This is the second chapter today, make sure you've not missed the previous one!


Fifteen: Warsaw

At Warsaw Central Station, Severus's first order of business was finding out the time for the next bus toward Tallinn.

Severus's second order of business was locating the nearest pharmacy and swallowing back as much Ibuprofen as reason allowed, and then one or two more.

He had grown spoiled on potions and Pomfrey's fussing. He was nursing one broken arm and one missing tooth, and he could not remember ever feeling so miserable. Even counting in the near-death experience, the burning memory of a life freshly taken, and the superpowered turmoil of trauma that was the juvenile fugitive walking a step behind him—surely Severus had had it worse?

By third order of business, they went back into the main hall of the station, rode up the darkened elevator and joined the sleepy queue for the shabbier-looking of the two restaurants. A backlit Coca Cola advert promised a garden of delights. Pigeons cooed at each other, peaceful in the face of the constant scatter of fresh crumbs. The menu was stained with grease and marked with handwritten updates that Severus couldn't decipher.

He ordered them both a toasted open-faced sandwich that looked like it would feed an army. He got himself a vodka shot to go with it, because that was the extent of his knowledge about this part of the world, and also because he absolutely needed a drink. He got the boy the Coca Cola, because that seemed like something the sugar-obsessed creature might enjoy, and also because he felt guilty.

After a few bites of the sandwich, which proved just as filling but altogether more pleasing than he'd expected, and once the vodka and the Ibuprofen had decided to work in tandem, Severus felt better prepared to deal with the rest of the night.

'I should hope you're aware that you have not been possessed by the Dark Lord,' he said to the boy.

Potter gave a half-nod, half-shrug.

'There may be some morons among The Daily Prophet readers who will believe such a tale, but the Wizengamot is largely composed of reasonably rational individuals. They are the jury who will hear the case for your custody, and I assure you they will not be distracted by this sensationalist blabber.'

Severus wasn't entirely confident this was an accurate assessment, but the vodka had made him optimistic.

'So, uhm,' Potter said with a full mouth. A mushroom came out through the gap between his teeth and flapped onto the table. This time, he swallowed before continuing, 'Uh, Professor Dumbledore will be there at the trial, right? Saying that he should be my guardian, kind of?'

'Yes. The Ministry would wish to take that guardianship away from him, which means they would have the deciding power in where to place you.'

'So where would I go if they won? Would I—' his voice dipped into a half-whisper, '—would I go to prison?'

Severus snorted. 'Prison? No, Potter, you will not go to prison. Heavens, you're eleven years old; where on Earth did you even get that idea?'

'I'm going to be twelve in three weeks,' the boy pointed out.

'Ah, that changes everything. Twelve-year-olds are notoriously the largest percentage population of most any prison.'

Potter was not amused.

'You would most likely be sent to a foster family,' Severus explained. 'But some of the people who have influence over due process have been known in the past to associate with Death Eaters. You might not be entirely safe where they place you, which is why Professor Dumbledore is making sure that you don't become a ward of the Ministry.'

He wondered if the boy would comment on the fact he hadn't exactly been safe where Dumbledore had placed him either. It was certainly at the forefront of Severus's mind these days.

But instead, the boy bit his lip and asked,

'And what if Dumbledore—I mean, Professor Dumbledore wins? Then we go back to Britain and everything's back to normal, right? I just go back to the Dursleys like before?'

Severus set down his sandwich.

'No,' he bit out. 'You will not go back to your aunt and uncle. After what you've told me, do you genuinely believe that you would be allowed to?'

Potter hesitated, eyes searching Severus's face as if for a hint as to what the right answer might be. 'No?' he tried.

'Are you asking me or telling me?'

'But you didn't—you didn't even say anything about it.'

He hadn't. Ideally, he would never have to say anything about it ever again; the less involved he was, the less painful it would be for everyone. 'That is your private business,' he told the boy, and it sounded uncomfortable and wrong. 'But you can be sure I have registered the information and that at my earliest convenience, I will be informing the Headmaster that your relatives are an unfit placement for you so that you may be moved. Is that clear?'

