*Tap-tap-tap*
Harry woke up slowly as the little taps poked holes in his slumber. He fumbled for his glasses and pressed them to his face, squinting at the noise in the bight morning light flooding his room.
Pigwidgeon, Ron’s owl, was hopping around on the table. Harry threw off his bed covers.
“Heya Pig,” Harry said. The little owl flapped onto his foot board and lifted his leg. Harry untied the letter and package and Pig flapped over to Hedwig’s bowl for some water. With Harry on the mend Snape had allowed him to set up her cage near the window. Harry could tell Hedwig was thriving here at Crowcaster House. Her eyes were bright, her feathers thick, and she too had gained a bit of weight probably because she had regular access to hunting grounds and was no longer shut up in her cage if she hooted too loud. She often slept in the big oak outside beside Snape’s ornery black barn owl that seemed to hate every living thing that wasn’t Snape or Hedwig.
Harry sat on his bed, hitching a knee up. He turned the package over in his hand. It was something lumpy wrapped in brown paper and loads of spell-o-tape. He set it aside and unrolled Ron’s letter:
Harry!
MATE. Dad said the greasy git kidnapped you?! Bloody hell! Don’t worry — we’ll use the car again. Fred and George are on board. I told Hermione too but I haven’t heard back from her.
We’ll do it the same way we did with the muggles. Give me the address and tell me what window you’re in and we'll get you out!
Don’t let him poison you!
-Ron
Harry couldn’t help it, he laughed. He read the letter again and smiled. He ripped open the package and three slightly crushed chocolate frogs spilled across the bed. Harry summoned a quill and parchment and sat at the small table in his room. He bit into one of the frogs before it could hop away and jotted a note back to his concerned friend.
Ron, I’m fine. No need for a rescue. I can explain later. Will I see you soon? Maybe we can hang out in Diagon Alley before school starts?
Harry figured it would be best to explain his new situation in person. He finished with,
Thanks for the frogs. Write soon!
-Harry
He gave the note to the little owl and it took off. Harry also decided to write to Hermione. He grabbed a second sheet of parchment.
Dear Hermione,
I hope your summer is going well. Mine is. You may have heard from Ron. No matter what he suspects, I ’ m fine. I ’ ll tell you more when I see you. I hope we can hang out this summer, that would be brill. I ’ m available. Oh! I have a muggle phone now. I could call you, send me your number.
Talk soon,
Harry
He stared at the words. He was being awfully optimistic that Dumbledore would allow him to stay in Snape’s care long enough to exchange phone calls with friends. The opportunity to have a normal summer was too tantalizing to pass up. If he could communicate with this friends even once without having to worry about sneaking around his relatives or fearing punishment for attempting to contact anyone in the magical world it would be worth it. He smiled. He would send this off with Hedwig once she woke up this evening.
His window shot open again, startling him. A large brown speckled owl flew into the room, dropped an envelope on Harry’s head, looped around the ceiling, and flew out the window again. Frowning, Harry turned the envelope over in his hands. It had his name on it but no address or bedroom or anything. He tore it open.
Dear Harry,
I trust this letter will find you recovered from your ailment. As I said at Professor Snape's home, upon your bill of clean health it will be time to return to your aunt. Playtime is over, Mr. Potter. I know you and Professor Snape have forged some kind of camaraderie but you cannot stay at his home. He is a busy wizard and he maintains a critical role in the Order. He cannot be distracted by babysitting a teenage wizard with a penchant for naughtiness.
I have explained the blood charm to you and I know you understand its importance. Your parents both gave their lives to ensure your protection. I trust you don ’ t want to denigrate that sacrifice by childishly abandoning your family. I will pick you up from Professor Snape's home this Saturday and I expect you to be packed and waiting.
No more foolishness,
Albus Dumbledore
Harry read it, then read it again, his heart sinking lower and lower with every word. He felt hot with shame upon reading the blistering letter. Each word on the innocuous tan parchment was like a lash, cowing his pride and cutting down the small joys he’d experienced since coming to stay with Snape. Harry had heard howlers in the Great Hall with less scold than this. Harry took a shaky breath, his eyes lingering on the phrases,
'Playtime is over'
'he cannot be distracted'
‘ Childish ’
'a penchant for naughtiness'
Harry supposed he was distracting Snape. The man was often away in the house somewhere or writing letters in his study. Sometimes he left and Harry could only assume he was off doing important Order stuff. Suddenly their conversation about rules and consequences, which at the time had been reassuring, now seemed embarrassing. Snape had thought of all these rules for him and Harry wasn’t even going to be living in this house very long. He must think Harry was going to get in lots of trouble in the few days he had left in this brilliant old house. Harry folded up the letter and put it on the shelf next to his bed, quiet and humbled. He could be well behaved for Snape. He didn’t want to be a distraction if Snape had important stuff to do for the war.
Honestly too, going back to his aunt wouldn’t be so bad. Dumbledore was right in that his parents had died to save him. He bit his lip and his eyes filled with unexpected tears. He knelt before his trunk and dug out the photo album Hagrid had given him. He flipped to the page of his parents, smiling and laughing and looking so young and in love. He dragged a fingertip over the edge of the photo.
“M’sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to, I, I’ll try to do better.”
He put the album away and dabbed his eyes. He hadn’t expected a letter like this, following so closely on his friends’ fun missives and putting a damper on the joy those notes had inspired. It was fine. It would be fine. He could go to his aunt’s again. He’d put in eleven years there before his Hogwarts letter arrived. He smiled at the memory. That had been an incredible day, once he actually managed to open the letter. Even just receiving post had been a thrill, but when Hagrid showed up at that lighthouse and he could finally properly read the letter, when he had left that crappy old lighthouse and the crappy people inside of it and stepped out into the first night of his new life at Hagrid’s side….it was the stuff of dreams, honestly. Harry counted himself lucky that he’d been able to spend nine months a year in school and away from their house for the last five years.
