Chapter Text
“Do you require a Healer, Severus?”
It was beyond humiliating, having the Headmaster see his bedroom.
They’d sequestered themselves upstairs, away from the others, and Severus had cast a Muffliato the moment the door had closed, leaving them alone. And although the quiet felt blissful to his pounding head, Severus wouldn’t— couldn’t —allow himself to sink into a false sense of ease. He had fucked up royally, no doubt looked to be on his deathbed, and the boy…Well. The boy. Potter.
This was an interrogation. There was no use sugarcoating it.
“What are the extent of your injuries?” Albus said quietly, hands clasped at his front, eyes somewhere off to the right, towards the window. “Severus?”
He set his jaw and didn’t respond, working up the last vestiges of strength from some hidden reserve inside his body. It took some time. “Did you ever stop to think that perhaps, Headmaster, there was a reason I’d told Lupin not to come?” he said eventually, voice flat and hard. He took a turn at looking out the window to the empty street below, unwilling to meet Albus’s piercing gaze. “Do you not have faith in my ability to keep Potter safe? Do you not find me capable? Trustworthy?”
“Severus…”
“Did any of you stop to wonder whether you’d be storming in on a visit from the Malfoys? From Dolohov? Macnair? The Dark Lord himself?”
“I am quite certain there were measures taken to prevent any such thing from happening.”
“Are you?” he said scathingly, uncrossing his arms and unhitching himself from where he’d been leaning against the wall. A bolt of sciatic pain shot down his leg, irritated by the day’s events. He would need a nerve-calming potion. Valerian and St. John’s Wort for the neuropathy…a sprig of peppermint to soothe the palate… “Forgive me for not having any faith in Black’s ability to think ahead. I’m certain he burst into the house, wand at the ready, with a curse on his lips and his pet werewolf in tow, prepared for a grand brawl he could tell the children about later.”
“I believe you are concussed,” Albus said, and his eyes were like ice. “Your injuries, Severus. Where have they come from? Do you require a visit to Madame Pomfrey?”
Wrenching his broken fingers as he twisted them in his matted hair, Severus burst out, “I don’t need a fucking visit to bloody fucking Pomfrey! I want them out! I want you out! You have always—taken his side! Their side!”
With the body language of a man approaching a wounded animal, Albus wrapped a cool hand round Severus’s wrist. He could feel his pulse fluttering under the Headmaster’s fingertips, too rapid, almost fevered. He felt—nauseated. Like he was boiling in his skin. The room tilted on its axis, and black spots bloomed in his vision like he was about to lose consciousness. Before he could fall, Albus led him to his bed. He sat heavily, with a screech from the rusted bedsprings. “He went into my—your—the Pensieve,” Severus said breathlessly, blinking the spots away. Carefully, as he realized for the first time how purple his hand was, he put his hand in his hands. He was…so tired, all of a sudden.
He couldn’t see Dumbledore’s expression, but a certain stillness came over him.
“As far as I know,” he continued, eyes burning from exhaustion, “the boy—Potter—saw a single memory. One that wasn’t incriminating to the Order. No doubt you’re still worried about the Dark Lord using Potter as an information sieve.”
Thunderclouds had crept in so quickly, his room was shrouded in gloom, even though he knew it couldn’t be past five. If not for an unfortunate knowledge of the sort of colors Albus preferred, Severus might have looked at him and assumed his robes were gray, washed of all color in the dark of the storm.
“Harry will need to be moved,” Albus said after a time, and the words were heavy, like it pained him to say them.
What? He lifted his head too quickly and was rewarded with a throb of pain that shot down the back of his neck and pooled at the center of his spine. “Moved, Headmaster?” he repeated. “But he has...” — five more days , he thought, too mortified to say it aloud. What did he care, that the b—Potter had five more days? This entire month had been a clusterfuck on level with the Triwizard Shitshow. He should be ecstatic Potter was leaving early. It was a dream come true. Hanukkah in August. Christmas in September, without the bankruptcy.
“I will speak to Harry after he arrives at Hogwarts,” the Headmaster said. Gently, he touched Severus’s shoulder, grounding him. “I must admit, Severus, that when Remus called for me, I’d feared the worst—that they had arrived to a harrowing sight and sent for help. The scene I was met with certainly suggested something had happened. I will speak to Harry about his trespassing and breach of privacy. I know you have lacked faith in me in the past, but I’m asking you to put faith in me once more. I will take this seriously. However…what has occurred here tonight, no matter the cause, can never be repeated again. I will not allow it. I would not like to see these injuries again.”