'Moved where?'

'That is for the Headmaster to decide.'

Potter considered this. 'Couldn't I just live in Hogwarts during the summers?'

'No. The teachers all leave the castle for the summer holidays and you are entirely too young to be left to your own devices.'

'I'm not going to starve,' Potter scoffed, as if he couldn't imagine what other concerns Severus might hold about the scenario. 'I can cook, you know. I could maybe forage in the forest—or, or just on the grounds, and then cook the food in my Potions cauldron or something. And if I got lost or whatever, then the ghosts could help me out.'

'No, Potter.'

'I'd do my homework and everything!'

Severus was about to open his mouth to detail to the boy at least a few of the myriad reasons why leaving him at Hogwarts unattended for two months was a ridiculous notion. But then he remembered this wasn't his battle to wage.

'Feel free to present your arguments to the Headmaster,' he told him. 'I'm sure he'll be happy to hear your ideas.'

'I will,' Potter said, jerking his chin up as if in challenge.

The bus wasn't until midnight, so they sat on a metal bench in the spacious hall to wait. Three young backpackers argued under the departures board, their voices echoing coldly on the distant walls. Pigeons nipped at Severus's feet. His head swam with alcohol, Ibuprofen and simple exhaustion, the curves of the world deepened and the colours more meaningful. Potter sat curled into a compact shape, his head half-buried in his jumper. He looked like a tortoise, Severus thought.

He'd supposed him asleep, so startled when the dark head spoke clearly, 'Do you think I'm evil?'

'What on Earth are you talking about now?'

'Because I killed Quirrell,' the boy whispered into his jumper. 'And then today when I—'

'I killed Agata,' Severus said, for once happy about it: clearly, it would have been worse if the boy had done so before Severus got round to it. 'Just as you did with Quirrell, I killed her in self-defence. That does not make us—that doesn't make you evil.'

'No, but—I mean the magic. I shouldn't have been able to kill Quirrell at all, but I was because I can use that freaky magic somehow. And it's the same magic that Agata used to break your arm.'

'You didn't use it to break my arm. You used it to save my life. I don't understand, how is that evil?'

The boy puffed out his breath, frustrated that Severus was missing his point. 'That isn't, but—you don't think that it's creepy, that I can just do something like that so easily?'

Severus did indeed find it both creepy and deeply concerning, but he wasn't about to say so.

'No,' he lied. 'You know, Potter, you're not the only one capable of killing another person. Even the frailest of old ladies could probably manage to slip someone a sedative and then smother them with their pillow. And if you intend to become a fully qualified wizard, and I certainly hope you do, you will know spells and potions that could easily send your chosen victim into an early grave. As long as you use those powers wisely, I don't see how that would make you evil. Most people are capable of killing, they only choose not to do it. But sometimes, you have to hurt someone to protect yourself, do you understand?'

'I guess.'

'What do you have to do to protect yourself?'

Potter groaned. 'I know, I've heard you.'

'No. Tell me.'

'Sometimes you have to hurt someone,' the boy droned, sending Severus a glare over the collar of the jumper, which now reached somewhere around his nose.

'If you're concerned about this affinity for natural magic that you so clearly possess, that is again something you should take up with the Headmaster. He is well-versed in magical theory and should be able to help you achieve more control.'

To be frank, the boy had displayed plenty of control that morning, perhaps more so than Agata herself had. He wasn't convinced whether he was doing the right thing in downplaying the magnitude of this discovery for Potter. But surely the boy was too young to be told that he needed to get a grip on his completely unique powers because he might eventually have to use them to kill a man no one else could kill?

