"I'm sorry."
"You're always sorry."
There was a flash of red hair as she turned away. Dark shadows approached on all sides, pressing close around him. He needed to make her stop, stay with him –urgently– but she was like water running through his hands.
"Lily!"
He was running now. Through the shrubberies on the riverbank, slipping in the mud as the thorns snagged on his clothes and scraped against his arms. He saw a flash of angry green as she threw him a look over her shoulder.
"Get away from me!"
She was slipping faster. To a place he couldn't reach. And how he resented her innate ability to make people love her. It was like carrying a constant weight around and every time he looked into those eyes, it got a little heavier to bear.
"No, don't go. I'm sorry."
The stair creaked.
Something wasn't right. Lily was gone a long time ago and only her son remained.
Severus jerked up with a start. It was only the faintest of sounds and if the dream hadn't already brought him to the brink of waking, he might never have noticed.
The house was sleeping still, but a faint grey was challenging the dark of night. Potter watched him from the bottommost step of the stair.
There was a bruise high on his cheek, blossoming like a purple flower towards his left eye. And those eyes again. For the space of a second, they had the effect of loosening the knot that had formed permanently in Severus' chest.
"You."
Then they turned cold as ice. Potter reeled backwards as though he expected Severus to attack. When he remained as he were, the boy marched down the remaining stairs, abandoning any attempt at stealth.
"Potter be quiet," hissed Severus, a bit harsher than he intended it. He intercepted the boy before he could reach the hall and grasped him by the arm. "We have to get out of here. Your uncle–"
"Don't touch me!" Potter wrenched free, backing into the sitting room and nearly stumbling over the doorstep. "Don't touch me," he snarled again. "I'm never talking to you again!"
"Quiet." Severus followed a bit more slowly, trying very hard to appear calm and sensible. "Potter, wait," he whispered. "You'll wake them. We have a chance to get away."
Potter glanced up to where his relatives were sleeping, but didn't stop. "No," he said. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Damned boy. Why was everything so difficult with him?
"You'd rather stay then?" Severus' patience was wearing thin. He made another lunge for the boy, but he twisted out of reach like a gnat. "Potter, you imbecile. Your relatives can't protect you, don't you realise that? They don't care."
"What?" Potter spun around. Despite the obvious discord between him and the Dursleys, his expression reflected true hurt. "And you do?" he cried. "You? You killed Remus! You killed my parents!"
"Get a hold of yourself, this is not the time–" Severus sighed and lowered his voice a little. "Potter, your mother was my friend."
"Friend?" The boy barked a harsh laugh of anger and disbelief. "You hate my father much more than you ever cared about her. You hate me much more. You killed them! Why should I ever believe anything you say?"
"It was a mistake."
"You seem to make a lot of those!"
They were bound to wake the uncle if they went on like this. Severus made another attempt to get control of Potter, but missed as the boy shouldered past him on his way towards the hall. "Potter stop," he barked, but the boy pushed him away, eyes wild with anger.
"Get away from me," he yelled, pushing Severus again and seeming beside himself with rage. "You vile, evil –your fault…always! You should be the one to die, I hate you!"
With a final push that was hard enough to set Severus back a few paces, Potter raced ahead. But when they reached the staircase, he suddenly froze.
When Severus caught up, he froze as well. Because he was facing the mouth of a double-barrelled gun.
"You again," thundered Dursley as he made a human shield in front of Petunia and the large boy Severus remembered from the framed pictures in the hall. "You dare?"
The small family were in their nightwear, with rumpled hair and wide, frightened eyes. Petunia held the boy tightly to her as Dursley traversed the last few steps to the ground floor.
"Time to go, boy." Severus grasped Potter by the neck, placing himself between the boy and the mad uncle and pushing him towards the door. He didn't have time to be gentle or delicate about it, but apparently, that was the wrong thing to do.
"Get away from me!"
Severus heard Potter's cousin scream. Then something blinded him and it felt like a horse kicked him harshly in the chest. All he had time to think was that with Potter, he always seemed to make the wrong decision.
When he once more became sentient of the world around him, he lay on the ground. He could feel the carpet beneath, his own weight on it, and his own heart, thumping against his ribs and occasionally missing a beat, probably doing its best.