“I wouldn’t injure him,” Severus said furiously, trying to stand, but Dumbledore eased him back down. “I would never!”
“Quiet, now. You say you would never harm him, Severus, but what of yourself?” He gestured to him, lingering on the gash on his head. “You may not take your anger out on others in ways that show physical wounds, but you’ve been known to turn your pain towards yourself, instead. This cannot happen again.”
My pain ? he thought, clenching his jaw. Struggling to decide whether any of what Albus had said was worth getting angry over, Severus eventually ground out, “When?”
“Hm?”
“When will he be moved?”
“Arrangements will need to be made,” Albus said, pulling his watch out and studying it. Severus swallowed a groan at the sight of it. Dumbledore’s pocket watch confused him at the best of times, but seeing it now made him feel vaguely nauseated. “Currently, Harry is safe here. Uprooting him from Spinner’s End will only serve to upset him. Allow me two more days, my boy, and your duties will be relieved. I’ll have Arthur pick him up on Tuesday morning.”
Tuesday? It’s already Sunday evening, Severus thought wildly, putting his head in his hands again. “I can’t feed the boy, Albus. My kitchen…”
“I will take care of it, as well as your—ah—guests.” With a sigh, Albus straightened his back and said, “Tuesday morning. I know you do not wish to hear this, but I do hope you realize how much this has meant to Harry. Remus has kept me updated on the situation. I expect you to do the same, Severus, once you return to Hogwarts. I will require a full report of today’s events. But for now, rest. Allow me to take care of the rest.”
“Mind the stairs,” Severus managed to say as Dumbledore left the room, and laid down. Two days. Not even that. Two more days, and a retelling of this one.
Two more days.
It was over.
—
On Tuesday, Severus woke up early, before the sun could rise.
Silver light crept across the floor, bathing his bed in monochromatic gray. He rolled onto his side with a squeal of rusted bedsprings, breaking the early morning stillness, and pulled his legs to his chest, breathing deeply. Somewhere outside a cat was yowling. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen below. Sleep dragged at his eyelids, and for a time he drifted in and out of a light doze, until the light outside was tinged with yellow and he forced himself out of bed.
He slipped down the stairs with practiced ease, moving on silent feet through the living room. Harry was curled in a ball on the sofa, blankets twisted round his knees. Severus paused to tug them back up to his chin before picking his way over to the bookshelf by the hearth. Squinting through the gloom, he ran his fingers along the spines of his books nearest to his face, and then along the ones below, until he found what he’d been looking for.
Potter’s trunk was a mess of old parchment and broken quill nubs. Severus took advantage of it, sifting the layers of rubbish until he found the bottom. He placed the book inside and buried it in wrinkled scrolls and too-small jumpers. Then, closing the trunk again, he climbed to his feet and scaled the stairs again. The room was still, his bed held no trace of warmth, and his bedsheets were as scratchy as ever, but he burrowed in anyway and tried not to overthink his actions. The sun glowed on the horizon and tinged his walls orange. Harry woke downstairs, shuffling about until the shower roared to life. And Severus closed his eyes.
—
“This is it, then?”
Breakfast was a mournful affair. Severus had roused himself somewhere round nine and gone down to make a decent meal for them both, but Potter merely picked at his food. His toast had a corner nibbled off, the eggs had become sodden in ketchup and been left to bleed, and his milk was nearly untouched. If his own plate hadn’t been similarly full, Severus would have made a scathing comment. As it was, he couldn’t find the will.
“Arthur will be here in an hour,” he confirmed, stirring his coffee even though the sugar was sure to have dissolved by now. He took a sip and burned his freshly healed taste buds. More sugar, then. Severus dumped in another three tablespoons before he caught himself and pushed the pot away. Potter tracked his movements and grimaced in disgust when he took another gulp.
“You’re not really going to drink that, are you?” he said. Severus drained the rest of the mug just to spite him. He’d pay with indigestion later, but Potter didn’t need to know that.
It wasn’t as if he would know that either way, seeing as he’d be gone and the house would be empty once again. Empty and quiet. Peaceful at last.
Severus poured himself another cuppa and tried to chase away any melancholy thoughts. He was a maudlin fucking fool. This wasn’t goodbye; he had two years left with the little cretin. Eight days alone at Spinner’s End would not kill him. And eight days at Grimmauld Place would not kill the boy. They would live to aggravate each other again.
“You’ll be back at school before you know it,” he said, both to himself and Harry, who was looking decidedly sullen. “Do you have everything? Your socks? Homework? Robes?”
“Yes,” Potter sighed.
“Books? Your scarf?”
