(4) Growing up Dursley, part 2 [Monday]
Back at number Four, Privet Drive, the late morning sun filtered in through the bars on Harry's window, warming the orange lump of sleeping bag that hid Professor Severus Snape. He came awake slowly, struggling to sort nightmare from reality, only slowly realizing that they were one and the same. Being called, he remembered, and that the Dark Lord had been angry about something…something Bellatrix had said…he sucked in a breath as everything clicked into place. Bellatrix hadn't been able to keep her mouth shut about the unbreakable vow.
Snape pushed the cover back, squinting against the bright sunlight. Potter's house. He had come here. Trapped himself here. In Potter's house. All to warn idiot Potter about the honor Bellatrix had been going to bestow on him last night. But Snape hadn't been quite so incapacitated as she had thought when her screeching had interrupted her curse casting. And then what had idiot Potter done? Gone right out to say hello and practically invite the Death Eaters in for tea.
Very slowly, he pushed himself up to sit with his back to a bedside table. Except for the distant shouts of children at play and the chirp of birds outside, all was quiet. He took in his surroundings slowly, careful to avoid moving, letting his eyes rove about, taking in the chest-of-drawers draped with cast-off clothing and a scattering of muggle newspapers. A half-eaten apple core and a few mostly empty boxes of cereal littered the section of floor that he could see, and bars covered the window just above him. What did Potter think to gain by shutting him in a pig sty with barred windows?
Disgusted, Snape shifted his focus to himself. He was a mess. Hair plastered to his skull with a mix of dried blood and mud, half dressed, wrapped in a makeshift muggle bandage and his right shoulder and most of his side starting to show a rich mottling of black and green bruises, he fit right into this rubbish heap of a bedroom.
Holding his right arm against his chest and as still as possible, Snape used his left to pull himself up. Blinking rapidly, he stood, waiting a moment while everything stopped spinning. When he could see clearly, he snorted in disgust, unsurprised as the rest of the small room revealed itself to be just as unkempt as the dresser, littered with clothing and the occasional white feather. Stepping gingerly and using the furniture and walls for support, he made his way toward the door. The pile of blankets wadded against the opposite side of the room where Potter had apparently slept did not escape his notice, and brought a slight smirk to his face. The feeling was definitely mutual.
Reaching the door, he stood silently for several minutes leaning against the wall, listening. Nothing. He closed his eyes and thought back for a moment, searching his memory. Potter lived with Lily's sister…his Aunt, Petunia. And the man who had been yelling last night, he had seen in Potter's memories last year, would be his Uncle. And they had their own son, he recalled seeing him as well in Potter's memories. It was Monday, so Petunia's husband was probably gone for the day at work. He had no idea what Petunia and her son would be doing though. Or Potter either, except not studying.
Very slowly, Snape turned the door knob. Meeting no resistance, and still hearing nothing, he eased the door open a crack. Perhaps they were all out for the day…doing whatever it was that a normal muggle family did during the day. Quietly, he eased through the door, keeping his left hand against the wall for support. He found himself in a short hall, several doors to his right and stairs leading down to his left. The walls were covered in pictures, mostly of a large round faced boy, but here and there were other muggles, though the only one he readily recognized was Petunia. None of Lily…or Potter.
Still detecting no signs of life, Snape turned toward the doors. Stairs didn't seem like a good idea just yet. Glancing back for a moment, he found himself staring, startled as he noticed for the first time all the locks attached to the outside of the room he had just come from. Potter's room, he had thought. What in Merlin's name had Potter done to rate that many locks – and the barred window? Mentally stashing the mystery away for later, he continued to the next door, pausing to listen carefully before quietly opening it.
Another bedroom, larger than Potter's, but equally as messy. Though the mess in this one was caused more by the clutter of numerous strange looking muggle devices, magazines and clothes, rather than rubbish and owl feathers. About to turn and try the next door, he paused, and eyed the scattered muggle clothes and the open closet speculatively. Hardly what he would choose, but some looked like they may fit. He slipped in, still managing to be silent despite his injuries. After a brief search he found an oversized dark hooded muggle sweatshirt, a t-shirt and set of dark denim trousers that looked like they would fit well enough, at least with a belt.
Exiting the room with his prize in hand and all still quiet, he next tried the door across the hall, finally finding a bathroom. Entering and shutting the door behind him, he leaned back, resting a moment in an attempt to conserve his rapidly depleting energy. Dropping the bundle of looted clothes to the floor, Snape staggered forward and sat on the edge of the tub. A moment later, he had figured out the muggle controls and closed his eyes as warm water rained over him, finally washing away the filth of his latest meeting with the Dark Lord.
…
Downstairs, Harry started as the sound of the shower running upstairs reached him, cutting into his circling thoughts. He was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, which of course would be normal for most boys his age, except that the TV wasn't on. Sirius. Snape. The prophecy. He wished he could forget it all. He had almost managed to forget that Snape was upstairs at this very moment (which was why he was downstairs) and had half hoped that the git would die overnight. Immediately though, he felt guilty at that. He would likely be in a lot worse shape than Snape was in right now if he hadn't remembered the warning last night.
Snape had come here to warn him…and Snape had warned the order about his vision. But Snape had also caused Sirius to leave Grimmauld place with his constant stream of vicious little comments. Sirius was dead because of that greasy git; Harry refused to believe otherwise, and he'd never forgive him for that. Never.
