NOTE: This chapter, like the overall plot I'm working with, was conceived before OotP was published. I have decided that in as far as this story goes, OotP did NOT take place. So Sirius is alive as far as anyone knows, and the other events that occurred in OotP did not happen. Hello, Alternate Universe! *grin* Thanks to my loyal readers who bore with me in this year of military deployment and my limited access to the internet. I'm still writing, and will, hopefully, be settled in a new home in the new year, where I'll be able to update more frequently.
WHAT WILL COME, WILL COME
Chapter Nine
(July 7th, Severus' Potions Lab)
Severus's fingers fumbled a potions vial for the first time in literally years. His shoes and the hem of his robe were soaked by the pale blue of the Healing Potion as Remus Lupin's words sank into his mind. Fear and worry welled up in his mind, but he pushed them back and, forcing his hands to stop trembling, selected the remaining vials that Lupin would need. He tried to disguise his start by sneering, "I always knew that Potter wouldn't be able to get through a summer without causing some sort of disaster to himself."
He turned to face the werewolf and was taken aback as the shorter man snatched the potions from his hands. "Quit lying to yourself, Severus. You always have given a damn about Harry, no matter what act you put on. He needs help. Are you going to stay here, trying to hide from the truth? Or are you going to come with me to face up to it?"
"Of course I'm coming. If only to make sure that Poppy doesn't waste the fruits of my labor by hyper-enthusiastic overdosing." Snape didn't meet Remus' eyes as he took a final vial from the cupboard then closed and locked it.
They hurried to the Hospital Wing, to join Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey at the large hearth where a fire was merrily burning despite the warmth of the mid-summer day. Almost before Snape's long stride came to a halt, Poppy had thrown a handful of Floo Powder and barely gave the flames time to change color to green before she leapt in, calling out "Arabella Figg!"
Moments later, Snape stood alone on the Infirmary hearthstone, the tiny crystal vial still clenched in one fist, hesitating. He's only a boy, Severus, not some monster out to destroy your life. He threw in the Floo Powder and stepped into the fire. As the flashing lights of hundreds of other hearths flickered past him, he bitterly thought, No, you've done a fine enough job of destroying it yourself.
* * * * *
(June 7th, morning, Arabella Figg's House)
A commotion of raised voices roused Harry. Oh, no! Uncle Vernon! Not fully awake or aware of where he was, he automatically tried to minimize himself, to find a place to hide, a corner where he could at least protect part of his body from the forthcoming blows. He scrambled to his feet, but found his ankle caught up in the leg of the chair and one of the cats, and fell hard onto the lino floor.
The chair hit the floor with a clatter and the cat yowled, immediately silencing the arguments from the front of the house. Harry bit his lip, forcing back sobs of pain, and curled up on himself under the table, holding his good arm over his head protectively. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as footsteps hurried in his direction. He was dimly aware that they didn't sound anywhere as heavy as Vernon's or Dudley's, but the fear was overwhelming and he succumbed to the darkness again.
* * * * *
The boy wasn't in the kitchen, Snape saw as he followed the rush of the other adults in Arabella's wake. He looked toward the door and windows but found them closed, with no indication of forced entry or exit. His blood ran cold. The protections had run out and the newly-risen Voldemort had gotten Harry...
Then a presumptuous black cat complained loudly and jumped from the laden breakfast table to the floor below, disappearing behind the overturned chair and beneath the dangling tablecloth.
What Severus saw hardly eased his shock. Potter--he couldn't bring himself to call him anything else yet--lay curled up defensively, scrawnier than he'd ever seen the boy, shuddering. The arm that hid his face from view was mottled with bruises where the sleeve had ridden up.
Poppy and Arabella then blocked his view, but he couldn't block his ears from the thready, desperate keen that came from the youth as they touched him, and the Potionsmaster blanched as a memory rolled forth from the muddle in the back of his mind.
His first failure for the Dark Lord. A potion that had not accomplished what Voldemort had wanted. A mismeasurement? A distraction during the timing of the compounding? Corrupt ingredients? In any case, Snape had failed his master and was crouched in the center of the circle, beneath the censuring eyes of the other Deatheaters. He was glad his mask hid the terror in his face as Voldemort raised his yew wand. "Crucio!"
