That is a matter between Severus Snape and myself
This is just a playful little yarn that follows on from the rapprochement between our heroes in "So much the better for him, so much the worse for Severus Snape". Not much happens, because nothing ever does happen in happily ever after stories.
Chapter 1: Harry Potter
He'd watched the Dursleys packing for a while, he would have liked to use his magic to help them, but he wasn't of age yet and he wouldn't put it past Rufus Scrimgeour to use it as an excuse to lean on him if he broke the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery again - and if he used magic it would only freak them out, anyway. And they'd made it clear that they didn't want his help, they'd made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with him, so he'd made himself a cheese sandwich and retreated into his bedroom.
Aunt Petunia had started packing the day after he told her and Vernon about the stuff that happened last summer – the Brockdale bridge and the hurricane in the West Country – and the things that have happened since then, told them that it was Voldemort's work, and that Voldemort would send his Death Eaters to kill every living thing at Number 4, Privet Drive the moment that Harry Potter turned seventeen. He'd imagined the front page of the Daily Prophet, the twinkling, black and white photograph of the Dark Mark hanging over the burning wreckage of the house, and the headlines about the death of the Chosen One's Muggle family – and he'd told the Dursleys to get out of England, to get as far away as they could.
Petunia hadn't cried and Vernon hadn't turned purple, hadn't swelled up like a bullfrog and blustered – Vernon had looked strangely subdued and grey, and he hadn't even raged and protested about having to take Dudley out of Smeltings.
He'd realised then that this is what Petunia had feared from the day that he'd been left on their doorstop as a baby - and it had burned that he can't do anything to protect his own family, that he can't save the Dursleys, because in a few days he'll become a hunted fugitive himself, and as soon as he's of age, all hell is going to break loose. Voldemort's plans are to declare open war against the Ministry, break the Death Eaters out of Azkaban, raid Gringotts, stage mass Muggle-killings - and the Boy Who Lived will be hunted by dozens of wizards whose names and faces he doesn't even know, because Voldemort wants him alive, but not necessarily in good condition.
For a while he'd stayed in his bedroom, lying on his bed and watching Hedwig dozing on the top of the wardrobe, every now and then she'd open her huge yellow eyes and blink affectionately at him before drifting back to sleep – but when he'd heard Petunia screaming at Dudley about the hoard of videos and magazines she'd found stashed under the loose floorboard in Dudley's room, he'd fled into the garden, because how rattled must Petunia be to shout at her darling Dudders like that? So he'd slouched on the garden bench he'd painted in the holidays after his first year at Hogwarts, it hasn't been painted since and the paint is starting to peel. He'd idly picked at the paint blisters, and realised then that he hadn't even asked where the Dursleys were going – he hadn't asked and they hadn't told him, because it is better if he doesn't know, it's better if he operates, like Snape, on a need-to-know basis. No, he didn't know where they were going, but he hoped for their sakes that it was somewhere very far away – Australia, perhaps, or Patagonia.
He'd asked Snape if Snape could do anything for them, if Voldemort's right-hand man could find a way to get his Dark Lord to leave the Dursleys alone, and Snape had looked bored – though he was beginning to understand Snape well enough to know when boredom was just a mask for anger – and said "The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to attempt it." And it had given him a jolt to realise just how much he frightens Snape now that they both know what he is; he'd thought, Severus Snape is afraid to show his temper to either of his masters.
Severus Snape ... he's on first name terms with Snape now, sort of, because Snape calls him "Harry" – sometimes - but he doesn't think he'll ever call Snape "Severus", and Snape seems perfectly comfortable with "Snape". And what had Tobias Snape and Eileen Prince been thinking of, to lumber a kid with a god-awful name like "Severus"? He'd remembered his own primary school, he'd been alternately tormented and ignored, but at least no one had given him a hard time over his name - after all, he did share it with a prince of the House of Windsor.
It's hard to believe sometimes that only a month ago he'd called Snape "sir" or "professor", it's only a month since he'd served his last Saturday morning detention in Snape's office. But the Harry who'd attended Hogwarts, played Quidditch, snogged Ginny, hated Snape - and been talked about as possible Head Boy material, at least until that awful business with Draco Malfoy in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom – was another Harry, a Harry who'd ceased to exist on the night that Dumbledore died.