He’d done it for so long he was certain he could continue doing so. It would suck as it always did but if he could get a few letters to his friends, maybe spend some time at Ron’s, he’d be fine. He always was. He bounced back. He was resilient. He would manage.
They settled into a routine. Harry woke up around mid-morning and came down to breakfast. Snape was always in there already, reading the Prophet with a cup of coffee or tea. Harry was a night owl by nature, preferring to keep hours as late as one or two in the morning and then sleep in. Snape kept similar hours and Harry wondered if this is why the man didn’t insist on a bedtime for him. Harry’s cough faded and he found himself napping less in the afternoons, usually short sleeps out on the transfigured lounger on the patio when the weather was good.
Harry, to his surprise, found that his favorite activity in Snape’s big comfortable home was when they would read together in the evenings. The first time this happened was something of an accident. Harry had noticed Snape could be found after dinner oftentimes in the sitting room, usually with a huge dusty book in hand, reading by the light of a strategically placed luminous sphere hovering over his shoulder. Harry didn’t know why, but he made it a little rule for himself to not disturb Snape during this time. He was already intruding on the man’s home and Snape had been more than decent to him. Harry kept out of his way on these nights and occupied himself outside or playing with the dog, not wanting to upset him.
One night Harry was curled on the comfortable sofa reading his wizard spy book. Hugo was at his feet, having taken something of a shine to him, and Snape had entered the room with the recent edition of PoMo. Snape sat on his usual end of the sofa, crossed his legs at the knee, and started to read. Harry thought of leaving the room, reminded once again that the man wouldn’t want him underfoot. Harry knew his time here was limited. Dumbledore wanted him back at his aunt's and Harry didn't want to do anything to enrage Snape and make him go back to Privet Drive even one second before Dumbledore absolutely demanded it.
Harry’s stomach turned to anxious knots at the thought of facing the Dursleys after the wonderful time he’d had here at Crowcaster House. He’d never felt so relaxed in summer, able to sleep as much as he wanted, read and watch television at his leisure, move about the grounds and play with Hugo. He had adjusted to life in Snape’s home faster than he ever thought he would. Prior to last year the thought of living in Snape’s house would have sent a chill up his spine. How wrong he would have been and it had everything to do with the stupid Draught of Asphodel from last school year. Weird how such a nasty potion had brought something good into his life. Too bad it was all going to come to end but it would be fine. He would be fine.
Harry bit his lip and glanced over at Snape as he created the light ball for himself, chasing away the lengthening shadows as the sun began to set. Harry closed his book and put both his feet on the floor. He was about to get up but paused when Snape duplicated the light ball and sent it to float over Harry in a silent invitation to stay. Harry looked at the friendly little glowing ball, then at Snape. He was ignoring Harry, already engrossed in his thick journal. Harry leaned back into the squashy sofa corner and curled his feet up under him, opening the book again to resume the ridiculous adventures of Alistair Dots. They read in comfortable silence for half an hour until Snape closed his journal and glanced over at Harry. Harry looked up at him. Snape beckoned him closer with a wave of his finger and reached his hand out. “Let me feel your forehead.”
Harry leaned forward and Snape pressed the back of his warm hand to Harry’s brow. Again Harry got that prickly pleasant goose bump sensation down his back. Never once had his aunt or uncle touched his forehead to gauge his temperature.
“How is your chest?” Snape asked after pulling his hand back. “I haven’t heard you coughing much.”
“I’m getting better.” He said in a small, dejected voice. “I didn’t know you knew how to do the forehead temperature thing.”
“I use it on the Slytherins all the time to tell if they are truly ill or merely faking. You don't sound very happy about getting well. You’d prefer to be coughing your lungs out?”
Harry shrugged and picked at a ragged corner of the spy book, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Dumbledore said I’d go back when I was better.” He so badly didn’t want to go back there he thought he would scream. He wished Snape had never even taken him from that house. At least before he didn’t know the difference. Now when he went back he’d know what he was missing out on. His eyes started to fill with tears again and he blinked them away, irritated. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself.
“Ah.” Snape went silent, regarding Harry with a searching gaze. “That he did. He wants Madame Pomfrey to have a look at you.”
Harry rolled his eyes, annoyed. “Why?”
“Because she’s a trained healer with experience working with magical children,” Snape said. Harry leaned back on the sofa and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. He really, really didn’t want to go back to Privet Drive, so much so that anxiety was biting into his belly. He couldn’t help but say, “it sucks there, Snape. I mean, sir.”
“I know.”
“They hate me, like they actually hate me. Fucking servant for them in that hellhole.” He leaped to his feet and paced the room, agitated at the thought of setting foot in that house one more time. “They kept me locked in a damn cupboard until I went to Hogwarts. Did you know that?” He laughed bitterly and shook his head. His hands curled into fists. “Dumbledore did. My letter was addressed to me ‘under the stairs.’ Like, did no one think that was weird? Because I think it was!” He shouted the last bit and the television flickered on, blinked, and went off again. “Merlin, it wasn’t until I got to the dorm and started talking with Ron and Seamus and them that I realized it wasn’t bloody normal for the kid to cook every meal for the family, or to work in the garden until they passed out, or repaint the loo by themselves, or put up with shitty little comments about how fucking unnatural and freakish they are!”
The throw pillows on the sofa exploded in plumes of feathers. The small explosions startled Harry and he stared at the floating white and grey feathers, glanced at the black telly that was emitting a high-pitched whine. He gulped and his ebbing anxious rage was replaced by horror. Oh shit, what had he done? He couldn’t look at Snape, who had just sat there statue-still the whole time he ranted. Harry sank to the sofa amidst the piles of down and put his forehead on the heels of his hands, elbows on knees. He just needed to breathe for a minute, get himself under control. An accidental magic slip at his age was mortifying. No one his age did this, Merlin, that only happened to little kids. Why did he keep embarrassing himself in front of Snape?