He had no memory of returning to Hogwarts, only of pain running like fire throughout his body, limning each nerve and overloading his mind with agony. It took Poppy only a few hours to restore the neural pathways to what they should be, but the sounds he'd made, even under the influence of the Draught of the Living Death, remained in his mind.
With further experience and implementation of his will, he'd learned not to reveal his weaknesses, suffering the aftereffects and healing in hard-won silence.
Snape staggered back against the wall, shaking his head as he pulled out of the memory. Thankfully, the others were already upstairs and there had been no witnesses to his moment of weakness. He set foot on the first tread and found himself facing the muscular black cat, who was sitting on the newel post grooming a front paw. The feline stared at him without blinking for a long moment, then miouwed imperiously before effortlessly leaping to the carpeted steps and racing up, looking back once as if to ask why Snape wasn't coming.
He followed, his fingers on the vial of Veritasserum in his pocket. Sooner or later, he knew he'd have to tell the boy the truth. He hoped that it wouldn't be today.
* * * * *
(Arabella Figg's House, late afternoon, June 7th)
A deep, rumbly buzzing vibrated Harry's entire body, centered on the middle of his chest. He rolled the side his face into the smooth cotton of the pillowcover and snuggled into it, caught in that not-quite-ready-to-wake-up place. But the voices, one agitated and one gently, but firmly, protesting, were drawing him out of his dreamless slumber.
"Well even if they were back from their wretched trip, there is no way I will allow you to send that boy back into that house!"
"Arabella, there aren't protections here--"
"Then put them on my house, Albus, or take him back to Hogwarts where he'll be safe!"
A cool hand brushed his hair off of his forehead, and Harry opened his eyes to stare up at the blurred figure of Remus Lupin. "Professor Lupin?" The black cat who had shared his breakfast lifted up from his chest and brushed Harry's face with his whiskers before jumping down from the bed and out of sight.
"Good evening, Harry." Remus was looking towards the door, frowning, but turned and smiled at him. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." The answer came automatically, but upon reflection, Harry realized it was the truth. Nothing really pained him anymore. His stomach was demanding food, but he was used to that sensation, and so did not mention it.
"Madam Pomfrey took care of all of the physical damage. Your wrist might twinge a bit in bad weather, but it's knitted solid now. And you've slept through the day. Do you feel up to coming downstairs to eat supper?"
Harry pushed up on his elbows and blinked to, unsuccessfully, get rid of the myopic blur. "Did someone say something about me going back to Hogwarts?"
"That, Harry, remains to be determined." Professor Dumbledore, followed by Mrs. Figg, moved into his view, his eyes not at all twinkly.
Harry's hopeful face fell. "I see." He said in a flat voice, then turned toward Arabella. "What's for supper?" He avoided looking back at Dumbledore until he was sure he wasn't going to blubber.
"I don't know. Severus was doing the cooking while I came up here." She nodded toward an adjoining door, "You know where the loo is. Come down when you're ready. Coming, Albus?" she snapped. When the Headmaster hesitated, Arabella grabbed Dumbledore by the arm and virtually dragged him from the bedroom.
Harry pushed back the light covers and swung his feet to the floor. Before he could stand up, Remus had an arm across his shoulders, and he flinched, half expecting it to hurt. He looked down sheepishly. "I'm sorry."
Remus sighed. "No need to be. I'm sorry I had to break your confidence--"
The boy sighed, "I'm-I'm glad you did." He shuddered as memories of the previous week rose up, and firmly stuffed them back behind the mental door labeled "To Think About Later--Like After the Sun Goes Nova and the Earth Is Destroyed by It." He pushed himself to his feet, glad of Remus' support as he wobbled. "Did she say Professor Snape is cooking supper?"
"Oh, he's actually a good cook if you can get him to do it," Remus said cheerfully. "After all, when you get down to it, a recipe is a recipe, whether you are using flour and sugar and salt, or dried fairy wings and beetle's eyes. Do you want me to wait for you?"
Harry took a cautious step and shook his head as he maintained his balance this time. "That's okay. I'll come down in a few."