He needed Albus for this. Albus would frame the discussion in some vaguely poetic terms that spoke to children, and he would tell Severus what could be done with a superpowered boy who was destined to defeat the Dark Lord yet still unable to control his bladder. No more layovers, he decided right then. They were going to Tallinn and getting on the ferry to Helsinki, and then he was bringing Albus to Finland so he could sort through Potter's million issues. Delaying action was helping no one, least of all the child.

'Okay,' Potter shifted. 'Can—can you ask him? About the magic?'

'I will let him know he needs to discuss it with you.'

'Thanks.'

A couple minutes later, Potter shifted again. This time, his head ended up brushing against Severus's shoulder. He stayed completely still, wondering whether the boy would change position; when he didn't, Severus didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

A cleaning lady had him lift his legs so she could sweep under the bench, which amused Potter a great deal, though he did his best to hide it. The restaurants upstairs were shutting their doors, and the last travellers who'd sought shelter there made their way down to the main hall. The escalators whistled into motion, then slowed gradually into their low hum.

'Is it true that you didn't like my dad?'

A spike of tension travelled up Severus's spine. The boy's head got dislodged from where it rested against his shoulder.

'Who told you that?'

Potter worried his lip between his teeth.

'Potter.'

'Professor Dumbledore. But only because I kept badgering him about it, because I wanted to know why you saved me that time on the Quidditch pitch. And he said you didn't like my dad but he saved your life one time, so you owed him—'

'That's utter nonsense,' Severus spat. 'I don't owe him one thing.'

'I'm sorry,' the boy stuttered quickly.

Severus tightened his hands into fists, held for the count of five, then released. 'It's not your fault you were misled, is it?'

'…no?'

'Your father and I disliked each other,' he admitted, taking care to keep at least some of the venom out of his voice. 'But my saving you had nothing to do with him. I would have attempted the same for any student who was at risk of breaking their neck playing that ridiculous game, and I was doubly vigilant with you, both because it was your first match, and because your mother would have done the same if she'd been there.'

A single mention of Lily was all the distraction he needed. Potter deflated, though his head still did not return to Severus's shoulder.

'That must have been awkward, when you were friends with my mum and then she got together with my dad,' he mused with forced humour. Severus immediately recognized this as the boy's own attempt at defusing the situation. 'That's like if Hermione got together with Malfoy or something. Blergh.'

Severus smiled faintly. 'Yes. It was rather awkward.'

It had been more than, of course. It had been a horror of jealousy and insecurity and fear, and the mounting frustration as she continued to ignore every argument he thought of.

'I know what you see,' she'd told him one time, when they were both worn out from arguing and languid with it. 'But that's not what I see. And I think you have a choice, in life: you can look at someone and judge them for who they are at their worst, or who they are at their best.'

'I think that's what my mother told herself when she was marrying my father, too.'

He'd known immediately he'd gone too far. Her eyes turned to steel.

'I think you should take that back,' she demanded, cheeks blooming in fever red.

He wanted to, but he was too proud and stupid for it. 'You know what I find curious? Whenever you see me, you go off about how I am with my friends, in this context or that context—how come James Potter gets to be judged for who he is at his best, and I don't?'

'Because,' she said, 'whoever it is you are at your best with, Severus, it's not me.'

'Professor Dumbledore also said that you don't like me because I look like my dad.'

Professor Dumbledore needs to talk less, Severus thought to himself.

'I like you fine, Potter,' he told him brusquely.

Thank Merlin the boy had ridiculously low standards, because that was all it took to bring his head back to Severus's shoulder.


And that is the final chapter this year! Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed and followed this work these past weeks. I know this year has been tough on many of us, but I hope that like me, you have managed to find pockets of joy in among the chaos.

An extra thank you to guest reviewers:

26 Dec - I'm very happy you like it! 3

27 Dec - I'm glad you're able to overlook the shorter chapters, since I'm afraid I really like writing shorter chapters ;) I hope you've had a great time during the holidays too!

And everyone: stay safe over New Year's, do not mix Ibuprofen with vodka, and I'll see you in 2021, which is going to be a very good year because I said so.