A whisper of clothes and then a weight on the cushion beside him as Snape shifted nearer. The warmth of the man against his side was soothing and the faint scent of herbs and potions ingredients melted some of the tension out of his shoulders. Tears burned Harry's eyes. “We’ll make this right,” Snape said. His voice was a low rumble and something eased inside Harry. “If you were able to stay with anyone other than your relatives, would you prefer that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Snape said nothing and after a moment Harry lifted his face out of his hands. He blinked back the tears and nodded. “I’d like that, sir, but Dumbledore won’t.”
“I’ll speak to him.” Snape reached into his pocket. He handed Harry a handkerchief.
“It’s fine, sir. You don’t have to talk to him. I’ll just go back.”
Snape paused, remembering Harry’s outburst in his office about how he didn’t want to return to his aunt. The muggles starved him for pity’s sake. Why on earth did Harry want to return to that? “You’ll ‘just go back’?”
“Yeah.”
“They didn’t feed you.”
“I can get food there. They do feed me, I mean, I’m still alive, right? It’s fine, sir. Really. I’ve lived there my whole life and like, it’s usually not that bad.”
“Harry—”
“Snape, just drop it will you?” Harry snapped. He clenched his teeth, muttered “sorry,” and rubbed the kerchief across his nose. He looked around at the feathers. Hugo was sniffing the mess of down, his nose quivering. A bit of fluff stuck to his wet nose and he sneezed. Harry swallowed. His anger ebbed and a hot wash of embarrassment heated his face. He he really blown up Snape’s things? He worried the kerchief in his hands and closed his eyes. The telly was still making that awful high-pitched noise.
“Um,” he slide his watery gaze warily to Snape and back to the floor, “sorry for the mess. Did I break your television?” His hand clenched around the kerchief.
“No,” Snape said after a beat. He waved his hand and the feathers all threw themselves back into the limp pillow cases. The whining television went silent.
Harry bit his lip as the pillows plumped themselves up. “How much trouble am I in?”
“Trouble for accidental magic?” Snape clarified. He’d had a few accidental magic slips as a child. Every magical child performed accidental magic and it was usually a time of celebration in the family. Most magic presented itself for the first time when a witch or wizard was aged five or under. Snape had been five. He had a hazy memory of it. His father had been shouting at his mother and Snape, distressed, had accidentally broken his father’s beer bottle sitting on the rickety kitchen table. His mother had been ecstatic but his father…less so. Children had accidental magic slips and so did teens and adults. The slips grew rarer as people aged but it wasn’t unheard of at any age. Punishing a child for accidental magic wasn’t done. Magic slipping was a natural function and to punish him for it would be as absurd as punishing him for needing the loo.
“Did your aunt punish you for accidental magic?”
Harry nodded.
Snape bit back a sigh. Petunia had certainly done a number on the boy.
Snape stood and glanced out the window to the grounds. The sun was setting but it was summer and there was still plenty of light. Harry would probably appreciate a bit of flying time after his outburst. Harry loved flying and the fresh air would likely clear the boy’s head and calm him. Snape didn’t want to resort to giving him potions after every emotional outburst. Too much Calming Draught would have side effects.
“With me,” he said, moving for the kitchen. Harry hopped up, nervous, and followed Snape.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, his voice tight and raw. Snape opened the utility closet and pulled out the Moonshot Silver broom. Harry’s heart dropped to the floor.
“No, Uncle Vernon, please don’t! I’m sorry, I’ll be good! No! NO!” Crackling flames, singed fabric, the acrid reek of burning synthetics. Bitter sobs and more sadness than he thought his small body was capable of handling. He clutched his shirt, hugging himself since no one else ever did.
The memory came out of the depths of his subconscious and a wave of nostalgia and pain hit Harry so hard he thought he’d crumple to his knees. He’d won a stuffed blue dragon toy at school for some reason or other and he’d named the thing Ollie. He loved that little dragon and would hold him tight to his chest when he was locked in his cupboard. Burying his nose in the blue fur always calmed him down. Then one day Vernon had thrown it in the fire as punishment for something Harry couldn’t even remember. He remembered the soul deep ache of the loss though, the death of a beloved friend.
“I’m sorry, Professor.” Harry croaked, watching him handle the broom. Harry clenched his fists around the hem of his shirt, trying not to give in and wrap his arms around himself. “I’m sorry,” he said again, sounding hoarse. His arms found their way up his sides and his squeezed his own ribs. That felt a bit better. “I, I didn’t mean to ruin your stuff, please don’t…” He stared at the broom, imagining Snape slashing it to small pieces with his wand and chucking them all into the fire the way Ollie had been.
Snape stood very still. “What do you think I’m going to do?” Snape asked.
“I don’t know, sir.” Harry shook his head and swallowed.
Snape handed the Moonshot carefully, slowly to Harry. He grabbed it and let out a sigh of relief and hugged the expensive broom to his body. He looked like he was about to cry again. His eyes were red and shone with brimming tears. Snape wondered what the hell minefield he’d just stumbled into here.
“I’d like you to go flying,” Snape said as neutrally as he could.
“Sir?” Harry was startled. He swallowed down his impending tears.
“Clear your mind. Relax.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Come with me.” Snape brought him out to the back patio.
“There’s wards around my property but before you go I’m going to strengthen them a bit...” Snape said, pulling his wand out of his pocket. Harry stared at the pond in the distance, still and shimmery in the golden evening light. He still clutched the broom as if he expected it to be torn from his hands. Beside him Snape muttered under his breath and Harry felt a sort of crackle in the air as the magic fizzed around the place. Snape put his arm down. “There. You’ll feel a tickling sensation when you get too close to the barriers. If you try to fly through you’ll get zapped, so stay clear.”