* * * * *
Snape tossed an extra pinch of curry powder into the stew and gave it a quick stir, sniffing the succulent odors that wafted from the simmering pot. "Needs saffron." He glanced about to make sure that no one was looking, and flicked his wand quickly with a softly uttered spell. A dozen dried deep orange strands appeared on the saucer upon which he'd laid out the other spices he'd used in the batched-together meal. Figg's leftover lamb roast, and the vegetables he'd found in the fridge, along with rice and some ancient dried pasta noodles combined to make a nourishing stew that would help to make up for the meals that his son had missed. He quickly derailed that train of thought. I'm NOT doing this for Potter! "There's simply no sense in suffering through Arabella's idea of a meal, or in hauling a House Elf from Hogwarts to feed the six of us," he muttered.
"Making excuses again, Sev?"
He scowled at the werewolf. "Where's the boy? I'm not serving him supper in bed."
"He'll be down in a few minutes. Mmmm. If the House Elves ever go on strike, I know who to suggest as the replacement cook." Remus pulled the wooden spoon from the stew and took a long slurp from it. He rolled his eyes appreciatively as he let the flavours roll across his tongue. "Ah, wonderful. I tell you, Severus, you don't know bad cooking until you've been stuck eating Sirius' idea of a meal."
"Spare me the details. I don't wish to lose my appetite." Snape took the spoon away from him and tossed it into the sink. "Why don't you make yourself useful and set the table. I suppose that Arabella is still giving the Headmaster an earful, as the Silencing spell on the lounge is still in effect."
Remus nodded. "I'm not worried. Poppy's still in there. She'll keep 'Bella from tearing him to pieces. Or," he added as he searched for plates and silverware, "at least she'll be able to put him back together afterwards."
Snape stifled a bark of laughter, and turned back to his cooking. As he gave the pot another stir, a sense of deep unease came over him. How long did it take a fourteen-year-old boy to wash his hands? "Lupin--" he began, then froze as the werewolf dropped a plate to shatter on the tile floor at his feet. "Break in on the Headmaster--now!" He nearly collided with Remus as they sprinted from the kitchen, the former DADA professor shoving the door to the lounge open while Snape charged up the stairs, racing the black cat that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
* * * * *
Harry waited as the former DADA teacher moved out into the hall and down the stairs, then moved over to the window, squinting out into the bland suburbia of Little Whinging. It seems surreal that a house that so closely mirrored that of his rabidly Muggle aunt and uncle was the home of the magical woman who had been his babysitter. A babysitter who was ready to take on even the Headmaster when it came to Harry's benefit. But a niggling part of his mind asked, "If she really does care about what's happened to you, why didn't she interfere before this?"
He pushed that thought away as well, and began to turn from the window, when he caught sight of his arm in the afternoon light. Harry grimaced at the bruises that still showed up on his skin. At least, after Madam Pomfrey's work, they didn't hurt and were faded into light mottled greens and yellows, instead of the horrible purples and black that Vernon Dursley had inflicted the night before. But, as bad as the weals had been, the words his maternal uncle had inflicted were far worse. Harry tried to keep the memory of them from replaying but they hammered at his mind as he got a blurred glimpse through the window of a group of tall, black hooded figures gliding up the street toward the house.
Harry clutched at the windowsill and sucked in a deep breath as panic rose up in him. Dementors! Dementors in Little Whinging. Another group was approaching from the other direction, and he sagged to his knees as the horrid miasma of despair and darkness surrounded him, and the sound of his mother's screams rose in his mind, along with visions of the reptilian-faced Voldemort in the cemetery at Little Hangleton, yew wand pointed at him. He scrabbled for his wand, and pulled it from its hidden pocket, but the good memories he'd used a year ago to produce the Patronus that had dispelled the Dementors near the Whomping Willow refused to surface. Instead, the words he'd tried to forget echoed in his head.
"Your frivolous, useless parents, no jobs, no income, blithely got pregnant with you, and probably lived on the dole like the useless parasites they were. Unnatural things. Freakish. Couldn't make it in the real world even if they had survived whatever blew them up. Just like you."