It hurt, but no more than Potter's words. It seemed to be the final cruel joke that life would play on him, he was slowly becoming aware of that. That in the end, all he had left was Potter. That a boy he had spent so much of his soul on hating was all that mattered after all.
He opened his eyes and the boy was gone.
"Shit," he grunted, searching out Dursley, who was sitting on the floor next to him with the rifle scattered by his side. "Go after him, Dursley. Hurry, he can't be on his own."
"Are you insane?" Dursley coughed harshly, clutching a hand to his chest. He scrambled for the gun, seeming mostly unscathed, apart from a blackened eye. "Blasted boy," he growled, "I should have put him in the cupboard where he belongs and thrown away the key."
By the stair, Petunia was on the floor with her head in her hands, trembling like an aspen leaf. She was white as a sheet and the other boy, who had to be Potter's cousin, stood by her side, watching her in confusion and helpless apathy.
Severus turned to Dursley again, wishing the world would stop going grey on him. "Dursley, hurry!"
"I'm not going after that." Dursley was on his feet all of a sudden and he grasped Severus by the arm to try to haul him up. "I'm not suicidal," he barked. "You go. Snape or Slugdung or whatever your name is. You're leaving anyway."
"Ah, stop that." Severus squeezed his eyes shut when Dursley's pulling jostled the injury on his stomach. When he opened them, he could see a freshly dark stain on the already soiled shirt he wore. He looked past Dursley's impressively large form, managing at last to free himself.
Christ, if he survived this madness, the blasted uncle would be the first to know. "Petunia?" he croaked. "Tuney?"
It took her a while to tear her fingers away from her face. Dursley looked between them, scowling, but Potter's cousin finally gathered his wits and took her by the hand.
"Mum?" The boy's voice was high-pitched and timid. "Mum, are you all right?"
Severus straightened, leaning heavily on one elbow as he waited for the room to stop spinning. Petunia finally turned fearful, glassy eyes on him. "My God," she squeaked, "what was that?"
"Wild magic," he replied as he struggled to sit upright. "It happens to children sometimes. That was not in Potter's control, but it was powerful nonetheless."
"We should call the police," said Dursley gruffly. "He's not safe like that, is he?"
"No!" Petunia shook her head violently, making Severus slightly nauseous. "No police, Vernon. There's nothing they can do."
Severus dipped his head in agreement. "She is right," he said. "Never mind the police; we have to worry about the Improper Use of Magic Office." He pointed at the cousin. "Petunia, is there any in him? Any magic at all?"
The cousin's eyes became wide with fear. Both parents looked at the boy. Petunia's face reflected true worry, but she shook her head again, quite firmly. "Not that we know of."
"They'll probably realise Potter was here then." Severus sighed. "You should leave. All three of you. The Dark Lord might have claimed control of the Ministry already. It won't be safe here when they arrive."
Severus climbed to his feet unsteadily, pressing on the wound to stop the bleeding. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he had definitely defied the orders of the cranky doctor at St Thomas'.
"Petunia," he said, adjusting the pressure when fresh blood seeped through his fingers. "Do you have a first-aid kit? I have to go after him, but–"
Petunia gave him a blank stare. "I might," she said faintly "…Dudley?" She looked around feebly without getting up, moving only slightly when the boy dropped her hand to go upstairs. She then turned to Severus again, with an expression as though the world had crashed down before her eyes. "You think the…Dark Lord might come here? To our home?"
"The Death Eaters don't know about this house," said Severus, "but they might discover you if Ministry officials arrive. I don't care what you do, Tuney, I don't have time to argue with you, but I'm not staying here a moment longer than necessary."
He passed her on the bottom of the stair, following the cousin up to the first floor on ungainly feet. It felt like he'd had a tad too much whiskey so he helped himself with few of the muggle painkillers before entering what seemed to be the master bedroom.
It bore the signs of its residents having woken up in a hurry. Severus stepped over the comforter, which lay in a bundle on the floor, and selected two shirts from Dursley's cupboard. He chose the one that looked like it would fit him best and changed out of the bloodied shirt he had worn since leaving Spinner's End.
