Title:
The boy that forgot to die
Author:
evil minded
Date:
November, 6th 2011
Timeframe:
Second year at Hogwarts
Summary:
AU / Harry Potter comes back for his second year at Hogwarts, but something is not the way it should be, and Severus Snape seems the only one able to help the boy that forgot to die … will he manage to really help the Gryffindor before it is too late?
Disclaimer:
I don't really care about Lockhart, Quirrel or Umbridge, nor about most of the other characters in HP … I, however, would like to own one particular Severus Snape – regrettably I do not, Rowling does … but well – I'm borrowing him for a while … just to torture him a bit … I am evil minded after all …
Rating:
M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16
Author's Notes:
Uhm … alright … I have to admit … English is not my language by birth … so … please do not kill me while reading … neither for the – perhaps – sad language, nor for the subject of my writing …
Also, this is a story written for NaNo, a story written within thirty days only and even though I go over the chapters before uploading them – I do apologize if it might not have the same quality at one point or another than those stories of mine you are used to by now … thank you …
Warning:
Story contains bad language and swearing.
Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.
Story contains references to child neglect.
Child neglect is a really, really serious thing, and there are a lot of children in our world that are neglected, children that lack food, clothing, often love, and perhaps even a roof over their head – and closing our eyes, and pretending it does not exist – is no solution …
Story contains references to child abuse.
Child abuse is one of the most evil things, and there are a lot of children in our world that really would need help but have to live without hope – and again, closing our eyes and pretending it does not exist – is no solution … instead show sympathy, and understanding … and handle people, children as well as adults, which are showing any signs – whichever – of once having been abused … with understanding and with help …
What does not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be … ^.~ … believe me – I am …
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Previously in "The boy that forgot to die"
"Won' hurt?" The boy's groggy voice asked and for a moment he nearly smiled at the childish question, as if the twelve year old were back to the barely two year old boy he had once known.
"It won't." He quietly answered while running his hand over the boy's forehead. "I promise."
"'K." Came the answer from the boy and with another relieved sigh he placed the vial with the pain reliever at the boy's lips and dipped the small glass container, the boy for once obeying and swallowing the clear liquid, his eyes already closed again. He would be back to sleep soon, and with the pain reliever he wouldn't wake while he tried to heal him in the faint hopes that he might bring him back to life somehow.
The boy that forgot to die
Chapter six
But what do I do now?
Or not – a single – word
The moment he woke he held his breath, knowing that he would be in pain the moment he got awake and aware completely. He knew that he first would feel the pain in his back, then the pain in his bones, in his joints and finally in his head – and last in his stomach. And he also knew that he wouldn't be able doing anything against it.
Taking a deep breath and gritting his teeth he prepared himself for the pain that was to come in but a second or two, and he would have curled his fingers into fists too, but he knew that this wouldn't be such a good idea, he kept from doing that if he was able to, as it only would hurt like hell – but … the pain he expected didn't come.
He shifted a bit, again preparing himself for the pain the movement would bring, but still – it didn't come and while he kept his teeth gritted – just in case – he slowly opened his eyes.
The first thing he could make out was – light, bright light that nearly hurt in his eyes and he blinked. So – it wasn't his cupboard, because his cupboard always was dark. The second thing he could make out while squinting his eyes so the light wasn't as bad – was a dark figure sitting in an armchair beside his bed and he held his breath, tightened his muscles to prepare himself and his body for anything that might come his way. But then he frowned.
A figure sitting in an armchair beside a bed he lay in? Then it definitely wasn't uncle Vernon as he would never sit beside his bed, that much was for sure. Not to mention that – what he could recognize of that person at least – it was not a whale of a man like uncle Vernon was.
Again, he realized that – the pain still had not come yet, and he squinted his eyes a bit more, trying to make out who the figure was that was sitting beside his bed – while at the same time he tried to figure out why he would be laying in a bed to begin with as at the Dursleys, surely, he wouldn't be in any bed – what meant, he wasn't at the Dursleys at all.