The image of Uncle Vernon loomed in his mind, florid face, bristly walrus moustache, piggy eyes that squinted at the world disapproving of anything that wasn't 'normal.' And he held Dudley's Smeltings Stick that had taken the place of his hand when it came to inflicting punishment on Harry. The teenager sucked in a sharp breath, trying to break through the vision, but the mental image transformed suddenly into the figure of the pale-fleshed, red-eyed Voldemort, and the Smeltings stick transfigured into the yew-wood wand that had inflicted so much pain on him weeks before. He felt the smooth wood of his own wand in his hand, but couldn't raise it to defend himself. A miasma of darkness seemed to rise about Harry, cutting off the light, and then the screaming began--Mum! Dad!
Voldemort reached out toward him with clawed fingers and Harry threw himself backwards, sprawling on the floor, hitting the back of his head hard enough to see stars. Harry Potter. The dark lord's voice hissed sibilantly in Harry's mind. Harry Pot--
"--ter! Potter! What is wrong with you? Get up!" The acid tones of Professor Snape's voice broke through the terrifying vision and the hand that had seized him belonged, not to the dark lord, but to the potions master. Snape hauled Harry up from the floor and cursed as Harry staggered. The black cat wormed itself around Harry's ankles, mewling anxiously.
Harry stared at the teacher blankly for a few long moments, then, as the darkness and despair welled up again, he felt his knees buckle.
"Damn it, Harry, there are Dementors outside! You've got to get out of here." Snape scooped him up and, cradling him in his arms, rushed to the stairs with the upset cat in hot pursuit. Remus Lupin was at the front door, casting locking charms.
"Get Harry out of here, Severus! The Floo is open but Albus is going to seal it as soon as you've gone! Arabella is sealing the back door and windows."
Snape ducked past the Headmaster who threw the green powder into the flames as Severus leaped into the fireplace shouting out "Hogwarts Hospital Wing!" The black tom jumped in with them, latching onto the professor's trousers with all four claws. The acrid smell of the magical fire triggered a memory that distracted him, and he lost track of the hearths that he and Harry sped past.
"Are you sure it's okay? I mean, I've not done this before." Lily looked doubtfully at the roaring fire in the back room of the Three Broomsticks, and back at the green powder in Sev's hand.
"Would you prefer we Floo together?" He looped his free arm around her waist and smiled down at her, forgetting his crooked teeth for once. "I promise I won't let you go."
Lily smiled up at him and snuggled up against his side. "I'd definitely prefer that."
"Wench," he teased as he moved them closer to the hearth. "You just want an excuse to get your hands on my body."
She giggled, her green eyes flashing with amusement. "Of course. I always have an ulterior motive."
"You'd have made a good Slytherin, you know," he told her as he prepared to toss in the powder.
"Well, you fake a pretty good Gryffindor, yourself. I think I'm ready." Her grip around his waist tightened.
"I think I'm insulted. Here we go! Diagon Alley!" And the scent of her flowery shampoo was strong in his nose as they zoomed through the Floo system, wrapped in each other's arms.
Severus tightened his grip on Lily's son as they swept through the Floo system, disoriented by both the memory and the after effects of Dementor exposure. Voldemort must have taken Azkaban already, but nothing had been said by the Ministry or The Daily Prophet, which generally was the Ministry's public mouthpiece. Damn Minister Fudge and his refusal to take this seriously--to take me seriously! The velocity of their passage slowed and Severus took a firmer grip on Harry's limp body in preparation for their arrival at the Hospital Wing.
With a grace earned by years of practice, Snape emerged from the Floo and landed on his feet, calling out, "Poppy!" as he did so. The name died on his lips as he realized he wasn't at Hogwarts at all, but in a dank, damp room with stone walls and heavily shuttered windows. Moth-eaten tapestries hung from the walls and dust-covered heavy old furniture was scattered about, much of it toppled on its side as if disarrayed in a scuffle of some sort.
He whirled and leapt back into the hearth before the green flames died, but it was too late. He barely kept from smashing Harry into the back wall of the fireplace and his right shoulder took the brunt of the impact. As he staggered out onto the tattered and faded hearthrug, the cat having abruptly let go of him and fleeing to far side of the room, he wondered just where the hell they were, and how he was going to get Harry safely to Hogwarts now? The Deatheaters and Dementors would probably be waiting at the Anti-Apparition boundaries, and he didn't have any Floo Powder.
