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Chapter Text

Harry made it into the Entrance Hall before his panic caught up to him. 

Poor Hermione shuddered as his useless arm flopped against her hip again, and bile rose in the back of Harry’s throat. He pulled away from Ron on his other side and caught the arm, clutching it to his chest, but it only made the horror worse: with no bones, there was nothing solid beneath his grip. It felt like raw meat stuffed into one of Aunt Petunia’s dish washing gloves. 

The room tilted sickeningly, and Ron caught him before he could fall. Hermione was speaking, but her voice was coming from very far away. Something about Madam Pomfrey, he thought. But would the medi-witch really be able to fix his arm? Harry couldn’t imagine it. 

Harry released the arm, and it hung from his shoulder like a lead weight, unutterably wrong. Harry suddenly couldn’t bear to have it touching him, attached to him, anywhere near him. He wanted it gone. It was like someone had sewn a dead thing to his shoulder in place of his arm.

Ron hoisted him upright again, muttering something indistinct but clearly angry, but all Harry could hear was the rushing in his ears. The high ceiling of the Entrance Hall seemed to be closing in on him, shadows stretching longer and more menacing with every frantic heartbeat.

Then one of them moved.

“Well, well, well,” drawled the voice of the only person who could make matters worse. “What an astonishing sight… The Boy Who Lived, brought low by a mere bludger. I was under the impression that you were somewhat good at the game, Potter.”

Harry’s head jerked up to glare at Snape, and he staggered sideways with the sudden movement, only to be steadied again by Ron.

“Once again, your legend is blown far out of proportion. Or perhaps this is your new quidditch strategy? Distract the other team by flailing about limply?”

“You —“ Fury punched through his horror, sharp and hot. “That idiot — Not my fault —“

Snape’s eyes gleamed from beneath the curtain of his hair. “Of course not. Nothing is ever your fault, is it, Potter? You merely attract catastrophe the way flame attracts moths. One might almost commend the talent.”

Harry lurched forward one step, then another. “I don’t attract — Not — You’re unbelievable!” Harry shouted.

Ron and Hermione both cringed, but Snape’s lips only twisted into a mocking smile. “Ah, a complete sentence. How reassuring, if short. Can your bludger-addled brain manage a longer one, Potter?”

“Get out of my way,” Harry snarled, trying and failing to shove past Snape and start climbing the stairs. The rubbery arm swung out and then dragged limply against Snape’s robes, and a fresh wave of nausea crashed over Harry. 

“Pathetic,” Snape hissed. “Try again, Potter. Or have you been bested by a staircase, as well as a bludger? I doubt your fanclub would recover from the shock.”

“Shut up!” Harry staggered forward, desperate to get away from Snape, but he only managed two more steps before Ron and Hermione had to catch him. 

“Don’t make him angry,” Hermione whispered anxiously.

Snape ignored her and huffed out a cruel laugh instead. “Two steps without falling on your face! Shall I summon the quidditch scouts?”

“Get away from me,” Harry spat, forcing himself up a few more stairs. 

Snape followed. “And miss the show? I think not.”

“Shut up!” Harry’s voice cracked on the shout. Ron’s arm tightened around his waist, and Hermione made a strangled sound of protest, but Harry barely registered either. His blood was pounding in his ears, drowning out everything but the mocking voice behind him.

“Astounding. He can walk and shout.”

Harry growled and pushed onward.

“Spectacular form,” Snape commented with a slow, mocking clap as Harry cleared the top of the staircase and had to pause to steady himself again. 

“Don’t you have a cave to crawl back into?” Harry demanded breathlessly, turning to glare at Snape once more. Both Ron and Hermione hissed at him, but he didn’t care if the git took fifty points off Gryffindor at this point, or issued him a week’s worth of detentions. 

But Snape was smiling. The bastard looked downright smug! “Bats fly, Potter.”

Harry stared at him. 

“…And the sentences are gone again. Pity. Have you forgotten how to walk as well, Potter?”

Step by step, insult by insult, Harry found himself moving.  Each time his stomach lurched threateningly, or the wrongness of his arm became unbearable, another needling remark from Snape shoved him forward again. At least once he reached the hospital wing, he could be reasonably sure Madam Pomfrey would chase him off. 

Ron and Hermione hovered anxiously at his side, whispering protests that slowly fell away as they realized — impossibly — that Snape wasn't angry.

Harry, on the other hand, was ready to commit murder. By the time the lamps of the hospital wing shone at the end of the corridor, he was breathless with fury, but miraculously steady on his feet. 

Mercifully silent at last, Snape swept past him and into Madam Pomfrey’s office.

“Bloody hell,” Ron burst out as soon as the door shut. “I reckon Snape thought he was helping.”

“He was helping, Ronald,” Hermione snapped, herding Harry toward a bed. "He got him here, didn't he?"

Before Ron or Harry could argue, the matron came bustling out of her office, looking cross. “You should have come straight to me!” she scolded, lifting Harry’s boneless arm to inspect it. “I can mend bones in a second, but growing them back…”

Chapter Text

Wormtail shuffled closer between the headstones, the twisted baby-creature in his arms.

“I can touch you now.” Cold fingers. His scar was going to split open. 

Wormtail panted as he dragged out the enormous cauldron, but the baby-thing wouldn’t drown. He knew it wouldn’t drown.

There was grave-dirt under his knees, under his face, under his fingernails. “I asked you whether you want me to do that again.”

People were laughing, but their stiff faces only winked in the firelight.

Nagini hissed, her scales rasping against the headstone.

“Bow to death, Harry.”

His feet slammed into the grass, and his injured leg gave out. “Did you know the cup was a portkey?”

“Kill the spare.”

"Cedric!" 

Harry shouted himself awake, chest heaving. He wasn’t in the graveyard. He was — 

His head throbbed as a second surge of adrenaline followed the one from his dream. If Uncle Vernon had heard — 

But this wasn’t his bed. He was on a shabby green sofa, and there was a deep blue blanket twisted around his legs, instead of Dudley’s ratty old Alien Blaster quilt. 

He sat up and stared at the fire in the hearth — real, not electric — and simply couldn’t fathom where he was. This was clearly not Privet Drive, but the pieces simply wouldn’t align in his panicked brain.

"Lie down."

Harry's heart leapt into his throat for the third time in as many minutes as he whipped around to see Snape coming in from the kitchen. Snape’s kitchen — Snape’s sitting room! Harry had been doing his Charms reading on the sofa while the professor worked at the battered desk in the corner. He must have dozed off.

Snape had a book in one hand and was levitating a tea tray ahead of himself with the other as he came around the end of the sofa. 

Harry scrambled to stand, but the blanket tangled around his legs, and he only managed to topple off the narrow sofa. "I'm sorry, Un — Professor!” Harry gasped as he kicked frantically to free himself. “I —“

"Lie back down, Potter," Snape repeated. He guided the tea tray to settle onto the scarred side table, next to Harry’s Charms textbook, which was closed neatly, with his page marked by a strip of parchment. A faintly sweet, almost apple-like fragrance wafted from whatever was on the tray. 

Snape flicked his wand, and the blanket slithered free of Harry’s legs.

Harry shuddered at the memory of Nagini circling his feet. But before the memory could drag him under, the blanket lifted and settled around his shoulders, tucking itself in neatly across his chest. He gripped it like a lifeline as he staggered to his feet. “S-sir?”

“Lie down, Harry.” Snape sounded tired, but not angry. He fixed himself a cup of tea from the tray. “And breathe. The steam will help.”

Harry glanced at the tea tray and saw a wide saucer of water upon it, pale blossoms floating on the surface. He sat warily, confused by the lack of anger. Snape did the same, settling himself in the armchair by the fire and balancing his teacup carefully on his knee. 

Harry took a deep breath, and the scent of the flowers seemed to dull the frantic edge of his pulse. He was so very, very tired, and if Snape wasn’t angry… He let himself sink down into the cushions, pulling his knees to his chest so his bare feet would be covered by the soft blanket. If he could just snatch an hour or two before returning to the graveyard…

Pages rustled.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He tipped his head slightly so he could see Snape’s profile, outlined by firelight. He was reading from the book.

“Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell,” Snape continued quietly.

The man's voice was smooth, practiced, and Harry felt oddly as though he was being shown a secret. Something precious. He closed his eyes, in case watching him made him stop.

“Nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Chapter Text

“Will you desist?” Severus snarled, jerking his arm out of Harry’s grip. He hissed as his injured wrist protested the movement.

“Will you sit still?” Harry snapped back. He irritably straightened the splint and bandages he’d laid out on the kitchen table.

The man’s glare was somewhat ruined as a droplet of water slid from his hair and landed on the table with a soft plip.

“A simple healing charm would—”

“It’s summer and I’m underage for two more weeks!” Harry burst out. “Besides, I’m rubbish at ‘simple healing charms.’ Hermione says I fret too much when I’m casting them.”

“Imagine,” Severus muttered sarcastically.

Harry ground his teeth and seized Severus’s elbow again. “I am good at putting on bandages. Now sit still.” He laid the man’s forearm gently on top of the plastic splint.

Severus batted his hands away. “If you would stop clucking over me like a mother hen, I could perform the charm myself!”

Harry raised his hands in surrender and sat back, chair creaking. “Fine,” he said. He crossed his arms and nodded toward the wand lying beside the first-aid kit. “There’s your wand. Go on, then. I’m sure you’ll get the flourish just right with your left hand. And if not, I’m sure Madam Pomfrey still keeps a steady stock of Skele-Gro.”

Severus adjusted the towel around his waist but made no move to pick up the wand.

Harry waited.

A muscle twitched in Severus’s jaw. Water dripped again, slower this time, from the ends of his hair.

Harry raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Get on with it, then,” he muttered at last.

Harry leaned forward again, gentler now. “I’m just splinting it so you can get dressed and use the Floo. Then Madam Pomfrey can do the charm properly, alright? It’ll be fine. I promise.”

Severus gave one sharp nod, but his shoulders sagged in defeat. Harry began wrapping the bandage from palm to elbow, snug and neat. Severus grunted as Harry pressed slightly to affix the clip.

“A sticking charm—”

“It has a clip,” Harry said simply.

Severus eyed the tiny metal piece as though it had personally offended him. “Utterly barbaric.”

Harry packed up the rest of the kit.

“Where did this even come from?” Severus demanded, tapping experimentally on the bandage-wrapped splint with a fingernail.

“I borrowed it from Mrs. Watkins.”

“Who?”

Harry shook the box so the packets of gauze settled enough for him to close the lid. “Mrs. Watkins. I ran next door and asked for her first-aid kit while you were busy carrying on upstairs.”

“I was not carrying on,” Severus sniffed, lifting his chin.

Harry bit down on a grin. “Really? Because I distinctly recall hearing something along the lines of, ‘Infernal, eight-legged menace!’ followed by a crash, some extremely creative swearing, and what sounded like you trying to hex the plumbing.”

“I was defending myself,” Severus said with frigid dignity. “It leapt.”

“It was a spider,” Harry said, unable to help it.

“It was an ambush,” Severus corrected icily.

“It was one spider.”

Severus’s glare could have curdled milk. “It leapt.”

Harry snorted. “Of course. You’re lucky to be alive. How’s the bandage?” he asked quickly, before Severus could decide he’d gone too far. “Not too tight?”

Severus flexed his fingers experimentally, then gave a stiff nod. “Competent,” he allowed, which Harry took as the highest possible praise, given the man’s wounded dignity.

“Good. Sit tight. I’ll get you some clothes.”

He left the room before Severus could formulate a reply, still grinning as he climbed the stairs.

The bathroom floor was strewn with damp footprints, a handful of towels that had been yanked off the bar, and the ripped remains of the shower curtain. Harry laughed to himself and admitted that it certainly looked as though there had been an ambush. He leaned over the edge of the tub — and there sat the spider, unharmed and entirely unrepentant, grooming one delicate leg.

