunt Aggie’s lips drew together in a thin line, but she remained silent, waiting for Severus to continue.
“While the Headmaster was here, Henry had another episode. He stopped breathing and had no pulse. He was,” here, he stopped to swallow around the tightness that built in his throat. “He was unresponsive for a few minutes, but Albus managed to revive him with a spell I am not familiar with.”
“Merlin,” Aggie breathed, still caressing Harry’s hand and now staring intently at Severus, the pinched look of disapproval fading as her eyes filled with a terrible sadness. “Severus, I am so sorry that you had to experience that. It must have been so frightening.”
Severus merely nodded, finding himself inexplicably unable to continue. Was he starting to believe his own lies? The feeling that he had nearly lost something vitally important to him once again overwhelmed him.
One of Aggie’s hands released Harry and instead sought Severus’ knee. She squeezed lightly and then patted him. “Where is Albus now?”
“He has gone to seek the services of a trusted Healer, at my request.”
“So, he will return then?”
Severus nodded. “As soon as he is able. We need to heal whatever damage was caused as quickly as we can and get to the bottom of Henrik’s seizures once and for all.”
Aunt Aggie gave Severus a searching look and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with what she saw. “You and Henrik, and of course your guests, when they arrive, must stay in Kall Hus.”
“Oh,” Severus was surprised by her offer. “No, really that won’t be necessary, Aunt Aggie. We are perfectly comfor-“
“Trust me,” Aggie smiled at Severus. She gazed back down at Harry with a gentle smile. “It is nearly Christmas, and I am sure that Henry could benefit from a little festive cheer as he recovers. Apart from that, I cannot, in all good conscience, allow you to cope with this alone.”
“I will not be alone. Albus will –“
“Accept my help, Severus.”
Severus shifted awkwardly, not able to come up with a suitable reason for them not to accept the hospitality offered by his aunt. His greatest concern was now for Harry and it did make sense for them to stay up at the big house, where both Poppy and Albus could be accommodated close by.
Of course, there was still the larger issue that it was imperative that Harry must be administered the antidote to the Aetate Mutatio, as soon as possible. Severus still believed that it was the root cause of all of Harry’s problems. How that would be accomplished without revealing the boy’s identity was another question altogether. He would simply have to deal with that once he had discussed the matter with Albus. After all, it was the Headmaster’s fool idea that he enter into this deception in the first place.
“Very well,” he nodded, expression grim. “We will come.”
“Perfect,” said Aggie, with the pleased nod of a person who has just won an argument. “You can have the North Wing. There is a suite of interconnecting rooms that will work perfectly for Henrik’s needs. I will send Cadmus to assist you with moving your belongings while you take care of your son and we will see you settled in your new quarters within the hour.”
***
Harry turned onto his side, curled into a ball and slowly exhaled through a dull throb in his chest. It felt as though his heart was literally aching. His body was stiff and sore, as though he had been out in the yard for hours, perhaps completing a long list of chores for Uncle Vernon. Maybe that was why he was so uncomfortable? He couldn’t really remember the day before with any clarity, but it seemed strange to him that whatever he was lying on should feel so warm and soft against his tired muscles. The cot in his cupboard usually felt lumpier than this.
He prised open one weary eye and ignored the gritty feeling as his eyelid slid slowly open. Harry vaguely realised that he was not in his cupboard; the sheer size of the bed he was lying in indicating that he was…elsewhere. He started a little when a strangely-dressed woman approached him, holding a cup of something out to him with a strained smile on her face. In her other hand, she held a slim stick of wood, which she tucked smoothly away into her apron.
“Harry,” she sighed with relief. “You’re awake. Here, have a little sip of this.”
No sooner were the words spoken, then Harry realised that he was incredibly thirsty. He gave the woman a long look and decided that she was no threat, despite the oddness of his current situation. She had a pleasant face and kind eyes and it wasn’t often that he experienced people looking at him with such a lack of open hostility. She also knew his name, even though he had no idea who she was.
Sitting up, Harry rubbed at his tired eyes and then took the cup in his shaky hand. It was water. He drank thirstily and passed the cup back to the stranger.
“Thanks, Missus,” he whispered shyly, surprised at how raw his voice sounded, given that his throat didn’t feel sore at all.
The woman paused in her reach to take the cup back and looked sharply at him. “Missus? You don’t know my name?”
Scratching at his head absently, Harry wondered at why this person would assume that he would know who she was. In the next instant, he suddenly groped desperately over his own scalp.
“Where’s my hair?” he cried out in an alarmed voice. “Why is my hair so short? What happened to it?”