(to be continued)
WHAT WILL COME, WILL COME
Chapter Nine
(July 7th, Severus' Potions Lab)
Severus's fingers fumbled a potions vial for the first time in literally years. His shoes and the hem of his robe were soaked by the pale blue of the Healing Potion as Remus Lupin's words sank into his mind. Fear and worry welled up in his mind, but he pushed them back and, forcing his hands to stop trembling, selected the remaining vials that Lupin would need. He tried to disguise his start by sneering, "I always knew that Potter wouldn't be able to get through a summer without causing some sort of disaster to himself."
He turned to face the werewolf and was taken aback as the shorter man snatched the potions from his hands. "Quit lying to yourself, Severus. You always have given a damn about Harry, no matter what act you put on. He needs help. Are you going to stay here, trying to hide from the truth? Or are you going to come with me to face up to it?"
"Of course I'm coming. If only to make sure that Poppy doesn't waste the fruits of my labor by hyper-enthusiastic overdosing." Snape didn't meet Remus' eyes as he took a final vial from the cupboard then closed and locked it.
They hurried to the Hospital Wing, to join Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey at the large hearth where a fire was merrily burning despite the warmth of the mid-summer day. Almost before Snape's long stride came to a halt, Poppy had thrown a handful of Floo Powder and barely gave the flames time to change color to green before she leapt in, calling out "Arabella Figg!"
Moments later, Snape stood alone on the Infirmary hearthstone, the tiny crystal vial still clenched in one fist, hesitating. He's only a boy, Severus, not some monster out to destroy your life. He threw in the Floo Powder and stepped into the fire. As the flashing lights of hundreds of other hearths flickered past him, he bitterly thought, No, you've done a fine enough job of destroying it yourself.
* * * * *
(June 7th, morning, Arabella Figg's House)
A commotion of raised voices roused Harry. Oh, no! Uncle Vernon! Not fully awake or aware of where he was, he automatically tried to minimize himself, to find a place to hide, a corner where he could at least protect part of his body from the forthcoming blows. He scrambled to his feet, but found his ankle caught up in the leg of the chair and one of the cats, and fell hard onto the lino floor.
The chair hit the floor with a clatter and the cat yowled, immediately silencing the arguments from the front of the house. Harry bit his lip, forcing back sobs of pain, and curled up on himself under the table, holding his good arm over his head protectively. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as footsteps hurried in his direction. He was dimly aware that they didn't sound anywhere as heavy as Vernon's or Dudley's, but the fear was overwhelming and he succumbed to the darkness again.
* * * * *
The boy wasn't in the kitchen, Snape saw as he followed the rush of the other adults in Arabella's wake. He looked toward the door and windows but found them closed, with no indication of forced entry or exit. His blood ran cold. The protections had run out and the newly-risen Voldemort had gotten Harry...
Then a presumptuous black cat complained loudly and jumped from the laden breakfast table to the floor below, disappearing behind the overturned chair and beneath the dangling tablecloth.
What Severus saw hardly eased his shock. Potter--he couldn't bring himself to call him anything else yet--lay curled up defensively, scrawnier than he'd ever seen the boy, shuddering. The arm that hid his face from view was mottled with bruises where the sleeve had ridden up.
Poppy and Arabella then blocked his view, but he couldn't block his ears from the thready, desperate keen that came from the youth as they touched him, and the Potionsmaster blanched as a memory rolled forth from the muddle in the back of his mind.
His first failure for the Dark Lord. A potion that had not accomplished what Voldemort had wanted. A mismeasurement? A distraction during the timing of the compounding? Corrupt ingredients? In any case, Snape had failed his master and was crouched in the center of the circle, beneath the censuring eyes of the other Deatheaters. He was glad his mask hid the terror in his face as Voldemort raised his yew wand. "Crucio!"
He had no memory of returning to Hogwarts, only of pain running like fire throughout his body, limning each nerve and overloading his mind with agony. It took Poppy only a few hours to restore the neural pathways to what they should be, but the sounds he'd made, even under the influence of the Draught of the Living Death, remained in his mind.