“Blimey,” Harry whispered. “You’ve got to be the bravest thing in this house.”

He fetched an empty glass from the sink, scooped the creature up, and carried it down the hall to his own room. Opening the closet door, he whispered, “You’d better make yourself scarce for a few days, mate. Unless you fancy ending up in a jar labeled Powdered Arachnid, Grade A.”

The spider twitched as if it understood, and Harry shut the door softly before grabbing some clothes and heading back downstairs.

Severus was still seated at the table when Harry returned, his towel drawn a little tighter around his waist, and goosebumps stippling his arms. He looked up sharply as Harry set a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt on the table.

Severus glowered down at the offered garments. “You cannot be serious.”

Harry folded his arms. “They’re clean.”

“They are also—” Severus paused, clearly searching for a word dire enough "—yours.”

“Congratulations on your powers of observation,” Harry said dryly. “I can go get your teaching robes, but I’m not doing up all those stupid buttons, just for Madam Pomfrey to make me undo them again so she can get at your arm. Just get dressed before you freeze. I’ll give you a minute.”

Severus grumbled mutinously under his breath but snatched up the pajama bottoms with his good hand as Harry headed toward the living room, grinning.

Unable to resist, Harry called through the door as he shut it, “We’ll tell Madam Pomfrey you’ve taken up roller skating, yeah?”

The door flew open so fast Harry nearly toppled over. Severus stood framed in the doorway, towel slipping dangerously, eyes blazing.

“We will do no such thing,” he hissed.

Harry backed away, laughing, palms raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. Acromantula attack it is.”

The door slammed again, but not quite fast enough to hide the faintest twitch at the corner of Severus’s mouth.

Chapter Text

“Again,” Snape said, brushing dust off his robes as he pushed to his feet after Nella’s last disarming charm. He raised his wand. “Legilimens.”

Pressure erupted behind her eyes, cold, sharp and insistent. She tried to focus. Envisioned the stone wall, cold and imposing. Impassable. Crumbling already in spots. She’d held him off longer last time, but she was so tired…

She just wanted to be done for the night, but she knew she’d have to show some sort of progress before he’d turn her loose. She had to force him back. She envisioned shutting the most important parts of herself in the cupboard under the stairs. It wasn’t a place of safety, so he wouldn’t think to look for her there. It was a secret place, dark and small enough to be overlooked.

She herded other memories forward, squeezing through every crack he found in the wall. Stupid, harmless ones to distract him while she fortified the wall: Mrs. Figg, cooing over Tufty. The cat squirming indignantly in her arms as she tried to set him in Nella’s lap. The sunlight slanting through the branches of the old oak tree in the park as she sat on a branch, invisible and all-seeing as the neighborhood hummed unchangingly around her. The argument she’d had with Pansy the week before, when Snape had stepped in, for once taking Gryffindor’s side over Slytherin’s.

“Remedial potions, Potter? Just how stupid are you?”

“Enough,” Snape snapped.

“Sorry, sir,” Pansy simpered. “I just meant —“

“We all know what you meant, Miss Parkinson. Unless you wish to spend the evening scrubbing cauldrons, I suggest you refrain from completing that sentence.”

The room shifted slightly.

Snape was scolding Seamus for nearly blowing up his cauldron again.

“Seriously, Potter,” Pansy hissed across the aisle. “You’re so stupid—“

The memory shifted, and Nella was blinded by sunlight. Her knees and palms stung. A bicycle wheel clicked as it spun wildly in the grass nearby.

“You’re so stupid!” Dudley wailed, wrenching her away from the fallen bicycle. “Just look what you’ve done to it!” He pulled his leg back, poised to kick. “You’re just a stupid, stupid girl!”

Before she could catch hold of the unraveling thread, it wasn’t Dudley anymore. It was Uncle Vernon. The gleaming white of the laundry room slammed into place around her.

“Stupid, stupid girl!” her uncle snarled, his hand clamped hard over her mouth.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. The air in her lungs was sharp and gritty, burning like fire. Nella twisted, but she couldn’t move under his bulk. She couldn’t get away.

She clawed at everything she could reach — the floor, her uncle, the basket of work shirts she’d accidentally shrunk in the wash —

— until she found purchase in something else. Something she couldn’t name. Her fingers sank into it, and she used it to tear herself free, to drag herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. She had to get away.

Suddenly, she could breathe. The air smelled of lemons and sugar and furniture polish and ash. Snape was there, half-turned away from her, his tone sharp.

“—not stupid. She knows this isn’t working. What am I to tell her?”

“Tell her to keep practicing,” Dumbledore replied from his seat at the desk, serene as ever.

Something was tugging at her, trying to drag her back. Back to the burning and the choking and Uncle Vernon’s bruising grip. She wouldn’t let it. She dug in her heels and felt for more of the something else. She wrapped great handfuls of it around herself and refused to be moved.

“You do understand she has already surpassed my wildest expectations in this endeavor? That she practices day and night out of terror of the Dark Lord and what he might make her do? How can I possibly tell her she isn’t trying hard enough? She already hates me. If I push her much harder…”

The tug came again, harder this time. Nella pulled more of the substance around herself, twisting it around her fists, curling beneath it like a cloak, like a child under the covers. Safe. Hidden. It couldn’t make her go back. She would stay here. The safest people in the safest place.

“That sounds suspiciously like sentiment, Severus… Is she perhaps growing on you?”

“Like mold,” Snape answered flatly.

Dumbledore allowed only the briefest of frowns to mar his usual serenity. “There is nothing else I know to do, Severus.”

“That is a lie.”

“There is nothing else to do at this time,” the headmaster amended.

The thing was digging for her now, pulling away layers of blankets like Aunt Petunia used to do. Nella knew how this went. Knew she brought it all on herself. She hated herself for it. She needed to be calm. She counted out her breaths. Four sets of four, then she crawled out from under the blankets, forcing herself to stand. Bad enough was bad enough. She wouldn’t make it worse yet.

But she was in Dumbledore’s office, not her bed.

“It is my burden for now, Severus. When it is time — when it is certain — I will share it.”

A grip like iron clamped on her arm. She couldn’t stop herself grabbing fistfuls of the stuff around her again, but the grip pulled on her, hard. She counted out one breath, then another. She released the stuff around her and let herself be pulled.

The world snapped like a rubber band. For a heartbeat, she was falling.

Nella staggered back a step and half-fell into her chair as pain lanced through her head. She gasped in surprise before clamping her mouth shut. She knew better than to whine. But the pain was blurring her vision, and she couldn’t stop herself from clutching at her head.

Somewhere behind her, she heard someone cursing and rummaging through bottles on a shelf. Then glass clinked in front of her against the wood of the desk.

She forced her eyes open. Snape, pale and shaking, was pouring out two measures of a milky-white potion.

“Drink,” he bit out, snatching up one of the glasses and downing the contents in a single gulp.

Nella obediently took the remaining glass in her trembling hands and raised it to her lips. Something sharp and acrid reached her nose, and bile clawed up the back of her throat. She lowered the glass quickly, swallowing hard to keep from vomiting all over his desk.

“Drink,” Snape ordered. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. “It will help.”

“C–can’t,” she managed to choke out. “I’m f–fine.”

“You are not,” he snapped, the words edged by pain.

“I w–will be,” Nella shot back, the anger flaring before she could stop it.

Snape didn’t answer — not even to tell her off for her tone — just braced one hand on the desk as if to steady himself, jaw clenched tight. She counted his silence as a victory and let her aching head drop forward onto the blessedly cool wood of his desk.

After a minute, his voice came again, quieter this time, but no less harsh. “What was that in your mouth?”

“Washing powder,” she mumbled.

She could practically hear his eyes roll. “And why on earth did you have washing powder in your mouth, Potter?”

Nella sighed and slipped into the old, familiar lie like one of Dudley’s awful old t-shirts. “I was trying to impress my cousin and his friends,” she mumbled.

At least she didn’t have to look at his face and see the disdain. Her hand throbbed with the phantom ache of Umbridge’s quill.

I must not tell lies.

She knew the next question, too. It was the same one the nurses at the A&E had asked when Aunt Petunia had come home and insisted Uncle Vernon had gone too far. “My uncle was trying to make me drink water to dilute it,” she added dully.

“And that’s when you decided not to put things in your mouth?”

Nella’s cheeks burned, but she nodded into the desk. She wanted to curl up and die.

“Sit up, Potter.”

She didn’t dare ignore a direct order, but she refused to look at him, wincing as the pain in her head redoubled with the movement.

“I’m going to spell the potion directly into your stomach. It will help with the pain, but you won’t have to taste it.”

Nella nodded gratefully, unable to speak.

The potion hit her stomach like an ice cube, and the cold quickly spread, rolling out like a fog bank and easing the pain in her head almost immediately.

“Thank you, sir,” she rasped. “I’m sorry.”

She heard him huff. She’d said the wrong thing, but she didn’t have the brain cells left to figure out what the right thing was. She’d say anything at this point. Anything to get her out of this office and away from his disapproving stare.

“I don’t know what I did,” she mumbled. “W-was that your memory?”

“It was.” His tone was clipped.

“I really am sorry, sir,” Nella tried. “I panicked.”

“I am aware, Potter.”

“I didn’t mean to —“

“I know,” he snapped. Nella’s head jerked up in time to see him rubbing at his temple. He continued more calmly. “But intent doesn’t matter. Your panic had you searching for any lifeline, and what you found was the connection I had forged between our minds.”

“I managed to —“

Snape cut her off. “You tried to hide from me inside my own mind, Potter. That was not a success by any measure.”

Nella ducked her head again.

Stupid, stupid girl!

“You were lucky that little scene with your uncle triggered a relatively harmless memory of my own,” he went on, now rubbing both temples. “You could just as easily have landed in the middle of a botched potion or in the throes of the cruciatus curse.”

Nella shivered at the memory of that particular brand of pain.

“A malicious Legilimens could have purposely directed you into such a memory to further fracture your mind.”

“My mind wasn’t fractured,” Nella protested.

Snape huffed out another mirthless laugh. “What do you think panic is, Potter?” he demanded. “It is not the sign of a well-ordered mind! An ill-intentioned Legilimens knows how to direct that chaos to his own ends. If you ever clawed your way into the Dark Lord’s mind, for example, you would be lucky to survive, never mind you would live out your days as a gibbering idiot!”

“I stopped panicking, though,” Nella argued, her temper rising. After all, she hadn’t been facing the Dark Lord, had she? “I had to let you move me.”

“I was trying not to hurt you!” Snape gritted out. He took a deep breath, and Nella recognized his occlumency shields sliding back into place. He continued in a slower, lecturing tone, as if Nella were an especially dim first year. “Counting your breaths is a useful technique — admirable, even — but you needed to employ it inside your own mind. As it stands, a more aggressive Legilimens would have had you at their mercy, while a less skilled one might have been damaged beyond repair by your theatrics.”

“They weren’t theat—“ Nella began hotly, before cutting herself off. “Wait. Did — Did I hurt you, sir?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Potter, did I or did I not just spell a powerful pain potion into your stomach?”

“I—“

Snape cut her off, his tone caustic. “And did you not just watch me take a dose of that same potion myself?”

“I meant more than the headache!” Anger and embarrassment flared white-hot, and she found herself on her feet. “I always have a headache after these awful lessons, and I assumed you did, too, as gittish as you always are by the end! I’m not stupid!”

“’Gittish’ is not a word,” Snape sniffed.

Nella glared.

“And I just learned you ate washing powder to impress your cousin.”

It was as if he’d slapped her.

Nella went very calm and very still, even as the words carved into her hand burned.

I must not tell lies.

“You did,” she confirmed.

Dudley and his friends had laughed themselves sick over her bullfrog voice when they’d heard the story. They’d pointed and bowed and exclaimed over her presence every time she’d entered a room for weeks, pretending to be wowed.