There was an angry gash on his stomach, twisting in the peculiar pattern common to splinching accidents. Luckily, the muggle stitches remained mostly in place. He found the bathroom next door and collected what little medical supplies he could find. A surgical tape sufficed to keep the wound together, at least until he had time to fix it properly. The rest of it, he bundled together inside the second shirt and stuffed into a pocket.
The boy, whose name was apparently Dudley, seemed to have ignored his mother's request and was busy in the second bedroom, frantically changing his clothes and stuffing a few necessities into a bag.
Ten points to the cousin, thought Severus absently as he prepared to leave. Exceeds expectations.
~o~
Harry ran. He ran so fast his sides ached and his lungs burned, but he didn't stop.
Maybe Dudley was right, he though as he jumped the fence of the playground and raced onto the crossing on Privet Drive and Wisteria Walk. Maybe if he had taken up boxing he could have stood a chance against Snape and Uncle Vernon in a more predictable way. The explosion of magic that saved him had been frightening in its raw power and he felt drained from it and shaky.
For a second he'd almost thought it was Uncle Vernon firing off his rifle at Snape, but the tingling, burning sensation down his spine an out his arms had been much like what he felt the time he blew up Aunt Marge that summer she tormented him with pedigrees and breeding.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder as he entered the street again to see whether Snape or Uncle Vernon were following, but no one were near. Snape was clearly not himself, but he was still much bigger than Harry, and if he managed to catch up, Harry had no idea what would happen. He was almost frightened to think of it.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts –he didn't even know if he had hurt anyone– that he didn't hear the voice until it was right beside him.
"Harry? Harry Potter!"
Hanging out of a window, in a pink dressing gown and with a net over her wispy, flyaway hair, was probably the last person Harry expected to see.
"Mrs Figg?"
Taken aback, he came to an abrupt halt and quickly wiped away a few tears of rage.
Figg didn't seem to notice. She waved her arms at him frantically. "Idiot boy!" she hissed. "Get inside here this instant!"
Harry recoiled. "Wha–? No, I–"
Figg slammed the window shut before he could finish speaking and not a moment later, she was on the doorstep and hauling Harry inside. "What are you doing running around in the middle of the night?" she ranted. "Have you completely lost your mind? Get inside before anyone sees you!"
Before Harry had time to process the new turn of events, he was sitting among crocheted covers on mismatched chairs, inhaling a strong scent of cat and cradling a cup of tea and a biscuit.
"What were you thinking?" asked Figg as she used her tartan carpet slipper to toe away two cats from the chair opposite his sofa. "It's the middle of the night. Surely you know that you can't just run away like that." She watched him for a moment before pointing to his face. "Does it have anything to do with that?"
"Oh." Harry touched his brow, which felt sore and spongy. He realised then that Figg had no idea whatsoever that he had gone missing. "Err, I guess," he muttered. "In a way. But it's not all Uncle Vernon's fault either."
He wasn't sure whether to be completely honest or not. He didn't want to endanger the whimsical old lady, who since witnessing in his trial a year ago had risen considerably in his esteem. Yet, her suspicious frown told him he had to be at least somewhat open. And he was so sick of it all. He just wanted to talk to someone nice. Someone who didn't hate him or resent him or was a murderer or a child abuser. Someone who wasn't Snape or any of his relatives.
"It's not that simple," he told her tiredly. "There was this…incident at the Ministry and I ended up with Snape. But then he got hurt and had to go to hospital and that's where Uncle Vernon came to get us and well…you can imagine he wasn't pleased. They threatened us with the Childcare Service."
"Indeed." Mrs Figg blinked a few times before taking a sip of her tea. "And your aunt?"
Harry scratched his head, remembering the pale faces of Aunt Petunia and Dudley as he had scrambled to get away from Snape. "Aunt Petunia was…not quite herself. I don't think she took it very well."
"I see." Seeming to take it all in stride, Figg petted a large orange cat, which had jumped back up on the armrest of her chair. She waited patiently for Harry to tell her more.
He watched her, noticing the flimsy nightclothes and the dressing gown she always seemed to wear, even when going out to the store. She was a peculiar woman. They had never had a talk like this before, almost like adults, and for the first time in his life, Harry recognised her quirks as those of someone belonging to a wizarding family and trying to make it in the muggle world. She was just more successful at it than most other wizards or squibs that he knew.
