Hello everyone! (Sorry for my english, I translate my disclaimer with google translate...) Here is Chapter 3, always translated by the fantastic Les Variouf. Chapter 4 is in the process of being translated and will arrive quickly. I hope you like this story and that you will appreciate this chapter. I wish you a good reading!
If furniture could talk, it would have complained loudly. The doors groaned in their hinges, still vibrating indignantly from having been slammed with such rare violence. Meanwhile, the clock from on top of the chimney had flown through the air in a graceful arabesque pose before ending its trajectory, and its life, against the wall. The poor clock had literally exploded, its remains trampled and scattered to the four corners of the room. The furniture definitely had something to be worried about.
The next victim of this surge in violence was a poor innocent cushion which, after having been punched twenty times, found itself torn open with a letter opener. It immediately avenged itself by covering its attacker with a cloud of tiny white feathers. Since static electricity had decided to join in, the feathers attached themselves to their prey like glue.
Harry violently shook his head free of the feathers and, forgetting the cushions, took out his anger on the office chair, which he sent careering across the room with several angry and well-placed kicks.
"Potions!" he yelled, mad with anger. "Voldemort is back, Cedric is dead, and all that sadistic git is interested in is my Potions level? No one cares about that! Maybe he should teach me how to fight Death Eaters instead – that would actually be useful!"
Harry kicked the bookshelf several times, causing half the books to fall to the floor, before slumping against the wall, exhausted. He crossed his arms over his legs, leaned his head against them and closed his eyes, trying to calm down.
"Have you calmed down?"
Harry jumped, his head jerking upwards. He hadn't heard Snape come into the room. How long had he been there, leaning against the door with his arms crossed? Harry looked away, not knowing what to say.
"Alright, let's assume that you have."
Snape's tone, which was cold and dry, worried Harry much more than anger. Snape picked up the chair, righted it, and sat down opposite Harry.
"If you were looking for trouble, then congratulations - you found it!"
Harry gritted his teeth but didn't respond.
"It is a shame that you have completely undone Dementia's efforts to reduce your punishment simply because you are incapable of controlling yourself."
Harry obstinately remained silent but stiffened imperceptibly.
"I do not tolerate insolence of any kind. You are old enough to express yourself without losing your temper."
Harry still did not respond or look in his direction. Determined to make him react, Snape silently laid down the cane that he was carrying on the coffee table, right in front of Harry. Harry quickly looked up again.
"What-"
"What do you think? I warned you. I won't be lenient again."
"You can't!"
"Can't I? Actually, I think you'll find that I absolutely can!"
"No," Harry muttered.
"You've got no choice, Harry, it's that or my belt. But you will not escape it this time."
"Not that," he murmured.
"Very well," Snape said, standing up and undoing his belt. "Go to your room."
In a daze, Harry obeyed. He let himself fall face down on his bed, and buried his face in his pillow. Snape, who had followed him in, watched Harry while rolling his belt around his hand. Despite what the young man seemed to think, he would get no pleasure out of what he was about to do. But Harry needed to understand that his actions had consequences, often bad ones, and that he couldn't always get out of them using his status as the Boy-Who-Lived.
He walked up to Harry and hesitated, wondering if he should order him to stand up and lean against the wall, or even take off his t-shirt. He decided against it: this experience would be bad enough for the teenager as it already was.
No longer hesitant, he started the punishment.
He soon felt Harry stiffen and heard him muffle his moans of pain in his pillow. After several minutes he realised, from the movement of the boy's shoulders, that he was crying. He carried on for another minute or two before putting his belt back on.
"I hope you have learnt your lesson. You are also not allowed food today, and I strongly advise you to think about what you have done."
Harry didn't respond. But, from how his fingers were clenching on the pillow, Snape knew that he had heard exactly what he had said.
"Harry, it is up to you to make your life better. I will not deny that I am a demanding and strict father, but with a bit of effort on your part, everything can go well between us."
With that, Snape left Harry's rooms and went back into the living room. Once Harry heard the door close after his adoptive father, he abandoned all semblance of control and burst into tears.
Snape ate alone; Dementia never came home during the day. Once he had finished his meal, he shut himself away in his laboratory and didn't emerge until dinner time.
As usual, Dementia arrived late, cementing his belief that he had failed to raise her properly. He had started to suspect as much when she got married, on the very day of her 17th birthday, and he hadn't even seen it coming.