Releasing his breath he shifted again, still absolutely transfixed by the fact that he wasn't in any real pain for the first time in – he couldn't even remember since when! He felt uncomfortable, yes, but no real pain!
A hospital, he suddenly realized. He was in a hospital.
And that meant that he didn't feel any real pain, because he was healed.
But …
If he was healed – that surely meant that time had passed, and from what he knew of broken bones and other injures – and he knew a lot about that – at least a month, and even then, he wouldn't be feeling this … painless, even if uncomfortable.
His insides started cramping, but not in pain … it was something else, it was something that went up to his chest and then to his throat, blocking his airways, because he couldn't remember the last time, he'd felt that painless and … he nearly choked on his breath while tears blocked his eyesight that was miserable at the best and not existent right now.
But he didn't understand!
Why would he cry like a baby upon not feeling pain? Why would he feel unable of taking a deep breath without crying out loud upon something that wasn't bad for once? Why would he … he just didn't understand!
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
"Harry?" A soft and dark voice beside him asked while the dark shadow leaned closer, and he reared back with a startled and choked cry of fear before he realized – it was Snape's voice and so the dark shadow most likely was Snape as well.
So he was at Hogwarts, and in the hospital wing … Snape had brought him here last night – at least he thought that it had been last night. And at least that explained why he seemed already healed after only – what? A day? Two days maybe? He didn't know.
Hitching a breath, he remembered the feeling of being held last night, of being held by Snape, by his father – and he would cherish that particular memory for the remainder of his life. Most likely that memory would not repeat itself, but he would remember it.
But why had Snape done that? Snape didn't know that he was his son, his mother had written so in her letter, and even if she had told him, Harry, that he should tell Snape, that he should show him the letter, he knew, had learned very soon upon his first potions lesson, that Snape better never was to know that – or he would kill him personally - with a very slowly and painful potion, or with a particular nasty spell. Didn't he make an application for the Defence against the Dark Arts position each year? Whatever way Snape would kill him, he wouldn't survive telling the Potions Master that he was his son, Snape hated him way too much for that.
But why then? Why had he held him last night? Why had he stroked his hand over his face like a father would do with his son who didn't feel well? He began to shake and to cover it up he drew his knees up to his chest, curling himself into a small ball with his back against the wall.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
"Harry?" Snape asked, having a hard time to keep the worry he felt from his face. "We won't hurt you, child." He added when the boy started trembling and the Potions Master reached out his hand to place it on the bony shoulder for comfort.
"No!" The boy however shouted out even before he had touched him, and he stopped his movement mid-air.
"I won't hurt you, child." He repeated, not pulling his hand back but slowly placing it onto the bony shoulder.
"No!" The boy shouted, louder, yanking his shoulder away and the pale face even looked angry. "No! Don't pretend you care! Because you don't! You just hate me! Don't pretend you care now and go back to hating me later! Don't destroy the only memory I have of you ever being kind! I hate you! Leave me alone!"
Blinking a few times stupidly – what was not too becoming for him, he knew that – he tried to wrap his mind around the boy's words. He shouldn't destroy the only memory of him being kind? Was it so important to the boy that he had held him last night? And if – then why? What had happened during the time span from the end of last term and right now – except for the boy having died? The boy seemed as if he were looking for his, Snape's approval, his comfort – something only his Slytherins normally did.
"Harry? It's okay, we just want to help you." Poppy reassured the boy, most likely not understanding what the exact problem was.
"No!" The boy shouted a third time. "You will just tell the Slytherins, so they can make more fun of me than they already do!"
Was it this? He narrowed his eyes at the boy, at his son.
No, it wasn't, not entirely at least, he realized. It might play a role, yes, a small one, but it was not the main problem. The main problem seemed to be that the boy feared he would lose his, Snape's approval and comfort, his care, and he only brought this Slytherin-thing up so that he would not have to admit that he was scared of losing his hated Potions Master's care. But again – why?
"I will not tell anyone of this if you wish this to be kept secret, but I would like to know what has happened during the past two month while you have been in your summer holidays." He calmly said. "And there will be no way around that – even if I have to give you a daily detention for the remainder of this term – that has just started."