“Yes, sir.” Harry threw his leg over the broom and patted the smooth wood like he was settling a horse.
“Wait,” Snape said before he could take off. “I don’t want you overdoing it. Half an hour, then you come in. I don’t want you doing any silly, dangerous tricks either.”
“Yes, sir!" Harry was grinning now, tears long gone, excited to fly. "Can I go now?”
Snape waved his hand. “Go.”
Harry took off. Snape said another incantation as the boy zoomed away, blanketing the entire ground with a cushioning charm, even over the water. Snape had seen enough quidditch games to know that Harry was excellent on a broom. He wasn’t doubting the boy’s abilities, but it never hurt to be thorough. He watched Harry grow smaller and smaller as he zoomed away before turning and going back into the house. Whatever that reaction had been it had seemed to pass pretty quickly. Harry had obviously thought he was going to do….something….to the broom. Destroy it, most likely, possibly deny him from ever using it again. Snape knew all to well the pain of losing treasured items to the wrath of an authority figure. He’d learned at a young age to hide his favorite items: a pressed dried flower of asphodel, a silver bracelet Lily had gifted him, a sparkling rock his mother had assured him contained magical properties, a postcard of the fjords Lily had sent him when her family traveled to Norway. He shook his head of the memories. It wouldn’t do to get maudlin. The past was the past and there was no point in dwelling there.
Snape went back on the sofa and opened his book. He stared at the words though his mind was far away. What the hell had that reaction been? Harry had acted like Snape was going to snap the broom in twain, and for what, a punishment because of the accidental magic? He shook his head, the implications of that reaction couldn’t mean anything good.
He’d never once been granted an ounce of the forgiveness he just gave Potter. If he had shouted in the presence of his father and magically destroyed anything, even if he had snapped a bloody pencil his father would have slapped him across the face and then thrown him in the dingy little cellar of their home in Cokeworth. He couldn’t imagine Tobias handing him a broom--or in his case, a cauldron--and offering any sort of support. There was no support in that house. Any problems he had he was left to deal with himself. His father worked long hours and his mother was always trying to stretch his income to the snapping point. She constantly worried about putting food on the table and keeping them all in clothes and the bills paid. Severus’ emotional needs, while not completely ignored, were not catered to. They all had their own problems and they all dealt with them alone.
It wasn’t until much later, when he was nearly done with school that he realized they could have just used magic to power their home. It would have saved a great deal of money. He had no utility bills at Crowcaster House. Everything, from the water in the pipes to the crystals that powered the muggle phone and television, was generated magically and he was completely off the muggle grid. No doubt his father wouldn’t approve of such ways. Tobias had been too proud and hateful of magic to ever rely on it. Snape had never quite figured out why his father detested magic so. Magic made everything easier. Had he liked seeing his family struggle? Had he not wanted to put on airs around all his factory working colleagues? He’d always been a controlling bastard, maybe he couldn’t stomach the thought that his bookish, quiet son and his hard-working wife, had they put their minds to it, could provide as well as he could but magically instead of financially.
Maybe Harry’s relatives feared Harry’s power. Maybe they resented the fact that the boy had been left on their doorstep—even though they did get a generous stipend for care. Maybe they were all just petty arseholes. The reasons didn’t matter. They had been cruel to the boy and Snape wanted to do his damndest to keep Harry from going back there. Harry had seemed delighted to not be going back until today when he had said he was go back to his aunt and it would ‘be fine.’ It wouldn’t be fine. It would be terrible. Why was Harry suddenly okay with going back to Petunia after he had so dramatically burst into his study and vehemently declared to Albus and himself that he didn’t want to go back? He claimed he was willing to go back to his aunt’s ‘care’ but that outburst in the sitting room said otherwise. He’d had a change of heart somewhere between bursting into the study and this morning. Snape couldn't parse Harry’s sudden shift in attitude. It didn’t make sense and Snape didn’t like when things didn’t make sense, especially in his own home.
Snape gave up on the book and put it aside. He went into the kitchen and watched Harry through the window as the boy dropped into a steep dive and pulled up at the last moment. Hugo was barking up at him joyfully and darted off across the grass as Harry shot away again. Snape shook his head. It was amazing more students didn’t break their necks playing that fool quidditch game.
Harry had an unusual few weeks on top of an unusual school year. He expected the boy to possibly write him once or twice this summer and then next year he’d wait for Harry to make the first move. Do tea in his office, or something. It wouldn't be the first time. As a head of house, he, more often than most people thought, would invite students for tea. It was mostly the younger ones who had trouble adjusting and Snape knew that a few well placed words and a cup of bracing tea helped some of the more sensitive firsties adjust. Harry wasn’t the only student that came from an abusive home and over the years Snape had aided many a troubled Slytherin. Of course, he’d never experienced anything with a student like what he did last year, and he’d never invited a student to his home before. He rarely ever saw a student’s home but nothing would have prepared him for the locks on Potter’s bedroom. Or the flap on the door. He realized that had Harry told him there were locks on his door Snape may have thought the boy was exaggerating. And really, what kind of nutter installed a cat flap on a child's room? Petunia was always bitter, even as a girl. Once Lily was accepted to Hogwarts, she was branded a ‘freak’ by Petunia and the sisters, never especially close, drew apart further.
Harry had been ill. Harry had taken a horrible potion last year. His relatives had mistreated him and Albus wanted him to go back to them. He'd had an anxiety attack. Snape couldn't stomach the thought of denying him the broom or his friends out of some misguided attempt at punishment when the boy had just gotten those things back.
Sometimes people, even Potter, just needed a little grace.
