I had a long list of notes as to what happens next in this story. It was about as long as my list of excuses, actually. But I hated it. Shredded it. And started anew. So, I don't know where this story is going. Again.
Warnings: (because it has been a while) Snarry, set during Half-Blood Prince, plotholes, MPreg, miscarried MPreg, sexual content, typos, OOC?, dub-con?, unbeta'ed, and completely unfinished. Usual fanfiction disclaimers apply. This chapter: a couple of bad allusions, bad Potions talk, and Dobby! I will admit I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter, but this story tends to do that to me. A lot.
And if you see a mistake, let me know? :)
A Series of Events
Chapter Fourteen
There were several potions that called for the various parts of a human corpse. A few of these concoctions were best if the recently deceased had been of the magical persuasion; others worked just as well with slices of Muggle flesh. Those that called for parts from a human fetus were never nearly as picky; a child's magical ability rarely manifested itself in the cradle, much less in the womb.
Potions calling for human parts, however, fetal or otherwise, were still severely frowned upon by the general Wizarding community, despite the availability of potential ingredients. This, however, had not stopped Severus from learning all he could about these forbidden potions, back when he was younger and much more ambitious. Even now in his old age, few things had been able to stop Severus from learning something new.
He knew, for example, that the bones, if air-dried for a fortnight before cleaned with sand and later coconut milk, and then grounded to the consistency of fine sand, could be added to a known hallucinogenic for a stronger effect. The liver, if shredded with a sharp copper blade, was useful in a purifying solvent. The brain itself, if properly cured, was irreplaceable in a variety of potions, from communicable plagues to a peculiar hair restorer once popular with young women of a certain persuasion.
Severus murmured a recipe or two under his breath as he examined the remains of the child he had unknowingly carried for nearly four months. He turned the creature this way and that, examining each detail by the light of the lantern on his desk.
The tiny hands, translucent and frail in the light, were already stiff with death. Whole, they could be used in a leeching potion, so long as the tiny fists were stuffed with a mixture of salt and diced rose thorns. The fingers, on the other hand, could be boiled and sliced for a slow-acting poison that would have been very difficult to detect but very easy to neutralize.
Severus whispered his learning to this destroyed creation, this thing that could have been his child. Years of forbidden knowledge were running through his mind and falling from his lips like the blackest of pearls. He thought of and spoke of these hidden truths and theories, knowing that to do otherwise would be to remember. And Severus did not want to remember that this broken collection of bone and flesh in his hands was much more than just an unexpected addition to his personal stores.
He ran a finger down the center of the dead thing's face, a sliver of uncertainty filling his heart for a moment before he relentlessly pushed it aside. Why care about whose nose the child would have inherited, when the flesh that shaped it now was essential when making a mildly acidic shark repellent? Why wonder if the child's eyes would have been green or black, when testing Perón's theory of 'the unseeing eyes of a lost child' (poetic Spaniards be damned) in shape-shifting potions would be an intriguing way to pass the time?
He frowned at the creature, annoyed with himself for letting his mind wander so dangerously. He laid the remains on the black velvet spread out on his desk with a huff and began casting a succession of spells and charms on the body and accompanying placenta.
The charms he cast on the remains were old hat; he could not recall how many times he had spelled newly acquired materials against decay and contamination before he could use them in his work. The black velvet he would wrap the remains in, too, was designed to keep the corpse fresh and untainted.
He had never thought he would use this knowledge on such a thing as what was now on his desk, safely wrapped away in velvet.
On one side of this desk by the lantern was a small silver case, open and waiting. He pulled it close and lowered the wrapped remains into it, careful to not bump the delicate bundle against the edges as he did so.
The case, no larger or wider than an inexpensive cigarette case, was unadorned but for the tiny row of pinprick-sized keyholes along its side. The seven keyholes, as noticeable as a lump of coal in a pool of ink, were spread out along the edge, with an echoing set on the opposite side. Only the first chamber was as small as the case suggested; inside it was a handful of Mayfairs Severus smoked on occasion. He would be remiss if he did not admit he had smoked one to calm his nerves after his encounter with Potter.