With further experience and implementation of his will, he'd learned not to reveal his weaknesses, suffering the aftereffects and healing in hard-won silence.
Snape staggered back against the wall, shaking his head as he pulled out of the memory. Thankfully, the others were already upstairs and there had been no witnesses to his moment of weakness. He set foot on the first tread and found himself facing the muscular black cat, who was sitting on the newel post grooming a front paw. The feline stared at him without blinking for a long moment, then miouwed imperiously before effortlessly leaping to the carpeted steps and racing up, looking back once as if to ask why Snape wasn't coming.
He followed, his fingers on the vial of Veritasserum in his pocket. Sooner or later, he knew he'd have to tell the boy the truth. He hoped that it wouldn't be today.
* * * * *
(Arabella Figg's House, late afternoon, June 7th)
A deep, rumbly buzzing vibrated Harry's entire body, centered on the middle of his chest. He rolled the side his face into the smooth cotton of the pillowcover and snuggled into it, caught in that not-quite-ready-to-wake-up place. But the voices, one agitated and one gently, but firmly, protesting, were drawing him out of his dreamless slumber.
"Well even if they were back from their wretched trip, there is no way I will allow you to send that boy back into that house!"
"Arabella, there aren't protections here--"
"Then put them on my house, Albus, or take him back to Hogwarts where he'll be safe!"
A cool hand brushed his hair off of his forehead, and Harry opened his eyes to stare up at the blurred figure of Remus Lupin. "Professor Lupin?" The black cat who had shared his breakfast lifted up from his chest and brushed Harry's face with his whiskers before jumping down from the bed and out of sight.
"Good evening, Harry." Remus was looking towards the door, frowning, but turned and smiled at him. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." The answer came automatically, but upon reflection, Harry realized it was the truth. Nothing really pained him anymore. His stomach was demanding food, but he was used to that sensation, and so did not mention it.
"Madam Pomfrey took care of all of the physical damage. Your wrist might twinge a bit in bad weather, but it's knitted solid now. And you've slept through the day. Do you feel up to coming downstairs to eat supper?"
Harry pushed up on his elbows and blinked to, unsuccessfully, get rid of the myopic blur. "Did someone say something about me going back to Hogwarts?"
"That, Harry, remains to be determined." Professor Dumbledore, followed by Mrs. Figg, moved into his view, his eyes not at all twinkly.
Harry's hopeful face fell. "I see." He said in a flat voice, then turned toward Arabella. "What's for supper?" He avoided looking back at Dumbledore until he was sure he wasn't going to blubber.
"I don't know. Severus was doing the cooking while I came up here." She nodded toward an adjoining door, "You know where the loo is. Come down when you're ready. Coming, Albus?" she snapped. When the Headmaster hesitated, Arabella grabbed Dumbledore by the arm and virtually dragged him from the bedroom.
Harry pushed back the light covers and swung his feet to the floor. Before he could stand up, Remus had an arm across his shoulders, and he flinched, half expecting it to hurt. He looked down sheepishly. "I'm sorry."
Remus sighed. "No need to be. I'm sorry I had to break your confidence--"
The boy sighed, "I'm-I'm glad you did." He shuddered as memories of the previous week rose up, and firmly stuffed them back behind the mental door labeled "To Think About Later--Like After the Sun Goes Nova and the Earth Is Destroyed by It." He pushed himself to his feet, glad of Remus' support as he wobbled. "Did she say Professor Snape is cooking supper?"
"Oh, he's actually a good cook if you can get him to do it," Remus said cheerfully. "After all, when you get down to it, a recipe is a recipe, whether you are using flour and sugar and salt, or dried fairy wings and beetle's eyes. Do you want me to wait for you?"
Harry took a cautious step and shook his head as he maintained his balance this time. "That's okay. I'll come down in a few."