Late the next morning after breakfast, Snape stood in the kitchen window sipping a cup of tea. He was watching Harry romp in the grass with Hugo. Harry threw a stick and Hugo joyfully ran after it, retrieving it and bringing it back. His fluffy grey and black tails were whirling. The pair engaged in a sort of tug of war and Harry fell on his arse. The dog bowled him over with licks and the pair rolled around on the ground.
Harry was not behaving like a sick child. Snape would describe himself as whatever the opposite of paternal was but in thirteen years of teaching he had seen plenty of ill children. He knew how sick children behaved. As a skilled Potions Master who was certified to brew for St. Mungo’s, he had seen his share of malady-stricken people. Harry, rolling in the hot sun with the dog, eating a dragon's weight in food, and thundering up and down the stairs in his home, was clearly feeling much better. He’d recovered quickly once Snape had introduced the steady stream of various healing potions to his system. Now that he was well on the way to full health, what would happen? Snape took another sip of tea.
He really didn’t want Harry to go back to his irresponsible muggle relatives but there was little he could actually do to ensure that. He had no say in where Harry ended up. That was always Albus’ department, one Snape paid no attention to. Before last year he didn’t give a good goddamn about the boy. He shook his head slightly, remembering the hell that potion put them both through.
Snape felt like he owed it to the boy to make up for the terrible way he treated him in the last school year. He didn’t just feel like he owed it to Harry as a sense of duty, he actually wanted to make it up to him. He had rather let that cat out of the proverbial bag when he’d stormed Harry’s relative’s home and retrieved him. He admitted to himself that he cared for Harry and that caring didn’t end when the school year did. Harry had said he was fine going back to Petunia but Snape wasn’t buying it. Maybe he just didn’t want to stay here all summer and didn’t know how best to say so. After all, living with his grouchy old Potions Professor all summer? What student would want that?
So if, somehow, Harry didn’t go back to those horrible muggles, who could take him in?
Black would be willing to take the boy. He loved telling everything that stood still long enough that he was Harry’s godfather. What teenage boy wouldn’t love hanging about with a hellion like Black? Frankly Snape thought the man’s personal lack of discipline and rough and ready attitude would be a horrible example for Harry. Not to mention Black was obviously still struggling from his stay in Azkaban.
The Weasleys would likely take Harry in. Snape shuddered. Living in the Weasley home was his idea of one of the levels of hell but Harry would probably enjoy it there. The Weasley home was safe, Molly and Arthur were good parents, but that house was crowded and Snape knew Harry would better thrive in a less populated environment where he could get more singular attention.
Ultimately anyone at all was a better fit than the muggles. A group of trolls was a better fit than those muggles but that blasted blood charm tethered Harry to his aunt. Albus had sent him some information on the spell he had used to bind the blood shield to Petunia’s home. Even with the explanation it was all frustratingly vague. It was possible the wards could be removed from Privet Drive but completely unknown if they could rebuilt elsewhere. Removing the binding charm Albus had used could cause the shield to fall completely and vanish, or it was possible the shield would stay in place and all would be fine. There was no way to know unless they did it and now that he’d read the complicated binding charm Albus had used, with it’s many steps and rigid detail, Snape didn’t trust the strength of Amicitia aeternitas to be as powerful as the blood shield. Two magical children mucking about with spells and knives on a summer afternoon was no match for the power of a loving mother sacrificing herself for her child in the face of a Dark Lord.
If the very people who were supposed to protect him were abusing him then as far as Snape could see, the blood shield had already failed.
Dumbledore didn’t see it that way. Albus was a sentimental coot who believed too strongly in the bonds of family. Lily would be heartbroken if she could see her son now. Starvation, panic attacks, locked up like a criminal. Snape downed the last of his tea.
Witnessing Potter’s panic attack had been a shock. He too suffered such attacks as a teen. Stress from dealing with his angry father and his mother whose interest in him ran hot and cold was a constant source of summertime issues. Hogwarts had been an escape for him just like it was for Harry. Minerva was right last year. He and the junior Potter did have a great deal in common. He wished he’d had someone like himself in his life when he was Harry’s age.
“Sir, can I go flying again?” Harry asked Snape during lunch.
"No, you're seeing Madame Pomfrey after lunch."
"Oh." Harry looked down at his plate. "Yeah, I'm pretty much better, thanks to you. The potions and that tea you gave me really helped."
"How does your chest feel?”
“Better, sir.”
"Have you tried any magic?"
"Just the summoning stuff and when I exploded your pillows."
"She’ll probably test the strength of your core."
Harry nodded. He picked at the food on his plate and didn’t eat another bite. He didn’t want to go back to the muggles. He closed his eyes and thought of the letter Dumbeldore had sent him, still folded on his shelf and seeming to scold him every time Harry so much as looked at it. Dumbledore was right, he was being childish. Fifteen years he’d been there, he’d survived, and he could stay there for the rest of summer. Be a Gryffindor, dammit! Be brave and suck it up! When the plates were empty Snape vanished them to the scullery.
"Ready?" He asked.
"Yeah." Harry followed him on slow feet to the parlor.
"I'll accompany you there. You go first, just say 'Hogwarts hospital.'”
Harry took some floo powder and chucked it into the empty hearth. It blazed green and he stepped into the warm dancing flames. He said his destination and moments later stumbled out of the floo across from Pomfrey's office. He brushed ashes from his shoulder.
"Mr. Potter." She came from the office and greeted him.
"Hi, Madame Pomfrey," he said.
Snape stepped gracefully out of the floo behind Harry.
“Afternoon, Severus,” she said with a nod. “Well, young man,” she glanced Harry over, “I hear you were taken ill.”
“Uh, yeah, I had a cough and a fever…”
She began leading him into the main hospital space where the beds were. “Sorry to interrupt, dear, but would you like Severus present during your exam?” She asked kindly.
“Er, I, um.” Harry looked back at Snape, hovering in the doorway with his his hands clasped behind his back. “I, sure?” He said. “He did that assessment.”
