Title: The Secret and the Man
Author: Stephanie (Ramshackle Bolt)
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Summary: Severus Snape has been spying on Harry for a very long time. When he notices something wrong happening at the Dursley residence, he takes action—by kidnapping Harry. Sixth Year. HP/SS.
Chapter One
| The Mysterious Figure |
Harry was soaked with sweat. He had been working all day in the Dursley's garden. His huge hand-me-down shirt was sticking to him everywhere, his underwear was drooping off his body, and his feet were sliding around, sweaty, in his socks.
It must be the hottest day in years, he thought, as he pulled Dudley's old trousers up for the third time. He had lost the rope he used as a belt, and he was sure it would not go over well to ask the Dursley's to buy him anything. The sun continued to beat down on him as he continued to shovel. If it were not so hot out, Aunt Petunia would never have let him touch her perfect flowers.
"Hmph," he grumbled. "And they call me lazy and rotten."
As difficult as the work was, it did not bother him as much as it normally would have. It was a distraction from the one thing he did not wish to think about: Sirius. And that he liked about this.
He had been moping around the Dursley residence all summer, doing what housework Aunt Petunia nagged him about, finishing up his homework, and avoiding Dudley when he needed to. None of that was very straining, but none of it was as much as a distraction. Sometimes he would get into trouble for stopping in the middle of the chore he was doing and running up to his room. What he couldn't tell Aunt Petunia was that he was suddenly being bombarded with memories of Sirius and his death and…well, he didn't want her seeing him cry.
Harry straightened up and stretched, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as he gazed down Privet Drive. All was quiet: the cars were in their usual spots, the same children played the same games on the same lawns, and Mrs. Figg occasionally spied out her window at him.
Suddenly, he saw something.
A shadow, a shape, was standing near a tall hedge at the end of the street. And then it moved out of sight.
Harry did a double take. Maybe it was just the heat. Yes, that was it.
He went back to his gardening, but something kept tugging at his mind. The rhythmic motion of the shovel in his hand was soothing; he kept striking the soil.
Strike, strike, strike—
He looked up again. The shadow—the strange shape!—in the distance was back, and just as quickly as before it vanished without a trace.
Harry whipped up and began to walk toward it, and then he stopped. He felt his pockets. With a groan, he realized he had left his wand under the floorboard in his room. And if that thing were something dangerous it might be too late if he were to run upstairs to fetch it. So he did the only thing a reckless boy like himself could do—he fled the Dursley's house, going straight for the shadow.
He didn't know why he was chasing it, or what he would do once he got to it, but he had learned his lesson once. He had already lost Sirius and come close to losing his friends, but he wouldn't allow anyone else to get hurt. Not if he could help it. If this thing were dangerous—he'd—he'd—
He arrived at the hedge at the end of the street, shaking, out of breath.
The mysterious figure was gone.
***
It was nighttime. Harry had been on the sofa, looking out the window all evening. The Dursleys were now eating supper, had even told him to come get his share or else he would starve for the night, but he didn't budge.
The figure had not returned since he last saw it. With a neighborhood full of Muggles, he couldn't bear risking that something as terrible as a Death Eater might be lurking around out there freely. He twirled his wand in his hand. Uncle Vernon had been turning redder and redder throughout dinner at the sight of it, but for some reason he hadn't told Harry to put it away.
The world was becoming darker outside, which of course made it more difficult for Harry to keep watch. Grimly, he considered lighting a candle and going out onto the lawn to keep watch, but at last he raised himself from his spot and made his way upstairs.
Lying on his bed, he tried to ignore thoughts of Voldemort and especially of Sirius. But they always came back, haunting him relentlessly. If only there were some way he could forget—even temporarily—he would be so very relieved. A familiar, burning, horrid sensation in his stomach welled up.
Sirius was gone, and he was not ever coming back. Harry's only chance at a real, live, official family was dead.
The burning made its way into his chest, then his throat. He tried to swallow it, tried to think of anything else. Gardening, sunshine, that figure. It wasn't working! Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore. Please, anything, he just didn't want to cry again.