* * * * *
Snape tossed an extra pinch of curry powder into the stew and gave it a quick stir, sniffing the succulent odors that wafted from the simmering pot. "Needs saffron." He glanced about to make sure that no one was looking, and flicked his wand quickly with a softly uttered spell. A dozen dried deep orange strands appeared on the saucer upon which he'd laid out the other spices he'd used in the batched-together meal. Figg's leftover lamb roast, and the vegetables he'd found in the fridge, along with rice and some ancient dried pasta noodles combined to make a nourishing stew that would help to make up for the meals that his son had missed. He quickly derailed that train of thought. I'm NOT doing this for Potter! "There's simply no sense in suffering through Arabella's idea of a meal, or in hauling a House Elf from Hogwarts to feed the six of us," he muttered.
"Making excuses again, Sev?"
He scowled at the werewolf. "Where's the boy? I'm not serving him supper in bed."
"He'll be down in a few minutes. Mmmm. If the House Elves ever go on strike, I know who to suggest as the replacement cook." Remus pulled the wooden spoon from the stew and took a long slurp from it. He rolled his eyes appreciatively as he let the flavours roll across his tongue. "Ah, wonderful. I tell you, Severus, you don't know bad cooking until you've been stuck eating Sirius' idea of a meal."
"Spare me the details. I don't wish to lose my appetite." Snape took the spoon away from him and tossed it into the sink. "Why don't you make yourself useful and set the table. I suppose that Arabella is still giving the Headmaster an earful, as the Silencing spell on the lounge is still in effect."
Remus nodded. "I'm not worried. Poppy's still in there. She'll keep 'Bella from tearing him to pieces. Or," he added as he searched for plates and silverware, "at least she'll be able to put him back together afterwards."
Snape stifled a bark of laughter, and turned back to his cooking. As he gave the pot another stir, a sense of deep unease came over him. How long did it take a fourteen-year-old boy to wash his hands? "Lupin--" he began, then froze as the werewolf dropped a plate to shatter on the tile floor at his feet. "Break in on the Headmaster--now!" He nearly collided with Remus as they sprinted from the kitchen, the former DADA professor shoving the door to the lounge open while Snape charged up the stairs, racing the black cat that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
* * * * *
Harry waited as the former DADA teacher moved out into the hall and down the stairs, then moved over to the window, squinting out into the bland suburbia of Little Whinging. It seems surreal that a house that so closely mirrored that of his rabidly Muggle aunt and uncle was the home of the magical woman who had been his babysitter. A babysitter who was ready to take on even the Headmaster when it came to Harry's benefit. But a niggling part of his mind asked, "If she really does care about what's happened to you, why didn't she interfere before this?"
He pushed that thought away as well, and began to turn from the window, when he caught sight of his arm in the afternoon light. Harry grimaced at the bruises that still showed up on his skin. At least, after Madam Pomfrey's work, they didn't hurt and were faded into light mottled greens and yellows, instead of the horrible purples and black that Vernon Dursley had inflicted the night before. But, as bad as the weals had been, the words his maternal uncle had inflicted were far worse. Harry tried to keep the memory of them from replaying but they hammered at his mind as he got a blurred glimpse through the window of a group of tall, black hooded figures gliding up the street toward the house.
Harry clutched at the windowsill and sucked in a deep breath as panic rose up in him. Dementors! Dementors in Little Whinging. Another group was approaching from the other direction, and he sagged to his knees as the horrid miasma of despair and darkness surrounded him, and the sound of his mother's screams rose in his mind, along with visions of the reptilian-faced Voldemort in the cemetery at Little Hangleton, yew wand pointed at him. He scrabbled for his wand, and pulled it from its hidden pocket, but the good memories he'd used a year ago to produce the Patronus that had dispelled the Dementors near the Whomping Willow refused to surface. Instead, the words he'd tried to forget echoed in his head.
"Your frivolous, useless parents, no jobs, no income, blithely got pregnant with you, and probably lived on the dole like the useless parasites they were. Unnatural things. Freakish. Couldn't make it in the real world even if they had survived whatever blew them up. Just like you."