He still has nightmares about that night, nightmares in which he sees the flash of green light and Dumbledore toppling off the tower, and the only way he can cope is to think - Voldemort killed Dumbledore, and Draco and Snape were just the tools he used to do the job. Poor bloody Draco, who'd wanted to be a Death Eater, just like his dear old dad - right up to the point where Draco realised that he didn't have the nerve or the ability for the Killing Curse. And poor bloody Snape, sometimes he thinks that Snape is hardly human anymore, he's just some kind of vengeful automaton.
Well, Draco is safe now, safe from both the Aurors and from his Dark Lord - he's safe in a wooden box in an unmarked grave on Azkaban, dosed with the Draught of Living Death, and there he'll stay until it's all over. The Muggle newspapers had reported it as a bank robbery that had gone wrong, one of the thieves had got away and the other had been shot dead by police, but the Daily Prophet had told a different story. The headlines had screamed DRACO MALFOY DEAD, SNAPE STILL ON THE RUN, and made it look like a triumph for the Ministry that one of Albus Dumbledore's killers was dead. But he'd known better, and he'd thought - Dumbledore would have been pleased, he wanted to save Draco, he knew Draco wasn't a murderer ...
But he feels anger as well as grief when he thinks about Dumbledore, when he thinks - why didn't you tell me everything? Why didn't you tell me about the Unbreakable Vow? And why did you chose to die, why did you abandon me!
And the anger is fanned to white heat by the fact that he has never been so alone before, by the fact that he's carrying the burden of a secret he's not sure he can share even with Ron or Hermione – and if the Ministry finds out what he is, if Rufus Scrimgeour finds out what the prophecy means, he'll be thrown into Azkaban, just like Sirius, without even a trial.
That damned prophecy, Dumbledore had said that he could choose to turn his back on the prophecy, but he doesn't believe that any more, the thing will follow him like a bloodhound until it catches up with him. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, he knows what that means now, he knows what the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead means, but what about the power the Dark Lord knows not, what the hell can that be?
Dumbledore had said it was love, but what good was love? Everyone who'd loved him and who'd dared to stand between him and Voldemort was dead. His father, his mother, his godfather, the Headmaster, they'd loved him, and they'd stood between him and Voldemort, and now they were all dead. And his "saving people thing" – his "Gryffindor hero complex", as Snape called it - was a weakness, not a strength. Voldemort had used it against him twice already, and he'd use it against him again if he got the chance.
Sprawling on the garden bench in the afternoon sun, brooding over the prophecy, brooding over the Horcruxes, he'd remembered how his heart had swelled with happiness and relief that Christmas at Order Headquarters when Ginny had persuaded him that he wasn't being possessed by Voldemort. And it is a bitter pill to swallow that she was wrong; and surely Ginny wouldn't want to be near him if she thought that she might see Voldemort staring out of his eyes, if she thought that their vivid green might turn suddenly to scarlet, with catlike slits for pupils.
Ginny! Thinking of Ginny hurts – and if Voldemort ever tries to hurt Ginny again ... he hadn't felt angry, because this goes beyond anger, but he'd shifted on the bench, clenched his fist around his wand – his wand is never far from his hand these days, and the gun that Snape taught him to use is tucked into a pocket of his jacket – and thought, the power the Dark Lord knows not, it must be something really toxic, it must be something really deadly if even you don't know about it, Tom Riddle, no wonder Snape watches his step around me. You made a Horcrux out of something of Gryffindor's, alright, but not in the way that you intended, and I promise you, Tom, if you ever hurt Ginny again, if you ever hurt any of the people I love, I will take you apart - I don't know how, but I promise you, I will.
And then his fury with Dumbledore had died away, because the war against Voldemort is a game of chess, the less valuable piece is sacrificed for the sake of the game – hasn't he known that since Ron got him through McGonagall's giant chess set in first year? And Dumbledore hasn't left him alone, he's left him with one last protector, the one that Voldemort will never suspect, Voldemort's most loyal, most faithful supporter ... and his last protector in dire need.
