It was raining outside.
Harry could hear it, pattering on the roof. He walked down the stairs, his head swimming. He must have been drinking. Exhaustion weighed on him, fatigue and dizziness like a hangover.
He could hear the rain, but he stopped in the hallway. It was different, plainer, drab. Just like when he had first come here. Hadn't there been carpet – a red and brown runner thing that Snape said was hideous, but Harry insisted on getting and laying the length of the hall – hadn't it been there?
He put his hands out, touching the solid wall. Funny, he could have sworn they had a dining room there, right beside Snape's study.
"Harry," Snape called out. "Are you tired? Why don't you go on to bed?"
He hesitated. Bed did sound nice. A long nap, burrowed under covers with his head on a soft pillow.
Something pricked at the back of his mind. Not bed, not sleep, not yet.
"I'm fine," he called back. "I'm just . . . the house looks different."
Snape came into hallway. He wore his usual shirt and trousers that he donned the summers they spent in the house, but Harry couldn't look at him. He stole a quick glance, and then dropped his gaze. A darkness seemed to be around the man's eyes, deep and troubling.
"The house has always looked this way. Ever since you came here. Don't you remember that summer you came here, just a little boy of eleven, almost twelve? Years have passed, but this house stays the same."
"It is nice," Harry nodded. "What should I do before dinner? Does the garden need work?"
"It's raining. Are you sure you don't want to sleep for a bit? Just a short nap to refresh you."
The uneasy tingle was back. Harry wished he could look Snape in the face, look at him deep and seriously, but each time he could only get his gaze up to the man's shoulders. If only he had the strength to stare at him – the bravery, the willpower –
"I could start dinner," Harry suggested.
"If you aren't too tired," Snape motioned to the kitchen.
Harry blinked when he went in there. The usual stove and table were there, the familiar counter where he and Snape prepared food, but there seemed to be something missing. He could have sworn the kitchen had more to it, but he couldn't remember exactly what. His head felt fuzzy and muddled.
"Is something wrong?" Snape asked.
"No, just thinking about what we need to cook," Harry began pulling out potatoes, carrots, dried beef, and bread. He could make a stew out of the dried meat and toast the bread.
He felt the objects under his hand, the knife as it sliced through raw vegetables. He had a sudden urge to pick the knife up and drive it through Snape.
He stepped back with a strangled noise, frightened by his thoughts.
"What's wrong?" Snape asked.
Harry tried to look at him from the corner of his eye, from the edge of his peripheral vision. Where Snape's head should be, there was a dark cloud obscuring his face. A presence of evil . . .
Don't let him know that you know.
That feeling pushed so hard at Harry that he almost tripped. He touched the counter, the rough wood where he had prepared hundred of meals. The house was how he remembered, just like the summer he had first come. But he was taller now. Should the house be the same?
"I – I don't want to cook tonight," Harry said. "Too – um, distracted. I almost cut myself with the knife."
"We can't have that."
It was Snape's voice, but it sent a chill up Harry's spine. It sounded like him, the man who had adopted him and taken care of him and refused to come to his birthday party so Harry got drunk and puked all over the flowers –
Harry looked out the window, but the rain was gushing down, hiding the outside world in its downpour.
"I have other chores around the house," Harry faltered. "I usually sweep and mop."
"Make sure you mind the corners."
Harry went back into the hall and then into the living room. It was just as he remembered – the shelves of books, the chair, the Victorian school-desk that Snape had made him use when they were playing those difficult games of pretend.
"This is another game we're playing," Harry realized out loud. "You want me to pretend along with you."
"Yes," Snape sounded relieved from the hall, "yes, of course. Just a game. You must like games."
"Is that why I can't look at you?"
"It might be. I can't spoil the game for you. But really you must be more rested to play. Go to bed. You know you want to."
Relief had swept over Harry at the mention of playing pretend, but that nagging stab of fear was back. Why couldn't he go to bed? What was so dreadful about going to bed?
"I'd rather stay up for now," Harry began wandering around the room. He ran his fingers over various things as memories came back to him. Yes, that was the spot where he had been sassing Snape when he got dropped into the cellar, there was the wall that he lined botched potions against. Everything just like it had been those seven years ago.