“Yes, he sent that over this morning,” she said Harry sat on one of the neatly made beds. Snape stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, watching Madame Pomfrey speak. “Your assessment showed you had a high fever at one point and were underweight and malnourished.” She cast another hovering assessment net over his head as she spoke. A quill and piece of parchment flew into view and began scribbling. Harry was reminded horribly of Rita Skeeter’s quick-notes quill and he looked away from it. Pomfrey tapped his shoulder with her wand, then pointed it at his forehead. She said a word Harry couldn’t make out and a puff of black steam danced across his face. The quill kept scribbling. “You seemed to have recovered in body but my concern today is for your magical core. Per your assessment it burned itself near to the ground to fight your fever—no, no, don’t look so shocked!” She said with a laugh. “It’s typical for a wizard’s core to fight off magical maladies. To explain it in muggle terms, a fever burns off the infection, yes?”
Harry nodded.
“In magical folk it’s similar, though in addition to our bodies burning with fevers we have our cores that work extra hard to bring down the illness in tandem with the body. That’s why if muggles caught any of our diseases they would become overwhelmed and die quickly since their bodies lack that extra strength that we have with our cores. So it is vital that we wizards and witches are diligent about our vaccines and preventative potions, lest we unleash some disease on the poor muggles.”
She turned to Snape. “What did you give him?”
“Fever reducer, chest tonic, healing potion. I used a burncore salve on his chest.”
She nodded. “It was effective?”
“Yes.”
“Sn—Professor Snape has been giving me vitamin potions, too.” Harry said. “And that tea for my core.”
Madame Pomfrey glanced at Snape.
“Licorice, fennel and slippery elm tea mixed with dried passionflower and lion’s tail, fermented shrivelfig aged in salt, dragon’s blood, and Abyssinian oil.”
Madame Pomfrey turned back to Harry, looking impressed. Abyssinian oil was rare and expensive and shrivelfigs fermented in the stuff were used as currency in some pockets of Asia. “You were very well cared for, young man. Did you get plenty of sleep?” She asked.
Harry said, “oh yeah, loads,” at the same time Snape said, “twelve to fourteen hours at a stretch.”
“Wonderful!” She said. “Remove your shirt, please. I’d like to take a reading of your core before we move on to the test.”
Harry pulled his shirt off. It was one of Dudley’s old Tshirts that he’d shrank down and attempted to spruce up. It had sort of worked but the shirt was still threadbare along the collar. He shivered and Madame Pomfrey cast a quick warming charm over him. She placed the tip of her wand against his sternum. “Hold still, love...” She said an incantation and repeated it three times. Harry felt a tingling sensation reaching into his chest and itching from the inside before Madame Pomfrey pulled back, satisfied. “Your core seems perfectly normal and strong.”
She stepped back and gestured for him to put his shirt back on. “I’d like to see you use your magic, Mr. Potter. Do you have your wand?”
“Yeah.” Harry pulled his wand out and stood.
She had him do some basic spells, wingardium leviosa, accio, aguamenti, incendio. She asked him to produce his patronus and the ghostly stag galloped the length of the room before vanishing through the stone wall. She also had him transfigure the bed pillow into pair of shoes, then into a rabbit, and back to the pillow again.
“How do you feel, magically?” She asked when he was done.
“Fine,” Harry said with a shrug. The pillow started hopping across the bed. “Hey!” Harry grabbed it before it could hit the floor and Madame Pomfrey put it to rights. She tested his core again, declared him magically fit, and grabbed the hovering sheet of parchment from the air to read over the notes.
“When was your last physical?” Snape asked.
“Huh?”
“When did you last see a healer or muggle doctor?”
Harry shrugged.
“Did you go after you got your Hogwarts acceptance letter? I know a full physical and dental visit are recommended.”
“No.” Harry said. “Hagrid and I bought all my school stuff and I got on the train.”
“When was your last eye exam?” He pressed.
“I think that was the year before I came to Hogwarts?”
“You’ve had those glasses since you were ten?”
Harry shrugged. “I guess.”
Snape nodded. “Have you been vaccinated? I know muggles ask for a few vaccines.”
“I don’t know.” Harry said.
“I take it you didn’t get the recommended Hogwarts inoculations either?”
Harry shook his head.
“Hm, I see that here.” Madame Pomfrey said absently, reading the parchment. “You’re due for some vaccines, young man.”
“Can he get them today?” Snape asked.
Madame Pomfrey looked apologetic. “I haven’t received my order for the school year yet. It’s still too early.”
Snape nodded. “We’ll come back.”
Something squirmed pleasantly in Harry’s chest. Snape wanted to see him again before they went back to school? Snape would take him for his shots even when he was back with the muggles? Harry found he quite enjoyed that idea. Well, not the part about getting shots, but seeing Snape again. Snape, weirdly, seemed to get him in a way no one else did. Hearing that Snape was interested in continuing to stay in Harry’s life was, well, it felt good. Really good.
After they got back from Madame Pomfrey, Harry flew around the grounds for an hour until he got peckish. He grabbed an oat bar and banana from where he’d stashed them in his trunk and was watching television in the sitting room. Snape was up in his lab and he’d told Harry that he was working on a delicate potion and to interrupt him only if there was an emergency.
Harry didn’t need to interrupt him. In fact, he appreciated the alone time. He had got to thinking outside, wondering why Snape was being so nice. Harry couldn’t believe he’d let the accidental magic go unpunished like that. Harry had not only lost control but he’d sworn and shouted. If he’d shouted like that or sworn in class there was no way Snape would let that go unpunished. The man wasn’t going soft, was he? He certainly hadn’t been soft a few weeks ago when he’d whacked him after the quidditch match. When he’d taken the Moonshot out of the closet Harry had thought for sure he would snap it half or set it aflame to teach him a lesson. He hadn’t expected Snape to hand it to him and tell him to go fly. Harry glanced it, leaning in the corner. Just when he thought he was figuring Snape out, the man let him swear, let him destroy his furniture, and offered lines as a punishment instead of smacks. What was going on?