With her normal composure, Démi sat down and tucked into her meal; boiled fish and steamed vegetables. Snape rolled his eyes. Normally, women started diets to prepare for summer, but his daughter planned her diets around divorce. Twice a year, in her case.
"Is Harry ill?" she asked, pouring lemon juice onto her fish.
"Why are you putting so much lemon on that?"
"It burns fat."
"Oh, I see. And then I suppose it attacks the bones…"
"Psht. So, is he ill?"
"No," he replied, his tone discouraging any further conversation.
Or it would have done, if he hadn't been talking to his daughter. Every day, Snape wondered whether having her grow up far away from him and not sending her to Hogwarts had been the right thing to do. Only seeing her once a week to bring her presents or to take her shopping hadn't exactly solidified his authority over her: guilt and authority didn't generally go well together when it came to parenting.
"Where is he?" she insisted.
"Who?"
"Grindelwald!" she said, sarcastically.
"In his room."
"Seriously? Grindelwald?"
Snape sighed. "Harry!"
"No, I'm Démi… So, where is Harry?"
The conversation was so absurd that he couldn't help it; he started giggling. Dementia stared at him, one eyebrow raised. He pinched the bridge of his nose, regaining his composure as quickly as he had lost it.
"Harry is in his room."
"Did it go badly?"
"Dementia," Snape sighed, "you're wearing me out."
"And I haven't even started talking about Marc and the conversation that you have to have with him," the young woman muttered.
Snape stood up quickly. "It's not that your life doesn't interest me – quite the opposite – but I have an important potion to finish."
He walked away towards his laboratory, but couldn't help but hear Dementia yell "Liar!", followed by her house elf snickering. He rolled his eyes. Even the house elves were at it now.
The young woman quietly finished her meal and then, knowing what her father had likely done, made a ham club sandwich and poured a glass of milk. She went upstairs and knocked on Harry's door. There was no reply. She hesitated for a moment, torn between the idea of annoying her father until he gave in or going into Harry's room.
A second later, she pushed open the door… and immediately noticed the cane on the coffee table and the state the room was in.
"Ah," she muttered.
She put down the plate and glass and knocked on the bedroom door, but walked in without waiting for a response. For a moment, she thought the room was empty and looked around, confused. Then she noticed Harry's silhouette, lying against the wall, shaking with silent sobs. She felt her heart immediately go out to him.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, next to where Harry was lying.
"Hey!" she said quietly. "Did you fight a mountain troll in your living room?"
Harry jumped and lifted his head to look at her. His eyes, which were red and puffy, told her that he had spent hours crying.
"No," he murmured.
"So, what happened?"
Harry shrugged and grimaced in pain.
"Don't you want to talk about it?"
"Not really," he sighed.
"Alright, no problem. Are you hungry?"
Harry nodded.
"Come into the living room then, I brought you a sandwich."
Harry hesitated for a moment, remembering that he had been forbidden to eat anything, but his hunger was too strong. He stood up, grimacing. Dementia gave his shoulder a gentle and comforting squeeze.
"Will you be ok?"
"It hurts," Harry murmured.
"It will pass."
Sitting down on the sofa, Harry shot the cane a scared look. Dementia raised a questioning eyebrow and he shook his head. "No, it was his belt."
She smiled it him gently and pushed the plate and glass towards him. "Eat."
Then she moved towards the door. Harry immediately stiffened.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to find something to do. I can come back if you like."
Harry nodded. Dementia left just long enough to find several files, then came back and sat on the sofa next to Harry. She studied her notes for a good hour before he fell asleep with his head on her knees.
Démi put her files down and stayed there for a moment, stroking his hair. Fifteen minutes later, she gently disentangled herself and, taking the cane, quietly left his room and made her way to the laboratory.
.
oOo
.
Dementia hesitated in front of the door that led to her father's lab. Should she make him swallow his cane now or later? She thought about it for a moment. Later. She would wait until he had talked to Marc first. A bit of practicality never hurt anyone.
She went into the laboratory and wordlessly laid the cane across her father's parchments. He raised an eyebrow at her.
"That was mean!"
"Mean?"
"Yes, mean. You've never used that thing in your life!"
He shrugged, his expression dark.
"Listen, Mum… oh, sorry, the way you were acting I almost got you mixed up…"
Snape shot her a deadly look. "Now who's being mean?"
