Side Effects

Author: Adrienne Wolter (catsncritters).
Summary: A potion's accidental side effects were passed down an ancient bloodline for centuries, before they reached the one that needed them.
Rating: PG13.
Warnings: If you've read this far, you know that there's HPSS slash and I shouldn't need to warn you again. Rating might have to go to R, because I'm planning the afteraffects of violence on another character (and you can probably guess who right now, even without this chapter...). Watch the warnings in the future.
Reviews: Very much appreciated, but not required.
Archive: This is archived here, and on my own site. If you'd like to archive elsewhere, ask first.
Noted: Chapter four... slightly longer this time. :D
Oh, and good news for Switched readers - Halfway done with chapter eighteen... should probably have it up right after FFN gets back from read-only mode (read the August 12th news thingy for more info).
Thanks to my reviewers. :) Hey, have ya'll seen the NAF beta feature thingy? It's awesome. If you haven't, log in and read about it. :D

(Immortal Memories - There'll be a chapter or two more of Percy, but there's a purpose. I assure you that this will end up being HPSS. [Doesn't it suck when you're reading a story that the author says is one pairing, and halfway through they decide to make it something else? Not going to happen with any of my stories.] Everyone makes Percy out to be a bastard now because of book five. I'm going to turn the tables a bit. ;) )

.---.

Tranquil silence was something Severus had grown used to.

It came from years of being seen as a traitor by everyone, seen as the 'bad guy' by both sides. Years of secluding himself from the world that might try to hurt him–because he already knew that doing such was not above them. No, he had spied and worked for the good cause for almost two decades. He'd done the world a favour, whether they knew it–whether they wanted to know it–or not. And yet, any way he looked at it, he would always be on the losing side. After the war, no one would think to clear the ex-spy's name, of course. He fought his battles, tamed his demons behind the scenes, and he'd reached the point that he really didn't care if he was accepted or not.

He rolled over, finding himself face to face with James Potter. He itched to close his eyes, but they were already shut. Curses. No, he finally chided himself, this was–Harry. He wondered why it felt so wrong to be calling the boy by something other than his surname. Maybe because someday in class, he might slip. After all, he'd be sleeping with–no, sharing a bed with–the Gryffindor every night until he either found some way to banish the vision, or–here he shuddered–replaced it with the real thing.

Ha, like that was going to happen.

Eyes still closed, but able to see through them, Severus studied the boy's face idly. Messy hair somewhat covered up the eyes that were currently shut, and he realized that there were no glasses. A quick glance over his shoulder proved the glasses to be on the bedside cabinet, but they disappeared along with the boy when his eyes were open. Interesting.

Feeling drained and exhausted, he tried to make himself more comfortable by fluffing the pillows. It did very little. Perhaps the hardest thing to accept, and the easiest thing to get used to, would be the fact that he could hear both himself and the raven-haired boy's breathing.

He held his breath as Harry shifted, nuzzling closer into his chest. It was... comfortable? Not exactly. But nonetheless, he smiled down at the boy's head, tired, and tried again to get to sleep.

- - - -

Harry's birthday party was small, and that was the way he liked it. He would've felt uncomfortable, for instance, if the entire Order had been invited, since he didn't know very many of them well enough to be able to relax in their presence. But having the Weasleys, Tonks, and Remus was different, and preferable; the Weasleys were his second family, Tonks was just easy to like, and Remus was like a second godfather.

And it was that thought that made him feel guilty–no one had dared trying to mention Sirius since his arrival. He was ready to talk about him now, to smile at good memories... but no one else would bring it up first, and he knew that they wouldn't like it if he brought it up. The Weasleys were his generous hosts to his very first birthday party–he would not ruin it by sulking about.

So, drawing up all the happiness he could, he acted as joyful as possible. Soon, however, he found that he didn't have to act.

After talking to numerous Weasleys, Mrs. Weasley directed his attention to the living room, and he was the last to wander in, still talking to Remus; when he caught sight of the room, he couldn't say a word.

Gryffindor-colored streamers and paper chains hung in the corners. Mr. Weasley seemed to be trying to catch his eye, unsure about the Muggle decorations he'd surely put up himself. Harry grinned at him to show his appreciation, before his eyes fell on the teetering stack of gifts precariously placed on the skinny coffee table.

"Go ahead, open one," Ron told him, grinning just as widely as Harry. Embarrassed, he took a parcel off the top of the pile, taking a seat on the floor like most of the other guests, and turning it over to look at the card on the front.

Written in her familiar, neat scrawl was a note from Hermione.

I thought this might come in handy. You never know. I wasn't really sure what to get you, so I kind of put these together. Happy birthday!
Love, Hermione

He ripped the paper open anxiously; the thing that caught his eye as it fell out was a small, black leather-covered journal, along with several quills, an empty ink well, and an eraser. Tucked inside the journal was another note.

Sorry if it's too girly for your tastes. There's actually ink in that bottle–invisible ink. You can read what you wrote later with the eraser, if you'd like.

"Thanks, Hermione!" he said at once, and was pleased to find her smiling, sitting next to Ron again. Maybe they were trying to get along just for him, but he was glad they had at least reached some kind of agreement.

Several gifts later, including free gift cards from the twins to their joke shop and an updated copy of Quidditch Through the Ages signed by the Chudley Cannons from Ron, Harry found Tonks' gift.