“Yes, for the last time! We already went through this last night. What, d’you think I emptied out my entire trunk this morning looking for my favorite quill?”
“ Did you?” he shot back, and then restrained himself with a herculean effort when the boy turned to him with a thunderous expression, hands clenched into fists on top of the table. With an even greater effort, Severus gritted, “Never mind. Gather your things and find your shoes.”
As Potter clattered about in the next room over, Severus cleared the table and set the dishes to clean themselves. He leaned against the counter and rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe away his weariness.
The boy hadn’t taken the news well. After Albus and the others had left, Harry had slipped back into the sulking rage that had nearly oozed from him during his first days at Spinner’s End—the rage Severus hadn’t realized had left him until it came back, this time with a vengeance.
It wasn’t right. None of it was. He should have jumped at the chance to go to Grimmauld Place three days early, but instead he was stirring up rows and ignoring questions. He wasn’t attempting to strongarm his way into the kitchen to fix a meal, he wasn’t tearing through Severus’s books like they were his own personal library, and he hadn’t mentioned Snow Crash in days.
“It’s not all bad here,” he’d said, and Severus hadn’t realized just how truthful Potter had been until he was due to leave.
(This was wrong. This was a problem, and one day he would need to dissuade the boy from the ridiculous delusion he seemed to have to been taken in by, because it would not do for him to think of Spinner’s End as a place where dreams came true and friends were made. It was wrong. He was wrong.)
It has to stop, he thought, pressing the dough of his palms against his eyes. This has to end.
“I’m ready, Professor,” Harry said from the doorway.
“Did you remember your—”
“ Yes .”
There was a knock on the door, and they both turned to glare in its general direction. “He’s early,” Severus said darkly.
“Er—” The boy stepped in front of him as he made for the entryway, barring his path. “I just wanted to say—thanks. For everything. I know you don’t really like me, but this…wasn’t bad. Not really.”
“Spare me,” Severus said, giving him a withering look. He tried to sidestep him, but Harry danced right back in front of him.
“No, really!” he said, as Arthur knocked again, more insistently this time. “We’re coming!” Potter called, and then turned back round, eerily comfortable in Severus’s home. “Thank you. I, er…had a good time, mostly.”
“Good,” Severus said after an indecisive pause, for lack of anything better to say.
Potter fidgeted with a curl near the top of his head, twisting it into a ringlet round his finger, and then smiled tremulously, like he was fighting back tears. Severus felt himself blanch. “See you in a few days, Professor.”
The next few minutes passed in a whirlwind, leaving him more than a little dazed, and it wasn’t until the door had closed and the house fell truly silent for the first time in a month that Severus came back to himself with a snap. He sat down at the table, staring at the boy’s empty chair. “See you in a few days, Harry,” he said, and then stood back up to begin brewing.
—
It took nearly an hour for Harry to catch a moment alone with Ron and Hermione.
Grimmauld Place was dank and quiet, looming in the sort of darkness that coated everything like a blanket. Candles only served to lengthen the shadows, lamps made the corners of the rooms twitch like arms about to reach out and snag you into an abyss, and the great fire in the kitchen gave the room an oddly wet appearance, like the light was made of oil. And when Harry ascended the stairs behind Mrs. Weasley, he could almost swear the elf heads on the wall were watching. Waiting for him to slip.
It was all very different from Snape’s house, which was all grays and browns, like the dreariness of the town had leached much of the color out of the house and its single occupant. Singular, because Harry was no longer there, and Snape’s sofa would probably go cold without him tonight. His chair at the kitchen table—newly restuffed, after Dumbledore had set the room back to rights—would be empty, cushioned once more.
“Try to keep up, Harry, dear,” Mrs. Weasley whispered, and he realized he’d stopped on a landing.
“Er—sorry,” he said, hurrying to catch up. They climbed another flight of stairs and emerged out onto a floor that looked identical to the last, save that the wallpaper might have been green once. (Or it was just coated in a healthy layer of mold.)
“Here you are. In you go. Supper will be ready in an hour. Remus should be joining us tonight, and no doubt you’ll be seeing Tonks. Harry—” She stopped, eyes tight at the corners like she was worried, and pressed her lips together. Mrs. Weasley was too pale, hair lighter than it had been a year ago, and she’d lost a noticeable amount of weight. She looked like she’d been crying. “It’s good to see you, dear.”
They parted ways with a hug that lingered, and Harry was left alone to face his friends alone.