Her heart was pounding in her throat, and the unfairness of it all made her want to scream, but she kept her voice cool and measured. Snape wasn’t the only one who could use occlumency to play at being superior.

“I did, sir,” she repeated. “You’re right. I ate washing powder, but I’m so stupid, I’d already forgotten.” She turned toward the door.

“Sit down, Potter,” he snapped. “We’re not finished yet.”

“We’re done, sir,” she said, scooping up her bag from the floor beside her chair. “I’ll keep practicing until next time, and I’ll try to be less stupid in future.”

“Potter!”

She didn’t even slow down. If he wanted to stop her, he was going to have to jinx her. She would not cry in front of him.

“I know, sir. Detention. I’ll see you tomorrow at seven. The night after, too—” Nella threw a rude hand gesture over her shoulder “—for that.”

The door popped open before she could touch it, and it slammed shut with a satisfying echo behind her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The final police car turned out of Magnolia Crescent at last. Harry watched it go, then turned back to the open front door and the completely catless house.

"Brilliant," he muttered. Bad enough to be accused of burglary; then not one of the actual adults could be bothered to help him clean up the mess. He had to find the cats, though. Mrs. Figg would be heartbroken to come home from the hospital to an empty house.

Harry snagged Tufty as he crept tentatively onto the front step, and he fished poor Mr. Paws from beneath Mrs. Figg's defunct car.

"Two down, two to go."

A fluffy white tail disappeared beneath the garden fence as Harry wandered around the side of the house.

"Snowy," he called, not really expecting the shellshocked cat to come to him. If he'd been Mrs. Figg, he might have had a chance, but after all the flashing lights and wailing sirens, even the usually mild-mannered Tufty had taken more than a few swipes at him. 

Harry sighed and, knowing better than to hope grouchy old Mr. Snape had left his garden gate unlocked with "juvenile delinquents" like himself around, he scrambled over the fence the hard way.

He'd barely taken two steps into the neatly kept yard before the back door flew open with a crash.

"Potter!"

Harry winced, but ignored the shout. Instead, he crawled beneath the lilac bushes. "Come on, Snow," he pleaded. "Let's just get you home, yeah? 

"You will remove yourself from my property immediately!"

The shouting did nothing to calm the already terrified cat, and Harry slid closer, offering his hand for the cat to sniff. "Come on, Snow... You know me."

An icy hand gripped Harry's ankle at the same moment Snowy decided to make a break for it. Both boy and cat protested loudly as they were dragged from beneath the bush, though Harry was convinced he got the worst end of the deal by far.

Snape yanked him to his feet, and Harry just managed to keep hold of Snowy as she yowled. "And now you're mutilating animals! Burglary and trespass weren't enough for you, Potter?"

Harry glanced down to see the brilliant red smears on Snowy's white fur. He glared at the man towering over him in his ridiculous black dressing gown. "The blood is mine, you absolute plank!" He jerked away from Snape's grip on his oversized t-shirt.

As if to corroborate his story, Snowy raked her claws across Harry's chin. He shouted in pain but held fast.

"Release that creature before you injure yourself further," Snape snarled.

"Not a chance," Harry declared, dodging another swipe. "I let her loose, and I'll never catch her again. Just open your gate so I can get her home again, will you? Least you can do, really."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, this whole mess is your fault, and if you'd stop shouting at me about all the crimes I haven't committed, I'd be gone that much sooner!"

For a long, brittle second, Snape only glared at him, lips pressed thin. Then, with an audible exhale that sounded more like defeat than permission, he unlatched the gate. “Through,” he said curtly. “And don’t drip blood on the walk.”

Harry marched past him with Snowy still wriggling in his arms. “Thanks,” he muttered, meaning it more than he liked.

Snape followed as far as Mrs. Figg’s front steps, hesitated, then reached past Harry to shove the sticking door open for him. “There. The scene of the crime.”

Harry ducked inside, deposited Snowy onto the old sofa, and turned back. “Right, well. I’ll just—”

He stopped. Over Snape’s shoulder, a familiar grey tail twitched from the topmost branch of the overhanging tree. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Snape followed his gaze, expression sharpening, poised to refuse. Harry beat him to it. “That one’s yours.”

“What?”

“Tibbles is in your yard. Wouldn’t want to trespass.”

“That cat is clearly on your side of the fence.”

“The cat is, but the tree’s not.”

Snape drew breath for what promised to be an impressively cutting retort, but Harry was already swinging a leg over the fence.

“Potter! You put one foot on my grass, and I’ll —“

“Call the police again, yeah,” Harry finished without looking back. “Got it.”

He was halfway onto the lowest branch before Snape caught up to him, having gone the long way around via the gate. He grabbed Harry’s ankle again. “You will come down this instant before you —“

“Break my neck, I know,” Harry shot back, dropping down to the ground. Snape moved to stand squarely between Harry and the tree. “You go up then.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Harry bit back a frustrated retort. “Look. I promised Mrs. Figg I’d take care of her cats while she had her surgery. Leaving Tibbles up a tree isn’t taking care of him. Why are you even home? Don’t you have work or something?”

“It’s summer,” Snape said flatly.

“Doesn’t the university offer summer classes?”

“Remedial ones,” was the icy reply.

“Well, just go buy a paper or something, then. If you’re not here when I break my neck, you can’t be responsible, right?”

Snape stared at him for a long moment — long enough that Harry started to wonder if he’d have to climb over the man to finish the job — then turned away with a sharp, wordless huff and stalked toward the shed.

Harry moved to start up the tree again, but a sharp order from behind him drew him up short. “Desist. I’m getting a ladder.”

He returned a minute or two later with a squeaky old aluminum ladder and an expression that made it clear the whole matter was a world-class imposition. Between them, they wrestled it into place against the tree trunk. Harry held it steady while Snape tested the first rung with a muttered, “Utterly ridiculous.”

He made it to the topmost rungs before Tibbles hissed and scrambled back to the ground.

“Fantastic,” Harry said under his breath. “He’s headed back for Mrs. Figg’s,” he called. “Sit tight.”

“Sit—?”

But Harry was already gone, vaulting the fence again. He caught Tibbles near the gate, murmuring reassurances, and deposited the squirming cat inside with the others, who had all taken refuge beneath the sofa.

He jogged back outside just in time to hear a loud clatter and an impressively creative string of near-swears. The ladder was rattling down the street behind a gang of gleeful boys on bicycles. Harry recognized Dudley’s hulking silhouette in the lead.

“Oh, for—“ Harry looked up. Snape was clinging to a stout branch of the tree, face thunderous, his dressing gown twisted around one leg like a snare.

“Stop laughing!” Snape barked. “It is not amusing!”

“I’m not!” Harry protested, though he most certainly was. “Calm down.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Snape snarled, attempting to untangle his hem and nearly losing his balance in the process.

“Right. Sure you are. Just — hold on, yeah? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He darted back into Mrs. Figg’s house to make the phonecall. When he returned, Snape was shouting again, mostly about Harry. “What did you do?” he demanded.

Harry grinned up at him as the first faint wail of sirens reached his ears. “Your turn.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Severus noticed was the smoke — thick, acrid, and unmistakably wrong. The second was Harry, slamming a lid over a flaming pan on the stove.

“Are you trying to burn the house down?” Severus barked, striding fully into the kitchen and flicking his wand toward the nearest window. It banged open. Another flick whisked the heavy smoke out into the evening air.

Harry didn’t answer. He stood rigidly by the stove, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the lid as if it might explode.

Severus drew in a breath through his nose and forced his voice lower. “What happened?”

“Oil caught,” came the terse reply. Harry still didn’t look up.

Severus glanced around — the counters were a battlefield: spice dishes, chopped vegetables, a half-scorched wooden spoon. Whatever he’d walked in on, it looked like utter chaos. He stepped closer. “Come away from that,” he said, reaching to draw the boy toward the table.

Harry flinched back. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

“It's alright," Severus said, alarmed by the flinch. He lifted the pan lid with his wand. “Let’s just see what fascinating brew you were concocting.”

The black sludge inside defied polite description.

“And this,” Severus said, eyeing it critically, “was meant to be…?”

“Gumbo,” Harry muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gumbo,” Harry repeated, louder this time, as if simply saying the word again might make it sound less ridiculous. “It’s an American stew-thing. Aunt Petunia had me make it once — Uncle Vernon had a client from the States.”

“Mm.” Severus watched as Harry scraped the pan into a bowl already half-full of scorched attempts. “And how did that dinner go?”

Harry gave a small, humorless laugh. “Turns out Wisconsin’s nowhere near Louisiana.”

“Surely that wasn’t enough to ruin —”

“It wasn't," Harry said shortly, not meeting his eye. “Anyway, I reckon I’m not supposed to burn the flour.”

The sarcastic reply slipped out before Severus could stop it. “You reckon?”

Harry’s head snapped up, a defensive spark in his eyes, and Severus cursed himself silently. He softened his tone. “I'm sorry, Harry — old habits, I'm afraid. Let's take a look at your recipe.”

“I don’t have one.”

Severus frowned. “What do you—”

Harry’s hand tightened around the spoon. “She made me eat it.”

There was a beat of silence as Severus processed this confession. She could only be Petunia. Not merely a cooking misadventure, then, but an attempt at rewriting an old humiliation. Severus didn't doubt that the boy's uncle had had something to say about the failed dinner party as well. 

“I see,” he said quietly, vanishing the last of the mess. “So you’re doing this from memory.”

Harry nodded and turned away to begin measuring flour and oil into the now-clean pan with deliberate precision. Severus at last recognized the concoction as a roux -- though he could not fathom why Harry was struggling so much with it. He'd made gravy to go with Severus's roast beef and potatoes just the other night. He opened his mouth to ask, but Harry ran his hands through his hair and began mumbling, seemingly to himself.

“It’s supposed to go dark — like chocolate-dark — but it always ends up bitter. Ruins the whole dish that way. I looked it up at the library back when Aunt Petunia first told me about it. It’s supposed to be famous, you know? Like… something people get excited about. People travel to Louisiana just to eat gumbo.” His voice tightened, full of frustration. “I thought I had it that time. Smelled good for a minute, at least. Sort of nutty. Then I got distracted checking the meat in the oven. My timings are all off now."

“Perhaps you’re simply cooking the roux too hot,” Severus said. “Try it again, over very low heat this time. Slowly.”

Harry glanced up, uncertain. “Like toasting lacewings?”

Severus smiled. “Exactly. Flour is hard-working but surprisingly delicate. Treat it gently, and see if that improves matters. If not, we will at least know more, and we can change our tactic in the next attempt.”

Severus didn't miss the way the boy's shoulders eased at that all-important we.

They worked in near silence after that, and Snape marveled at the ease with which Harry accepted his guidance. The flour and oil blended pale and smooth, then began their slow transformation, a patient alchemy of heat and motion.

At first, nothing much happened. The mixture thickened only slightly, bubbling a little at the edges. Harry frowned, tempted to nudge the flame higher, but Severus murmured, “Patience.”

A few minutes passed. The color shifted almost imperceptibly — from cream to the faint gold of old parchment. The smell changed too, losing its raw edge.

“Keep stirring,” Severus said quietly. “Don’t let it rest, or it will catch again.”

Harry obeyed, his movements steady now, the wooden spoon scraping gently along the cast iron. The scent deepened — nutty and warm, like toasted grain or browned butter. Then richer still: like popcorn, then fresh baked bread, then something altogether different, edging toward dark and comforting.

“That’s it,” Harry said softly. “That’s got to be it! Just a little more...”

“Good,” Severus murmured. “Now don’t ruin it with haste.”

Another few minutes, and the mixture turned a deep mahogany at last. It looked, absurdly, like melted chocolate, and the pride on Harry’s face was worth every minute it had taken to get there.