The floo in the parlor flared to life. Harry got up, Hugo at his heels, and poked his head around the corner. Snape’s floo was barred to most traffic and Harry smiled, pleasantly surprised when Remus Lupin strolled out of the fireplace.
“Harry.” He said after a surprised pause as Harry entered the room. “How are you?” He brushed a stray bit of ash from his grey cardigan.
“I’m better now, sir.” Harry said, coming over to him. Lupin looked a bit wan and thin. Dark shadows were under his eyes and he had a washed out look about him, like he was fading. The full moon must be nearing.
“Better? Were you ill?” Remus looked him over. He was awfully skinny.
“I was, yeah. I had some kind of cough. I was pretty sick.”
“Gracious. That’s not how you want to start your holidays. How long have you been in Severus’ home?”
“About two weeks.” Snape strode into the parlor with a steaming goblet. “Harry, please be elsewhere.”
“I’m talking to Lupin!” Harry snipped.
Snape glanced at him, one brow up at Harry’s tone.
“And I’m telling you to go elsewhere,” he said, staring him in the eye.
Harry pressed his lips together but grabbed his magazine and trudged away. The door to the backyard slid open and closed with a bit more force than necessary.
If Remus noticed Harry’s attitude he didn’t say anything. “Thank you, Severus.” Lupin took the potion and gratefully drank it. He’d long since gotten used to the foul taste and he drained the goblet easily before handing it back. “Obliged, as ever. So, Harry is, ah, staying with you?” He nodded in the direction Harry had gone.
“For now.”
“Albus told us Harry was here, but I didn’t expect—”
“What? That I wouldn’t have him strung up by the thumbs?” Snape said, snide and cutting. “That I knew how to take care of a near-adult?”
“No,” Remus said, ignoring Snape’s tone. “I didn’t expect to learn that he’d been so ill. What happened?”
Snape sighed, and, using as few words as possible to appease the incorrigible man, told him about retrieving Harry. Remus, of course, filled in the rest himself.
“So you broke into a muggle’s home, kidnapped their underage nephew and brought him to your heavily warded house where you have been dosing him with homemade medications?”
“It sounds terrible when you put it that way,” Snape said, recoiling.
“It does sound terrible.” Remus admonished, “If his relatives want him back and press charges with the Ministry that will be their exact accusation! You don’t have a leg to stand on, Severus!”
Was he always so irritating? “His relatives,” Snape spat, “are completely foul. They starved the boy. They locked him up. They didn’t care one whit about him and they never have.” His eyes narrowed. “Why the sudden interest in his welfare, Lupin?”
Lupin shrugged, casual. “Harry deserves good care from people who love him.”
Snape snorted. Remus sounded annoyingly like Albus, even more holier-than-thou if possible.
“You won’t have to fret over the boy for long, he’s returning to his precious family on Saturday.”
“Oh! Well, that’s good then.”
“Good that he’s returning to a house filled with people who hate him? Hm, you must detest the boy.”
“Surely, they’re not so bad—Albus would never allow it if they were.”
Snape rubbed his temple, trying to keep the impending headache at bay. “And yet,” he muttered to himself.
“Perhaps it’s for the best that he’s not your responsibility?” Remus said. “You’re busy with the Order as well as the other tasks he has set you to?” Remus spoke delicately, trying not to be too obvious in pointing out that Snape was still a death eater and servant of Voldemort.
Snape dropped his hand from his head, not wanting to have this conversation anymore. How could he explain to Lupin that Petunia was cruel to her nephew? That Harry was abused there? That Snape actually did prefer Harry to spend the summer with him—at least he would be fed! “Perhaps,” he said, wanting this to end. Severus wasn’t usually this impulsive. He wasn’t an impulsive person by nature and playing on both sides of this war, his very life literally depended on his patience and Slytherin cunning.
Apparently the plight of dark-haired bespectacled boys was the bane of his control. At least one was, anyway. Logistically he was discovering that grabbing Potter had possibly been a mistake. There were, obviously, the blood wards to consider. Also, Lupin wasn’t wrong. Snape was close with the Dark Lord. It would be of utmost importance that the Dark Lord remain unaware that Harry was now in the possession of Severus Snape. Albus had said it would be more difficult to protect Harry in the magical world than in the muggle one. Voldemort literally couldn’t attack Harry at his aunt’s (even if it seemed his aunt and her kin could). However, Harry had been in Crowcaster House for a fortnight and no death eaters had come to call. Perhaps the Dark Lord didn’t have his followers actively looking for the boy at this moment. Who knew how the man’s mind operated? It was a stroke of good fortune if he thought Potter was still tucked away with the muggles.
It was also possible Harry still thought of Privet Drive as ‘home.’ Dumbledore had said that as long as Harry’s blood resided in the place where he calls home, Voldemort could not touch him. Though how Harry could ever see that place as a home was beyond him. Harry had said he wanted to go back though, so maybe it truly wasn’t as bad as Snape thought. Maybe if Harry was still thinking of that place as home, then he thought he had to stay there for the blood shields to work? Maybe he thought he had to stay there to be protected. Snape had no idea.
Once Lupin left and they’d had some supper Snape vanished the plates down to the scullery and stood.
“With me,” he said to Harry. “You’re going to do your lines while I work. Have you started?”
“Yes,” Harry said. It wasn’t a lie. He had written the sentence twice.
They went up to his study and Snape transfigured an unused potions stool into a small table. He put it across from his desk and set the armless chair to the side of the table. Harry would face his desk while doing his lines so Snape could make sure he wasn’t slacking. Snape waved his hand.
