Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and the legal licensees of Harry Potter books and products. I am writing this for my own pleasure and have no intent to make any sort of profit with it. The inspiration came from Severitus, the plot came from my warped imagination and everything else belongs to JKR and those to whom she's given the rights.
Author's Note: Yes, I know this is the same as in the original Chapter One, but I think it works better this way. There's new stuff at the end of it too, so please don't bypass it because you may have read the first part before!
WHAT WILL COME, WILL COME. . .
(An Answer to Severitus' Challenge)
By RowanRhys
Chapter Three
July 2, 1995(Little Whinging, Surrey)
When Harry woke up, he half expected to find himself in the sunlit vastness of the Hogwart's Hospital Wing under the care of Madam Pomfrey. "That must have been some Bludger," he dazedly thought as he opened his eyes.
But it wasn't the friendly environs of the school he saw, but the ecru plaster ceiling with the dangling light fixture of his room at the Dursleys'. And even that looked peculiar, hazy and distorted.
Then he remembered. His glasses were broken and his vision worsened by the swelling around his left eye. He raised his hand to gingerly touch the bruising and found himself abruptly nauseous from the pain that shot up his arm. He curled up around himself, supporting the broken wrist as best he could with his other hand, gasping. Even though he'd suffered worse pain from Quidditch injuries and his fights with Voldemort, this was different. Here, there were no Dreamless Sleep or pain relieving or Skele-grow Potions to fix his hurts; no expertly wielded wands to fuse bone or magic away swelling and bruises.
And far worse, while the Quidditch injuries were part of the accepted risk of the sport, and Voldemort was his dedicated enemy, and wounds from both sources were to be expected, these had come from family. . . They weren't the best family, but they were all he had left. And, he admitted to himself, there was a secret inner part of him that hoped against hope each year that this time they would miraculously accept him--no--love him, because he was their flesh and blood.
A sound ultimately distracted him from his misery. As he listened, he caught unclear, but excited speech, muffled by the heavy door. And was that laughter? It was hard to tell. He groaned as he rolled on his side and used his good arm to push himself into a sitting position. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as his empty stomach roiled again. He had no idea how long it had been since his fall. Only that the brightness of the light coming in the window indicated day instead of dusk, and his head still throbbed, his back ached, his face still hurt and he needed to figure out what to do about his wrist. Then, dimly remembering an old Muggle movie he'd once seen on television several years before, he awkwardly unbuttoned one of his shirt buttons and stuck his left forearm inside his shirt, the fabric creating a makeshift sling. The movement nearly caused him to black out again, but once in place, it did help. Harry took several deep breaths and then staggered to his feet, holding onto the wall for balance. He took two steps and dropped abruptly to his knees as the room swirled about him. An uncomfortable feeling in the side of his left thigh drew his attention as the scenery settled once more, and he reached across to find out what was jabbing him.
My wand! They didn't find it! He had to lean awkwardly to work the holly shaft from the hidden pocket but he was smiling when he had it clutched in his good hand. It was something they didn't know about, and, hopefully, he could figure out how to fix his wrist up with it. But not now, not while the Dursley's were about the house.
The noise from downstairs was getting louder, and Harry scrambled on his knees across the floor to shove his wand into the drawer of his desk among the broken pencils and dried out pens Dudley had discarded there. He leaned against the desk and closed his eyes, listening, as the heavy thumps that were his cousin's footsteps approached the door then bypassed it, bounding into his own bedroom.
"I can't believe it, Vernon! It's a dream come true!" Petunia was virtually crowing as her high heeled patter moved down the length of the upstairs hallway toward the master bedroom. "Who would have guessed that we'd win the Pools! Oh, I must pack your best suit!"
Win the Pools? Harry blinked. I didn't even know Uncle Vernon played them!
"You'll need a new dress, Petunia! I won't have my family shaming me when I collect my winnings!" Vernon sounded even more pompously smug than he usually did when talking about his wife and son.
"Oh, and dearest Dudleykins can wear his Smeltings uniform!"
Harry continued to listen to the celebratory chatter for several minutes until his position, leaning up against the side of the desk, stiffened his sore muscles so much that he just had to move. He inadvertently shoved the desk chair, making it grate across the uncarpeted floor, bringing a sudden halt to the conversation outside the door.
"Harry. Vernon, what about him?" Petunia's cheerful voice changed back to the sniping, irritated tone she always used when referring to Harry. "I don't trust him to be left here alone and we're certainly not taking him to Liverpool with us!"
"Of course not, my pet! I know. He can stay with Mrs. Figg." Vernon's voice darkened. "And the boy will behave himself if he knows what's good for him."
Suddenly, the bedroom door was yanked open, swinging out into the hallway. As Harry flinched away from his Uncle, a stray observation crossed his mind. They've rehung the door so I can't pull the hinge pins loose. Then all thought fled as Harry found himself suspended by the shirt front, his toes barely brushing the floor, as Vernon dragged him up and out of the room. His surroundings seemed to whirl about as the throbbing in his head got worse.
"Uncle Vernon--" Harry abruptly found his feet on the tile floor of the bathroom, while Vernon turned him around and forced him to look in the mirror over the sink.
"You get cleaned up, boy. You've got ten minutes. Then we're going to go over the story you're going to tell Mrs. Figg until you get it right. If you learn fast, I might even let you eat something tonight." Vernon left the room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Harry to lean against the porcelain sink.