The vegetables went in — onion, celery, carrot, sweet pepper — and the sound was glorious, a hiss of promise. It was Harry's turn to murmur, "Patience," to Severus as he stirred. Only when the sweet smell of cooking onion wafted from the pan did Harry allow Severus to add a dollop of brilliant tomato paste. A dish of spices went in a moment later, and the kitchen filled with a scent that was nearly intoxicating. Severus, who hadn't cared two sticks about gumbo, except for Harry's determination to master it, found his own mouth watering.

At Harry’s instruction, he retrieved the pan from the oven: chicken and sliced sausage sizzling beside a single red pepper. The scent was spicy and intoxicating. He shredded chicken while Harry stirred. Then they added broth and a tin of tomatoes, and soon the dark, fragrant stew was bubbling low and steady.

"How long should it simmer?" Severus asked.

Harry frowned thoughtfully. "Er -- half an hour? I think it's supposed to be a little thicker, like a gravy."

“Then we have time for tea. Sit," he ordered. Severus set the dishes to wash themselves — a breach of principle, but a necessary one. He fixed them each a cup, fortified with extra sugar.

They sat together at the kitchen table while the gumbo simmered. The air was warm and spiced, and Severus listened as Harry expounded on the strangeness of American Cajun and Creole cooking. 

"I didn't realize you cared for cooking this much," Severus mused.

Harry shrugged. "I didn't really, before. I mean, it was always stressful. But I like trying new things, and it feels good to make something to share." He twisted his cup in his hands. "And it usually smells better than brewing," he added, with a cheeky glance up at Snape, who barked out a laugh.

It took far longer than the proposed half an hour for the gumbo to reduce to Harry's exacting standard, and Severus had to run out to the Indian restaurant across town for a last-minute container of rice for serving. But the gumbo, when it was finally ready, was unlike anything Severus had ever tasted. He found himself saying, without irony, “It was worth the wait.”

Harry smiled, and Severus breathed at last. “Yeah,” he said. “It really was.” 

Chapter Text

“Uncle Sev!”

Severus turned at the high-pitched squeal just in time to see Harry barrelling up the garden path, a blur of green jumper and black hair. With the ease of long practice, Severus threw his cloak wide before the child could collide with his knees, and dropped into a crouch, enveloping them both in its dark folds.

The five—no, six-year-old bundle of energy went perfectly still and solemn inside the shadowed circle of fabric.

“I knew you’d come,” Harry whispered, voice small and sure.

“Of course I came,” Severus replied equally quietly. “I wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world, Harry.”

Harry grinned, then his face fell. “Not even for a thunderbird? Mum said you might have to, for a thunderbird.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, even for a phoenix.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Then he grinned again. “Mum’s new boss has got a phoenix!” He pushed through the curtain of fabric and sprinted toward his mother. “Mum! Tell Uncle Sev all about the phoenix!”

“Harry!” Lily laughed, catching his hand. “I’ve told you — Professor Dumbledore has had that phoenix since we were children! Probably longer.”

Severus rose, shaking his cloak back into order. “It would seem the bird has achieved near-mythic status in your household,” he said dryly.

“Only because someone,” Lily said, nudging James, “keeps telling bedtime stories about Fawkes saving the day.”

James grinned, shameless. “It’s a good story. You can’t blame a bloke for trying to impress his son.”

Severus arched an eyebrow but allowed himself a faint smirk. “Better than trying to impress him by taking bludgers to the head, I suppose.”

“That was one time,” James protested, pushing open the gate for them all. “One time! And I still caught the snitch.”

“You were playing the Cannons,” Snape said flatly. “Not the ace I’d draw to, Potter.”

“Puddlemere took the league that year!”

“Come on, boys,” Lily said, laughing and herding them all toward the front door.

Inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and treacle tart greeted him. Toys were scattered across the sitting room rug, and James pulled a handful of parcels out of his pocket, waving his wand to unshrink them. Harry seized them at once and knelt beside the coffee table to arrange his gifts.

“Look, Uncle Sev! I got a broomstick from Padfoot!”

Severus eyed the miniature broom as he hung up his cloak on the hook by the door. Something about the hand-painted lightning bolts told him it was homemade and therefore at least probably safe. No Comet or Cleansweep for a six-year-old, thank Merlin.

“And this book from Remus is all about magical creatures! Thunderbirds are in here! I can’t read it all yet — Mum says we can do some together at bedtime — but just look at the pictures!” Harry flipped eagerly through the book and showed a page featuring an admittedly beautiful watercolor rendering of the creature. “Do they really look like that?”

“They do,” Severus answered. “And when they flap their great wings…” he spread his arms wide and clapped his hands together loudly, making Harry jump. “They create thunderstorms wherever they go.”

Harry’s mouth twisted skeptically. “That doesn’t sound so great,” he said. “I don’t like thunderstorms.”

“Ah,” Severus said, leaning down as if sharing some important secret. “That’s just because they’re normal here — even annoying. But there are places in the Americas that never see rain.”

“Never?” Harry breathed, flabbergasted.

“Not unless a thunderbird flies through,” Severus confirmed with a raised eyebrow.

Harry looked thunderstruck by the very idea.

Lily’s laugh chimed behind him as she disappeared into the kitchen.

James followed, calling back over his shoulder, “Tea, Snape? Or something stronger?”

“Tea,” Severus said firmly, taking the armchair nearest the hearth. “Don’t tempt me.”

Lily returned with a teapot and a knowing look. “Did MACUSA give you trouble again?”

“Trouble implies action,” Severus said, accepting his cup. “I encountered… spirited hesitation. They seem concerned that harvesting thunderbird feathers for potion work might ‘disrupt the thaumaturgical balance of the western winds.’”

James snorted into his own tea. “That’s a new one.”

Severus ignored him. “Nevertheless, I believe I have persuaded their Department of Alchemical Standards to permit a controlled import of discarded feathers along established migration routes. The unique conductive properties of thunderbird essence could revolutionize nerve restoration draughts. Imagine a tonic that heals spell-damage without numbing the flow of magic along with the nerves.”

Lily’s eyes lit with genuine interest. “You’d help so many healers if that works, Sev.”

Her voice carried that same spark that had once urged him to brew late into the night, long before the weight of the world had turned ambition into armor. He inclined his head slightly. “That is the intent.”

“Uncle Sev!” Harry said suddenly, interrupting the grown-up talk. “Mum, can we have cake again? Please? Uncle Sev missed it at Padfoot’s!”

Lily didn’t look convinced, but James piped up, complete with puppy-dog eyes. “Aw, come on, Lil… Just a little slice? For Uncle Sev?”

Lily laughed softly. “Just a little slice, then.”

Harry clapped and dashed for the kitchen, followed at a more reasonable pace by his mother. They returned a minute later with four plates of chocolate cake.

Harry plopped himself onto Severus’s knee with his prize while Lily returned to the kitchen for forks. “Hagrid baked it!” he explained excitedly. “You should’ve seen it! It was ginormous! Dad says since Hagrid’s part giant, he can only do giant things.” He glanced at his father, who was tending the fire, and continued in a quieter voice. “But I don’t really believe that. I helped him make bowtruckle houses l-l-l-last summer.” The last was spoken through a huge yawn, and Severus suspected the first round of cake was wearing off. “They were l-l-l-little…”

By the time Lily reappeared with forks and an ominously large stack of napkins, Harry was fast asleep, cheek pressed against Severus’s robes.

Lily smiled. “Didn’t even make it to the cake.”

James grinned. “Looks like we’ve found the trick, then. Who needs bedtime stories when you’ve got Snape’s scintillating conversation?”

Severus didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a burden, truly, being everyone’s favorite soporific.”

James laughed. “I know you think I don’t know what ‘soporific’ means, but I’ll have you know, my wife is a highly respected professor now.”

“He’s been reading,” Lily confirmed.

“Will miracles never cease…”

“I’ll take him up,” James offered, laughing again.

Severus shook his head. “Leave him be. He’s fine here.” He shifted the boy slightly, careful not to wake him. “Frankly, so am I.”

James sank back down with a shrug. “Suit yourself. But if you start snoring, too…”

Snape chuckled. A comfortable quiet settled, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and Harry’s occasional snores. After a moment, Severus said softly, “So. Tell me about this new boss with the phoenix?”

Chapter Text

“Surely you can find someone else to manage this catastrophe, Fudge. I am preparing for the start of term, not running a halfway house for juvenile delinquents.”

“Delinquents!” Fudge sputtered, eyes skittering to Potter, who was still pouting beside the Floo. “I say, Severus! Bit harsh, isn’t it? It was an accident, after all. The boy’s apologized, hasn’t he? And Miss Dursley has been punctured, her memory modified. These things do happen.”

“Only to Potter,” Snape said flatly.

“Yes, well,” Fudge said, fiddling with the brim of his ridiculous hat, “our options are rather limited at the moment. The Weasleys’ home… chaotic, as you know, and entirely, er, indefensible at the moment. And Arabella, well, she’s a charming woman, and we are indebted to her for alerting us about the Knight Bus, but really, a squib is hardly the person… Dumbledore felt you’d be, ah, uniquely qualified.”

Snape’s expression curdled. “I shall be sure to thank him for his confidence.”

Fudge laughed weakly. “Splendid! Then it’s settled!”

“It is not —“

But the Minister was already retreating toward the fire. “I’ve every faith in you, Severus. And it’s only temporary, after all — just ‘til the start of term! Best thing for everyone, eh?”

A swirl of green flame, and he was gone.

For a long moment, Snape simply stood there, teeth clenched. Then he hissed, “Unbelievable.”

Potter shifted his weight. “I didn’t want to come here either,” he muttered. “I told him I could stay at the Leaky Cauldron.”

Snape glared back at the owl glaring balefully from the cage atop the boy’s trunk. “And have you fly another car to school? I think not.”

“I wouldn’t do anything like that!”

“And yet, your track record suggests otherwise, Potter,” Snape said coolly. He stalked to his writing desk and sat. “Explain yourself.”

“S-sir?”

Snape ground his teeth. “The Minister’s account was vague. I wish for you to explain, exactly, how it is you contrived to inflate a muggle like a weather balloon and set her bobbing about over Surrey.”

The boy’s ears went red. “It just happened!”

“That is not an explanation, Potter.”

“I didn’t want it to happen!” he shouted. His magic — messy and uncontrolled — prickled through the air, setting the books on the shelves to rattling.

Snape had his wand in his hand in an instant. “Control yourself,” he snapped. “You will not damage my quarters.”

Potter glared, but he dropped his eyes to the rug and took a deep breath before speaking again. “I just wanted her to stop.” His voice cracked. “She wouldn’t stop.”

“She, I presume, being your aunt?”

Potter shook his head. “She’s just my uncle’s sister.”

“And what was she doing that you felt warranted such an attack upon a defenseless muggle?” Snape drawled.

Potter’s eyes — Lily’s eyes — flashed, and for a moment, Snape wasn’t sure which of them he had just offended.

“She was having a go at my parents!” he snarled. Snape opened his mouth to tell him off for his tone, but the boy wasn’t done yet. “She said my mum had bad blood, marrying a lazy scrounger like my dad, and getting such a nasty, runty thing for a son! ‘If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something wrong with the pup!’”

Snape felt as if he’d missed a step going up the stairs.

Potter was breathing hard, as though he’d been running. “She said my mum would’ve been better off drowning me at birth. She said they were no-account drunks who’d as good as asked to get killed —“

“Your mother was the bravest witch I’ve ever had the honor of knowing!”

Potter’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “She—“

Snape realized he was on his feet, too. “Sit, Potter,” he said brusquely. “I’ll make tea.”

When he returned a few minutes later with a tea tray, it was to find Potter perched tensely on the edge of the sofa. The boy’s eyes — Lily’s eyes — were red, as though he’d been crying, but his clenched jaw made it clear he was determined not to.