“Sit.”
A couple sheets of parchment, quill, and inkpot appeared. Harry sat and picked up the quill, eying the tip. Snape sat at the desk and opened a drawer, removing a thick book stuffed with papers.
“How many lines have you completed?”
“Uh, two.”
Snape rolled his eyes. He waved his hand and the sentence I will mind my own business and never eavesdrop on conversations not meant for my ear appeared at the top of the parchment.
“Best get started,” Snape said, opening the book.
“Yessir,” Harry said quietly. He dipped the quill in the ink and, after a moment, wrote the first two words slowly. He stared at the back of his hand. Did Snape take a page from Umbridge’s book? This innocuous brown feather quill wasn’t some relative of the evil blood quill was it? When cuts didn’t appear on his flesh he wrote more confidently.
Snape, who hadn’t looked over at him once since sitting down, snorted. “I would never subject you to something so cruel, Harry.”
“I know, sir.”
Snape drew a sheet of parchment towards himself, read something in his book and then began to write. For a few long moments the only sound to be heard was Harry’s repetitive scratches along the parchment, punctuated by the occasional scratching flourish of Snape’s quill as he penned his letter.
A silver tray holding a teapot and two mugs appeared on the corner of Snape’s desk. A plate of a variety of biscuits accompanied. Snape finished his letter, dropped the quill into the inkpot, and poured the tea first into one mug, then the other. He levitated the mug and plate of biscuits to Harry.
He gave Snape a surprised, delighted grin and put a whole biscuit into his mouth, chasing it with a deep sip of tea.
“Not too many of those.” Snape said, writing a second letter.
Harry turned back to his lines.
I will mind my own business and never eavesdrop on conversations not meant for my ear
I will mind my own business and never eavesdrop on conversations not meant for my ear
I will mind my own business and never eavesdrop on conversations not meant for my ear
He filled the front of two sheets and stopped, giving his hand a rub. He started counting each line quietly under his breath to see if he was anywhere near two hundred. At one ninety-three Snape said, “Close enough. Give it here.”
Harry handed the inky pages to him and Snape stood. He eyed the pages, tore them in half, and flung both halves into the fire. Harry crunched a rosemary shortbread biscuit, watching the edges of his work curl up in the flames. It wasn’t the first time a teacher had chucked his lines into a fire but it was the first time he wasn’t annoyed by it. Writing lines with a mug of sweet tea and a plate of crunchy biscuits in Snape’s company wasn’t bad at all. Snape didn’t say anything as he sat down and scrawled the letter again. He finished and signed his name at the bottom.
“Sir.” Harry said. “What are you working on?”
“Correspondence with clients.” Snape said. “People write to me looking for difficult-to-acquire potions or ingredients. I’m notifying clients I’ve chosen that I’ll take their request, or that I need more information, or that such-and-such ingredients will cost extra, things of that nature.”
“Is anyone asking for the Draught of Asphodel?” Harry asked, joking. “I can give advice to whatever poor sod drinks the bloody nox rubrum.”
The side of Snape’s mouth went up as he wrote a reply. “No. I doubt many know it exists.”
“CanIhelpyoumakepotions?”
“Pardon?” He said, pausing and looking up.
“Can I help you make some potions?” Harry was looking into his tea mug, slowly swirling the dark liquid at the bottom of his cup. “Although, I’m leaving…”
“At some point this summer we can brew together,” Snape said. “If you’d like. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested.”
Harry shrugged with one shoulder. “My mum was good at potions.”
Snape nodded. “She was. When we were in school and the Gryffindors and Slytherins had Potions class together, she and I would be partners. She always earned points in class and got top marks on exams. In her later school years, she tutored younger students in all manner of subjects.”
Harry smiled. “Was my dad good at school?” The memory the occlumency lesson and his father bullying Snape popped into his head and he hissed, backtracking. The last thing he wanted was to bring up that horrible night. “S-sorry, sir. I didn’t think—I, I know you wouldn’t know, er—”
Snape seemed more amused at Harry’s reaction than annoyed. “From what I recall, your father was one of the top students in his house.”
“So I should be smart,” Harry said.
Snape regarded the boy. “You say that as if you are not.”
Harry shrugged. “My marks are okay. I’m nowhere near top of my house. That’s Hermione.”
“You can’t expect to get top marks if you coast along,” Snape told him. “Part of being smart is applying yourself to all your studies.”
“Even the rubbish ones?” Harry mumbled.
“Which of your courses are the rubbish ones?”
“History of Magic.”
“Every course has its place,” Snape said. “History of Magic simply requires you to pay attention and memorize.”
“It’s still boring though.”
Snape stood up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t touch anything.” He gave Harry a severe look and left the room, Harry assumed to use the loo. Alone now, he glanced around the room. Snape’s study was one of the forbidden places and, well, Harry was hardly going to sit on this chance.
Snape had only said not to touch anything.
He didn’t say a word about looking.
Harry got to his feet. He immediately went to the dark wood bookshelves and read the spines.
Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts Volumes 1-3
Fiends moste Foul
Darkest Potions
Darkest Potions II
Dark Compendium of Defensive Curses, Hexes, and Jinxes
Not your Grandmother’s Potions Tome
Occlumency and Legilimency
Creatures that go Bump in the Night
“Looking for some bedtime reading?” Snape asked from behind him. Harry spun around. He hadn’t heard him come back.
“Just, just looking…” Harry said, defensive. “I didn’t touch anything!”
“I didn’t say you did,” Snape said. “You’ve finished your lines, you can go do something enjoyable if you’d prefer. I have a few more letters to write.”
He said it like a suggestion but Harry could tell it was more or less a command.
“Okay.” Harry left and headed for the sitting room to watch some telly before bed.
Author's Chapter Notes:
t/w: memories of child abuse.
Recovery
To be continued...