Twenty-Three: Inari to Privet Drive
Rain rattles on the roof shingles, sharp and metallic. The boy's breathing has evened out, his neck has slackened, his hands have lost their clutch. His hair feels stiff: it hasn't been washed properly. Even in the dim light, it looks sun-weathered, a strand here and there brightened into near auburn. The mattress creaks. Severus doesn't know what time it is.
The future of the wizarding world rests here, warm against Severus's hand. Inconceivable. But he can conceive of it, these days: if handled well, the damage might push the boy toward greatness. The propensity for spikes of feeling can translate so easily into great acts of magic. The hero of the wizarding world is a mistrustful Parseltongue with a perverted sense of self-worth. A wizarding prodigy who cares little for his own life. A boy who doesn't understand the concept of entitlement, sickly courageous and inclined toward kindness, with a storm behind his eyes. Whatever he grows into, it will be terrible and grand and impossible to ignore.
One day. But the wonder Severus feels is barely real, because he isn't any of that yet. Whatever the boy will be, he might not ever become, and whatever Severus becomes, he cannot know until he does become it. He can't live his life waiting for a future that might never come: they are here today. The time is now.
He untangles his hands. The nausea of a paradigm shift wrecks through his body like potent poison, fast-acting, unstoppable, ruthlessly transformative. The rain sounds different, the way his body is put together feels unlike him, his hands are either too large or too small when he pulls the sheets tighter around Harry's shoulders. The swell of energy paints the room bright and shimmering, but he wishes too that he could go back to a minute ago, to before the world had changed, because now he is holding the future in the palm of his hand and it weighs heavier than anything he's ever touched.
He still doesn't know what time it is. He knocks on the door anyway.
Leeni is the one who staggers to open it. Her hair is pulled into a knot that he imagines she'll struggle to untangle in the morning. Her eyes are barely open. 'Hmm?'
'I'm leaving,' he says quickly. 'If all goes well, I will be back tomorrow—morning, afternoon, I can't be certain. The boy is asleep now, but he might wake up tired, so don't bother him with your endless list of activities if you can help it.'
Leeni blinks at him. 'Alright,' she says.
From behind her, Kauko gives a rebellious little noise, hand coming up to wave at him from the crests and dips of her duvet nest. 'No, not alright! Where are you even going, it's the middle of the night—nothing will be open—'
'You will explain when you come back,' Leeni states. 'And you will come back.'
'I will.'
'Alright. The Floo is connected to the British network, but only via the fireplace Albus uses.'
Severus's lungs clench. If he has to Floo into the Headmaster's office— 'Do you know where that is?'
'Not Hogwarts. Somewhere in Hogsmeade.'
'Alright,' he repeats lamely. It makes her smile.
He dresses. The scratch of the shirt, the slide of the trouser leg, the thump of the shoe he drops. The fabric of Potter's Invisibility Cloak pours in his hands, ephemeral yet palpable. A thread of pain lingers in his head, not serious but strong enough to affect his thinking. He needs every last piece of clarity, so he pillages the kitchen cabinet for a vial of pain reliever. It numbs his tongue as he downs it.
It feels as though the Floo powder should drip between his fingers, that he should leave behind a mess and stain his shirt. But his hands are remarkably steady.
'Hogsmeade,' he says, too loud in the silence of the house.
The direction is imprecise and so he stumbles from one fireplace to another, until finally he falls through into a dim room that smells of old grease and fermentation. A splinter peels off the old floor and jabs into his index.
A door opens: a spill of candlelight and drunken laugher. A woman looks wildly from one corner of the room to the other. He must have triggered an alarm, only he is standing in a kitchen, windows shuttered and the hob put to rest for the night, and the woman wears a dirty apron and the haunted look of one in customer service: what sort of establishment has a warded kitchen?
The one that Albus Dumbledore uses for covert travel, of course. Deeming this little mystery inconsequential to his current mission, Severus dismisses the curiosity and waits motionless until the woman gives up. Once the room has dipped into darkness again, he takes another handful of Floo powder from the mantle and orders, 'Number 7, Wisteria Walk.'
The fire blazes blue. A fat, dirt-coloured cat jumps three feet into the air, but the rest of the house lies in too deep a slumber to mark his arrival. He'd worried about warding, but clearly Arabella's anonymity was deemed a good-enough safeguard, and no one has bothered. He supposes other than Albus, few people in the Order ever knew of her existence in the first place, and those that did have by now forgotten. Severus only knows because Albus speaks of her sometimes, in his quieter days.
The guilt runs cold in his veins. He ignores it. The door out is bolted shut and takes focus. The air is soaked in the day's heat. He has never been here before and without a map, he must wander: a park, a playground, an overturned rubbish bin. He lays his hands on the walls of the dark houses he passes, hoping to feel for a trace of the blood wards, but if it is there, he cannot sense it. Harry would be able to.