His panic set him instantly on the verge of tears, as he remembered a day not so long ago when Aunt Petunia had decided to give him that awful haircut. Uncle Vernon had been so very angry at him the next day when all of his hair had grown back in overnight. Had they shaved his head again as some kind of punishment? He couldn’t remember doing anything bad, but things did seem a little hazy and his memories were hard to call up just now.
“Shh,” she soothed, wrapping her soft hand around Harry’s wrist and pulling his hand down so she could hold it in her own. She smiled at him a little ruefully. “Your hair is short like that because, apparently, Professor Snape decided that it would be an amusing way to further disguise your appearance during your stay here,” she paused, peering at him closely. “I think you might be a little bit confused right now. Don’t you remember me?”
Remember? No, he didn’t remember. And why would he need a disguise? Harry had no idea where he was and this whole situation just seemed strange and scary. He blinked and felt a hot tear slide down his cheek, closely followed by another. Where was he?
He bit his lip to try to contain the tears. Aunt Petunia hated crying, at least, she hated Harry’s crying. It was okay if Dudders did it. In fact, his cousin was usually rewarded with some kind of sweet treat and hugs whenever he cried. Harry’s reward was generally either the cupboard, a sharp slap or more chores. Sometimes it would be a combination of all three. The thing was, Harry thought, as he looked around the unfamiliar room, Aunt Petunia didn’t seem to be here right now. In fact, from all appearances this place definitely wasn’t Privet Drive. For starters, he was lying on a bed that had some kind of fabric canopy hanging overhead and there was an actual fireplace (with a real fire!) set into the wall opposite. Beside his bed, an odd-shaped lantern spilled warm light into what would otherwise have been a shadowy corner, where a large and expensive-looking antique chair sat squatly, a fuzzy green rug folded carefully on its seat. Harry felt a little tug somewhere in his tummy when he looked at that rug. Somehow, he knew exactly how comforting it would feel to rub the soft fabric in between his fingers, even though he was sure that he had never seen it before. Despite the darkness of the room, he could see a bleak grey sky outside the window, indicating that it was not yet evening, and – was that snow?
He blinked in confusion and looked back at the woman at his bedside curiously. Everything about this room looked like it belonged to another time and place and she was no exception. She was wearing a funny hat that made her look a little bit like a nun and her starched apron was neatly pinned onto a pale blue dress that covered her entirely from neck, to wrist, to ankle. Swallowing back his tears, Harry felt a little bit sick and still slightly sleepy and now he also felt afraid. Everything about this was wrong.
“Harry,” the woman continued in a softer tone, still holding his hand. Harry thought it felt quite nice, so he didn’t try to pull away from her, even if he didn’t know who she was, or where he was. Her firm grip was a steady and reassuring anchor to his distress. “It’s alright if you don’t remember. I’m going to ask you a few questions, just to check some things, okay?”
“I don’t know who you are,” he murmured, but he nodded at her all the same, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Well, that’s perfectly fine,” she smiled at him reassuringly, but the crease in between her eyebrows communicated something different. “My name is Madam Poppy Pomfrey. I am the matron at Hogwarts. Do you know where you are right now?”
“In bed,” he replied, staring at her. He didn’t know what a matron was, nor what Hogwarts might be. Was it a hospital? Had he been ill?
The woman chuckled and patted his hand. “Perhaps I need to consider my questions a little more carefully. You are in bed, yes. Do you know to whom this house belongs?”
Not a hospital then. He simply shook his head at the kindly Madam Pomfrey and impatiently wiped away another traitorous tear that coursed slowly towards the corner of his mouth. It was at that moment that the door to the room suddenly opened, revealing an incredibly tall and fierce-looking man, who was wearing a funny black robe that covered him from neck to ankle. He looked down his long, hooked nose at Harry with a very intent expression on his face. Was he a judge? A vampire? Harry’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the newcomer and he clutched instinctively at Madam Pomfrey’s hand. There was something incredibly intimidating about the man in the doorway.
“Mr Potter,” he said silkily, in a deep voice that was quiet, yet carried an air of complete authority. Although the man’s expression was quite serious, there was something of an air of relief about him as he glanced at Madam Pomfrey and then moved gracefully to close the door behind him. The man opened his mouth to speak, before being swiftly interrupted by the matron.
“Severus,” she said firmly, squeezing Harry’s hand reassuringly as she spoke. “Harry is a little confused. Tread carefully.”
Harry glanced at her and then quickly snapped his gaze back to the spectre in the doorway. It was true that he felt - muddled. He wasn’t keen to speak to this man, but it seemed that this was not going to be an option. A sharp, dark-eyed gaze swept over Harry’s tear-stained face and alit on the clasped hands of Harry and the matron. Still staring at their joined hands, the man glided more than he walked over to the bed, perching on the end of it near Harry’s feet. He appeared no less threatening than when he was standing.
