It had been two days.
The hours melted away like butter in sunlight, numbed by the helpless anger that had overtaken him all summer, and Harry hadn't been able to get Aunt Petunia's words out of his head.
That awful Snape boy.
Where there other Snapes in the Kingdom? Ones that were around his mother's age, and wizards? It was the only theory that made sense to him. After all…Snape hated his parents. He'd always had an awful lot to say about James Potter, and none of it was any good.
His aunt refused to speak anymore on the matter, but that hadn't been much of a surprise to him. "Don't ask questions" was a sentence he was used to hearing. (Even though it now infuriated him.) The single outburst she'd had over that awful Snape boy had been the only information he'd been able to squeeze out of her that night, before she and Uncle Vernon had shuffled their green-faced son into the car to see the local doctor for a late-night checkup.
And then there had been silence.
They hadn't placed the bars back on his window, but that hadn't stopped them from locking his door and forbidding him from allowing Hedwig into his room for mail delivery. Not that it made any difference; nothing Hedwig had brought him lately was worth reading. Harry was let out only for the loo and to take quick showers. Sometimes he was made to wash the dishes before he was shunted back out of sight.
What had Aunt Petunia meant by it? Surely she hadn't known Snape—surely his mum hadn't, Merlin forbid, liked Snape. And…she'd said 'boy,' not 'man.' How old was his Potions professor? Hadn't he, Sirius, and Professor Lupin been in the same year? His mum might have met Snape in school. But why would Aunt Petunia know him, if they'd met at school? Had it been some kind of ploy of his aunt's? A way to get a rise out of him? Punish him for hurting her precious Diddykins?
Was she in contact with the magical world?
The Howler's message joined in with the rising crescendo of Snape boy. She must have had some sort of contact with wizards, to have received a Howler and know what the message meant. "Remember my last." Remember what?
Why would nobody tell him anything?
Harry rolled over in bed and pressed his palms against his eyes, until the darkness burst with sparks and his temples ached. It was all so frustrating. Did they not trust him? Had he not proven his worth in that graveyard? He'd watched Cedric's murder. He'd watched Voldemort rise again, in his new body. Didn't that mean anything? How was he supposed to fight when he was kept in the dark? He wasn't eleven years old anymore—he wasn't a child. He deserved to know what was going to happen to him. Not even Ron or Hermione would tell him anything. It was all "you'll be seeing us soon" and "just hold on a little longer, Harry."
Harry had spent years waiting. He was done with it. He wanted answers. No more feel-good words, no more sweet nothings, and no more false platitudes.
He almost didn't notice signs of movement, until the sound of the doorknob turning broke through the empty haze his life had become. Turning his head to the side with what felt like a herculean effort, Harry stared dully at the door and waited for the Dursleys to make an appearance. He didn't have long to wait; his uncle stepped into the room, wearing a suit and a smug smile.
"We're going out," he said.
"Sorry?"
"We—that is to say, your aunt, Dudley, and I—are going out."
"Fine," said Harry dully, looking back at the ceiling.
"You are not to leave your bedroom while we are away."
"Okay."
"You are not to touch the television, the stereo, or any of our possessions."
"Right."
"You are not to steal food from the fridge."
"Okay."
"I am going to lock your door."
"You do that."
Uncle Vernon glared at him suspiciously, but made no further argument, shutting the door quite hard behind him as he left. The lock clicked; he could feel the vibrations of his uncle's steps down the stairs somewhere in his ribcage. And then, after a few minutes, the car starting. Silence pervaded immediately after.
As if it had been waiting for a moment where he'd be distracted, the dread of his oncoming hearing swept in. Golden sunlight crept across his bed as the sun began to set, but Harry could no more summon the energy to turn on his bedroom light than he could close the blinds. Rolling heavily onto his side, he closed his eyes.
There was a crash in the kitchen below.
He sat bolt upright, straining his ears and breathing hard. The Dursleys had only just left—they couldn't be back already. There hadn't been any sign of their car returning.
The house was quiet; Harry was ready to hesitantly believe something had simply fallen when he heard a faint creak somewhere out in the hall. There was a floorboard that squeaked at the top of the landing.
Snatching his wand up from his bedside table, he stood up, pointing his wand at the door and waiting. His heart stuttered in his chest when the door unlocked and swung open, revealing—
"Professor Lupin?"
