Warning: not slash! You know, I'm afraid the way this story is developing that even the non-graphic slash themes I had envisaged will not be putting in an appearance except very transiently.. The dynamic between Snape and Harry just isn't going in that direction. A sincere sorry to those of you who might have been looking for that….didn't intend to mislead, and I hope you still enjoy the story.
For those of you who like my Snape, there is not much of his POV in this chapter, but it will be back in full biting and snarky force before long…
Harry tumbled out of the Floo, dragging his trunk behind him.
He had arrived in one of the upstairs rooms at 12, Grimmauld Place. This must be the secret Floo connection. He knew the Weasleys were expecting him, for Snape had sent an owl, but they obviously had not known exactly when he would turn up. He looked around. He thought this was the room in which Sirius had kept Buckbeak.
Sirius…Harry stifled down the familiar welling of misery he experienced whenever he thought of his godfather. It had been over a year now, but he still couldn't get used to Sirius not being in his life.
He brushed ash off his robes, and headed for the stairs. As he reached the landing, Mrs Weasley came out of the room he normally shared with Ron.
"HARRY!" She grabbed him to her and enfolded him in a smothering hug. "Oh my dear, I am so glad to see you. You poor boy, ill and all on your own with that dreadful man…oh dear I shouldn't talk about your professor like that, but I was just so worried about you. Are you all right, Harry?"
Harry prised himself off her shoulder sufficiently to speak.
"Yeah, thanks Mrs Weasley, I'm OK. And –"
Ron and Hermione had heard Mrs Weasley's shriek and were now bounding up the stairs. Hermione also threw her arms around him. Harry grinned through a mouthful of bushy hair.
"Hello, Hermione…hi there, Ron…."
"Harry, mate, how are you?" Ron slapped him on the shoulder.
"He looks very peaky," Mrs Weasley said, fretfully.
"Well, he was being looked after by Snape, wasn't he? 'Course he doesn't look too good, would you?" Ron snorted.
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but he was dragged downstairs.
"Hang on – my trunk –"
"Oh, don't mind that. You can sort it out later. Come and tell us all about it," Ron said eagerly. "I still can't believe you had to go through that…you must have been gutted when you realized you had to stay with Snape…"
"MAKE HIM SOME TEA!" Mrs Weasley called down the stairs after them. "I'LL BE DOWN IN A FEW MINUTES!"
Hermione put the kettle on, and they all settled around the kitchen table. Hermione was examining Harry closely, with a frown.
"Seriously, Harry, you really don't look too good. Did Snape forget to feed you, or something? I mean, I expect he did his best to ignore you and pretend you weren't even there…"
"Oh, it was being ill," he said evasively, failing to mention the six weeks of starvation. "Snape did his best, he was always giving me restorative potions…"
"Huh," Ron said darkly. "If Snape's been giving you potions, that's probably what's the matter with you."
"So what was wrong with you, Harry?" Hermione asked. Her face showed nothing but honest concern.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say.
"Don't let's talk about me," he said finally. "I've had a really dull summer. What about you? What have you been up to?"
Hermione, it seemed, had only arrived at Headquarters a few days ago. She had been concentrating on her NEWTs, she informed Harry. (At this, Ron put his head on the kitchen table with a hollow groan.) The Weasleys had been in London for most of the summer. Apparently they spent very little time at The Burrow, these days. Mr and Mrs Weasley thought Headquarters was safer, besides being more convenient for Order business.
"And I can tell you," Ron said bitterly, "it's been totally dull and boring here, as well. Oh, members of the Order pop in and out all the time, but it's secret this, and hush that, and they're always locking themselves away…Even Fred and George can't get past their anti-eavesdropper spells. But, hey, you've got to come and see Fred and George's joke shop in Diagon Alley. It is just so utterly cool. Amazing."
"Ginny's over there with Fred and George," Hermione chimed in. "She's got a summer job with them in the shop."
"Must be doing well, to need an assistant," Harry said.
"Yeah, they are…they're going to be the first rich Weasleys in generations…Lucky sods."
Harry looked down, uncomfortable again. Harry was now, as Ron put it, "bloody loaded". Number 12, Grimmauld Place had been left to Dumbledore. It had caused no end of problems, arranging transfer of ownership for a property that was unplottable, invisible to most, and to all intents and purposes did not exist. Everything else, Sirius had bequeathed to Harry. The Blacks were an old, rich family. Harry's vault at Gringotts was stuffed with gold.
Mrs Weasley came into the kitchen at that point, her arms full of linen.
"Now, Harry dear, let me make you something to eat…"
"No, thanks Mrs Weasley, I had lunch before I came, really…I'm not hungry." Harry assured her. "Snape's been making me eat loads.."