Dementia pouted sullenly, intending to look nonchalant, and silence fell again. Snape went back to his potion. Although he would have preferred to swallow a bucket of mouldy Flobberworms than admit it to anyone, his daughter's comment had hurt him. And, exasperatingly, although she didn't say or do anything other than play with a lock of her hair, she still managed to make him feel pathetic.
"Should I go blond?"
"If you did, you would be adopted by the Malfoys because you wouldn't be setting foot here again," he said.
"You said that when I married Marc… or was it when I married John? I don't know anymore…"
He didn't bother to reply; it was like talking to a brick wall with her. He wondered where she got it from… He wasn't like that, and as far as he could remember, her mother wasn't either.
He glanced at her. She was waiting for him, her chin on her hand and a pensive look on her face, obviously utterly bored. Distractedly, she started playing with the pot filled of powdered weeping willow bark. Eyebrows drawn together in curiosity, she held out her hand to tip its contents into the boiling cauldron.
Fast as lightning and internally thanking his Death Eater reflexes, Snape grabbed his daughter's fist before anything could happen.
Dementia raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"Don't touch anything else, Démi," Snape sighed.
Dementia crossed her arms and fell into a stubborn silence, sighing melodramatically at regular intervals. After just a few minutes, Severus was ready to pay her, send her back to France, or skin her alive, just to make her stop. Or he could give in…
"How is he?"
"How you left him."
Snape rolled his eyes. Honestly, it had only been four and a half minutes of punishment, if that - not exactly something he could be sent to Azkaban for.
Dementia, who had noticed the look on her father's face, frowned. "I meant how you left him emotionally."
Ah. Ok, he was off to a bad start. Not because his daughter could have followed in his footsteps and studied Potions (which, when he thought about it, might not have been much better), or even Botany, since she loved flowers. Everything would have been much simpler if she had. Instead, and without any consideration for her father's sanity, she had decided to study magical psychology. Of course, frivolous and flaky as she was, and also because she had got married at 17, she had not submitted her thesis and had therefore not received her qualification.
Instead, she had found a job as an agony aunt at the daily witches' newspaper and became chief editor, giving in to her sophisticated, superficial and stuck-up side that she liked to exaggerate to please her readers. And on top of all that, she was threatening to make him go mad with pop psychology worthy of the Three Broomsticks.
He hesitated for a moment. Should he continue this conversation? Or should he stay quiet and risk her suddenly realising he had still not agreed to talk to Marc? Not that he had anything against his future ex son-in-law. Marc was nice, intelligent, cultivated, had never cheated on his daughter, had never beaten her, had probably never even raised his voice against her (which definitely proved that the boy was a saint). Ok, so he was a Squib, but you couldn't have everything. And her daughter's first husband was a Muggle, so maybe the next one would be a wizard…
No, what bothered him was having to convince the boy that it was pointless to fight the divorce, because Dementia always got what she wanted in the end. No, that conversation promised to be awful. He resigned himself to distracting his daughter with talk about Harry.
"Alright, how is he emotionally?"
"Distraught? Terrorised? It's a classic case - his family didn't love him and neglected him, then he's given a new father but is even more unhappy than before…"
"It's not like I murdered him, Dementia. Don't exaggerate."
"Well you didn't exactly help him to re-find his emotional equilibrium."
And there it was! Psychology! Merlin's beard, what had he done to deserve this? Dementia had put her head in her hands and was watching him silently.
"You know," she continued, "it's not how much you punished him that annoys me-"
"I see."
"Don't think for a second that I approve-"
"I wouldn't dream of it," he replied sarcastically.
"No, what annoys me is; one, that you deprived him of food, so I had to make him eat a sandwich; and two, that you didn't even bother to go see him to talk to him about it-"
"Merlin's beard, talk about what?" exploded Snape. "And what sandwich?!"
Dementia suddenly stopped talking and crossed her arms stubbornly. "I refuse to talk about this anymore if you're going to start shouting!"
"Thank Merlin."
Silence fell once more, but Snape knew it wouldn't last. He was right.
"That said, I'm assuming that when you agreed to look after this boy your aim wasn't to make him as miserable as possible…"
He looked at her. She smiled at him, looking pleased with herself. He rolled his eyes. It had been like this ever since she had realised that her small smiles could get her whatever she wanted - in other words, since she had been three and a half.