He knows now where Snape stands, he knows where his loyalties lie - the incident with Snape's Boggart in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place had established that beyond a shadow of a doubt. The Boggart had taken the shape of Voldemort and neither he nor Snape had realised what it was until he'd raised his wand – and it had turned into his Boggart, turned into a Dementor. And he's been wondering about his own Boggart, Remus had thought that his Boggart was a Dementor because what he feared most was fear itself - but now he's wondering whether he fears something worse, whether in some way he's always understood that a fragment of Voldemort's soul is bound to his. He'd remembered what he'd said to Dumbledore when Dumbledore told him that he could speak Parseltongue because Voldemort had transferred some of his powers to him – Voldemort put a bit of himself in me – and he'd thought, maybe what I fear most is the loss of my soul, and even if I'd had been Sorted into Slytherin, the prophecy would have been fulfilled, because Dark Lords do not tolerate rivals.
And then he'd realised that it was starting to get dark and Mad-Eye was coming to escort him to a rendezvous with Snape that evening, so he'd gone upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes, trying not to get into too much of a stew over why Snape wanted to see him. It must be something really important for Snape to risk a meeting with him - is it news of the Horcruxes? Has Snape found out where Helga Hufflepuff's cup is hidden? Or has Voldemort finally missed Slytherin's locket?
He knows now that the locket they'd come across when they were cleaning out the drawing room of Grimmauld Place is the Horcrux, even though he hadn't found it hidden in Kreacher's smelly little nest under the boiler in the cupboard off the kitchen, as he'd hoped. He'd scuffled around amongst the mess of rags, and then he'd looked up at Snape and thought, I won't let Dumbledore die for nothing, and I have to do whatever it takes to fulfil the prophecy, even if it's an ordeal for both of us.
So he'd told Snape to do it, told him to use Legilimency to dredge up the faint, faded memory of the locket he'd only glanced at briefly before throwing it into a rubbish sack. He'd stared directly into Snape's eyes, ignored the raised wand, and held nothing back – he'd endured the rush of memories of that summer at Order Headquarters until Snape found the one they were looking for, the memory of the afternoon they'd emptied the glass-fronted cabinets. The locket had been grimy - nothing like as bright and shiny as the object he'd seen Hepzibah Smith display so proudly to Tom Riddle - but the ornate, serpentine S was unmistakable.
It hadn't been easy to deal with, the knowledge that he'd held the Horcrux that Dumbledore died for in his hands – and he hadn't known how precious it was; he'd tossed it into the sack with all the other creepy bits of junk out the cabinets without a second thought, so he'd just sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, while Snape made another cup of tea. But Snape had pointed out that the Order didn't throw dangerous Dark Arts artefacts into a Muggle dustbin, they went to Mad-Eye Moody for safe disposal, and he'd felt hope again.
Mad-Eye Moody ... the only other person in the know about Snape, because he hasn't even told Hermione and Ron that he was wrong about Snape, he hasn't told even them that Snape is Dumbledore's man through and through - and he'd felt like a right pompous git when he found himself using Dumbledore's words and telling Mad-Eye that his reasons for trusting Snape are a matter between Severus Snape and myself. So they'd called in Mad-Eye, and he'd never seen the locket, so now everything depends on whether Mundungus Fletcher will be able to shed some light on its whereabouts when he finishes his stint in Azkaban. And Dung will be falling over himself to be helpful, because Mad-Eye Moody will be asking the questions ...
When he came downstairs, Mad-Eye had been prowling around in the sitting room, his magical eye spinning slowly in its socket, while the Dursleys huddled, terrified, on the sofa. Mad-Eye had held him firmly by the arm and they'd Apparated with dizzying speed to half a dozen locations – to shake off pursuit, as Mad-Eye had explained. It had been Side-Along Apparation, because he wasn't yet up to Apparating to a place he'd never been to before, and Side-Along Apparation was, if possible, even more stomach-churning than solo Apparation. And then they'd nipped into the Underground - he had no idea what line they were on - and finally caught a lurching Muggle bus to some dodgy part of London, a part of London where the Dursleys would never go, full of girls wearing very short skirts – the sort of girls that he suspected that Molly Weasley would call scarlet women – and men wearing leather trousers and earrings.