“Your mother loved you,” Snape ground out as he set the tea tray on the side table and shoved a cup into the boy’s hands.

“S-sir?”

Snape took the second cup and an armchair for himself. “And she would have hexed that foul woman’s tongue right out of her mouth for daring to speak in such a way to her child.”

The boy was still staring at him.

“Drink. I’ve no interest in any further outbursts.” Snape made himself watch as the boy wiped away another tear. He would be brave, too. “Once, in our second year…”

Chapter Text

A shadow fell across Harry’s desk.

“What,” came the low, dangerous hiss, “is that supposed to be?”

Harry’s quill froze mid-heart. “Nothing,” he said quickly, flattening his hand over the drawing.

Severus was faster. His hand darted out and snatched the parchment away. “Potter,” he said in a voice pitched barely above a whisper, “is this… abomination supposed to be me?”

Harry muttered something undoubtedly cheeky under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. It’s just a doodle.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed as he took in the squat caricature standing beside the oversized cauldron. It wore an absurdly voluminous set of robes, had an enormous head, and had its hands clasped in front of its chest. “And why, exactly,” he drawled, “have you doodled me with... heart eyes?”

Harry went scarlet. “I dunno. I just saw th-the way you were looking at that potion earlier.”

Severus turned toward the simmering cauldron beside his desk, which was filled with an utterly perfect batch of Somnus Exilis.

“Like that!” Harry blurted. He glanced around the room, but the rest of the class was still bent over their cauldrons, the quiet burble of potions and hiss of sparks covering the exchange. He lowered his voice. “It’s cute! Sorry!”

“Cute,” Severus repeated, as though tasting something poisonous. “You will, of course, refrain from sharing this artistic vision with your classmates?”

Harry nodded so hard his glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Severus folded the parchment once, tucking it into the breast pocket of his robe with grim finality.

———

“Clean up your stations,” Severus called with ten minutes to go. “I want benches gleaming.”

The usual clatter of jars and vials and cauldrons being cleared away filled the room. Harry scrubbed his own cauldron at the sink while listening half-heartedly to Ron’s muttered complaints about the armadillo bile he’d gotten on his sleeve. When he returned to his station, his graded essay was waiting for him — face down.

That couldn’t be good.

He turned it over, and saw to his surprise a large letter A circled at the top. Below that, in Severus’s precise handwriting was “— barely.” Harry didn’t care. He’d gotten an Acceptable!

Then he saw it — a stick figure scrawled at the bottom of the page. A messy mop of hair and round glasses told him it was meant to be himself, standing over a steaming cauldron. As he watched, the little figure blinked. It glanced over its shoulder and spotted a dot with two stick-figure wings attached — a snitch, Harry realized. As Doodle-Harry leapt onto a broomstick and gave chase, the unattended cauldron erupted in scratchy ink flames. Doodle-Harry tumbled backward, frazzled but grinning as a second stick figure with ridiculously large heart eyes stomped onto the page, hands on hips.

Harry laughed out loud, prompting several of his classmates to look up in varying degrees of shock and alarm.

Severus didn’t look up from his desk, his quill moving steadily across the next stack of essays, but Harry could have sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Harry rolled up the parchment, tucked it carefully into his bag, and threw a jaunty salute as he passed by the desk at the tail end of the class. Severus didn’t return it, of course, but the soft sound that followed him out of the dungeon could only have been a chuckle.

Chapter Text

Beneath the jaundiced glow of a lamppost on Privet Drive, Severus Snape stood motionless. Rain pooled in the folds of his cloak before slipping away in golden streaks like Felix Felicis. If only he’d had some Liquid Luck to end this fool’s errand.

Three shifts. Three long, pointless vigils among these preening, posturing muggles.

He had watched the neighbors gossip primly over their manicured hedges. He had watched gleaming cars come and go with clockwork regularity. He had watched a woman with too much hair spray scrub the same spotless front step each morning, her face pinched with self-satisfaction.

Petunia Evans — Dursley, now — had not changed much. Older, of course, and sharper, every line of her face carved by a decade of envy and malice. Her husband was worse —red-faced and self-important, his booming false laugh echoed down the street each evening as he dressed his backhanded compliments to Mr. Number Two as humor. And their offspring — Merlin help them all.

The son she deserved, Severus thought coldly.

There was, however, no sign of Lily’s child.

Dumbledore was mistaken. Or sentimental. Or — more likely — both. Harry Potter had been left here ten years before. Severus had no doubts on that score. But Hagrid was right, and the boy was not here now, not in this perfectly average house with its hideous lace curtains and overfed boy. No trace of magic stirred behind those walls.

Still, Dumbledore insisted.

“The letters were directed to the Dursleys, Severus. The Quill has never yet been wrong. Try once more.”

He was about to disapparate anyway, tired of the cold and the damp and all the blasted, pointless watching, when movement flickered behind the frosted glass of Number Four’s front door.

A shadow.

The Dursleys had left an hour ago.

Severus’s heart, the traitorous thing, gave one hard thud he felt all the way in his throat. He crossed the street soundlessly, the rain swallowing his steps.

The interior of the house was worse than he had imagined. It was sterile, suffocatingly neat, and the acrid stench of disinfectant clung to the air. It was the sort of house where nothing truly alive could thrive.

A noise stopped him halfway down the hall. A quiet scuffle, so faint it might have been a mouse.

He waited.

A quick, shallow breath.

Severus’s eyes dropped to a small, narrow door beneath the stairs. A cheap padlock gleamed in the watery light from the streetlamps outside.

Locked. From the outside.

He raised his wand, light spilling in a pale halo over the paintwork. A dull patch caught his eye, and a closer inspection revealed letters, scratched into the woodwork in a child’s clumsy capitals. The carving had been sanded and painted over, but still, the words were legible.

HARRY'S ROOM

The world went very still.

“Alohomora,” he murmured.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifted his grip, and whispered, “Finite incantatem.” The faint shimmer of residual magic faded from the lock with an ear-popping sensation — accidental magic, wild and frightened.

The second unlocking charm popped open the padlock.

The door swung outward.

Severus went absolutely still as a frantic muttering reached his ears from out of the darkness.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I was trying to be good! I just had to go to the loo — I didn’t mean to unlock the door, I swear! I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t want to make a mess for Aunt Petunia. I won’t do it again! No more funny business, I promise!”

Slowly, Severus crouched and raised his wand. The beam of light fell into a cramped, low space filled with dust and the faint smell of damp. A thin blanket was wadded in one corner atop a worn cot that took up nearly all the floor space. A handful of broken toy soldiers stood on a ledge opposite the door, mended with tape that had gone gray and curled at the edges from repeated handling. And at the farthest end of the space, pressed beneath the lower stairs as if trying to disappear, was a child.

Severus’s breath left him in a shudder.

“Harry.”

Chapter Text

Harry was still talking when Severus set the roast on the table.

“— and she thinks Flitwick would be a squirrel, but he’s wicked-clever, and I heard — I think Hermione told me — he was a champion duellist, so I think he’d be something braver than a squirrel.”

“Clearly you have never invaded a squirrel’s territory,” Severus said dryly.

“I know they, like, bark and stuff,” Harry said dismissively, accepting his plate from Severus. “I just mean, he’d be something unexpectedly fierce, you know?” He paused thoughtfully. “Like a chicken.”

Severus paused in slicing the roast. “A chicken.”

Harry’s mouth twisted at the memory. “Yeah… My Aunt Marge had a chicken that would puff up and do this awful growl-thing if you got too close to the coop. It could chase off the dogs, and even Uncle Vernon didn’t scare those dogs…” Harry brightened as another idea came to him. “Or a badger! Flitwick might be a badger. They look pretty cute and polite — Dudley had a book with a badger in a dressing-gown on the cover when he was little— but I’ll bet they’d be trouble if they were cornered.”

Severus finished cutting the roast and placed a slice on Harry's plate without comment.

“Seamus said Hagrid would be a bear, but I think that’s cheating, since he practically is one already. And anyway, Hagrid’s loads nicer than a bear. He’d probably be something like a capybara. Did you know they use them in zoos and, like, wildlife rescues and stuff to help care for hurt animals? They just… adopt them, I guess. The capybaras do, I mean.”

“I did not,” Severus answered. “Take some potatoes.”

Harry obeyed, still talking. “I think Hagrid would like being a capybara. And they’re not scary at all. I think Hagrid would like that, too… And Neville said Sprout’s probably a hedgehog, which I think fits.”

“I imagine you’ll never know,” Severus said, passing him the bowl of peas.

Harry dumped a spoonful of peas onto his plate. “Everyone says you’d be a bat.”

Severus set the gravy in front of him. “Do they.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think so. I mean, bats are shy, aren’t they? You’re more—well—independent. Like a cat.”

Severus looked up sharply. “A cat?”

“I don’t mean like Professor McGonagall! Just—” Harry waved the ladle helplessly, dripping gravy onto the tablecloth. “You both sort of have that... look. The glare. I don’t reckon you could survive if you couldn’t glare.”

Severus gave him one of the very looks in question. “I assure you, Harry, my Animagus form is not a cat. Watch the gravy.”

Harry reached for a napkin. “I didn’t mean —“ Harry blinked. “Wait—you mean you have one?”

The corner of Severus’s mouth twitched, though whether from amusement or regret was hard to tell. “That is not what I said.”

But Harry was already leaning forward, eyes bright. “It is, though! You totally do! What is it? Maybe a big cat, like a panther or something? Or a raven? Oh, please tell me it’s not a snake — Malfoy would be insufferable—”

“Harry,” Severus said warningly, but the boy was too far gone to heed him.

“Or maybe something sleek and scary, like a wolf, or —”

“Harry!”

He froze mid-sentence, and more gravy dripped from the ladle. He hastily placed it back in the dish.

Severus exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I show you, will you swear never to tell anyone?”

Harry nodded immediately. “I promise.”

“Not even Ron and Hermione?”

“I swear I won’t tell.”

“And you will eat your dinner?”

Harry shoveled a scoop of mashed potatoes into his mouth at once, nodding eagerly.

Severus stood, still looking put-upon. He rolled his eyes, and then with scarcely a shimmer in the air, he transformed.

Harry’s jaw dropped.

Another subtle shift, and then Severus was standing before him again, looking rather smug. He sat back down and resumed eating his dinner.

“Wicked!”

Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry obediently shoveled in another scoop of potatoes.

“I think I’d be an owl,” he mused around the mouthful. “I could go flying with Hedwig.”

“You have a broomstick.”

“True… So maybe a dog like a Labrador or something… Ooh! Or—”

Snape sighed. “Eat your dinner, Harry.”

Chapter Text

He had no business going through Nella’s things. He knew this. It was a simple matter of efficiency, that was all.

Making it from the kitchen fireplace to the parlor had been trial enough for her, and the stubborn child had flat refused to be carried. If Severus had anything to say about it, she wouldn’t be climbing more stairs anytime soon, but he knew her too well to count on common sense prevailing. She would try to make it to her room at some point, and when she did, he wanted everything ready, everything in order.

He set her bag on the bed and unfastened the clasp. Granger had packed with military precision, of course. Robes and pajamas and underthings folded neatly. A handful of toiletries in a muggle plastic bag. A pair of slippers that looked to belong to one of the other girls. A bundle of letters from well-wishers.

At the bottom of a frankly impressive stack of books, Severus’s hand brushed something softer. He drew it out slowly.

The last book was wrapped in the familiar green fabric of the sweatshirt he’d bought her in that muggle shop that first, awful day. The blinding fluorescent lights, the insipid music, her mortified little voice confessing she didn’t know her own size… He remembered, too, how happy she’d been over this wretched thing.