"Severus!" Poppy shouted, looking at him horror-stricken. He just lifted an eyebrow at her before locking his eyes at the boy, at his son, again.
"You won't tell anyone?" The boy asked, looking at him with so much hope in his eyes that he nearly felt unable to take a breath for a moment. "You promise? And you won't send me back either? You suggested detention until …"
"Harry Potter!" Poppy again shouted, this time looking at the boy horror stricken at the thought of the boy even thinking that they could send him back.
"No, Harry." He said, calmly, startling the boy with the use of his given name and even he could hear the anger in his own voice, anger at Lily's sister and her husband. "You will never go back to those bloody excuses for human beings, not ever again." He had seen the boy's body last night, his back and his chest, and except for the broken bones, the bruises and the open cuts and lacerations – he had seen all the scars, scars that had overlain other scars, layers of scars that were years old.
"But …" The boy started, looking helplessly up at him. "But what do I do now?"
"You trust an adult for once in your miserable life, Potter." He growled. He had watched the boy during yesterday evening and during last night, and he had watched him this morning so far, silently weighing up his options as to the next curse of action. Had watched his uneasy sleep, his restless movements during his sleep, had watched the child curling into a small ball or rocking himself to sleep sometimes even, while softly humming to himself, barely audible, but he had heard it – and he had seen this type of behaviour before, and he knew that perhaps the sorting hat had been right in more than one regards.
"Oh, but he should be." The bloody hat had said, causing him to whirl around and look at him in shock. "He should be yours, he is yours actually!"
Yes, the idiot child should be his. He should be one of his Slytherins. And yes, he actually was his. He was his son. He was his snake.
Waving his wand, he summoned the tray of food one of the house elves had brought earlier and he set it onto the bed over the boy's legs.
"Eat this, Potter." He tersely ordered. "All of it. I do not care how long you will take, but you will eat all of it."
"But …"
"I do not care if you will be able eating anything at all to begin with either, Potter, just start! Now!"
The boy looked down at the tray of food in front of him, looked back up at him unsurely before he looked down at the tray again and then reached for the spoon. "Thank you, Professor." He said before he put the spoon into the bowl with the light and watery porridge.
He watched the boy as he slowly went to work on the porridge and he had to grit his teeth at seeing how the boy's hand that was clutching the spoon too far down the handle and in a death like grip was shaking, the boy reminding him of any child that first had learned to feed himself.
Flashback
"Dee, daddy, dee!" The small, black haired boy squealed in pure delight and looking at the little imp he was just in time to see the spoon that hit the content of the bowl standing at the table in front of his son – little Harry having tried to feed himself but the spoon falling from his little fingers that had held the cutlery in an awkward way and mashed potatoes splattering all over the table and into his son's pyjama top, his face and his hair – causing a bath being in order, including washing the brat's hair what would be a battle rather than a bath.
"Nice." He drawled when the boy looked up at him with large eyes and an "ohoh" on his small lips – followed by his son laughing and clapping his little hands at his drawl. How this small boy could laugh and clap his hands whenever he drawled while any other child would run as far as possible, it was a riddle to him, but the boy seemed to love it.
End flashback
And right now, the boy looked exactly the same, awkwardly holding his spoon and slowly eating the porridge so that he would not drop the spoon and make a mess, the pale face a clear mask of concentration and the movements too slow and awkwardly – just without the laughing and clapping and without the "ohoh" and just with the boy's hand that held the spoon trembling, and the Potions Master held his hands behind his back so the boy would not see him curling his hands into fists with pure frustration and anger at the Dursleys.
"Since when are you – in this … condition?" He asked, just so that he had something, anything, that averted him from the thought of the twelve year old boy eating like a barely two year old child that was learning to feed himself.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Scowling in an unchallenged anger he hurried through the corridors, causing some sixth and seventh year students to scurry out of his way, pressing against the walls to make him as much room as possible, and even Nearly Headless Nick floated aside at top speed – at least for him – to allow the Potions Master past him when he drew his wand to throw the double doors that led outside into the courtyard open even before he had reached them.