He looked at her again. "If I go to see him, will you wipe that exasperating smile off your face?"
"At least until the end of the week!"
It was better than nothing.
"Can I at least finish this potion?"
"Please do."
"Are you planning to carry on sitting there watching?"
"Am I annoying you?" she asked in a small voice. "We haven't seen each other for 10 months, I thought you would want to spend more time with me…"
Snape looked up. Was she going to turn on the waterworks? He could never work out if she was actually unhappy or if she was putting on an act when she did that.
"Yes of course I want to see you. Stay if you like, but for the love of God don't touch anything!"
"Oh," she replied, offended, "nice to hear you think I'm such a screw up-"
"I'm still paying for the Beauxbatons laboratory to be fixed!"
Dementia started laughing and even Snape deigned to smile.
He worked in silence for an hour while Dementia studied a brochure and made notes on a piece of parchment. He glanced at the brochure, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw what it was. The St Mungo's exam. So, Dementia was planning to re-start her thesis and sit the exam.
She had been 18 when she had abandoned it and since then he hadn't stopped hoping that she would open her eyes to reality and finish her qualification. It was up to her whether she wanted to continue to be chief editor or to start at St Mungo's. But once she had this qualification, he wouldn't have to worry about her future.
After ten more minutes of silence, Dementia began tapping her perfectly manicured fingers on the workbench. Ten minutes later Snape cracked.
"Dementia!"
"Yes?"
"I have 15 minutes left and then I'm going to see Harry."
"Ok," she replied, and stopped trying to get on her father's nerves.
He sighed. His daughter was well and truly unbearable. He wondered where she had got that from; he wasn't like that, except for bad language. Her mother wasn't either; she asked for something once, and if she was refused, she would strike out - she wasn't manipulative at all. But Dementia could manipulate and make people feel guilty to an Olympic standard.
15 minutes later, as promised, he put the stopper back into the last phial of potion and, leaving cleaning up until later, he made his way to Harry's room, Dementia hot on his heels. He stopped on the middle of the stairs and turned towards her.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm coming with you."
"Dementia-"
"I promise I won't say anything! But he'll be less defensive if I'm there…"
Snape didn't respond and continued walking. She was exasperating when she was right. When they arrived at Harry's door, she scampered in front of him and knocked on the door.
"Harry? It's Démi. Dad… ow!" she protested, as her father slapped the top of her head, "I mean Father would like to talk to you for a bit. Can we come in?"
No response.
"He must still be asleep," Dementia explained, opening the door.
But Harry wasn't on the sofa anymore. She took a quick look in the bathroom. No one was there. She and Snape exchanged a look. Suspicious, Snape opened the wardrobe. Harry's Firebolt had disappeared, as well as his invisibility cloak.
"Dad!" Dementia, who had gone into the bedroom, called.
He joined her and shot her a questioning look, worried. "What is it?"
Even as the words left his mouth, he saw what had made his daughter panic. Harry's bedroom window was wide open. Dementia leaned out the window.
"We really have to sort out the manor's security!"
Snape shot her a cold look. "No one can get in."
"Yes, but we can get out whenever we like."
Snape grimaced. He tried to remain calm but could feel himself getting angry. How dare Harry do this? How could he be so stupid? Sneaking out like this, with the Dark Lord at large! And for what? A few hits from a belt?
When he got his hands on him, the bloody boy would understand what 'punishment' really meant!
"Ok, what should we do?" Démi asked, jerking Snape out of his thoughts.
"You? Nothing. You've already done enough!"
"What?" she protested, indignant. "That's rich! How can you say it's my fault?"
Snape growled but didn't reply. He went back to his room, Démi on his heels. He slammed the door in her face and changed quickly.
He came back out of the room and said, "He must have gone to complain to Black or Molly. I'll go and find him."
"I'll come with you!"
"No."
"You mistook that for a question," she shot back.
"Very well. But I'm warning you, there's no point trying to convince me to be lenient about this!"
"Can we find him before we start planning to kill him?" Démi replied sarcastically.
Snape rolled his eyes, walked into the garden, and apparated to the Weasleys'.
.
oOo
.