She raised an eyebrow disbelievingly and sniffed, but didn't comment. "Well, if that's really the case, perhaps you would all like to go and visit Diagon Alley before dinner. You look as if you could do with some fresh air, Harry. But make sure you stick together and in no circumstances leave the main street, understand?"
Harry was more than willing to go to Diagon Alley. He supposed he would get used to being at 12, Grimmauld Place eventually. But at the moment, everywhere he looked, he saw Sirius. And it was a good thing Kreacher had finally done them all a favour and died over the winter, because Harry didn't think he could have faced the house elf without a murder ensuing. Kreacher had been denied his dearest wish, however. He had not been beheaded, and his leathery face (thankfully) would not be leering down at them every time they went up or down the stairs.
"We can use the Floo from here to the joke shop," Ron told him. "Dad gets Podmore to keep a special eye on it."
I like to spend considerable time in my potions workroom during vacations. It is my opportunity to experiment without the distraction of children running round, with typical impertinence actually having fun. Or worse: sitting in front of me during Potions classes (where I could at least make sure they enjoyed the experience as little as I did). I preferred being at Hogwarts on my own. Even the portraits and the ghosts had learned not to attempt small talk with me. Not unless they wanted to find out what effects certain curses have beyond the grave, at any rate.
So, naturally, now Dumbledore had imprisoned me here, it was the very last place in the world I wanted to be.
I could not even concentrate properly on my work. I was strangely abstracted. And I kept having to stop what I was doing to write down my notes. This was irritating, and interrupted the flow of my experiments. I realized I had become accustomed to Potter traipsing around after me writing down what I was saying. Hmph. So the boy was not wholly useless after all. I might even give Gryffindor a point or two on the strength of it. It could even be worth doing so just to watch Minerva McGonagall trying to figure out what I was up to, and suspecting some deep-laid plot for the undoing of her House. Although, truth said, if I were spotted giving house points to Potter, the staff would have collective apoplexy and probably haul me off to the hospital wing for intensive investigation.
I gave up on the research, and went for a walk instead. It would have been a good day for flying, I noted. Bright, clear skies.
The grounds stretched ahead of me, beautiful and empty.
I gave up on the walk.
Perhaps I should read a book, I thought. I could always lose myself in the footnotes of an intriguing treatise, such as the one I had just finished on the special properties of Filiander weed as investigated in 1723.
However, I seemed to have read all of the ones in which I could muster faint interest.
Perhaps an afternoon nap?
I was not tired.
I became impatient with myself. I was a man of enterprise and resource, self-contained and self-assured, a man with no hidden shallows. Surely I could think of some productive way to occupy my time.
At this point, a familiar burning on my left arm started up. I groaned aloud. Not that. Not now. The summons of the Dark Lord through the Mark on my arm was not only painful physically, but also it served as an unpleasant reminder of times before. Had I actually required a memory aid for my service as a Death Eater, which I did not, I would have sent myself an owl. However: I was accustomed to this. I simply needed to endure. I steeled myself to do so. The Mark would get steadily more painful, and then it would abruptly cease to burn. The Dark Lord would at that point have stopped his summoning. He and his minions would not be awaiting my arrival, after all. It was not as if though they would be expecting me.
The joke shop was, as Ron had said, amazing. It was crammed to the rafters with Weasley Wizarding Wheezes in all sizes, colours and shapes. A harmless-looking beach ball made Harry jump when he walked by, for a screaming figure exploded out of it and then wobbled backwards and forwards laughing. There was a whole rack of sweets and chocolate. Harry spotted Ton Tongue Toffee, and grinned. Fred and George were doing such a brisk trade they barely had time to greet Harry. Ginny waved, beaming, as she wrapped a parcel up for a customer.
"C'mon," Ron said. "Let's go and get an ice-cream."
Diagon Alley was filled with bustle, noise, and strange spicy scents. Harry felt dizzied by it. After the days stuck in isolation at the Dursley household, then quietly alone at Hogwarts with Snape, the clamour overwhelmed him. He gazed around with almost as much awe as he had the very first time he had been here. Ron and Hermione laughed at him.
They chose sundaes in exotic flavours, and sat outside so they could watch the colourful sights of Diagon Alley parading past. As ever, there were some distinctly peculiar characters about. A number were wrapped in obscuring mufflers despite the warmth of the summer sun. A few turned in excitement when they realized the famous Harry Potter was sitting there, trickling ice cream down his throat with his head tipped back.
Harry, by now, was used to such attention, and ignored them.
"Harry," Hermione said to him suddenly, her eyes caught by a flash of green as Harry dribbled more ice-cream into the back of his throat. "What's that round your neck?"