—
The heat from outside hit him with the force of the Hogwarts Express. Hurrying to keep up with Lupin after his initial recoil, Harry fell into pace with his old professor, trying to look at him and make sure he didn't trip over the kerb at the same time. He'd been Polyjuiced into a boy who vaguely resembled Ron, but with less red and more blond. Lupin had taken on the appearance of an older man with short-cropped flaxen hair and a rather magnificent beard. "What caused the change? The Dementors?" he asked, glancing down at the road as he kicked a rock. "Are we going where Snuffles is?"
"It was the Dementors, yes," Lupin said quietly, crossing the street. He'd barely taken any time to explain before he shrunk Harry's trunk and nudged him out of the house under the effects of a Disillusionment Charm. "Unfortunately, you'll not be with the rest of us just yet."
"What?" So he was still being kept out of the loop…treated like a child, shuffled about without his input. "Where am I going, then?"
"Have you ever heard of Occlumency, Harry?"
Have you ever heard of giving a straight answer, Professor? he thought, instantly regretting it as a mixture of fury and guilt swelled up in him, clogging his throat. Harry shook his head silently, averting his eyes. Lupin seemed to understand, because he stopped for a moment, scanning over him with barely disguised concern, before continuing without broaching the subject. "What's Occlu—thing, then?" Harry eventually asked, voice low.
"It's what you'll be in charge of learning before you come to stay at headquarters. I can promise you, Harry, that it won't be more than two or three weeks. You'll be with the rest of us before you know it. Occlumency will help you guard your mind against Lord Voldemort—Dumbledore was very adamant that you learn to protect yourself from internal attacks before joining everyone." They reached the Apparition point and stopped, folded in shadow near the back of the local library. It was one of the only places perfectly hidden from the road; Harry had taken advantage of this spot quite often as a child, when he was hiding from Dudley and his gang. "Here we are. We'll be going to a little town called Cokeworth, where your Occlumency teacher lives."
Struggling to comprehend all that was happening, Harry opened his mouth and then closed it. "I—I'm not sure I understand, Professor. So Occlumency is like, er…reading minds?"
Lupin smiled, casting a discreet Muggle repelling charm before relaxing a little. "Not quite. What you'll be learning is to make sure nobody else reads your mind, rather than the other way around."
So they were worried Voldemort was reading his mind. Was that why he wasn't allowed to be with his friends, and Sirius? Because they thought he was a security risk—a bomb waiting to go off? Harry felt sick. "D'you think I'm being possessed?"
For a moment, he received no response. The sick feeling intensified. Then, with a long sigh, Lupin placed a hand on his shoulder—gingerly, as though he were afraid of spreading some terrible disease. "No. I do not. And yet the risk is still there, Harry, and it is very real. This— connection between you and Voldemort has been, according to Dumbledore, growing as the years go by. We cannot take any chances. Not when he's recovered his body and is gathering troops and information."
Harry wasn't quite sure what to say. His brain was too full. Agitated, he looked around at the sun, barely peeking over the horizon, and then back at Lupin. There was no one around. It was just them, shrouded in the fading light of dusk. Desperate for something to focus on, he asked, "Who's my teacher? Is it Dumbledore?"
And for the first time, Lupin…hesitated. "I'm afraid not. Professor Snape is to teach you Occlumency."
The words refused to compute in his brain for a solid minute. When realization hit, it was as if all the wind had been sucked out of his sails; Harry felt his mouth drop open. Snape? Snape ( that awful boy ) was going teach him? He was—he was going to Snape's house? Staying with him? "Are you having a laugh?"
"It's only for a few weeks, Ha—"
"No, you're actually serious, aren't you?" He stepped back, and then jolted forward when his arm brushed the stone of the library wall. "You're actually sending me to live with Snape. Snape. He hates me!"
"Yes," Lupin agreed, perhaps unwisely, "however, he's doing you a favor. One that could potentially cost him greatly. It will only be for a few weeks. You have my word."
"But—but he hates me!"
"And yet he is agreeing to help you shield your mind from attacks. Severus is taking you into his home and is helping to increase your safety at his own personal risk. He is asking for nothing in return."
Harry took a massive breath, trying to think somewhat clearly, but there was no way he could look at this without it seeming like a tragedy waiting to happen. What had Dumbledore been thinking?Snape? They loathed each other—who could expect them to live together peacefully, even for a few weeks? This was a terrible idea. They'd end up killing each other by Friday. "Do you trust Snape?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest in a feeble attempt to somehow keep the unease inside, rather than allowing himself to publicly explode.
Lupin became very quiet. There was a crease between his brows. Then, firmly: "Dumbledore trusts Snape."
"Do you trust him?"
