AN: Here's the shiny new, revamped chapter one! I guess I'll post them here after all...But you can STILL read them more regularly, in case I don't update here, on my LJ ( osthrys ).
Title: Foundations of a Fugitive
Author: Osthrys
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: R for now for graphic scenes, violence, etc. Rating may go up much later in the story.
Genre: Romance, mystery, a wee dusting of macabre, adventure, agnstangstangstomgtheangst, fantasy-ish, and some mild sarcasm and humour...oh and...snapemightbeavampire, shush.
Pairing: Snarry, or, for those not in the know, Severus/Harry.
Summary: When there's something strange, in your nei--No, wait, that's not it... Well, maybe a little bit. There is a dark mystery surrounding Severus Snape, something that goes deeper than the surface, and into the very heart of not only himself and his ancestors, but of Harry Potter as he struggles with independence, responsibility, and the macabre knowledge of the supernatural.
Chapter One: You, Me, and the Devil Make Three
---
Harry Potter lie forlornly on his bed in Privet Drive, staring absentmindedly out the window as the rain came crashing down. It had been one of those days... One of those years really. Nothing ever seems to go according to plan.
It was the death of Sirius that started it, as he began his descent, blindly choosing to grieve alone, and paying no heed to the world around him until it was literally forced into his awareness. A brokenhearted Remus Lupin and anxious Mad Eye Moody had 'secretly' arrived at Privet Drive near the end of August, and told him to pack his things; they were going to Hogwarts early. This resulted in an exploded stove, a broken blender, and three terrified Dursleys hiding in the living room.
The rest of the year had been spent in the looming shadow of a building threat. After the failed attack on the Ministry of Magic, and several incarcerated Death Eaters, little was heard of Voldemort and his whereabouts. The summer had been quiet, too quiet, and like the fools they were, people began to be accustomed to the lull.
Then, without warning, news came of attacks on the coastline; burned towns and villages, all Muggle. This continued, gaining a swiftness to the attacks so that soon the coast was left in near ruins. It wasn't just Britain either. Surrounding countries were sending reports in like reports, and panic was beginning to set in. People moved inland, settled where they thought they'd be safe.
This did not hinder Him, and slowly, he began to work inwards, striking more major towns and cities. But always, at the very brink of destruction, he pulled back, leaving the landmark cities of Europe in a state of devastation, making a mockery of their defence systems. He didn't want to kill them, he wanted to play, to humiliate them. He left no sign of himself other then the Dark Mark, turning the sky a lurid green above the bodies of the fallen. His growing army of Death Eaters and revellers went through civilization like ghosts on the wind, brandishing their wands like swords, and their laughter like shields.
And still no sign of the Dark Lord's whereabouts.
The Ministry was frantic. Aurors were ready at all times, though all they could do was assist in the clean up and attend the wounded. The Muggle Prime Minister was tied in a knot, unsure of what to tell his people. In the end, the simple-minded man turned to blame the only people left: his comrades. Muggles were left dead, or in hospitals, with no hope of ever returning home, and everyone was angry with the government for keeping any evidence of the perpetrator under wraps. People who survived the incidents seemed to all have a rather fuzzy recollection of what really happened, details becoming obscured, and twisted. Having Obliviate cast on you by a specially trained Auror seems to have that affect on people.
As the Muggle world grew more desperate, rumours ran amok across the globe, and countries turned against each other, old wounds opening once more.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Since the beginning of last March, Death Eater attacks became few and far between, mere remnant shadows of the horror visited upon Europe. The Order was growing agitated, knowing Voldemort was busy, but with what? It was inconceivable to imagine a retreat just when it seemed the Dark Lord was gaining such an advantage. So what had him so...preoccupied?
The most confusing thing, however, was that since His apparent vanishing act, neither Severus Snape nor (surprisingly) Lucius Malfoy had been summoned. Dumbledore was unsure as to whether this meant he was leading up to something, or Severus' spy work had been discovered. However, Harry assumed if that was the case, Snape would have been dead already.
Which brings us back to the time being, which is July 16th, the summer after Harry's sixth year, and a particularly humid, rainy evening. Harry sighed moodily and swung his legs over the side of the bed, realizing that all attempts at falling asleep were rapidly becoming hopeless. Gathering up a quill, ink well, and several sheets of parchment he sat down at his desk, carefully nudging aside random potions ingredients, and Hedwig's cage, much to her chagrin. The snowy owl cracked an eye and gave a soft hoot before turning around again and tucking her head to her chest.