And now, the bastard apparently had managed to not die overnight, but was instead up and wandering around the Dursley's. Wonderful. Harry crossed his arms and let his eyes wander over to the cupboard under the stairs. Uncle Vernon kept the keys with him nearly all the time. Harry sighed. Until Hedwig returned, he didn't see any way out of this, unless Snape left the same way he came. And that seemed unlikely, Harry thought, turning over the idea in his mind.
Somebody or something had attacked Snape, and done a lot of damage in the process. He might hate the bastard, but he was in no hurry to be on the wrong side of Snape's wand – whatever had got to Snape was something he had no desire to meet. And, on the subject of wands, Snape had apparently lost his, Harry realized.
Snape must have been found out as a spy and Voldemort let loose on him, or let loose the Death Eaters on him, Harry decided. And he had come here, because here was supposed to be the safest place you could possibly be from Voldemort. Harry scowled, the warning was probably just an extra little bonus, or maybe not even real. Bellatrix probably followed Snape here somehow rather than an actual planned attack. Trust a Slytherin to save their own skin first – it made far more sense than Snape coming here because he actually cared what happened to Harry Potter.
The sound of running water still continued upstairs, Harry realized suddenly. What was he doing? Trying to flood the bathroom? Just as he was considering whether or not he was suicidal enough to find out, he heard a car door shut outside. Oh no. Petunia and Dudley were back from boxing practice and grocery shopping. And he hadn't finished the laundry, cleaned up from breakfast, or pretty much anything he was supposed to do. And, oh yes, there was the slight problem of Snape.
Harry tore up the stairs, the lethargy of a few moments ago forgotten. Banging on the bathroom door, he shouted, "Snape! Turn off the water! You've got to be quiet! Aunt Petunia and Dudley are back! Please! Sir!" He grabbed the door handle, shaking it, but it was locked. Just as he was about ready to try knocking the door down, the sound of the water running ceased. Breathing a quick sigh of relief, Harry felt his stomach flutter as the front door finally opened.
"Boy!" His Aunt called, "There's groceries in the car." Petunia swept in, Dudley on her heels.
Harry stood, immobile, his back pressed against the bathroom door. Dudley traipsed over to the couch and flopped down, remote in hand. Petunia headed to the kitchen, a shriek announcing her arrival as she discovered the undone dishes. Not waiting to hear more, Harry rushed down the stairs, giving the bathroom door a nervous glance over his shoulder, as he headed out to the car to bring in the groceries.
…
In the shower, Snape's eyes snapped open as the pounding on the door reached him. What was wrong with him? Falling asleep in the shower? He turned the water off as the import of Potter's words reached him. Running a hand through his wet hair, he pushed it back from his face and carefully extracted himself from the tub, wincing as he did so. The general restorative potion he had taken last night had helped, in that the gashes across his stomach had mostly closed and were no longer threatening to split apart and spill his guts everywhere, though they were still a long stretch from healed. Still, he could forego the muggle bandage, he decided, having no desire to fasten a new one out of the bloody rags of the original.
He pulled a towel off the rack and dried himself. Then as best he could with one hand, struggled into one of the t-shirts, the sweatshirt and pants he had nicked earlier. He used his own belt from his mauled trousers to hold them up, as they were definitely several sizes too large. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. He looked like a muggle. And a shoddy one at that. He hadn't dressed like a muggle since…since he had stopped going home in the summers. Turning away from the mirror and shoving those memories forcefully away, he gathered the remains of his trousers and bandage up in the towel and stood, leaning against the door, listening.
He could hear the sounds of the television and someone bustling about, probably in the kitchen, judging by the clanking of pots and pans. Very carefully, he eased the door open a crack. It was only a few feet across the hall to Potter's room, and he was just about to try for it when the heavy sounds of footsteps on the stair caused him ease the door back quickly. Through the crack he saw a very large boy, about Potter's age, he supposed, but about three times his size, come pounding up the stairs and disappear into the larger bedroom. Standing stock still, he tensed, trying to decide what he would do if the boy suddenly felt a need to use the loo.
For once though, luck was with him, as the boy reappeared and headed back downstairs a moment later, with something plastic and shiny clutched in his beefy hand. The second the boy's head disappeared down the stairs, Snape didn't hesitate, slipping out of the bathroom and staggering the few steps across the hall to crash into Harry's door with a muffled thud. Nearly crying out as his damaged shoulder hit the door and pushed it open, stars swam in his vision and he went down on his knees in Potter's room. Reaching out blindly with his good hand, he caught the door and gently pushed it shut. The soft sound of his own shallow breathing was all he heard for the next few moments, as waited for the fireburst in his shoulder to die down to a manageable level, all the while giving silent thanks that the muggles were apparently still oblivious to his presence.
Being found here, like this – he shuddered to think of it. Muggles were unpredictable. . .and dangerous, at least for a wizard without a wand and barely able to stand. Snape's lip curled in disgust. But himself aside, he couldn't jeopardize Potter's safety. He'd heard the rumours regarding the prophecy, and he believed them, especially since he was personally familiar with at least part of the prophecy. That, and he would die before he let Lily down again. And a boy-wonder Potter might be when surrounded by his friends and protectors at Hogwarts, but Snape doubted theso-called boy-who-lived would last five minutes if these muggles tossed him out on the street right now. And after what he knew from Dumbledore and what he'd witnessed on Potter's face last night, Snape was reasonably certain that these muggles would do that, at a minimum, if they found Potter was hiding a wizard in their house. Especially if that wizard was him, and Petunia recognized him.
As the sounds of Petunia's shrill voice ordering Potter about filtered up to Snape, Snape's eyes narrowed. Yes, he knew exactly what type of muggles these were.
September 2011