Wait, seven years. That would make him eighteen. He was at the house for the summer, but was it summer? Funny, but he would have sworn it was winter and snow was falling and ash was raining down from the sky –
"The house is perfect, just like you remember. Nothing out of place."
"No, no, everything seems to be like it was," Harry turned around. "Wait right here."
He ran for the front door. He flung it open and dashed outside . . . right back into the kitchen.
He stumbled to a stop in the kitchen. He looked at the backdoor that he had just entered from, but it was shut.
He was trapped in the house.
"I'm very good," Snape said from the hall. "Now stop your worrying and relax. This is your home. You feel safe here. You feel safe with me."
"I do of course," Harry said. The moment the words left his lips, they felt wrong. He did feel safe with Snape, but not like this. His Snape wasn't like this.
His Snape . . .
His throat caught at the enormity of what he had just reasoned through. The Snape in the other room was wrong. That Harry knew for sure. It could be Polyjuice Potion or a charm or anything you like, but that wasn't Snape.
And he was trapped in the house. Trapped in a house that looked exactly like it had when he first came. But all the details were right – there was a container of blackening powder for the stove on that same shelf, the corner that Snape had cleared out so Harry had a place to stand when he was in trouble, the broom against the wall, the pots on the shelf above the stove.
This house had no mistakes. It was perfect.
"Think, think, think," he whispered to himself. "Has to be a way out."
"Um," Harry said in a clear voice, "where's Vampyre?"
"The dog? We left him at Hogwarts in the care of Hagrid. He and Fang can romp the woods together."
"Are my friends coming to visit soon?"
"I think next Friday. You'll have to write to them, like you always do. When this rain clears up, we can send your owl out."
Despair and panic fought for control in Harry. He summoned up all his courage and asked, "The rain probably won't stop until tomorrow, will it?"
"Probably not."
He would have to go to sleep before then. He would lay down in his bed and sleep.
He wasn't going to wake up.
He knew that.
It would be the last thing he did before he fell to darkness.
It didn't matter how many Horcruxes they had destroyed.
Harry jerked, his mind racing. Think, oh, think – what were Horcruxes? Why were they important? They meant something, but what were they?
He knew he must know something about them, but his head was so dizzy and confused and he was tired. If he could sleep for five minutes, just five minutes –
No, no, no! Not yet. He only had a limited amount of time.
The house – there had to be something about the house. Yes, it looked perfect and real, but there had to be a mistake somewhere. Snape must have left him a clue to get out of this trap.
The other Snape came in and Harry had to drop his eyes immediately. He could get his gaze up to the man's waist, but that was all. With each passing moment, the monster grew stronger.
"I'm making you dinner," the imposter said. "You need a good, healthy meal and then it's off to bed with you. You aren't going to argue with me, are you?"
"No," Harry felt his mouth say, "of course not."
It reminded him of that day that Snape had slipped him Veritaserum. He had thought at the time it was the worst day of his life, being forced to blurt out his secrets. Shortly after, he had torn up the plants which turned out to be poison ivy. Yes, then it had been the worst day of his life.
Had been. Now this was the worst day of his life.
The man fixed the stew and bread and put it in front of him. "Eat up."
Harry reached for the spoon, ignoring the trembling of his hands. Evil Snape sat across from him, but Harry couldn't take his eyes off the food in front of him.
"I don't want to go to bed after this," he managed.
"Yes, yes, you do."
A tear rolled down his right cheek. "Please don't make me."
"You want to go to bed. You've fought me and fought me, but this is the end."
A tear went down the left side of his face. He was almost paralyzed.
"It's quite fitting really," the monster said. "One last day here. You get to remember your life here, you get to return to childhood. I'm here taking care of you, like a good father. I give you this dinner and I'll tuck you in nice and warm. You'll end happy and loved, warm and protected. Isn't that the best ending of all? You could go in pain, in agony, but you go like fading off to sleep. No more tears, my boy. Eat up and just think about how lucky you are to be this loved and cared for."
A calm spread over Harry. It was nice to end this way. Quiet, gentle, going to sleep like a little child, in the home that he loved so much. Better than dying in a bloody fight.