So now he's lurking against a wall, protected by his Invisibility Cloak and a mild Muggle-repelling charm, across the road from some joint called The Pink PussyCat Club - and he's feeling more than a little tense, because although he trusts Snape completely, he still can't like him. Every time that he feels a stirring of sympathy or pity for Snape, Snape seems to know, and to be determined to prove that even if he is on the side of the Light, he's still a complete and utter son-of-a-bitch - and he makes some sneering reference to Nymphadora Tonks, the werewolf's camp-follower, or asks Mad-Eye Moody if the Aurors ever found all the pieces of Benjy Fenwick.
But Snape is late and the knot of anxiety in his stomach is slowly tightening, because between Voldemort and the Aurors, if there is anyone less likely to make it though this alive than he is, it's Severus Snape. And he can sense Mad-Eye stirring restlessly next to him - Mad-Eye won't let him wait more than a couple of minutes, Mad-Eye takes constant vigilance really seriously ...
Then a bus stops – and when it pulls away, Snape is standing on the footpath outside The Pink PussyCat Club, so he slips off the cloak, dodges past the traffic and walks through the front door. The place is still half empty, he spots Snape immediately at a little table for two in a dark corner, next to a sign that says "Fire Exit" – and Snape is already lighting up one of his stinking Muggle cigarettes.
He drops into the chair opposite Snape, Snape nods to him, greets him with a single word, "Harry", pushes a drink that looks like a Muggle version of butterbeer across the table to him - and he thinks, this is an odd sort of a bar, all the customers seem to be men, why aren't there any women? Then he stops thinking about the other patrons because Snape is tossing a pack of Muggle playing cards on to the table.
The cards are ordinary, cheap, pasteboard playing cards, the kind of thing you can get at any Muggle newsagent, but Snape is flicking them with his wand, and he realises that they're not just cards, they must be enchanted, something like the Marauders' Map. He fans them out in his hands, and they don't show the King of Spades or the Ace of Diamonds, they're photographs, mostly of wizards, but some witches, and he realises what they are - photographs of Death Eaters! Some of the faces he's seen before, on wanted posters or in the Department of Mysteries, but he's never seen most of these Death Eaters before, or if he has, their faces have been hidden by masks - and there seem to be a lot more than the standard Muggle pack of 52. He scans the faces – the names are printed at the bottom of the cards, and there's a scrap of information about each one ... expert in slicing hexes ... recent recruit, trained at Durmstrang ...
Some of the names are an unpleasant shock, names that he's read in the Daily Prophet – senior Ministry officials or Quidditch stars – and some of the faces he recognises from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and then he fumbles frantically through the rest of the pack, thinking, dear god, please don't let me see Percy Weasley or Viktor Krum's face, please, not them, please don't let them have gone over to Voldemort, not Ginny's brother and the best Seeker in the world, I couldn't bear it.
He drops the cards back on the table, sagging a little with relief that the two faces he'd dreaded seeing aren't amongst them; Snape taps the cards with his wand, and they're ordinary Muggle playing cards again.
He thinks, I ought to thank Snape, I ought to say something, he's brilliant – but then he realises that one face is missing from the pack that he had expected to see.
Snape reads the thought in his eyes and says, shortly, "You know what Lucius Malfoy looks like," but Snape's face is carefully expressionless, and he knows that there's something that Snape isn't telling him - and something doesn't add up. He knows what Bellatrix looks like, too, but her photograph has been included. So what's up between Draco's dad and Severus Snape?
Then he remembers Sirius making some kind of crack about Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape, some nasty remark about Lucius Malfoy being pleased that his lap-dog is teaching at Hogwarts, and he thinks, Snape and Malfoy must have known each other since they were kids together at Hogwarts - and did Snape have any friends who hadn't turned out to be Death Eaters?
And then he looks down at the table and starts shuffling the cards, for something to do, because he doesn't want Snape to see the pity in his eyes or to know that he's thinking - you poor bastard, even now you think of Lucius Malfoy as a friend, and with friends like Lucius Malfoy, who needs enemies? And I know how Tom thinks, I understand him as well as you do, and we both know that Lucius Malfoy is a dead man – he'll never leave Azkaban alive.