The boy had looked up at him, startled, scared, and he had gestured to him to go on eating – and the boy had, as slowly as before, and he had repeated his question, knowing that the boy would eat calmer and more in peace if his mind was taken off the bowl and his task to begin with. Not an easy task, he had known, as any child with an eating disorder – and he was sure that after years of being with those people the boy did have an eating disorder – would try concentrating onto the nearly impossible task of eating anything in front of anyone … not to mention that he himself had needed getting his own mind off a twelve year old boy that fed himself like a barely one year old would – and he had needed answers.
Scowling and with fury roaring anew through his system he apparated to Privet Drive and hurried along the pavement that led to number four, where he knew the Dursleys lived. He was angry beyond anything he ever had felt, and he was barely able keeping himself from blasting the entire suburban into millions of tiny pieces – because none of the neighbours had done anything – while he remembered a conversation, he rather would like to forget at all.
Flashback
"Since when are you – in … this condition?" He repeated his question, his dark eyes on the boy and he took in Potter flinching again.
"'M not sure, sir." The boy answered, not daring to look at him, his eyes glued to the bowl of porridge instead without actually eating any of it but playing with the spoon in his hand awkwardly.
"Surely you must have noticed your body having changed, Mr. Potter?" He asked, again – or still – trying to regain his composure and his professionalism. "When was that?"
"Haven't changed." The boy mumbled and he frowned at the brat.
"What do you mean – you have not changed?" He asked. "You are – ghost-like at the best."
"Sure, but I haven't changed." The boy still – or again – mumbled. "Uncle Vernon has …" The boy started but then stopped mid-sentence, averting his eyes.
"Your uncle has what, Mr. Potter?" He asked when it was clear that the boy would not continue on his own and he narrowed his eyes at the child.
"He's chased me out of the house." The boy murmured, his shoulders bent even more than a moment ago and he really sounded miserable by admitting that. "Dunno what he did with my body."
"What do you mean, Mr. Potter, you do not know what he did with your body?" He asked, not really understanding. It was clear what this idiot creature of a man had done to the body of that child!
"Dunno!" The child choked out, releasing the spoon that splashed into the bowl with porridge and then wrapping his thin arms around his stomach and bending forwards, hugging himself as if needing this bit of comfort or as if holding himself together, as if keeping himself from falling apart – and he gritted his teeth at the sight. "Dunno! 'M sure he's buried it somewhere or he's dropped it somewhere or burnt it or beaten it again or he … dunno! Jus' dunno … dunno … dunno …"
The last few words came out as a soft whisper, barely understandable and tears were running down the ghost-like pale face of the boy that was rocking back and forth by now, a desperate sob escaping the child, all of this showing the amount of emotional pain the child was in, the fear, the horror and the pain the boy felt, his son, and suddenly he couldn't stop his traitorous hand from reaching out and placing itself onto the child's bent back.
"You mean – you have left your body and – your actual body is still back at – Surrey?" He quietly asked, forcing his voice to sound calm while in truth he would like to shout at the boy and to slam his fist against the next wall or to break something – just to release some of the fury he inwardly felt. Fury at the horror and fury at the terror those monsters had placed upon an innocent child, having to leave his body, having to leave his body behind, not knowing what would happen to it, what those monsters would do to it.
The boy nodded, unable to give another verbal answer, still sobbing desperately while his arms went up to cover his head, to pull his head down into the ball he was about to become.
"I need you to concentrate for a moment longer, Harry." He said, still sounding calm and composed despite what he inwardly felt. "I need you to tell me if your body has been still alive."
"Dunno …" Was all the boy again was able to choke out, his rocking movements getting more uncontrollable.
"Has it been breathing?" He asked, increasing the touch his hand had on the boy's back as if trying to stop the rocking movements. They only increased while the boy started shaking in his terror, started to shake his head to most likely indicate that – no, it hadn't been breathing or no, he didn't know if it had been breathing still back then.