“How do you feel, Harry?” the man continued in that smooth, almost threatening baritone, one that seemed completely at odds with the expression of concern in his eyes. He reached a long-fingered hand towards Harry’s face, but quickly let it drop when Harry flinched back away from his touch. “The matron says you are confused – elaborate.”
Harry blinked at the man and tore his attention back to Madam Pomfrey. He had no idea what ‘elaborate’ meant, but he was frightened of the consequences of not answering the first question.
“Um. I – I –“ any courage Harry might have gathered in the face of this bewildering experience now completely deserted him. The tears that had only briefly emerged earlier now began to flow freely and a sob tore from his throat, followed by another. The man widened his eyes in surprise and appeared at a loss as to what to do, turning almost desperately towards Madam Pomfrey. Harry could feel himself shaking with the effort to keep his emotions contained. He quickly realised that he was not the only thing in the room shaking.
The air was filled with a crackling kind of energy and a wooden chair rattled ominously against the timber floorboards of the room, even as the window panes shook as though a strong wind pushed against them. Oh no! He was making freaky things happen!
Madam Pomfrey tutted softly and put her other arm around Harry, drawing him against her side and murmuring softly to him while she rubbed his arm. “Deep breaths, Harry. Just focus on my voice for now. Take a nice big breath in for me. That’s right. Now, Professor Snape is here to help. He certainly doesn’t mean you any harm. You are perfectly safe.”
Harry, surprised to find himself being held, complied with her instructions. He couldn’t remember Aunt Petunia ever holding him close like this, and even though he didn’t know this woman at all, there was something very comforting and almost familiar about her warm, no-nonsense reassurance. As he leant into her and focused on evening out his breathing, he felt the electric charge in the room slowly fade away. The man – Severus? Professor Snape? – continued to stare at Harry with utter confusion. Harry realised that he was probably wondering how he had managed to make all the furniture in the room shake, although he didn’t look angry or frightened like his aunt and uncle sometimes did when those sorts of things happened.
“’m sorry,” he whispered and sniffled. This time hadn’t even been too bad. The last time he had done something like that, he had blown up the TV, shattered the light globes in the living room and made Dudley shriek for his mother after the remote control burnt his hand when the battery exploded. Of course, Harry realised belatedly, there didn’t seem to be any electrical items in this room, which perhaps accounted for the overall lack of damage.
Madam Pomfrey just kept rubbing his arm. “That’s the way. No harm done. Just a little bit of accidental magic.”
Magic? Harry was unable to hide his horrified expression as he pulled away, staring first up at the matron and then at the now scowling man who sat rigidly at his feet.
“Really, Poppy,” the man raised an eyebrow, seemingly misconstruing Harry’s reaction to Madam Pomfrey’s words. “He may look small, but there is no need to coddle the boy.”
She simply raised her own eyebrow in response and smiled down at Harry, helping him settle back against the pillow now that he had stopped making the room shake.
“If my suspicions are correct, Severus,” she said firmly. “Harry is probably feeling quite – adrift - right now.”
Both Harry and the grim-faced man gave her a bemused look.
“Well, just to be sure…tell me, how old are you, Harry?” she asked lightly as she smoothed a blue and white patchwork quilt over his lap. It was a nice quilt and Harry stroked it carefully, playing with the edges of the pieced fabric that made up a star-shaped pattern. He didn’t have anything quite so nice as this in his cupboard.
“I’m five,” he replied honestly, turning to face the man abruptly as something occurred to him. “And I’m not small, neither!”
The man made a choking sound and turned even whiter than his already pale complexion, while Madam Pomfrey frowned at him before turning back to Harry, who had sunk down into the bed, his moment of bravery having deserted him in the face of the dark-eyed stranger who was staring at him incredulously.
“You certainly are not small for a five-year-old,” she said pleasantly. “You look the perfect size to me. Never mind about Professor Snape, Harry. He sometimes allows his tongue to run away with him without thinking of the consequences.”
Harry looked at the man seriously and with wide eyes, suddenly keen to impart some of his wisdom. “Be careful, mister. Aunt Petunia sometimes washes my mouth out with soap if I say things without thinking first.”
“What is the meaning of this?” the professor rasped, looking from Harry to Madam Pomfrey in horror.
“Don’t panic, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey replied in that same, light tone. “Albus warned you earlier that there may be some residual side-effects from the magic that he was forced to use on Harry when he revived him. This reaction, although a little unusual, is not entirely unexpected and most likely only temporary.”