He hadn’t understood then.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his thumb tracing the faded band at the wrist. To think she’d kept it all this time, carried it to school year after year.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

And then he remembered the weight of it. Something solid was tucked inside, but he wouldn’t pry. Whatever treasure she’d hidden inside, it was hers and hers alone. But as he stood to put the bundle back in the bag, the threadbare fabric ripped, and a heavy leatherbound book slipped free. Severus fumbled and caught it, only to drop it again as Lily grinned at him from between his fingers. The book clipped the edge of the bed and flopped to the floor, scattering photographs like feathers from a torn pillow.

“Damn it,” he hissed, crouching at once. The carpet was strewn with faces — grinning, waving, spinning in little loops of time. Lily at seventeen, sunburnt and laughing. Potter with his arm slung around Lily’s shoulders. Lupin laughing at some joke Potter had apparently told. Potter and his father, both in ridiculous yellow and black hats, grinning like fools.

He set his jaw and began gathering them, determined not to look too closely. He opened the book, and more ancient spellotape gave way with a faint crackle, scattering another handful of pictures. The margins of the page were crowded with tiny, uncertain notes — names, question marks, arrows looping toward now-empty spaces.

A child’s effort to reconstruct the ghost of a family.

He turned another few pages, scattering more photos, and found an empty space with a slightly smudged note:

Fleamont Potter (BEST name!) and Dad. Quidditch match at Wimbourne, 1976. England finals?

He closed his eyes briefly, then he stood and went in search of spellotape.

The kitchen was cooler than the bedroom, the wide table cleared except for a stack of Daily Prophets and an untouched cup of tea. He set the album down and, with the meticulous patience that had made him a terror in the classroom, began repairing it.

Here was Lily at sixteen, beaming with the Charms Club ribbon pinned to her robes. He added a line beneath:

Awarded for inventing a levitation variant. Floated Professor Flitwick clear off his desk in the demonstration.

Another photo: the greenhouse behind the castle, Lily’s hair full of sunlight and static, her hat perched at a jaunty angle and a smear of dirt on her nose.

Hat lost to the tentacula five minutes later. May 1977. 

Her favorite socks appeared next — a hideous, medicinal pink — kicking over her shoulder as she lay giggling on her bed in the Gryffindor dorm with half a dozen other girls. Nella had drawn little hearts around the corner of the photo nearest the socks.

Her favorite color, Severus added with a wry smile. He had bought her four pairs, himself. She had a matching sweater that clashed horribly with her hair.

He kept working: Hogsmeade trips, Christmases, birthdays. He filled in gaps, answered question marks, and corrected dates. Then, a note beside one still photo brought him up short.

Lily knelt in the sand beside a dark-haired woman, both of them constructing an elaborate castle. Beside it, Nella had written only _____ Evans.

Nella didn’t know her own grandmother’s name.

Geraldine, he wrote, slowly and clearly. Taken by her husband John on a trip to the USA. Summer 1972. Lily brought home seashells for all her friends. One still had a hermit crab inside. She built him a pond in the woods and named him Harold.

The door creaked open behind him.

“There you are,” came Black’s voice, low and subdued for once. “She’s sleeping for now, thank goodness… Thought she’d insist on going all the way upstairs.”

“Just wait,” Severus said dryly, setting his quill aside. “That girl is like a niffler in a bank vault once she gets an idea in her head. She’ll get herself up there yet, if she has to jinx us both and crawl.”

Severus could practically hear Black’s grin at that vision. He rounded the table and let out a surprised bark of laughter as he caught up a photo of Potter bare inches from falling off his broom. “Merlin’s pants! Look at this! James nearly took out the goalpost on that dive. Beat Ravenclaw by just ten points! He bragged for a month.”

He looked down again, eyes softening as he took in the rest of the spread of photographs. “Where did you get all this?”

Severus glanced at the repaired sweatshirt on the counter. “I was unpacking for Nella and found this in her bag. Miss Granger must have sent it along. It’s falling to pieces, and I thought it might be worth filling in a few blanks while I was repairing it.”

Black studied him for a moment, something wary and almost grateful flickering behind his expression. Then he nodded once, sharply. “I’ll put the kettle on, and then we can work on it in the parlor. I want someone to be close when she wakes.”

Severus eyed him skeptically. “Very well,” he said. “But you’ll have to try to be accurate.”

Black snorted. “I will if you will.”

The fire in the parlor had burned low, and Severus’s first thought was how small Nella looked, lying there on the sofa under a veritable mountain of blankets. He moved at once to fold a few of them down.

“What are you doing?” Black hissed.

“You’ll boil her alive.”

“She said she was cold!”

“’M fine,” Nella mumbled suddenly, making them both freeze. She kicked off one blanket and burrowed deeper into the others without opening her eyes. “…worse… Pomfrey…”

Black opened his mouth, but Severus silenced him with a single, pointing finger. Black rolled his eyes and pointed his own finger to the low coffee table in the middle of the room.

For a time, they worked in silence. Severus’s handwriting filled the margins in small, precise lines. Black’s sprawled beside it, exuberant and messy.

James’s first game as Captain, Black scrawled next to a picture of three mud-smeared boys raising their brooms in triumph. Nearly hexed me for stealing his lucky gloves before the match.

Severus hummed in dry amusement as he read the note. “Tragic.” He tugged the album back around so he could stick down the next photo. Lily, James, and a handful of wedding guests were caught in the middle of an absurd dance number.

Dancing to the Blazing Comets’ ridiculous “Starfall Shuffle.”

“Ridiculous?” Black jerked both album and quill out of Severus’s hands and crossed off the word furiously. Brilliant, he scribbled over top of it. “Moony claimed to hate it too, you know, but he danced it three times that night.”

Snape snorted and snatched back his quill. “No accounting for taste.”

“I’ll have you know —“

“Hush,” came Nella’s sleepy voice from the sofa once more. A frown knit her brow as she squinted without her glasses. “What’re you even doing?

“Nothing, pup,” Black murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. Severus watched as he moved to the sofa and stroked her hair. “Sorry to wake you. Do you need anything?”

“’M really tired,” she mumbled, eyelids already drooping.

“I know, kiddo. We’re sorry.”

“Get some more rest,” Severus added. “We will be quieter.”

Her final admonishment was nearly lost as she fell asleep again. “Be nice…”

They eyed one another skeptically. “I will if you will.”

Chapter Text

A bell tolled across the frigid lake, marking the end of the allotted hour.

Severus drew his cloak tighter against the icy breeze blowing across the lake. He decided that whoever had thought to set an underwater task in February in Scotland ought to be fed to the squid.

To his left, Minerva slipped an arm around Pomona's shoulders as she sniffled. Severus didn't require reassurance, of course, but as the minutes ticked on and the surface of the lake remained stubbornly devoid of even bubbles, he began to feel the absence of it like a cold stone in his gut.

The Beauxbatons champion had come shrieking back to the surface not twenty minutes after she'd gone in, tangled in a swarm of juvenile grindylows. The blood in the water didn't bear thinking on. Harry ought to have been back by now. They all should have been, but if something had gone wrong with the gillyweed, or if he'd been attacked...

Someone shouted.

A disturbance rippled the water's surface, and relief surged like sudden heat through the gathered crowd. Diggory appeared, his bubblehead charm bursting with an audible pop. He hauled Cho Chang to the surface beside him, reassuring and steadying her as she woke disoriented, and then the pair struck out toward shore amid a rising tide of cheers.

Severus smiled tightly at Pomona as she squeezed his arm on her way to the medical tent to meet her student, then he returned grimly to his vigil.

Not five minutes later, a shark's fin broke the surface, and Karkaroff let out a sharp hoot of triumph. Victor Krum's clumsy half-transformation melted away, and he helped Granger toward land.

Only one champion left.

Severus fixed his gaze on the still, dark expanse once again, forcing his breathing steady. The waves lapped harmlessly at the shore. The breeze tugged his hair across his face, the cold stinging his eyes until they watered. He could not — would not — panic.

A hand on his sleeve startled him, icy even through the charmed wool. It was Granger, trembling and blue-lipped, fighting off Madam Pomfrey's attempts to force-feed her a smoking vial of Pepper-Up Potion.

"S-sir," she stammered, teeth chattering with cold, "Viktor says Harry sh-sh-should be up any m-minute. He was w-waiting with us w-when he got to th-the m-mer-village."

The tight, twisting knot in Severus's chest eased just enough for him to form words. "Thank you, Miss Granger." He guided her back into the mediwitch's waiting blanket. "Go take your potion. I'll wait for him."

She nodded gratefully, coughing, and allowed Madam Pomfrey to steer her away.

Any minute now.

But one minute turned into two.

Then three.

Six.

The knot tightened again, creeping up between his ribs, into his throat.

Minerva's arm wove into his, and he remembered to breathe.

Then, finally — thank Merlin, finally — nearly fifteen minutes after the bell, bubbles broke the surface some fifty yards from shore. Harry was visible for an instant, and then Weasley's red hair appeared. Both boys floundered for a moment, struggling with a smaller form between them. A child with long, silvery hair that gleamed even in the weak winter light. Delacour's sister. After another moment's struggle, Weasley struck out hard for land, dragging the little girl behind him, but Harry dropped beneath the surface again.

Severus's eyes were fixed on the spot where the boy had gone under. One second. Two. Three—

He moved without thought, boots splashing through the shallows, icy water climbing past his knees, and still Harry hadn't come back up.

There — thirty yards out yet — Harry's face broke the surface. He was gasping, sputtering, barely coordinated, and then he dropped out of sight once more. Severus shouted something — he wasn't even sure what — and the boy came back up, a green-tinged hand gripping his arm. Severus's throat tightened at the memory of the Delacour girl's shrieks, but this was no grindylow. A merperson was surfacing beside him, keeping him afloat. Then more of them, rising like an honor guard.

Harry's flailing became staggering as his feet at last touched the bottom, and in another instant, Severus was there, dragging the stumbling, coughing, utterly idiotic boy out of the water.

"Why didn't you tell me that you couldn't swim?" Severus demanded, voice shaking with fury.

Harry choked out something about gillyweed as he coughed up half the lake.

“That was to help you breathe underwater, you foolish boy — gills, not fins! Your reckless pride could have—”

"Didn't matter, did it?" Harry ground out, pushing away from Severus. "Someone had—" He broke off to cough some more — "Someone had to go after Ron!"

Severus's retort caught in his throat as Madam Pomfrey descended upon the pair of them.

After warm blankets and their own steaming doses of Pepper-Up, Madam Pomfrey bustled off to see to the Delacour girls, both of whom had clearly been administered Calming Draughts in the aftermath of the task. Watching Harry watch them, recalling what Granger had told him, what Harry himself had said about going after his best friend, a horrible thought occurred to him.

 "Harry," he said as gently as he was able, "tell me you didn't truly believe they'd leave children at the bottom of the lake."

Harry's jaw tightened. His cheeks went red, and for a terrible moment, Severus thought he might cry. But Harry, stubborn as ever, raised his chin and looked him in the eye. "The first task was dragons."

And Severus understood.

They had told this boy — this boy, who had faced down werewolves and basilisks and the Dark Lord himself to protect others — that his best friend would die if he failed. Of course this boy had believed them. Of course this brave, stupid, unbelievable boy would try to stop them.

He joined Harry on his cot, sliding close to share his blanket. "You stayed for the others, too, didn't you?" he murmured.

Harry's breath hitched. He didn't answer, but when Severus drew him close, he collapsed against him, exhaustion winning out over pride. They sat and watched the Delacour girls drift off together.

"I was so scared," Harry whispered at last, barely more than a breath.

"I know," Severus answered equally softly. "I was, too.

Chapter Text

Harry’s first thought upon waking was that his entire body hurt.

His second was that the light behind his eyelids was all wrong for his dorm room — cooler and brighter and far too still. The Hospital Wing, then. That was the only place in the castle that was ever this still.

His third… was that there was something warm on his forehead.