End flashback
He had known that he wouldn't get an answer out of the boy back then and he had known that he had to do something to comfort the child like he would do with his Slytherins in a situation like this. Not that he ever had been in a situation like this with one of his Slytherins ever, but he always gave as much comfort to his snakes as he was able to give – as little as that was, he knew – and they appreciated it, craved for it – as had done Harry, allowing him, Snape, to pull him close again and to pull his arms from his head.
"Hush, child, calm down." He had said, quietly, while again holding the small form against his chest. "I will take care of the situation to the best of my abilities. I want you to eat, now, and I want you to rest after that. Sleep, if you can."
And then he had left the infirmary, had hurried along the castle corridors, down a flight of stairs and through the entrance hall. He had thrown open both of the double winged doors with his wand before he had reached them, and then he had stormed down the stairs that led to the front yards, through the gates and without even bothering to approach Hogsmeade he had apparated away.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
And now he stood in front of number four Privet Drive, Surrey, and again – without hesitation he waved his hand, having the area around the house warded from the curious eyes of the neighbours, and then threw open the door, forcefully.
He stood there, barely for a second until he had taken in his surroundings, the staircase that led to the upper levels to his left, a corridor that led straight to the kitchen ahead and a door that led to the living room further down the corridor to his left, a built in cupboard under the stairs to his right – and without even waiting for the startled voices to come out of the kitchen where the Dursleys had apparently had a late Saturday breakfast, he took the few steps towards the cupboard and yanked the door open, ignoring the looks that fell with a barely visible wave of his hand – and then took a deep breath at the new scene.
The body of the boy he had in the infirmary at Hogwarts lay there on a small and thin, flimsy baby mattress that was stained and perforated, both his eyes blackened and swollen shut, his lips split and the scar on the pale forehead – he had to close his eyes for a moment, to grit his teeth while his hands automatically curled into fists, and he had to take a deep breath before he looked back at the scar that seemed as if someone had tried to cut it off the boy and he actually had to struggle to not use all three of the unforgivables on everyone in that house right then and there.
Slowly he lowered himself onto one knee and lightly brushed his hand over the boy's deep pink cheeks within the otherwise deathly pale face, feeling the fire within the small body – so, the boy was alive still, but Harry, the boy ghost, he had been right in fearing what the Dursleys might have done to his body as there were injuries on the deathly weak and thin body that had not been on the ghost form.
But why had he left his body anyway? How had it even been possible for him to leave his body while it hadn't been completely dead yet? How could this body here, this kind of Harry be alive without the part that was his ghost? Reaching out towards the child's wrists that were bound together tightly with a piece of rope to feel for a pulse, he winced at the blood that seeped from more than one injury where the rope had dug into the soft skin.
"What the bloody hell …" A booming voice coming from behind let him spin around and with a deep growl in his throat he launched himself at the whale that was Dursley, grabbing him at his throat with his fingers of one hand curled around the fat throat and then pinning him against the wall of the corridor in one fluid movement.
"Not – a single – word, you miscreant of a monster." He hissed, his dark eyes cold and unforgiving at the monster and he was barely able keeping himself from killing the creature here and now. "I will deal with you – and your family – later." He added in a cold hiss, waving his hand in an aggressive arch, and a moment later Dursley was released and a crumpled heap on the floor, not even able to shiver with fright while his wife and son were fixed to the spot where they had been standing in the kitchen-doorway, all three of them having been set under a body bind.
He turned back to the cupboard without even a glance backwards at them, they were not worth his attention right now, and he just took a deep breath which he released in a defeated sigh the moment he saw the child's ghost form, all of a sudden sitting there atop of one of the shelves, looking down at his own body with wide and scared green eyes.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
To be continued
Next time in "The boy that forgot to die"
Of course, Master Snape, Sir
Added author's note
thank you for reading - and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too … thank you …
House Cup:
At the present time it looks like this:
29 Points - Slytherin
07 Points - Gryffindor
20 Points - Ravenclaw
06 Points - Hufflepuff