"Those are my old training books," she told Harry excitedly, and he found several auror-related texts. "Since Fudge is Minister now, some of them have been banned for the types of magic in them. I heard about your DA group, thought you might like some more advanced spells on hand." Tonks' enthusiasm rubbing off on him, Harry found that he was not at all disappointed from the gift, which consisted basically of textbooks; he grinned and thanked her.

And on the gift-opening went. Harry felt like he was making his onlookers impatient by his thorough inspection of each gift, but he figured that he'd just take his time, it was his first birthday party, after all.

The present on the very bottom of the stack was skinny and book-shaped, and Harry glanced at Hermione to see if she had anything to do with giving him a book. Her face was as curious as his own, however, so he glanced down at the card.

It was from Remus.

He ripped off the paper carefully, staring at the gift for a second before he looked back in front of him, this time at Remus, giving him a short stare, before his eyes went back to the gift.

It was a Hogwarts yearbook. He hadn't even known they existed; perhaps they were done away with before he'd started his schooling? But there it was, in front of him, maroon-coloured leather cover proclaiming it to be such; a look at the spine of the book showed it to be from the 1977-78 school year.

There was a note inside the cover, similarly to Hermione's gift.

Happy birthday, Harry. This was Sirius'; I found it while cleaning about a month ago. I figured he would want you to have it.

"Wow, Remus... thank you," he told the man, flashing an appreciative smile before setting it with his other gifts.

The gift-giving complete, Molly Weasley happily herded everyone out to the dining room again; Harry talked to several more people and then sat on his own, basking in the warm feeling of a party thrown just for him. Surveying the guests, it was several minutes later, at least, that he realized that someone was missing.

Of course Percy hadn't appeared. It was stupid to think he might; he didn't get along with his family well, after all, did he? Not anymore. Looking around, he filled a plate with some pork roast and potatoes, then slipped up the stairs to look for Percy.

He'd never been in the man's room before. Harry had never had any reason to wander inside, or bother him while he was in there; therefore, it was with self-consciousness that he straightened his t-shirt before knocking softly.

There was an entire minute of nothing, and Harry began to wonder if he should knock again, when the door opened a very small amount. "Ah... Mister Potter."

Confused at the formality, the boy shrugged. "May I come in?"

"Yes, of course, sorry about that...." Percy stepped back from the door, eyes cast downwards. "Can you close it then? Thanks."

Harry stood awkwardly, momentarily pausing to take in the room. No lights were on, and the room was made only somewhat less dim by a flickering candle, burned down into a stub. It was a very plain room; there was a bed, a desk, and a chair. Two closet doors across the room were the only other thing of interest. Hearing Percy cough, Harry jumped and offered the plate. "I didn't see you at dinner, so I brought you this."

Eyes never leaving the floor, Percy silently accepted it, poking at the pork and still saying nothing.

This went on for about five minutes, until someone knocked on the door and then entered without waiting for an answer. "Harry! We were looking all over for you, you're missing your own party!"

The twins came in together, and one–George–glanced over enough to see Percy. It occurred to Harry that Percy, in his dark pants and white shirt, rather blended in with the black surroundings of his room. "Oh. Why're you with him?"

It wasn't his words, but rather his tone of voice and the skepticism in George's eyes when he asked the question that made Harry feel suddenly sour. The sneer on his face, the cold edge in his eyes.... Could someone as perfect as Percy make a mistake and actually be forgiven, even by their own family? Especially by their own family? "What, am I not allowed to be?" Percy poked at the food still like nothing was being said about him, as though he hadn't even noticed his brothers' entrance. He seemed so distant....

"Oh, come on," George replied, rolling his eyes. Fred stayed in the background, closer to the door, looking out the window. Harry wondered at that; was he just as bad as George? Or did he have regrets? "Surely you can find some more enjoyable company, Harry."

"Go ahead," Percy told him monotonously, the first words he'd said since the twin's entrance.

Harry, disgusted, stepped in front of the twin in question, giving him a long, cold stare. "When did you stop caring about your family, George?"

The addressed's eyes flashed. "I never stopped caring about my family."

"And what is Percy, a wild animal? He's your brother," he spat, giving the redhead a shove towards the door. "I'll spend my birthday party in the company of people who don't disgust me if I damn well feel like it."

Fred shot him a blank glance as he followed the fuming form of George out, which Harry interpreted as a sort of gratitude. He didn't turn back to Percy until the door was shut, and when it was, he suddenly had no clue what to say. The raven-haired boy found himself frustrated at the man; how could he just let them insult him? And damn it, why wouldn't he look up at him?

"Thanks, Mister Potter," he said quietly.

"Why am I Mister Potter now?" Harry asked, and found himself full of questions. Why won't you look at me? Why do you have so many bruises?

What happened to you, Percy?

"You can call me Harry, you know."

"I'm sorry I wasn't downstairs for your party," the man said, finally pushing the plate away. It looked like he hadn't taken more than two bites of it–only picked at it until it became a mushy ball of baked potato and pork. "I didn't think you'd want me there." And his eyes rose for a fraction of a second, and their dullness confirmed Harry's earlier assumption–Percy was a broken man.

But he wouldn't ask, just yet. Years of prude questions had taught him that he wouldn't get an answer, or worse, would be lied to, if he were to ask; it was Percy's business and his answer to keep. But the Gryffindor in him made a silent promise that he'd make himself someone who Percy could talk to, since he obviously couldn't talk to his family.