It wasn’t heavy, whatever it was. Just a soothing pressure against his aching head.  He stayed still, not quite ready to open his eyes in case whatever it was left him alone again. Madam Pomfrey only ever let parents stay, but Harry didn’t have any of those.

He screwed up his face against the sudden and unexpected prickle of tears, and the thing on his forehead shifted. It brushed gently back through his hair before settling once more on his forehead.

A hand.

“Go back to sleep, Harry,” a voice murmured, low and familiar and entirely out of place. “You’re alright.”

Harry obediently resisted the urge to open his eyes, but as exhausted as he was, he couldn’t go back to sleep. For all he had let Harry stay at his house last summer, Snape wasn’t his parent. Madam Pomfrey would be by any moment to chivvy him out. Or else Snape himself would get fed up and decide to leave. He’d only grudgingly allowed him to stay the summer, after all.

“I can feel you overthinking this,” the voice drawled, sounding annoyed — amused? — definitely annoyed. “Don’t strain yourself.”

The hand moved again.

“Don’t go,” Harry blurted.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And the hand only brushed softly through his hair a second time before returning, warm and soothing, to his forehead.

Chapter Text

"Legilimens."

As the spell rolled toward him for the third time, Harry stumbled back a step and bellowed, “Protego!”

It wasn’t planned — just instinct, born of frustration, exhaustion, and the pounding headache behind his eyes.

He had a heartbeat to be relieved before everything buckled.

There was a soundless rush and a sensation like falling through his own heartbeat, and suddenly he wasn’t in the dungeon at all. He was standing in a kitchen. A Muggle one, by the looks of it — cracked linoleum floor, an old gas stove, mismatched chairs. But there was a cauldron in the corner, too, hissing faintly, so maybe it was a mixed family, he thought. Seamus’s kind of house.

A sound drew his attention — a quiet, broken sniffle from the shadows beneath the kitchen table.

Harry turned. A small boy with dark hair was curled up there behind a dubious barricade of kitchen chairs, knees pulled up to his chest. One eye was swelling purple.

Harry’s breath caught. “Hey,” he said softly, dropping to his knees. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up. He only touched the bruise, flinched, and pressed his sleeve to it as if to hide the mark.

Harry swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “Listen, don’t touch it. I’ll get you something cold for that, alright? It’ll help.”

He stood and crossed to the sink, running the tap until the rusty water went clear. He found a thin, grey towel and soaked it, then wrung it out. The icy drops running down his wrist felt strangely distant, like something out of a dream.

When he turned back, the chairs had been pulled close again, the makeshift wall rebuilt.

“That’s okay,” Harry murmured, setting the towel on the seat of a chair. “You can stay under there if you want. Feels safer, huh? I get it.”

No response.

He waited, crouched there on the cold floor, until the soft sniffle came again. “You can keep that, alright? The towel’s for you.”

A man’s voice bellowed from another room — indistinct words, thick with drink and rage. A woman’s quieter, pleading tone answered, but it only seemed to make him angrier.

Harry turned back toward the table. The towel was gone from the chair, but it wasn’t in the boy’s hand. He spotted it hanging from the hook by the sink again. The boy had gone very still, his small fingers clutching the chair legs.

“It’s alright,” Harry said quickly, dismissing the strangeness. If the boy was magical, he reasoned, it might just be accidental magic manifesting itself, trying to make everything perfect. Trying to avoid further punishment. “Sorry,” he tried. “I won’t touch anything else, okay? D’you think you could look at me? I just want to help. You’re safe.”

But even as he said it, a door slammed, and the shouting grew louder. The air tightened with a dread Harry knew all too well. 

They had to get out of the way.

“Listen,” Harry urged, reaching through the chairs now, trying to get the boy to take his hand. “We really should go somewhere else. A neighbor’s house, maybe. I’ll help you. I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Potter.” 

Harry startled at the low voice behind him. 

Snape. 

But his voice was all wrong — rough, unsteady. 

“He can’t hear you.”

Harry ignored him. He turned back to the boy just as the door burst open, rattling in its frame, and a red-faced man filled the doorway. A thin woman clung to his arm, but he wrenched free and hurled her aside.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before he thought about it. “Protego!”

The shield shimmered to life in front of the door — and did absolutely nothing. The man didn’t even flinch as he strode forward, straight through the barrier.

Harry’s heart pounded. “Petrificus totalus!”

The jinx hit — or should have — but the man didn’t slow. Didn’t even seem to notice.

He was heading straight for the table.

“Stop!” Harry shouted, moving to intercept. The man walked through him. Cold flooded through Harry’s chest as though his ribs had turned to ice.

“Potter!” Snape barked, but Harry wasn’t listening.

The man had upended a chair now, and the boy was scrambling backward on hands and knees, trapped by the table legs.

Harry lunged again, desperate. “Leave him alone!” He slashed his wand like a sword, but the wordless jet of light did no more than either of the other two spells had done.

He could hear the boy crying now — small, breathless sobs he could feel in his own chest — and something in Harry snapped.

“STOP IT!” he roared, dodging Snape and hurling himself forward, wand forgotten.

“POTTER!”

A hand clamped onto his arm — solid this time, real — and yanked hard.

The world ripped apart.

He was falling, spinning, crashing through blackness—

—and crashing shoulder-first into a shelf. Glass shattered. Something slimy and cold slid down the back of his neck.

He gasped, blinking hard, vision swimming as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Torchlight, not sunlight, and cold stone instead of linoleum. He was in the dungeons at school.

“The boy—” Harry choked, scrambling upright. “He— We have to—”

“Potter.”

Snape’s voice cut through the haze, low and rough-edged. He was half-bent over his desk, one hand braced on the surface, the other trembling faintly.

Harry tried again, his throat tight with panic. “He was just — He couldn’t have been more than — Sir, he was hiding! He was —”

“Enough.” The word was soft, but it hit Harry like a door slamming in his face. Snape straightened slowly, his face ashen. “It was a memory, Potter. Nothing more.”

Harry stared at him, chest heaving. “But he — He —”

“Are you all right?”

Harry swallowed. The question was absurd. His heart was still racing; the echo of that child’s sob hung in his ears. “Sir, he —“

“Are you all right, Potter,” Snape repeated firmly. 

“I — yeah. I think so.”

Only then did the meaning of Snape’s earlier words sink in, and Harry's stomach turned cold.

It was a memory.

He looked up at Snape. Really looked. The dark hair. The pale face.

“I —" His voice cracked, and he continued in a hoarse whisper. "Was that y-you, sir?”

Snape’s face didn’t change, but the silence between them grew taut. “I’ll ask you not to speak of what you saw tonight,” he said at last. 

“O-of course not,” Harry stammered. “I wasn’t trying — I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, Potter.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I know.” The word broke out of him, harsh and frayed. He drew a long, unsteady breath. He waved his wand, and the mess on and around Harry vanished. “That’s enough for tonight. You may return to your dormitory.”

Harry gathered his things, his hands shaking slightly. He knew he should be grateful not to have detention after invading the man’s mind like that, but the image of that little boy wouldn’t leave him. The lingering adrenaline left him feeling ill.

He paused in the doorway, unable to just leave it like that. “I’d have stopped him for you if I could, sir,” he said quietly, without looking up.

“I know, Potter.” Snape’s reply was so soft Harry almost missed it. “I saw.”

Chapter Text

There was not enough air in the office.

Kneeling beside Dumbledore’s chair, Severus stared at the broken ring on the desk. Then Riddle’s diary. Both items were so black they seemed to suck all the light from the room. A faintly metallic, rotten smell rose from the headmaster’s similarly blackened hand.

Severus’s head ached.

“It is not a possibility,” he said at last.

Dumbledore reached out with his undamaged hand, as if to touch him, to reassure him. “Severus —“

But Severus drew back. He needed no reassurance. He rose to his feet and slid his wand back into its holster. “No. Put it out of your mind.” There was no plea in his voice, only a flat refusal.

“Severus,” Dumbledore tried again, his voice low and pitying, “it is the only way. She is a horcrux.”

“She is a sixteen year old girl. She worships the ground you walk on.”

Dumbledore’s gaze dropped to the desk. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.”

The old man nodded, eyes still averted, and Severus could feel the old strings pulling. Pity and guilt attempting to reel him back into obedience.

“I am sorry, Severus,” Dumbledore repeated. “But no piece of Voldemort’s soul can be allowed to survive. Surely you must see that?”

“We will find another way.”

Severus’s knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the desk, but Dumbledore only shook his head. Pitiful. Broken. A martyr to the cause. The sight of it struck him harder than a slap. Severus had never been granted pity. When he broke, he was ordered to stand, to fight, to bleed. To hold the line.

“You may be dying, Headmaster,” Severus hissed, “but you are not dead yet. You do not get the luxury of giving up. You swore to protect her!”

“And I have done,” Dumbledore said softly, reasonably, as though Severus were a first year who had made a foolish mistake.

“You’ve kept her alive like a pig for slaughter!”

“Severus…” His tone was scolding now, and Severus could feel his heartbeat in his throat, as though he were being strangled. “You are blinded by your attachment —“

“And you by fear!” Severus snarled. “And yet one of us still sees the sacrifice of a child as an uncrossable line! I know which side I am on, Headmaster.” Dumbledore started to interrupt, but Severus spoke over him. “I changed sides fifteen years ago and offered you everything I had to protect her mother. If you think I will not do the same now to protect my daughter —“

Dumbledore’s damnable serenity faltered at last, and he cut in sharply. “Severus! Be reasonable! She is not your child, and Lord Voldemort has no mercy —”

“He has self-interest,” Severus snapped. “Nella is mine in every way that matters, and the Dark Lord will keep her alive to protect that fragment of his soul living inside her. I will be welcomed as the hero who thwarted you and saved the Dark Lord’s life. Nella will be alive. It will buy us time to find another way to destroy him.”

“Severus, I cannot see any other way.”

“Only because you have given up!” Severus’s voice rose to a roar as he towered over the desk. “The great Albus Dumbledore has made a fool’s mistake! Now he is dying of his own hubris, and so he wishes to take the easy way out to ensure his task is not left undone!”

“Severus, you must see reason!”

“I will not lead her to her death!”

“Please — for the greater good —“

“A coward’s argument!” Severus closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. He slid his cool, detached mask back into place before looking at Dumbledore once more. “I have confined the curse to your hand, but it will kill you by spring. June at the latest. It will not be pleasant. If you wish me to kill you cleanly before then, you will come up with some way to keep Nella alive. If you cannot, I will deliver you both to the Dark Lord to buy the rest of us more time.”

He would hold the line.

Chapter Text

Minerva McGonagall was not often lost for words, but as Severus Snape edged down the row in the staff box of the quidditch stadium, she could only stare.

As he took the empty seat beside her, his customary black robes draped as elegantly as ever, but there was no ignoring the scarlet and gold scarf draped around his neck, or the matching rosette pinned to his chest, its ribbons fluttering slightly in the breeze.

He arched a brow. “Do close your mouth, Minerva, or a puffskein may decide to nest in it.”

Her jaw snapped shut. “Those are Gryffindor colors!”

“They are Harry’s colors,” he said coolly. “Unless he has gotten himself expelled since I saw him at the house table during breakfast?”

Minerva could only stare. She would not have been more astonished if he’d appeared in a Christmas jumper and striped stockings.

Snape adjusted the scarf with the air of a man deeply committed to his own composure and turned toward the pitch as the players emerged onto the field in a flare of color. The stands thundered as students stamped their feet and bellowed chants.

“—and here come the Hufflepuffs!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed from the commentator’s box below Minerva. “Diggory’s looking sharp today—guess someone remembered which end of the broom goes forward. Well done!”

“Mr. Jordan.”