When he does feel it, the wave of magic nearly brings him down to his knees. He is at the right house; a squib could tell that much.
He presses the doorbell twice, then bangs on the door.
'What the blasted—who are you? Do you know what time it is?'
The man's face is swollen with sleep. His robe lies grotesquely skewed, halfway down one shoulder: he's been woken from a deep rest.
'Mr Dursley,' Severus says politely. 'I need to speak with your wife.'
'My wife? My wife is asleep, you moron—'
She isn't though: the skinny silhouette is half-hidden behind a doorframe, but Severus knows what Petunia Evans looks like when she's sneaking about.
'I have an urgent matter to discuss that concerns her nephew. I'm sure she will brave the imposition for an old friend.'
The silhouette pushes off the wall. She moves just the same as when they were children. 'Severus?'
'Petunia.'
'Get out of my house.'
'You know that never really works, don't you?'
'Petunia, you know this man?'
She has stepped into the light from the porch just in time to show Severus her sneer. He remembers the sneer. Something in him jolts oddly: it almost feels like some misplaced joy.
'An old friend of my sister's,' she says, like she could not think of a single worse thing. 'I'm not letting him into the house.'
'Wait, he's—you're one of them—one of that sort, aren't you?'
'One of a sort, certainly,' Severus corrects smoothly. He revels in the twitch of Petunia's lip, in her hard swallow of distaste. Merlin but he'd missed playing her.
Dursley grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him inside the house. The door slams shut behind them, and then the light is flicked on.
Suddenly, Petunia looks like a person he doesn't know at all.
Delicate wrinkles frame her eyes. Her hair has been dyed just a shade off natural, her stick figure has filled. They stare at one another, eyes flicking to take in the changes, the weight of the time elapsed settling heavy between them: years since they've seen each other last. Years that she's been gone.
'I don't want the neighbours seeing the likes of you on my doorstep,' Dursley barrels on, ignorant. 'Say your piece and go. What, you want us to take the boy back? You done with him? We had one of you over here the other day saying it'll be another week at least, but I'm not surprised you people don't know what you're doing—'
'Your nephew had to be taken out of the country because there are wizards out there who'd like him muzzled,' Severus interrupts, eyes fixed on Petunia. 'These are not people to be trifled with: they will do anything to get what they want. And that is not to mention the catalyst for this renewed interest. The Dark Lord attempted to murder the boy again just last month. He is seeking ways to return to his old power and when he does, there will be another war, this time centred around your beloved nephew.'
'What the hell are you—'
Severus pulls out his wand. 'I suggest you keep quiet,' he whispers. 'Your wife and I are trying to have a conversation.'
Dursley shrinks away, face torn between terror and fury. Petunia's eyes flick to him momentarily before settling again on Severus. She and Lily were never much alike, but the shape of her eyes—that is the same.
'Why are you telling me this?' her voice trembles. 'I haven't seen you in years and now you come strolling into my house, threatening my family—'
'That is exactly why I am telling you. As long as the boy calls this place his home, he poses a threat to your family. I have strolled in here so very easily, Petunia. Do you remember what the Cruciatus curse does? I've told you all about it, haven't I?'
She blanches. Severus smiles leisurely. 'All I need is my wand: I could cast it on your husband right now to demonstrate if you're struggling to remember. If you'd prefer, I can cast a silencing spell, too. I wouldn't want the screams to wake your son.'
'You disgust me,' she spits. 'You always have. I still don't understand how Lily didn't see it.'
'Often disgusted, aren't you, Petunia? Who else disgusts you—your nephew, perhaps?'
'Shut your—'
'I don't care!' he shouts, rattled beyond what he has ever expected in coming here. 'I don't care about your little sins, Petunia, or what you've done to the boy. It would bring me great pleasure to see you and your husband forced to service a bored Death Eater—compelled with magic to chomp off your own limbs one-by-one—held in cages like circus freaks—oh, because that's what you are to them, of course, that's what you are to me, too, don't forget—'
'Stop!'
'Fine,' he catches his breath. He feels like he's fifteen again and doesn't like it. 'It would bring me pleasure, but here I am with a warning instead. The blood wards are the only reason the boy continues to stay here: break them. Tell me you will not take him back. Decide you will never take him back. I will need any possessions of his that remain in the house. Once the wards are broken, they cannot be easily reinstated, and you'll be safe.'
'Take him!' Dursley shouts. 'Bloody keep him and get out, you—'
Severus presses the tip of his wand to the man's lips. 'I don't care one whit for your opinion on the subject, Dursley, and neither does the magic that rests on your house. I need Petunia to say it.'
Her hands are shaking. She presses them into the pockets of her robe. Then, she looks up at him: a storm.
'No,' she says.
The strangled sound that leaves his lips is half-laughter, half-pain. 'I swear to God, Petunia—'
'I won't do it,' she vows. 'I won't break the wards.'