“Most likely?” the man had turned a most unpleasant shade of puce. “Most likely? Poppy, this is the Boy Who Lived!” he gestured wildly at Harry and stood abruptly from his position on the end of the bed. “We are all of us lost if he spends the rest of his life believing he is but a five-year-old!”
Harry hunched down into his covers. The man was practically roaring in his rage and although Harry was well-versed in making himself small and unnoticed around furious adults, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from reacting in fear this time. He didn’t understand what had made the professor so angry, but he knew for certain that it was something that Harry had apparently done. And what did he mean, calling Harry ‘the Boy Who Lived’?
“Goodness, Severus, you do need to curb that temper of yours! I daresay the House Elves can hear you in the kitchen.”
Harry scrunched further down into the bed as yet a third stranger slipped into the room, closing the door and waving a wizened hand at the aged oak with a briefly intent look. Although he couldn’t see anything different, Harry instinctively knew that the door was now locked and that the old man standing imposingly at the end of Harry’s bed had somehow erected a barrier of some kind. Harry could feel the edges of the invisible wall as it closed about them. He was aware of the tiny hairs on the back of his neck standing up, but it was not fear that caused this reaction, rather an innate connection to whatever power the bearded stranger had used to perform this action. It had that same thrumming, static-electricity feel that Harry could sense just before he usually made strange things happen. He stared at the new arrival with wide eyes, not daring to say anything to him, but filled with wonderment all the same that the old man was perhaps a little bit like Harry.
“Ah, Harry, my dear boy,” the elderly man winked in Professor Snape’s direction and seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed, smiling kindly at Harry. Professor Snape pinned the man with a furious glare, but said nothing, choosing instead to flick his dark eyes in Harry’s direction. He stiffened for a moment when he met Harry’s wide-eyed stare and then all of the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped down into the armchair in the corner of the room and smoothed a lock of greasy dark hair back from his face in an automatic fashion. Harry noticed that the man’s fingers were trembling slightly.
“I apologise for my outburst, Headmaster,” Professor Snape spoke quietly, not looking at anyone. “Forgive me, I could have given us away with my reckless shouting.”
“No harm done, Severus,” the old man twinkled. “Agatha and the rest of the family are out in the grounds at present. I believe they are selecting a Christmas tree, in fact.” He smiled knowingly and winked again, this time at Harry, who could not help but offer a tentative smile back at the man. It was Christmas? Why couldn’t he remember that?
The professor snorted and shook his head dismissively. “Of course, Aunt Aggie always did like her tradition of giving everyone in the family chilblains at Yuletide.”
“Albus,” Madam Pomfrey turned towards the older man. “I am afraid that Harry is not quite himself at the moment. It appears –“
“Do not trouble yourself, Poppy, it so happens that I could not help but overhear your conversation as I approached these rooms. I take it that my necessary interference has caused a little difficulty for young Mr Potter here.”
“He thinks he is five,” Professor Snape hissed darkly, avoiding looking at Harry altogether, but scowling at the older man fiercely.
“I am five!” Harry said hotly.
“You see the problem?” the professor rose from the armchair and waved an impatient hand in Harry’s direction, his black glare still fixated on the twinkling blue eyes.
“Well, Harry, this is quite the little predicament that we find ourselves in, isn’t it?” the elderly man asked him softly.
“I don’t know,” Harry whispered. “What’s a pre-pred…what’s that word mean, Mister?”
“Mister? Oh, come now, Harry, we can’t have that! My name is Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” he chuckled softly. “Rather a mouthful isn’t it? Professor Dumbledore will do just fine. And a predicament, young Harry, is a problem or difficult situation.”
Harry merely swallowed and nodded.
“Headmaster, I wonder if we might speak privately for a moment?”
Professor Dumbledore nodded contemplatively at the professor’s terse question and patted Harry’s quilt-covered knee. “I agree that would be for the best, Severus.” He turned to Madam Pomfrey. “Has the child eaten?”
“Not yet, Headmaster,” she shook her head. “He has only just now awoken. I will go and make arrangements for a meal to be brought up.” With that, the matron smoothed her apron and departed.
“Well, Harry,” the old man smiled down at him benevolently. “There’s nothing like a good hot meal to help solve a problem. I am sure that Madam Pomfrey will order you up something filling from the kitchens and then I suggest you get some more rest. Meanwhile,” he paused and placed a hand on Professor Snape’s shoulder, guiding the taller man towards the open door. “I am going to have a little chat with your father.”
His father?
Harry stared at the clenched jaw of the dark-eyed man in complete bewilderment. The man in question bore a sudden flush on his cheeks that made him look as if he had just been slapped. Before Harry could open his mouth to express his own shock, however, the Headmaster had whisked the man away, the snick of the closing doorlatch the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
Chapter 13