The other six chambers, however, were vast canyons in comparison, filled with Severus' most precious and most secret possessions, canyons that were accessible only by blood. It would be in the seventh chamber of this unremarkable, slender case that Severus intended to hide away this secret failing.
He made certain the remains would stay secure against any shaking, his long fingers tucking the black velvet around the corpse one last time before pulling his hand away. Here, he was certain, it would be safe, and his shame, his anger, and his regret would stay secret with it.
He closed the thin metal case, making certain that each of the keyholes along the side of the case were locked. He slipped it into a pocket of his robes with only the most transitory feeling of satisfaction smoothing his brow.
His sense of satisfaction, however, faded away like smoke as his eyes fell on the Invisibility Cloak opposite him. He had draped it over the straight-back chair opposite his desk when he, still trembling from his encounter with Potter, had entered his office. His lips flattened in irritation. He had been truly frightened that the boy had remembered, but he had faith that the Memory Charm would not break. It could not break. He did not want to consider what would happen if Potter remembered now.
He had acted like an outright fool in that corridor, letting his control slip in Potter's presence and risking the chance of jogging Potter's memory. He still burned with anger at what the boy had put him through; the fact that the boy did not remember because of the Memory Charm Severus had cast was not enough to absolve him.
His cheeks burned as he remembered the heat of the boy against him, unexpected and shameful. His eyes were so wide with panic when Severus pulled him close. Was he so desperate to have a repeat encounter with the boy? Wasn't one horrendous mistake enough, or was the dark, miserable masochist in him hungry for another go? No part of him desired to be on his knees on cold stone again, being dominated by the boy. Calloused hands holding his hips in a bruising grip, a hot mouth groaning and panting against his spine…
He adjusted his trousers, holding back a moan as the fabric rubbed against him in a not-unpleasant manner. Counter-productive or not, it would be so easy to slip his hand underneath the waistband, but Severus knew it would be a hollow release, and a shameful one, coming with thoughts of Potter guiding his hand.
First thing in the morning that Cloak was going to the Headmaster. Let him deal with the boy and the return of the accursed artifact. Severus could no longer risk being alone with the boy, not if his anger, his resentment, and the memories of that night were to color every encounter with him. The Headmaster would not be overjoyed when he learned he had taken the boy's precious Cloak away for even a night, but better to withstand the Headmaster's disappointment again that to risk feeling Potter's arousal against his thigh a third time. Severus was more likely to survive the Headmaster's displeasure.
He Summoned the Disillusioned silver thread he had sown into Potter's Cloak so many years ago, causing the entire garment to jerk uncertainly towards him with a lazy swish of his wand. The cool fabric flowed like liquid onto his lap as he held it, teasing his arousal in a way Severus ignored. His fingers, as sensitive as they were stained, searched for the thin, Disillusioned threads of silver woven in, casting a charm or three on them to keep them undetected for a little while longer and keeping his thoughts as far from Potter as possible.
Dobby shook Harry awake, the house-elf's eyes glowing by the light of the candle left burning on the low table. The common room was dark and cold; a handful of embers still glowed in the fireplace.
The fire had been burning when Harry had settled into the cushioned chair, diligently waiting for Dobby to return. He was so wired with sexual confusion and nerves, he had not expected to nod off. He must have been more tired that he had first thought.
"Is Harry Potter awake, sir?" Dobby said, his high-pitched voice like the faint hiss of air slowly escaping from a balloon. "Maybe Harry Potter is more comfortable in a bed?"
"I'm fine," Harry said, rubbing his eyes with his fingers before readjusting his glasses. Dobby looked up at him, regret clear on his face. It took a moment for Harry to notice what was missing.
His father's Invisibility Cloak was not in Dobby's hands. His stomach churned painfully. "The Cloak?"
Dobby's look of regret deepened. "Dobby couldn't take the Cloak from Professor Snape, Harry Potter sir," he said, his hands twisting the hem of his shrunken sweater. "It was in Professor Snape's hands for hours."