"I trust him not to put a deadly poison into your tea, if only for three weeks," said Lupin. He smiled, perhaps a little forcibly, before pulling out a tired old watch and sighing again. "We should have been there twenty minutes ago. Severus is expecting us now, Harry. Are you ready to go? I'll be there to ensure you have proper sleeping arrangements before I leave, and I'll be checking up every few days to make sure no accidents have happened."
Couldn't they have sent him a letter in the post, so he could've had time to process this? He wasn't ready to see Snape at the best of times, let alone a month and a half earlier than he should've had to. "I…I s'pose. You'll be calling in? Will anyone be writing to me?"
Would Hedwig even be able to find him? She still hadn't returned from when he'd sent letters out to everyone informing them of the Dementor attack. Where had Lupin said they were going, again? Cokeworth? It sounded almost…familiar.
"I'll be checking in, yes. Harry—it's going to be fine." Lupin briefly grasped his arm, squeezing gently. "You can always Floo to us in case of an emergency. Dumbledore would not allow you to stay in a home where you're in danger."
Wouldn't he?
"I'm ready, then, Professor," he muttered, trying to ready himself a little. He raised a hand to try and smooth down his bed-rumpled hair.
Nodding, Lupin took his arm again, and didn't let go.
They Disapparated.
—
They were late. But, Severus supposed, he shouldn't have expected anything less from the likes of Remus Lupin.
The agreed-upon arrival time had passed a half hour before, with no sign of Potter; he was beginning to tentatively hope that perhaps they weren't coming after all. Had there been a change of plans he hadn't been made aware of? It wouldn't have been the first time. Dumbledore tended to keep him out of the loop on matters that had to do with the boy directly. Sometimes Severus couldn't decide if it was intelligent, or simply infuriating. Don't keep all of your eggs in one basket, after all…but he couldn't stand to be left out of anything.
He supposed he might as well make Potter something to eat. Apparently, the wolf was going to be snooping about to ensure the living situation was a proper one. If he cooked a decent supper, it might convince Lupin to leave a little sooner.
Retreating to the kitchen, where he absently cast another cooling charm, Severus rooted through his dingy refrigerator for something an adolescent boy would find even remotely edible. He knew Potter had a healthy appreciation for sweets, after diligently watching his every move for four years, but a treacle tart for dinner would likely raise some eyebrows. Maybe a salad? Or some soup?
Somebody knocked on the door. Cursing to whatever god had gifted him a summer of hell, Severus slammed the fridge shut and headed for the sitting room, peering through the spyhole to find an old man and a Weasley-esque boy standing on the sidewalk. So much for changed plans.
The bolt stuck as he tried to unlock it, but he wrenched it back with practiced eased and prised the creaking door open. "I don't suppose you might just be Muggles hoping to promote the Lord," he sneered.
"Hello, Severus," came Lupin's aggravating voice, from somewhere within the depths of a beard that could rival the Headmaster's. Not-Weasley Potter simply looked nauseated. Even with the Polyjuice, he looked just like his sickening father. The way his eyes darted about to look for prey was so uncannily similar, it turned his stomach. The way his hands wrung together, like he could barely hold back the urge to snatch an invisible Snitch out of the air…
It was just his luck, Severus thought, that he would have to feel the years-old bitterness well up within him a month and a half earlier than he should have.
"Well?" he snapped, tearing his gaze away from the boy. "Are you coming in?"
The two moved forward without a word. Glaring daggers at the clock above the fireplace, Severus tried to ignore the way they both looked round. Neither of them made any effort to hide what they were doing. He couldn't tell if he preferred it that way or not. "You're late, Lupin."
"Ah—yes. We had a bit of a delay," said Lupin, in that mild-mannered tone that had always rankled his nerves. "There was a Dementor attack on Little Whinging last night. I had quite a lot of explaining to do before we set out."
A Dementor attack? In a Muggle suburb? Had that been what Albus was talking about two days before, when he said he'd anticipated an attack of some kind? But the Dark Lord had made no mention of any plans…
Could the Minister truly be behind this after all?
"I see." He forced any further ponderings behind a veil of apathy, locked them up tight, and swallowed the key. "What's wrong with Potter? Scheming already?"
"Don't talk about me like I'm not there," the boy in question suddenly snarled, red in the face with anger, chest heaving like he'd run a mile.
"Harry," Lupin said sharply, but the yelling had already begun.
Oh, yes, Severus thought as Potter descended into one of the most passionate fits of rage he'd seen in quite some time. He could see no way in which any of this could possibly end in catastrophe.