He tasted the stew. It was warm and savory. How could he be so fortunate to get a last meal at his home? He wished the real Snape was here, but this Snape would do. He couldn't look at this Snape, but it was good enough, more than he deserved. He would fade away happy, content.
He ate all the stew and the bread, drained the cup of tea, and when Snape put a hand on his shoulder, Harry stood obediently.
"Can I say goodnight to the living room? I had good times there."
"Of course."
Harry went into the room. Outside the rain had stopped and blackness pressed at the windows. He would soon join that blackness, after one last farewell to the house he loved so much.
He skimmed his fingers over the books. Goodnight, books. He didn't get to read them all, but that was life – unfinished books and goodbyes.
He was about to turn and head up the stairs one last time, crawl into bed one last time, and then sleep forever when, suddenly, without realizing it, he paused at one thin book.
Lily, Fairest of the Flowers.
Ah, the book that Snape had hidden the letter from his mother into between pages about flowers. Harry had sneaked peeks at it over the years until shortly after his fifteenth birthday when Snape caught him. He had expected Snape to be furious, but the man just said, "Don't you dare let anything happen to that letter. It's all we have of her."
He would read the words from his mother one last time, and if he was very lucky, he would be seeing her soon. Harry opened the book.
The pages were not there.
He shook the book, felt around the other books, thumbed through the pages, and glanced around the room in panic.
The letter was not there.
There was the sign. There was the tell, a tell that the real Snape must have left for him – a missing letter for the woman that they both loved, one as a lover, one as a son, but she was theirs. Her letter belonged in that book on that shelf. The letter wasn't there and the whole house felt as fake as a cardboard cut-out.
Harry put the book on the shelf and went towards the stairs. He went up to his room and sat on the bed. Beside the bed, on the light table, were the figurines he had played with as a child: the unicorn, the cobra, the dragon with the pointed wings.
"I'm ready," he called out.
Snape entered the room. "You aren't dressed for bed."
"I know," Harry took up the dragon. It moved, just like it did those years ago when he had played with it. "But I don't need to change. We both know that."
"You don't want a quiet departure? I'm offering you that."
"No," Harry tightened his hands into fists, "no, I don't need to be coddled. And the real Snape knows I don't do anything quietly. Isn't that right, Voldemort?"
He looked up, and the robed man stood in from of him with his snake eyes and twisted lips.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed.
"This was clever," Harry met his gaze. "Quite bright for you. You recreated my home, but the home of seven years ago. Did you create it from memory or did you invade Snape's mind?"
"Severus is weak. Pathetic little man – tried so hard to keep me out. But he gave up every last detail."
"Not everything," Harry replied. "Not all of what was really important. And here's a hint for you. If you are going to make someone's home and father real, don't make it so the person being tricked can't look at the father. Yeah, I was scared of Snape a lot when I first came here, but I could always look him in the face. All that evil power and you can't create a real face? Well, what should I expect from a man who lived far too long in the back of another man's head?"
"I'm going to kill you slowly now," Voldemort bared his teeth. "You'll suffer, you'll scream until you bleed every last drop of blood you have in that useless body."
Harry's forehead tingled and then began to burn. His scar was heating up. His scar, the mark he wore, the remembrance of his mother's love and sacrifice, one last Horcrux . . .
"Not in my house. You don't get to control me here. I lived here," Harry pressed his back against the iron headboard of the bed, summoning strength. His scar was burning on his forehead. "I grew here. I cried here and laughed and loved and hated and felt and wanted and was. I was here. I was real and it was real. Snape was real and I'm going to find him right after I finish you."
"I have you where I want you. Moments from now, you will be lying dead on that bed."
"You know," Harry's tone was mockingly casual, "Snape used to think he had me all figured out, too. But I fought against him, always ready to prove him wrong. I'm not just Harry Potter. I'm his worst nightmare because I made him real again. I made him feel and love and believe. Rather sappy, I know, but," Harry angled the dragon in his hands, "that how we do things in this house."
He drove the dragon up, gashing the wings deep into his scar.
Voldemort gave a scream of pain, but Harry ripped the dragon across his forehead.