"He's still awake?" Harry asked incredulously, glancing at the common room's clock. It was nearly four-thirty in the morning. "What was he doing with it this whole time?"
"Professor Snape was casting spells on the Cloak," Dobby said. "Dobby does not know what kind or why."
Harry could only guess at what sort of hideous, dangerous charms Snape had put on his Cloak now that he had the chance. He didn't know what he would do if Snape damaged the Cloak in any way. "I can't believe this," he whispered to himself, deflating a bit and sinking into the chair. If his stomach did not stop churning, he was going to vomit.
"The Cloak is still fine, Harry Potter sir," Dobby reassured him as he wrung his hands. "The spells weren't affecting the Cloak at all. And Dobby thinks Professor Snape needed something to do. Professor Snape is still much too upset over what happened today to sleep."
"Probably still upset Ginny hexed him," Harry said, malong a small noise of agreement. Snape was never one to take indignities in stride; it must have been quite an insult to be accidentally hexed in his own class.
The pale, haggard face of his professor after leaving the Hospital Wing formed again in Harry's mind. "How did he look?" he asked suddenly before backpedalling. "Because he didn't look too well earlier."
Dobby gave Harry a weak, grateful smile, confusing Harry. "Oh, Professor Snape would be so happy to know Harry Potter cares so much for him," Dobby said, his large eyes suspiciously bright.
"Don't be so sure," Harry muttered under his breath, recalling how Snape had responded to Harry's vague concern with cold suspicion not a few hours ago. "He didn't appreciate it before."
"Professor Snape is not very good with concern, yes," Dobby said as if he knew first-hand about Snape's reaction to concern and kindness. "He is still ill, yes, but his body will heal. It is Professor Snape's heart that Dobby is afraid will stay broken for a long time."
"Snape's heart?" Harry echoed. "What does Snape's heart have to do with what happened?" He stared at the house-elf as an odd thought dawned on him. "You know what made Snape sick all these months, don't you Dobby?"
Dobby stood stock-still for a brief moment before he began to tremble all over. "Dobby does," he said, the tower of knitted hats on his head wobbling dangerously. "But Dobby cannot tell Harry Potter. Dobby promised Professor Dumbledore he will keep this secret."
"This is Dumbledore's secret?" Harry said, confused and not a bit wary.
"This is Hogwarts' secret," Dobby insisted. "And Dobby is proud to keep it."
Harry was silent, going over the words in his mind. "… It must be something terrible, then," he said after a while.
"Yes, Harry Potter," Dobby said. "Terrible for Professor Snape. And very sad, too."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. If it was terrible and sad, he reasoned, it might involve Voldemort after all. Dumbledore kept so many things secret; Harry would not be surprised if Snape's illness had been caused by Riddle in some way. But Dobby said it was Hogwarts' secret, so Harry could be wrong.
Harry would not be able to leave this alone. Snape might not tell him directly what that terrible, sad secret was, but that had not stopped Harry before. What if it did involve Voldemort in some way? What if it involved Harry?
"Does Harry Potter want Dobby to try again?" Dobby said, interrupting Harry's thoughts, startling him.
"What? No," Harry said, shaking his head. "It's alright. I'll go get it first thing in the morning." The thought of having to face Snape again so soon after what happened in that corridor made his insides turn to ice. He remembered acutely how the smell of Snape's robes and the feel of Snape's body against his had affected him. He also remembered the horrified look on the man's face when he had felt just how he had affected Harry. Snape was probably just as eager to keep his distance, if that look of fear had been genuine, and in any other situation, that would have been a welcomed reprieve.
That would not get Harry his Cloak back, however, and he had been sorted into Gryffindor for a reason. He could not let his embarrassment stop him from getting back what was rightfully his. And it would give him a chance to perhaps get a clue as to what sort of secret Snape, and by extension Dumbledore and Hogwarts, was hiding.
"Thank you, Dobby," he said, grateful for the house-elf's unexpected help even if he had been unable to do what Harry had initially asked him to do. The house-elf beamed at Harry before disappearing, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.