He swallowed hard at the sight of his reflection. His left eye was horribly discolored and swollen. He turned on the cold tap--his Aunt would have a fit if he used up all the hot water. Awkwardly, trying not to jar his broken wrist, he soaked a washcloth and gingerly pressed it against the side of his face. After the first moment, the coolness felt good, easing the pain in his cheekbone and eye socket.
His ten minutes were up far too quickly and he found himself whisked back into the room crammed with Dudley's broken toys and electronic equipment, while his Uncle sat on the spindly desk chair. The part of Harry that had been corrupted by Fred and George Weasley rather hoped it would collapse under the heavyset man, but the more sensible part--knowing that he'd be the one punished--prayed it wouldn't.
"You were hurt in a fight at school and are still recovering, got that, boy? You're too ill to travel all the way to Liverpool, so we're reluctantly leaving you with Mrs. Figg. That's not so hard to remember. And if I find you've said anything else about it to anyone, you're going to feel even more sorry than you are now. And get your stupid arm out of that shirt."
Harry yelped as Vernon grabbed his broken wrist and yanked it from its already minimal support. His knees gave out beneath him and he was mortified to find himself sobbing from the renewed pain. Mr. Dursley dropped Harry's arm as if he'd been burnt and stared for a moment. Then, before the fourteen year old could react, Vernon grabbed for the wrist once more, turning it to look at the purple mark left by the Smeltings stick. Ignoring Harry's reaction to the shifting of his bones from the motion, Vernon's too-close-set eyes flickered as he thought hard. He finally spoke, once more releasing the fractured limb. "You get the story straight, Potter, or I'll have Dudley break your other arm."
Harry barely heard him slam the door and lock it.
* * * * *
July 2, 1995(Hogwarts)
She was smiling at him, glad to see him, rushing into his arms, and virtually dancing around him in her happiness. He greeted her with a tight embrace and a deep kiss that seemed to draw from him his very soul. She was like light in his arms and in his heart, chasing away the darkness that had been filling them for years, chasing away even the images of Lord Voldemort and the broken promises he'd made to the young Slytherin three years before. New promises filled him and he reveled in them. . . promises of eternal companionship, promises of faithfulness, promises of love.
The long disused classroom had become their haven from the outside world--from the Darkness that continued to rise, spreading terror and heartbreak, and from the more petty intrusions of curious and disapproving friends or Housemates. Over the last several months, they'd cautiously furnished it with castoffs from their respective common rooms and bits of discarded furniture from other deserted classrooms. Their couch was a pleasant pile of emerald and ruby cushions, many threadbare, and their carpet was a ragged and torn banner bearing an ancient version of the Hogwarts crest. She'd bribed the House Elves to leave the room alone, and begged the ends of candles from them as well, to illuminate their private space. Dozens of the stubby wax bits were stuck to various surfaces, alight with dancing golden light that caught the flame of her hair and reflected in the green of her eyes.
"I was so worried about you. And when you weren't at breakfast this morning I thought I'd die," she whispered into the soft fabric of his robes as she rested her head above his heart.
"I was giving my report to the Headmaster. And all I could think of was getting through the meeting and my classes to meet you here. Lily, you're the reason I come back each time. Only you." He ran his hands down her long hair stroking gently before continuing to caress her lithe back.
"Love me, Severus. Let me feel you living, let me feel you inside me."
"There's not enough time, love. They'll be looking for you to watch them practice their Quidditch and cheer on their bad jokes." Reluctantly, he put her away from him, only to be dragged back into a tight hug.
She laughed lightly. "I sort of let them think that I'm not feeling well, cramps and so forth. James is terribly squeamish about hearing about 'female' things, so he dragged Sirius and Remus out to the Quidditch pitch so fast that I think he left scorch marks on the common room carpet."
Severus laughed and nuzzled her neck where it met her shoulder, slipping his hands across her body, touching her where he'd learned she liked best as he guided them slowly across the room to the pile of cushions. By the time they were kneeling amidst the velvet covered pillows, urgent hands had already begun to remove clothing, seeking the loved flesh beneath. "You're turning into quite a devious lady, my Lily. Worthy of a Slytherin." His mouth feasted on hers for a long moment before he spoke again, gasping as her hands touched him intimately. "Are you certain that you weren't Sorted into the wrong House?"
"Only if you were as well. You've become as brave, if not braver than any Gryffindor. Oh, love me, my lion. Love me now!"
"Severus!" The voice cut into his mind, interrupting the glorious feelings that he dimly recognized had been dormant for so terribly long. "Severus! You must wake up!"
He tried to slip back into that secret tower room where his love had wrapped herself around him and brought him so much ecstasy and joy, but there were more voices intruding, and the sensations retreated until he finally realized that it wasn't reality he'd been experiencing, but a memory. A memory as fresh and painfully clear as if the events were only moments past, instead of nearly two decades.
He felt moisture on his face and wondered what had wet it.
"Severus." The voice was the Headmaster's. "You must come back to us now." Something was wiping his cheeks, wiping his closed lids.
Tears. They were tears from his own eyes--he who had not cried in decades--was awash with the brine of sorrow and pain. A howl of anguish tore from his throat as he realized what had been lost, as he caught flashes of images of memories that he'd not known were in his head; experiences of joy and love that had somehow been sealed away from him, leaving him in an emotional desert of rage and frustration. "LILY!"
To be continued . . .