'This is rich,' he sneers, taking a step toward her: she shrinks but does not look away. 'You spend years treating him like dirt, and now you take the moral high ground and what, expect that it will save your soul? Do you think this makes it all better, Petunia? Do you feel exonerated?'
She's breathing fast. Severus closes his eyes and occludes until everything is gone, until the slate is clean. He steps back.
'Dumbledore—'
'I will handle Dumbledore.'
'And what will become of the boy?' she barks. 'Perhaps here, he isn't—but do you really expect that I will be bullied into putting him out on the street? That I will allow him to be snatched by—by those wizards you've just threatened me with? Who do you take me for, you dirty little piece of—'
'Do you think I would allow that to happen?' He's yelling again. So much for occlumency. 'That I would be here, asking this of you, if I thought for a moment it would bring harm to Lily's child? Who do you take me for?'
'I don't know! You haven't said a word about what will happen to him if I agree to this insane demand!'
'I—' Severus realises now that he hasn't said it at all, not to anyone, not yet. Petunia Evans is going to be the first to hear: how horribly apt. 'I'm going to take him.'
She arches an eyebrow. Shame forces him to look away.
'Take him where?' she mocks.
'He'll stay with me,' he says, barely above a whisper. 'I have a plan, but in order for it to work, I need the blood wards gone.'
He feels her eyes on him. He is acting like a teenager again; she should laugh at him. He inhales. He looks up to meet her gaze head-on.
'Do you want him?' she asks.
'Yes.'
She swallows. It feels like they are stood on the brink, like all they need is one step.
'This is no longer Harry Potter's home,' Petunia says softly. 'If he knocks on the door, I will not admit him.'
A weight shifts off Severus's chest. He lowers his wand.
'Thank you,' he says.
She nods stiffly. 'There are some things in the bedroom upstairs.'
Bedroom is a big word. There is a bed, certainly. Severus searches the sheets for any forgotten toys but finds nothing except an old tissue. To be safe, he shrinks the pillow and the blanket, and pockets both: it's unclear what qualifies as a personal item, but he supposes these might hold a measure of sentimental value. One of the legs of the desk is too short and the whole thing sags to the side; the drawers are empty. A pair of underwear, three mismatched socks and a single oversized shirt with a hole in the sleeve are all he finds in the closet. It is uncanny, and uncomfortably so; he has expected to find little, but this is just wrong. The boy has lived here his whole life. Hasn't he?
Petunia and her husband are speaking in hushed tones when he returns downstairs. Both send him hateful glares. They look for a moment so alike they might be brother and sister.
'Is there another room the boy made use of? Somewhere he spent a significant amount of time?'
A shadow passes over her face. Frustration swells in his stomach. 'If I miss anything substantial, the wards—'
She walks past him. He turns to follow her path: she pulls at her sleeve until it covers her fingers, and through the fabric clutches the bolt on the cupboard under the stairs.
She shakes the hand after, as if trying to displace some impurity that might have brushed against an exposed patch of skin.
Severus bends in half and pulls on the light cord. He feels sick with dread, and it's entirely pointless: he knows already what he's going to find.
It isn't so much a makeshift bed as a nest of tattered blankets, stained and smelling. He can't bring himself to touch them. He points his wand and whispers the shrinking incantation, then levitates the parcel into his pocket, ashamed of himself.
A cardboard box shoved to the back of the cupboard, poorly taped together, holds a few schoolbooks, marked with flaking doodles and stains from greasy fingers. On top of those, he gently lays the knight figurines set out on the shelf, the old jar of Nutella filled with markers and a few splintered crayons, the plush elephant sat on an overturned bucket like a king on a throne.
He takes the drawings off the walls: castles, forests, horses that look like dogs. The blue tack has dried, and he has to scrape it off the wall. Some of it lodges under his fingernail. He could just leave it: no one is likely to notice or care. But he wants this place clean, tidy. Once he has taken everything he can think of, he pushes the door fully open, to air it out.
He wants to go back to Inari, right now. He knows there's no point, he knows the boy is asleep and perfectly safe, but he wants to see it.
He nods at Petunia, then turns to leave. Maybe he should say something to her, but he can't: if he tried, the sound that would come out wouldn't form words.
Once on the porch, he flings the Invisibility Cloak over himself and stands a while, breathing, as magic bleeds out of the house, taking off weight. The cupboard. The bloody cupboard—The cupboard is nothing in the grand scheme of things. He cannot allow it to cloud his judgement: he has a lot to do tonight.
With that thought, he occludes, morphs his face into casual indifference, and Apparates to Malfoy Manor.
A pivotal chapter! On Saturday, we're headed to Malfoy Manor, for Severus to execute the next step in the masterplan he's thrown together in, like, three minutes.
Replies to guest reviews:
Guest, Jan 23: Thank you! I'm quite fond of the previous chapter as well, it was very satisfying to write!