He smiled at her and dabbed the tip of the quill into the black ink, setting the slightly cracked tip to parchment.
Dear Ron and Hermione,
I know it's only a couple weeks into the summer vacation, but I miss you both already! I hate not knowing what's going on, though it always seem that's the way with me, huh? Neither of you have owled me much this summer, and I hope to God this doesn't turn out like the last.
My birthday is coming up soon, I hope you didn't forget. Well, I can understand if Ron did. Anyways, I can't wait until I'm 17! I'm hoping to give Dudley a bit of a 'shock', if you know what I mean. Can you two please talk to Remus, and see if he can convince Dumbledore to at least let me spend my birthday with my friends?
Miss you guys,
HP
Harry sighed and folded the impromptu letter, tying it closed with a thin piece of twine. He looked at the snoozing Hedwig, knowing she would be up in a little while for her nightly hunt, and set the letter aside, deciding not to wake her. He looked forlornly at the blank sheet of parchment before him, and chewed his bottom lip in thought. Dipping the quill in the well once more, he hesitated a moment, before setting himself to work.
"Well, here goes."
---
Rain pounded heavily outside of the Manor, causing water to collect in shallow pools where the earth was soft and dipped down. The fresh moisture caused the dry, humid weather of early August to turn muggy, dowsing the land in a thick blanket of fog.
But such frivolous things as the changing weather went uncatalouged by the lonely occupant of such a grand house, who presently sat content before a vast tapestry of lush black and gold embroidered velvet. With legs crossed idly at the ankles before him, a hand rubbed his temple as the other bore a thick book resting in his lap.
A high window touched the stone walls only a few feet to his side, and as a sharp flash of heat lightning lit up the unruly lawn, it cast large dancing shadows of himself seated in the wing backed chair. His dark eyes flicked to the candles before him, then to his own shadow on the wall, twisting in time to the thunder. Suddenly, it made the grand library feel so much smaller, and he so much more alone.
Rising from his chair, he pulled closed the drapes, and set the book back on the table. Blowing out the candles, he walked the many aisles of books, until he came to the large oak doors that marked the Library with serpent head handles. As he left the room, he glanced up to the ceiling above him, knowing that on the third floor his bedroom rested above the books he loved so much.
His solace.
He sighed and turned around, heading towards the spiral staircase down the main hallway. As he walked past the many candles, their flames spitted out, and soon the windowless hall behind him plunged into darkness, leaving no room for shadows.
Reluctantly, he placed his pale hand upon the railing of the stairwell, and began his ascent. Even in these hot days of summer, he felt cold and discarded; unloved and forgotten, like a child's used toy.
It would be another long, sleepless night for Severus Snape.
---
Crimson eyes opened to slits as a long fingered hand gently stroked the bent head of a giant snake. It lifted its head and flicked its tongue against that hand, in some crude form of affection. A low hissing sound came from the thin man with the Devil's eyes, and the snake turned away, dragging it's thick belly against the worn green carpet towards the fireplace. His hand rested in the air a moment longer, before taking a thin quill and ghosting his fingers across the soft branches of feather.
Twisting his wrist so the quill could catch the light of the fire, he grinned, his teeth long and jagged, as the feather shone brilliant shades of gold and scarlet.
It belonged to a Phoenix.
The eyes lifted, and the man turned to face forward in his chair, staring directly at the boy with green eyes who wasn't there. The grin widened.
"Welcome home."
Harry awoke from his dream with a start, his eyes flashing open, only to be shut again hastily as they were assaulted by the harsh midday sun. Shielding his face with his hand, he looked out the window to see cars passing by on the street below. He shifted awkwardly, his whole body stiff from sleeping in the desk chair all night. Hedwig was not in her cage, and the letter was gone. He smiled, and shifted around again, trying to work out his body's many kinks. Yawning, he glanced down at the parchment lying off to the side on his desk. He sighed and traced the lines of dried ink with his fingers, and shook his head. Getting up, he brushed down his pyjamas, and unlocked his bedroom door, going down to the kitchen to start the Dursley's breakfast.
Lying on his desk, where he left it, was a drawing. The thick and thin, curving lines of ink jutted out, connected together, and met at sharp angles and soft curves, to form the shape of a lone figure standing still, holding a wand in one hand. His eyes were heavy lidded, hair long and black, as well as his robes, and his face was downcast, set in an expression of abject misery.
Harry didn't know why he had drawn him, didn't even know how he pulled it off, but here it was, sitting innocently on his desk, much to the bafflement of it's creator, and, later, it's subject:
Severus Snape.