He opened the door to a vast amount of bushy brown hair. Alarmed, he lifted his arms and gingerly patted the hair, and Hermione with it. “ Harry! Ron, he’s here, Harry’s here! We didn’t hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? We heard you were with Professor Snape, of all people, and—oh, Harry, are you angry with us? I bet you are, I know our letters were useless—but we couldn’t tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn’t, oh, we’ve got so much to tell you, and you’ve got to tell us—Snape—and the—the dementors! When we heard—and the Ministry hearing—it’s just outrageous, I’ve looked it all up, they can’t have expelled you even if they wanted to, there’s a provision in the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations—”
“Let him breathe, Hermione. He already had the hearing, he’s fine,” Ron said with a grin, closing the door with a quiet snap. He was taller than he had been the last time Harry had seen him, gangly and awkward. His jeans were too short. His nose was as long as ever, though, and he was as freckly as he’d been a few months before.
Hermione let go of him, but before she could speak, Hedwig glided over to him and perched herself on his shoulder, talons pricking through the sleeve of his shirt.
“Hedwig,” he exclaimed, more relieved than he’d thought he’d be. She hadn’t returned after sending his last letter, and that had been days ago. Ages ago.
“She’s been in a right state,” said Ron. “Pecked us half to death after the whole dementor thing. Look at this—”
“Oh, yeah,” Harry said as Ron showed him a new scar on his finger. “I…forgot about that. Sorry. I just wanted answers, you know, and…”
“We wanted to give them to you, mate,” Ron said. Hermione nodded, smile fading. “Hermione was going spare, she kept saying you’d do something stupid if you were stuck all on your own without news, but Dumbledore…And then you were stuck with Snape, so it wasn’t like we could tell you anything then. ”
For weeks, Harry had thought he’d be angry at the mere sight of them, but the rage he’d expected wasn’t there. He’d been…and maybe still was…a safety threat. Lupin had said it. Snape had said it. He couldn’t put Ron and Hermione in danger. Harry didn’t want any of them hurt because of him.
“It’s all right,” he said, surprised to find he meant it. Hermione wrung the hem of her shirt, biting her lip, and Ron frowned. “Really. It’s fine. I’m not angry. I was at first—sorry, Ron, I didn’t think she’d peck that hard—but I’m not anymore. Not very much.”
“That’s better,” Ron said, grinning again. “If you’d said you weren’t angry at all, I’d have thought someone was Polyjuicing you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” Hermione said dryly, sitting on one of the beds. “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore checked when he got here.”
“What is this place, anyway?” Harry asked, dragging his trunk over to the bed nearest the door. “Is this that headquarters Snape kept mentioning?”
“Yeah, it’s the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” Ron said at once.
“And that is…”
“A secret society,” Hermione jumped in. “Dumbledore’s in charge. He founded it. It’s the people who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”
He opened his trunk and pulled out a handful of half-heartedly folded clothes, dumping them onto the floor. “Who’s in it?”
“Quite a few people—”
“—we’ve met about twenty of them, but we think there are more…” Ron trailed off, eyes on the floor, and then offered a weak, “Snape’s in it.”
Harry fought back a grin, ducking over a pile of socks to hide his face from view. “Fine,” he said, unable to disguise a snort. “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, Harry, everything! What was it like? Professor Lupin said you were studying Occlumency, I’ve read about that, you know! How were the lessons? Have you finished your schoolwork?”
“Does he skip the shampoo all year round, or does he save it for Hogwarts?” Ron cut in, and stepped to the side when Hermione aimed a kick at him. “Hermione, I’m only joking,” he snapped, before winking in Harry’s direction.
“My homework is done!” Harry laughed. “Snape made me do it all first thing. And yes, Ron, he washed his hair.”
“That’s revolting,” Ron said, but Hermione’s quick, “I want to look it over before we go back to classes,” overshadowed him.
They began to fall over themselves with a steady flow of questions, until Harry could hardly keep track, let alone get a single word in edgewise.
“Well, he—” he tried, before Hermione shot off another stream of conscious, punctuated by Ron. Each question seemed to circle back to a central What Was He Like? “I didn’t really—well—he wasn’t—”
“ Hermione. ” With a heavy sigh, Ron held up his hands until she slowed to a stop. “Let him breathe. He won’t be able to answer you if you keep talking. Right, Harry? Harry?”
He’d been sifting through his trunk to find his homework, but at the sight of a book near the bottom, Harry found himself transfixed. Running his hands over the front and along the title, he opened it, flipping through the pages before stopping at the end. His eyes caught on a small line of print inside the back cover. Property of Harry James Potter. He smiled slowly. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he told Ron and Hermione, and held Snow Crash to his chest.