“Right, right — no editorializing. Sorry, Professor. Anyway, Seeker Diggory is followed by Chasers Preece, Macavoy, and Applebee — a decent lineup for this pivotal match. There goes Herbert Fleet as Keeper — lovely lad, tragic fashion sense — and

O’Flaherty and Rickett as Beaters, though it remains to be seen whether they’ll be up to deflecting the Weasley twins’ bludgers…”

The Hufflepuffs were followed by the Gryffindors. Seven scarlet blurs streaked onto the field.

“And our Gryffindors, led by Keeper Oliver Wood. Here’s Seeker Harry Potter, followed by Chasers Bell, Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet, who has yet to go out on a date with me — it’s not too late, Alicia —“

“Jordan…”

“Just saying, Professor, she clearly doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”

“Jordan, if you can’t keep your focus on the match —“

“Right. Fine — Weasley twins as Beaters of course! There. Let’s play quidditch!”

Beside her, Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. “That boy is a menace. Why you ever thought to arm him with a megaphone is beyond me.”

Minerva chuckled. “I’ve tried to take it away… No one else will take the job.”

“Conspiracy.”

“Almost certainly.”

The whistle blew, and both teams shot skyward.

Minerva leaned forward, pulse quickening. Snape, beside her, looked as if he’d been forced to attend an amateur puppet show. His gloved hands rested on the rail before him, expression blank save for the occasional tightening of his jaw when a bludger passed too close to Harry.

“There’s Potter, weaving between the Hufflepuff Chasers, buying Wood a moment after that last, spectacular save — good heavens, that’s bold—” Jordan crowed as the knot of players skimmed past, just above the staff box, so close that Minerva could have touched the tails of their brooms. Jordan spun in place, watching their progress. “Hah! And in case you missed it, folks, here we have Professor Snape, everyone’s favorite cheerleader, proudly wearing his Gryffindor colors today—”

A ripple of disbelief swept through the stands, and one of the Weasley twins nearly missed a bludger aimed at Alicia’s head. Snape turned slowly toward the commentary box, looking as though he were contemplating murder.

“—and I for one think it’s very fetching!” Jordan finished hastily.

Minerva coughed delicately into her glove to hide a laugh.

Jordan was very fortunate that Harry chose that particular moment to dive straight at the pitch, outstripping Diggory in moments.

“Idiot child,” Snape hissed. “He’s going to —“

But the boy leveled out bare inches above the grass, pulling into a stunning climb after the snitch that left half the crowd gasping. A well-aimed bludger from Rickett forced him off course, and the snitch disappeared.

Minerva tilted her head. “You were saying?”

“I said he’s reckless.”

“You were smiling.”

“I was grimacing.”

“Of course.”

Alicia scored. Then Angelina. The quaffle was passed back and forth so quickly the Hufflepuff chasers could scarcely track its progress. Then as Angelina and Alicia dove at the other two hoops, Katie Bell caught a backhanded pass and sent the quaffle sailing neatly through the unguarded hoop behind Fleet.

“Gryffindor leads, thirty to zero!” Jordan shouted. “Our esteemed Head of House is smiling so wide, I fear she may sprain something!”

“Jordan,” Minerva called automatically, though she couldn’t help the faint flush of pride.

Snow began to fall—fat, lazy flakes blurring the bright colors below. The pitch was a whirl of motion and sound, brooms cutting eddying trails through the white. Both teams scored. Diggory made a desperate sweep for the Snitch. Harry cut across his path, forcing him to veer away at the last moment. Half the stadium groaned as the rest cheered.

Beside her, Snape’s eyes tracked every motion, dark and sharp and oddly intent, for all his feigned disinterest. His breath hitched as Harry’s broom jolted sideways, dodging a Bludger by inches.

“The scarf is scarlet, Minerva,” he drawled, “not cursed. I shall survive wearing it, I assure you.”

She blinked and realized she’d been staring again, still trying to reconcile the sight of Severus Snape in Gryffindor regalia.

More goals on both sides, more near misses from bludgers, and then a gasp rippled through the crowd. Both Seekers were diving, twin streaks of yellow and scarlet slicing through the snowstorm.

Jordan was shouting himself hoarse, dangling dangerously over the railing with the enchanted megaphone in his hand. “Potter’s seen it — and Diggory’s cottoned on — Diggory’s the closer though — they’re neck and neck — COME ON, HARRY —”

Minerva gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles went white.

Snape was utterly still, eyes fixed on Harry. “Diggory!” he shouted suddenly, surging to his feet and leaning out nearly as far as Jordan. “Don’t you dare —“

Harry rolled right over on his broom as Diggory attempted to cut him off, and then Harry’s hand shot out. He turned sharply in the air and righted himself, robes snapping. He raised his fist high. The golden snitch glittered between his fingers.

The stadium exploded. Students screamed, banners waved, fireworks went off somewhere on the Gryffindor end, and Jordan’s voice was lost in the uproar.

Before Minerva quite realized what she was doing, she’d flung her arms around the very startled Severus Snape.

He went rigid as a fence post. For one alarming heartbeat she thought he might hex her from sheer reflex, but he only gripped her by the elbows and stepped back, setting her firmly back in her own space.

Then, as the tumult ebbed slightly, both of them became aware of what Jordan was still shouting into the stands, clearly taking advantage of their distraction. “— all down to Professor Snape! Potter’s an excellent Seeker to be sure, but that final shout at Diggory — wouldn’t want to be in his shoes in Potions tomorrow!”

Minerva bit the inside of her cheek, fighting a losing battle not to laugh as Snape straightened his cloak and adjusted the now-crooked rosette with surgical precision.

“One has to wonder,” Jordan went on gleefully, obviously deciding the consequences of his next words would be worth it, “what our favorite Gryffindor cheerleader will do at the next match, when it’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin for the Cup!”

Snape raised an eyebrow, promising rat brains and bubotuber pus in Jordan’s future, but his voice was smooth and cool and just loud enough to be picked up over the megaphone. “I shall have cause to celebrate, regardless of the outcome.”

Chapter Text

Snape barely looked up as Harry slipped into the dungeon. “You’re late, Potter.”

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. He wasn’t, and he briefly considered arguing in the hopes of earning another night away from Umbridge. But he didn’t dare — she’d already escalated alarmingly simply for having to wait tonight.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Cauldrons are at the back. You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry scrubbed the heavy cauldrons until his shoulders ached, but at least there was a point to it. At least there was a foreseeable end.

At least cauldrons didn’t usually make him bleed.

When the last cauldron shone to Snape’s exacting standards, Harry straightened and waited.

“That will do,” Snape said, barely glancing up from his inspection of a murky-looking potion on his desk. “You may go.”

Harry hesitated. “Er — sir? Could I maybe… s-stay?”

Snape’s head snapped up, dark eyes narrowing. “Stay?”

“J-just for a bit,” Harry hastened to explain, hating the tremor in his voice. “It’s just, Professor Umbridge gave me a detention this morning.”

“And you think to escape it by hiding in mine?”

“N-no, sir!” Harry said at once. He willed his voice to be calm, casual, as if Snape’s answer didn’t matter very much. If Snape thought Harry was desperate, he’d probably refuse out of spite alone. “It’s just — I told her I already had detention with you tonight. She wasn’t very happy about it, so I’ve got th-three starting tomorrow night instead. I just — I don’t want her thinking I lied, trying to get out of it or something. That’s all. She’d probably have me in another week for that.”

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then he gave a curt nod, and Harry’s heart leapt. He didn’t even care what Snape made him do.

“Very well,” Snape said at last. “But I have neither the time nor the inclination to invent further busywork for you. Find something of your own to occupy yourself.” He waved his wand, and one of the tables along the wall cleared itself. “Over there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Harry could hardly believe his luck. He hurried to his appointed space and pulled out his History of Magic notes. He’d been hoping to stop by the library to get a bit of work in if Snape let him out even a minute before curfew, but this was even better. Umbridge was taking up nearly every free minute of his evenings these days, and his pile of homework was slowly growing into a mountain.

As if summoned by Harry’s thoughts, the toad appeared at the dungeon door within five minutes of him sitting down.

“Good evening, Severus,” she simpered.

“Dolores.”

“So sorry to disturb you.” She giggled, the sound almost obscene in the somber quiet of the dungeon. Harry kept his eyes on his parchment. “Just checking in.”

“On myself or Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly.

Umbridge giggled again, the sound setting Harry’s teeth on edge. The back of his hand twinged with phantom pain. “Mr. Potter does have such an unfortunate habit of… embellishing, you know. I thought it best to verify his story.”

Snape’s only response was a low grunt that might have meant anything.

Harry’s shoulders tensed as Umbridge wandered over to see what he was working on. She plucked up his parchment and turned back to Snape, clicking her tongue in disapproval as her beady eyes skimmed over his notes on the International Warlock Convention of 1289. His heart felt as though it would climb out his throat.

“I rather thought —“ she giggled again as if to apologize for such a silly notion. “Well, Severus, I confess I rather thought one of your detentions would be more like a punishment and less like a study hall. I wonder what Mr. Potter is to learn about his behavior by simply doing the homework he was already assigned?”

Snape didn’t even look up from the essay he was grading. “And I rather thought, Dolores, that my choice of discipline was my own concern. But since you have asked, you may rest assured that Potter has already scrubbed the first years’ cauldrons to my satisfaction and portioned out the bat spleens his classmates will be using tomorrow. He has also dusted the NEWT student storeroom, decanted three pints of doxy venom, and powdered enough fluxweed for my third years’ Shrinking Solutions.”

Harry tried not to look as though any of this was news to him.

Umbridge’s smile flickered, and she let out another giggle, this one brittle as a cracked teacup. “But surely, Severus — history notes?“

Snape circled a mark at the top of one essay and shook out another roll of parchment with a snap. “He is working on homework because I do not wish to be further distracted from my own work this evening, Dolores. Nor do I choose to reward him by allowing him to return early to his friends in Gryffindor Tower. He can sit there and work in silence and practice the subtle art of not being the center of attention.”

Umbridge’s knuckles were white as she slowly and deliberately laid Harry’s notes back on the table. He had a sinking feeling there would be another Educational Decree before the week was out.

“I see,” she said primly. “My apologies, Severus. Thank you for enlightening me. I won’t keep you any longer.”

As soon as the door to the dungeon clicked shut behind her, Snape let out a disgusted sigh and set down his quill.

“Er — sorry about that, sir,” Harry muttered. He kept his head down, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Snape sigh again and pinch the bridge of his nose. Harry braced himself to be thrown out after all.

“And what, pray tell, does the Great Disciplinarian have you do in her own detentions, Potter?”

“I write lines, sir,” Harry said quietly.

Snape scoffed. “Pathetic.”

The word stung. For an instant, Harry wanted to blurt out the whole, horrible truth, but Snape was still talking.

“You’d best stay another hour,” he said, glancing at the clock, “for the sake of appearances. You may carry on with your history notes.”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He picked up his quill again, gripping it tightly to mask the trembling. Snape said nothing more, only returned to his marking. The scratch of quills and the soft hiss of simmering cauldrons filled the silence between them.

Harry bent lower over his parchment, determined to finish his outline, but the quiet left too much room for thought. The warlock convention simply could not compete with the cover story Snape had spun to protect him. Snape didn’t know the truth — wouldn’t believe him, probably — and still, he’d put himself in the line of fire. He listened to Snape’s irritated huffs at other students’ idiocy. The creak of his chair. The occasional rustle of a new essay being laid out for marking. He’d asked to stay out of desperation — the lesser of two evils — but now, the dungeon’s damp chill felt almost like shelter.

“There is more parchment in the supply cupboard if you need it, Potter,” Snape called, making Harry jump. He glanced down and discovered a large blot of ink where he’d accidentally rested his quill.

“I — right. Thank you, sir.”

“I will write you a pass back to your dormitory just after the curfew bell rings. That ought to satisfy her.”

Harry nodded, the tightness in his chest easing at last. If anyone could find a way to work around the evil toad’s Educational Decrees, it would be Snape. For now, that would be enough.