The burning began to hurt his eyes, and he felt wetness well up in them and finally spill onto his face. Down past his ears, onto his bed the tears went. They did not stop coming for a long while.
***
Next day, Harry was outside again; however, the thing he saw the previous day was not. Aunt Petunia had given him little work, save making Dudley's meals and cleaning the toilet, so whatever free time he had was spent on the lawn—this time with his wand in his pocket.
It was evening, but he had seen no sign of anything dangerous. Whether this was good or bad, he was unsure. He kept fingering his wand in his back pocket, slipping it in and out idly, wishing he could practice the spells he planned to use in case something terrible was about to occur.
He wondered when the Order would come to get him as they had promised, or at least send word. This was turning out to be another anxious summer alone. He sighed.
When Uncle Vernon arrived home from work, the first thing he did when he climbed out of the car was pin Harry with a suspicious look. "What's that in your pocket?"
Harry stopped touching his wand. "Nothing."
The man's eyes narrowed. "If that's your—your little wavey stick—"
"It's not, sir." Harry gulped. "It's a peppermint stick."
"A peppermint stick."
"Yes. Mrs. Figg gave it to me."
Uncle Vernon still looked suspicious as he tapped his foot. "Give it to me."
"W—what?"
"I don't want you rotting your teeth. I certainly won't be paying for a dentist for you, now give it to me. Dudley can have it."
"It's mine," Harry replied through gritted teeth.
That fat face was slowly getting pink. "Now!"
Harry could do nothing about it. He took out his wand and pointed it at Uncle Vernon.
"Ha!" the man exclaimed, whilst at the same time looking nervous. "So you do have it!"
Harry began to look around wildly. Mrs. Figg would probably berate him for displaying it outside as well.
"You know you're not to have that outdoors boy," Uncle Vernon was saying, appearing as though he were trying to keep his voice down but doing an awful job. "Hand it over."
"No," said Harry, in a tone that suggested his uncle was a mad man.
"Harry Potter, if you don't give me that—that thing this instant, I promise you I'll—!"
Harry gasped all of a sudden. The shadow was back. It was closer this time and, though he had seen only a little movement, he swore it was there. He pointed his wand in its direction.
"Boy, what do you think you're doing?" Uncle Vernon's face was turning as red as a cherry, but Harry hardly noticed. He was walking swiftly toward the end of the street already. "Get back here!"
And suddenly he wasn't walking anywhere. Uncle Vernon had him by the scruff of the neck and was fighting Harry for his wand.
"Let go of me! If you don't let me—"
"Drop that ruddy stick—drop it!"
Harry could hardly see anything but Uncle Vernon's enormous form, but as he looked over his shoulder he saw the shadow creeping closer to them.
"Uncle Vernon, don't you see it? Let me go, or we'll be in tro—"
Harry's wrists were being squeezed in big, meaty hands. He tried thrashing about, but his uncle was too big, too strong.
"Boy, I'll give you one, last chance. Let go of the stick, or you'll have it!"
The figure was coming closer. Harry could feel it, the magic coming from it, hot and strong and rampant.
He wrestled violently against Uncle Vernon, and tried to think of a spell that would get the huge man off him so he could save them both before it was too late, and then—
"Ahhh!"
It stung. The entire side of his face stung, and his neck ached too. Harry realized Uncle Vernon had struck him with his fist and all the strength he could muster, and his scrawny head, under the huge weight that was his uncle, had snapped backward. He was lucky his neck wasn't broken!
He only had time to take one look at the still-approaching black figure, scrabble for his wand, and take a breath before he felt Uncle Vernon yanking him off the ground again. His fist was reared back and his beady eyes were filled with anger; Harry shut his eyes in preparation for the second blow.
"Unhand him!"
Uncle Vernon froze.
Harry's eyes opened wide with the shock of what he thought he had heard. He turned within Uncle Vernon's tight grip, wincing as the collar of his shirt choked him a bit, and gasped.
Professor Snape was standing in front of him.
Snape had been the mysterious figure.
Posted October 25, 2003