Voldemort fell into two pieces. Harry saw his foaming mouth and evil eyes right before the man exploded, taking the whole house with him in a rush of pain, darkness, agony . . . exhaustion . . . stillness . . .
Harry opened his eyes.
"Shh," Snape's voice cut through the fog. "Easy now, easy."
Everything hurt. Harry moaned slightly as he opened his eyes to see the hospital wing, Snape hovering over him. His entire body throbbed with pain, but the only thing that didn't hurt was his forehead.
"What happened?" he croaked.
"You battled Voldemort," Snape said in a low, strangled voice. "You destroyed the last Horcrux and then he disappeared. He went unconscious and you've been here for three days. The last Horcrux, your scar – I could do anything but watch it glow as you lay there."
"He was inside my head," Harry gave a tired smile, "but I ended him."
"You have scared us to death," Snape went on in the same choked voice. "We sat here, watching you, helpless."
"No, you helped. You didn't tell Voldemort about the letter. He couldn't trick me without the letter."
"What? What are you talking about? Where did he take you?"
"It doesn't matter. Are Ron and Hermione all right?"
"Of course, you stupid, thoughtless boy. I cannot believe you put me through so much torture and turmoil. When I get you out of here, it's house-arrest for you permanently."
"I'm in the Auror program. You can't take me from it. Where's Ginny?"
"Ugh, that girl has been nothing but a nuisance. Hovering around, always wanting to-"
"Harry?" Ginny ran into sight. "Oh, Harry, you're awake."
She was over him and then kissing him. He tried to reach a hand for her, but Snape ordered,
"You just lie there and be still. I'm not through with you, young man. You have scared me for the last time."
"You are on a very short leash," Ginny got up on the bed, and angled her body so she was close to him, one hand across him protectively. "Your father and I aren't putting up with this nonsense any longer."
Harry smiled. "I'm sore. Did I get roughed up in the battle?"
"Did you –" Snape began and broke off, too outraged to continue.
"Yes," Ginny patted his chest protectively, "yes, you got very roughed up. You were quite the hero. Now, you've got to be our good little patient and get better. Snape has spoken with Madame Pomfrey and arranged to see to you once you leave here. She has very strict orders, but you can follow them at your own place."
"Good," Harry's eyes fluttered shut, "I want to go home."
Snape moved to bed, plumping the pillows and tucking the covers under Harry's chin. Ginny looked up at him. She kissed Harry's forehead, over the useless scar, and got off the bed.
"Watch over him. I need a shower and sleep. But have someone fetch me when he wakes. I want to be here when he wakes."
She tiptoed out, but Harry didn't stir in his sleep, his breath coming in long and steady.
Snape raised his own face up, unable to hide his torture and tears any longer. He had never felt so powerless in his life. What he felt for the dark-haired boy lying on the hospital bed, the teenager just stepped into manhood, Snape's sole reason for living now – the intensity of those feeling scared him. But Harry had always scared Snape, terrified him with his spirit and his kindness and his stubbornness and his determination to make Snape's life happy and complete.
There would be later to deal with all of this. Later, to scold the boy, to put him on punishment notice, to exact over every chore to repay the brat from scaring him so badly. Oh, it would be a miserable few months while the Wizarding world rebuilt itself from the battle and all the fire. Harry would not enjoy any of the celebration or feasting, the cheering and the praising.
Absolutely not. The boy would be restricted to their house so the praise didn't go to his head while Snape wore out his displeasure and made sure the boy never considered playing the hero again. A most-thoroughly chastised and subdued Harry Potter who would hang his head, too ashamed to look his father in the eye.
Snape had plans – terrible, devious plans which would involve days spent on chores with breaks for potion making and potion taking, regimented diets without any sweets or the smallest sprinkle of sugar on porridge, grueling exercise until the boy begged to go to bed, and then up at the crack of dawn to be doused in cold water before it began again. Yes, one very sore, sorry Harry Potter.
His cruel thoughts were not quite strong enough to stem the pain, the despair that he had suffered through, almost losing his child. That agony – that torture which had driven him half-mad the last three days.
Snape sat down beside the bed. He looked at the boy's face, relaxed in sleep, peaceful and still.
He would be there as well when Harry woke up. And then as soon as they could, they would go home.
The End