Sirius paced about his living room. How many hours did it take that train wreck of a house elf to make him a coffee? It wasn't too much to ask, was it? Just one coffee? And he didn't see why Kreacher had muttered "That's all I need". Was it a thinly veiled reference to his foul temper? Surely he had more than enough reason to be in a bad mood? His nephew, James' son, forced to call Snivellus 'father'! That really did it! If that bloody sewer rat ever had the misfortune of doing anything bad to Harry, he would dismember him as soon as Dumbledore's back was turned!
After all, he was supposed to be a vicious murderer.
"Kreacher!" he suddenly yelled. "My coffee!"
His mother's portrait (which he had forgotten about) immediately began spewing insults. Kreacher, who acted very quickly when he wanted to, had only just managed to close the heavy curtains over the portrait of the honourable Mrs Black when someone knocked at the door loudly enough to make the walls tremble.
His mother started yelling again. Sighing, Sirius went to open the door.
.
oOo
.
"What do you mean he isn't here? Are you making fun of me, Black?"
"Looks like it," Sirius replied in the same tone.
Dementia exchanged a look with Kreacher. The two old enemies had been arguing in circles for the last ten minutes.
"Right," she said, deciding to intervene. "You two jumping at each other's throats won't help us find Harry!"
"And maybe you shouldn't have started interfering!" Snape yelled.
"And you," Dementia retorted, "shouldn't have started acting like a… a…"
"Evil git?" Sirius offered.
"I had a more imaginative phrase in mind," the young woman replied, "but yes, that's the general idea."
"I see you're saving yourself time and have already found your next future ex-husband!" hissed Snape.
To his immense surprise and great indignation, instead of vehemently protesting, Sirius smiled in amusement and Dementia blushed as she looked away. That was all he needed! Turning brusquely on his heels, he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
"He has an overactive imagination," Démi whispered, while Kreacher made his way to the portrait.
"Yes," Sirius agreed.
"I should probably follow him…"
Without daring to look at each other, they brusquely walked in opposite directions. Dementia caught up with her father.
"He's worried about Harry, that's all."
Snape just grunted.
"I have an idea."
"Go ahead."
"Hedwig is still at the manor. She'll find him wherever he is."
"And you think all we have to do is ask the bloody boy to come back?"
Dementia rolled his eyes. He could be so stubborn when he had already made up his mind. "Maybe be nice. Just a bit."
"Are you asking me to forget about all this?"
Dementia sighed. That idea hadn't even got off the ground. She knew full well her father was right. For once.
"What should we do, then?"
Snape thought about it for a moment. "We're going home. I'll contact Dumbledore."
Démi shrugged. She wondered how she would get Harry out of the hole he had dug for himself. She didn't have any chance of winning her father over and saving Harry from a punishment that, really, he kind of deserved. Snape was going to tear him to pieces.
Maybe Professor Dumbledore would be able to calm him down - he always managed to find the right words. And then he would surely be able to find Harry in less time than it would take to say "purifying herbal tea".
As soon as they got home, Snape threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and stuck his head inside, yelling "Albus Dumbledore's office!"
"Severus?" the old man asked, looking up.
"I have a problem, Albus. Harry has disappeared."
"What happened, Severus?"
"We had an argument and I punished him. He escaped."
Albus stood up and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Have you checked with Sirius?"
"He isn't there, or with the Weasleys."
"Miss Granger?"
"She's spending the summer with the Weasleys."
"Alright. Don't worry, Severus, I will find him and bring him back to you. Stay at home and remind Dementia that I am expecting her on the 1st September."
Snape agreed, put out the fire and sat in his armchair. Démi sat by his side, on the arm of the armchair, as she usually did. He automatically put his arm around her.
"He will find him."
"Hmm," Snape replied. "What did he mean by 'I am expecting Dementia on 1st September'?"
"Oh."
"Yes?"
Dementia sighed. He would find out sooner or later. "I'm going to finish my thesis. Don't get too excited! Dumbledore is going to let me live at Hogwarts and use the library. And in exchange, I'll be helping Madam Pince."
Snape smiled. "What will your thesis be about?"
"I'm not sure yet. Something about teenagers - maybe the impact of an overly severe upbringing on an already fragile emotional state…"
"I'm splitting my sides laughing."
Dementia couldn't help laughing at the black look her father gave her. Finally, she stood and brushed down her dress. "Right, I'm going to do some work in the library. Don't forget to let Sirius know when Dumbledore finds Harry!"
"Black," growled Severus.
Dementia rolled her eyes and slammed the door to the library while Snape sat in front of the fire, deep in thought.