The image of Uncle Vernon loomed in his mind, florid face, bristly walrus moustache, piggy eyes that squinted at the world disapproving of anything that wasn't 'normal.' And he held Dudley's Smeltings Stick that had taken the place of his hand when it came to inflicting punishment on Harry. The teenager sucked in a sharp breath, trying to break through the vision, but the mental image transformed suddenly into the figure of the pale-fleshed, red-eyed Voldemort, and the Smeltings stick transfigured into the yew-wood wand that had inflicted so much pain on him weeks before. He felt the smooth wood of his own wand in his hand, but couldn't raise it to defend himself. A miasma of darkness seemed to rise about Harry, cutting off the light, and then the screaming began--Mum! Dad!
Voldemort reached out toward him with clawed fingers and Harry threw himself backwards, sprawling on the floor, hitting the back of his head hard enough to see stars. Harry Potter. The dark lord's voice hissed sibilantly in Harry's mind. Harry Pot--
"--ter! Potter! What is wrong with you? Get up!" The acid tones of Professor Snape's voice broke through the terrifying vision and the hand that had seized him belonged, not to the dark lord, but to the potions master. Snape hauled Harry up from the floor and cursed as Harry staggered. The black cat wormed itself around Harry's ankles, mewling anxiously.
Harry stared at the teacher blankly for a few long moments, then, as the darkness and despair welled up again, he felt his knees buckle.
"Damn it, Harry, there are Dementors outside! You've got to get out of here." Snape scooped him up and, cradling him in his arms, rushed to the stairs with the upset cat in hot pursuit. Remus Lupin was at the front door, casting locking charms.
"Get Harry out of here, Severus! The Floo is open but Albus is going to seal it as soon as you've gone! Arabella is sealing the back door and windows."
Snape ducked past the Headmaster who threw the green powder into the flames as Severus leaped into the fireplace shouting out "Hogwarts Hospital Wing!" The black tom jumped in with them, latching onto the professor's trousers with all four claws. The acrid smell of the magical fire triggered a memory that distracted him, and he lost track of the hearths that he and Harry sped past.
"Are you sure it's okay? I mean, I've not done this before." Lily looked doubtfully at the roaring fire in the back room of the Three Broomsticks, and back at the green powder in Sev's hand.
"Would you prefer we Floo together?" He looped his free arm around her waist and smiled down at her, forgetting his crooked teeth for once. "I promise I won't let you go."
Lily smiled up at him and snuggled up against his side. "I'd definitely prefer that."
"Wench," he teased as he moved them closer to the hearth. "You just want an excuse to get your hands on my body."
She giggled, her green eyes flashing with amusement. "Of course. I always have an ulterior motive."
"You'd have made a good Slytherin, you know," he told her as he prepared to toss in the powder.
"Well, you fake a pretty good Gryffindor, yourself. I think I'm ready." Her grip around his waist tightened.
"I think I'm insulted. Here we go! Diagon Alley!" And the scent of her flowery shampoo was strong in his nose as they zoomed through the Floo system, wrapped in each other's arms.
Severus tightened his grip on Lily's son as they swept through the Floo system, disoriented by both the memory and the after effects of Dementor exposure. Voldemort must have taken Azkaban already, but nothing had been said by the Ministry or The Daily Prophet, which generally was the Ministry's public mouthpiece. Damn Minister Fudge and his refusal to take this seriously--to take me seriously! The velocity of their passage slowed and Severus took a firmer grip on Harry's limp body in preparation for their arrival at the Hospital Wing.
With a grace earned by years of practice, Snape emerged from the Floo and landed on his feet, calling out, "Poppy!" as he did so. The name died on his lips as he realized he wasn't at Hogwarts at all, but in a dank, damp room with stone walls and heavily shuttered windows. Moth-eaten tapestries hung from the walls and dust-covered heavy old furniture was scattered about, much of it toppled on its side as if disarrayed in a scuffle of some sort.
He whirled and leapt back into the hearth before the green flames died, but it was too late. He barely kept from smashing Harry into the back wall of the fireplace and his right shoulder took the brunt of the impact. As he staggered out onto the tattered and faded hearthrug, the cat having abruptly let go of him and fleeing to far side of the room, he wondered just where the hell they were, and how he was going to get Harry safely to Hogwarts now? The Deatheaters and Dementors would probably be waiting at the Anti-Apparition boundaries, and he didn't have any Floo Powder.
(to be continued)