He suddenly regretted not having spent more time trying to get to know her through his childhood. "Say, Mrs Figg," he said quietly, "are those cats really kneazles?"
"Part kneazle." Figg scratched the purring beast beneath the chin. "I breed them and sell them. It makes good money and they keep me company at night." She smiled. "We're both nocturnal creatures."
"Right." Harry shook his head slightly. "I never knew."
"Where's your other friend then, Harry? The one that went to hospital?"
"Oh." Jarred by the change of topic, Harry took a biscuit to buy some time to think. He didn't want to talk about Snape, didn't even want to know what had happened to him. One thing was for sure, Snape was not his friend. Not anywhere near.
"I don't know," he said at last. "He's probably off arguing with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. They don't like each other much."
"But this was another wizard?" Figg frowned. "What was his name, did you say?"
"Yes, it was Snape."
Figg brightened. "Ah, but I believe I've met him once," she said, "way back when you were just a baby and Dumbledore took me up in his Order. Is he over at number four?"
"Probably." Harry sank a little lower in the chair. "But I'm never going back to him, so don't try to suggest it."
"Why ever not?" Figg adjusted her hairnet so that even more of her grey locks were sticking out at odd angles. "As far as I recall, he's in the Order too. Seems silly to avoid him if he can help you."
"Because he killed my parents!" Harry's reply came harsher than he intended and Figg blinked at him again with pale blue eyes.
"He did?" She recoiled a little. "I thought that You-Know-Who–?"
"Yes, obviously." Harry put the teacup away so hard it clattered on its saucer. "Voldemort cast the killing curse, everyone knows that. But it was Snape who betrayed them, who gave information to Voldemort that made him hunt them and kill them. That's practically the same and he did that on purpose. He says it was a mistake, that he cared about my mother, but –"
Figg waved him off, not minding Harry using Voldemort's name. "What did he plan to do then?" she asked. "Did he tell you as much?"
Harry stopped in his track, confused. "What? About my mother?"
Figg huffed, annoyed. "No," she said. "Keep up, boy. Back at Privet Drive. You said you were with him. What was his intention? Did he say?"
"Oh." Harry frowned. "Well, I guess he said he was bringing me back, but I don't trust him any further than I can throw him. The black-hearted bastard used to be a Death Eater."
"Back where?"
"Back to Hogwarts, obviously, but…"
"But what?" Figg calmly reached for another biscuit, spreading crumbs all over the kneazle in her lap. "Why would he do that if he was a follower of You-Know-Who?"
"I don't know," replied Harry, exasperated. This insistent questioning wasn't exactly helping his mood. "I guess he's not a Death Eater then. But he's just as bad as one, worse even."
"He's the stringy, pallid one with black hair, isn't he?" Figg asked, seemingly not expecting a reply. "Well, at least he was, as I remember him. Must have been only twenty-something back then. Your parents weren't there that time, but I recall him arguing quite a bit with your godfather."
"Oh, he would have." Harry gritted his teeth as he tried to gain control over his anger. Raging at the poor woman wouldn't help any of them, but it was hard not to vent after what he had just learned. "He's the vilest, most horrible human being you can imagine."
"Why, he didn't give that much of an impression," said Figg. She stood and went over to the window. A few of the cat-kneazles followed her, brushing against her bare ankles. "They had a nickname for him," she continued. "Your godfather and another fellow. Something that made me think there was some history there. I don't remember exactly, but I think it had something to do with him being whingy or childish somehow. It was humiliating for him; even I could tell and I don't know anything about it."
Harry felt himself deflate, just a little. "Snivellus?"
"Yes, that was it." Figg turned her head and smiled brightly. The early morning sun illuminated her from behind and she looked a bit like she belonged in a mental ward. "They're still at it then?"
"Snape is mean to everyone." Harry looked down at his hands, not quite able to meet Figg's gaze. "He's the worst human being that I know. The only exception to that is Voldemort."
"Ah, well," said Figg as she turned to the window again, picking up a scraggy-looking cat on the way and petting it between the ears. "There's a crack in everything, son. But strangely enough, that is often where the light gets in."
Harry didn't know what she meant by that so he remained silent. But only until Figg suddenly dropped the cat on the floor and leaned close to the glass.
"Oh," she cried, staring at something outside, "but that's him right there, isn't it?"