"Oh.." Harry smiled slightly. "It was my birthday present from Snape. Look: it's a Fireheart stone."
"You what?" Ron exclaimed incredulously. "Why would Snape give you a Fireheart of all things? Is it booby-trapped?"
"No, of course not. Although it did set me on fire the first night I wore it…"
Harry explained how he had fallen asleep wearing the Fireheart, and how, trapped in nightmares, his energies had exploded through the stone to form a flaming cocoon. He did not mention the argument with Snape that had gone before, however. Nor, for some reason, did he find it necessary to mention that he had woken up the next morning cradled in Snape's arms.
Nor that when he first awoke he had found this situation both comfortable and comforting.
Ron was aghast at the incident with the stone. "He's trying to kill you, Harry!" he said hoarsely.
"Don't be ridiculous," Harry replied sharply. "How many times has he saved my life now? I can't even remember. I've lost count."
"Yeah, but Harry, don't you see.. he must have known you wouldn't know about Firehearts…and that you have nightmares…"
"I told him I knew about Fireheart stones," Harry said shortly. "Anyway. I don't know why you're both looking at me like that. It's no big deal. He said it was just a token present, that it's tradition, and most wizards get one when they come of age…"
Ron was still staring at him, however.
"A – token – present?"
"Well?" Harry didn't understand what Ron was getting at.
"Have I got one of them, then? Has Bill? Or Charlie? Or- "
Harry wondered whether Ron was going to list every person he knew who did not possess a Fireheart stone, and wished he would get to the point.
"What Ron is trying to say," Hermione intervened, frowning at Ron as his voice got more hysterical, "is that Fireheart stones are incredibly rare these days. They also cost a fortune."
"They're expensive!" Harry exclaimed, shocked. He had never bothered to inquire about the prices of such stones.
"Yes, extremely. Mostly, nowadays, if people have one it's been handed down in the family. Some of the really old families have several in their keeping."
Harry unclasped his hand from around the stone and stared at it with new eyes.
"So you think Snape spent a fortune on me?"
Hermione was looking thoughtful. "No, I think it's more likely he gave you his own old one. If his father's dead, he probably inherited a Fireheart from him, and Snape will wear the one that used to belong to his father himself. It's tradition. And as far we know Snape hasn't got any children to pass the stone he used to wear onto, so…"
Ron now appeared to be having difficulty breathing. "You think that Snape has given Harry his own old Fireheart? You think he sees Harry as a son? The Snapes must have bloody funny attitudes towards their kids if so, Snape hates Harry…"
"When he's not saving his life," Hermione reminded him. "But actually, I think that's probably got something to do with it. Snape himself might not even realize it. But do you remember Dumbledore saying that when a wizard saves another wizard's life, a bond is formed between them?"
Harry nodded. He did remember. Ron still looked too shell-shocked for coherent response.
"Well, the bond goes both ways. Snape has saved your life so many times, I think he's connected himself to you."
At this, Ron gave a weird groaning noise. The thought was just too awful for him to contemplate. Snape, evil greasy Potions Master, with some kind of intimate magical bond to Harry?
Harry, however, was turning the idea over and over in his head. He had no connections other than with his school friends. Not really. You could hardly count the Dursleys. His parents were dead. Sirius, his godfather, was dead. Dumbledore.. well, his relationship with Dumbledore had been even more distant in the year just gone than in the one preceding it. Lupin, Tonks, Mad-Eye: they were all great, but they weren't really close to him. And Mr and Mrs Weasley had their own family to worry about, welcoming as they were to Harry.
Harry rather liked the idea of having a real, proper connection with somebody. Even if the somebody was Snape - who had, to be fair, taken really very good care of him since rescuing him from the Dursleys. It was just, well, unfortunate that Snape didn't actually like Harry….
Still: he had given him the stone. He looked at it fondly, and then with curiosity. The blue flame at its heart was twisting frantically. How strange…but perhaps it was just a peculiarity of Firehearts. Harry shrugged, changed the topic of conversation, and continued to enjoy his icecream.
I muttered to myself. The Mark was still burning, long after it had normally ceased to do so. This was odd. I took a painkilling potion. The effects on this particular kind of pain would be minimal, but perhaps better than nothing.
Still it burned: even more fiercely, if anything. I began to feel uneasy.
What was it Dumbledore had said in his letter: something about the Dark Lord having found new ways to manipulate his Death Eaters through the Dark Mark?
My unease worsened. And my arm hurt.
A/N To reviewers… a big thank you. I love getting feedback, and it's so encouraging to know that people are reading and hopefully enjoying what I write. Particular thanks to those of you who review regularly, I look forward to your comments every time I update. But to all of you, thanks…Hope I haven't missed anyone off….
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