Yet Another Snape Meets the Dursleys Story: by rabbit
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still belongs to JKRowling. Still.
Chapter 27 : The Delay
Summary: Consequences deferred, for a little while at least.
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It wasn't meant to be like this.
Not that Vernon Dursley had ever thought about what it might be like to be turned into a toad, but if he had thought about it he wouldn't have expected to be able to think about being turned into a toad.
And, if he had even considered being able to think as a toad, he would have thought that knowing he was really a human would have prevented him from knowing how to hop. And it hadn't. He'd jumped clear across the cage when Petunia's fur had rubbed up against him unexpectedly, and he'd landed perfectly.
It was all ... very... undignified.
If – when – Vernon resumed his proper form he was going to make certain that Harry Potter would never have a chance to do this again, even if it meant breaking both of the boy's hands along with that wand. Better yet, he'd have the brat incarcerated in a real home for delinquents as soon as possible. There was nothing that that freak Dumbledore could threaten him with that was worse than this.
At least, I hope not.
Petunia nudged up against him again and he shuddered at the feel of hot fur, but managed to keep himself from moving away. It was worse for his poor darling. She'd been changed by that Snape person – at least Vernon could hope that Harry's spell was amateurish and would wear off soon.
If it would wear off at all.
He'd never paid much attention to fairy stories when he was a child. He only vaguely remembered the one about the frog prince, because it got referred to in advertisements and things, and he couldn't quite remember what had changed the frog back. Something soppy like true love's first kiss, he thought, but it was far too late for Vernon to be cured by that. Perhaps if he and Petunia kissed, they would both turn back to their proper shapes. But how did toads kiss? Or shrews? His mouth wasn't the right shape for it. He didn't even have lips.
Movement. Vernon crouched lower into the wooden shavings at the bottom of the cage. His wide-set eyes had caught the motion early, but they couldn't gauge the distance properly, so it was still shocking when the great white owl landed on top of the cage. His toad body had definite ideas about how to respond to the possibility of being eaten, and chagrin mingled with terror as Vernon watched the great bulky bird clamber around on top of the cage. When it became clear that the owl couldn't actually get through the bars, Vernon moved a little to one side, out of the wet spot, and tried to figure out how to safely shelter Petunia without having to touch too much of her fur.
***
"Stop that!" Dudley shooed Harry's owl away and moved the cage carefully back under the cabinets, stacking some plates on top of it and around it, so that Hedwig couldn't approach it again. She fluffed up at him and made some clacking noises with her beak, but he wasn't afraid of her. Not much, anyway. He waved at the open window. "Go outside and find something else, bird. You can't eat my parents." She twisted her head around to look at the window, and the rain still falling outside, and then twisted it back to give him another glare before swooping out of the door towards the living room.
He moved aside one of the protective plates and took a good look into the cage. One frog and one rat, but no way to tell which one was which. "Don't worry, Mum. Don't worry, Dad. I won't let anyone eat you. Not even him."
The tiny creatures looked up at him with beady eyes and made noises, but they weren't words. They didn't seem frightened of him, though. For a brief moment Dudley fantasized about letting them out and devising some kind of communication system of squeaks and things, or having them point to words. But that might put them in more danger. "I think you'll be safer in there," he admitted. "At least as long as there's an owl in the house." He put the plate back. Hedwig was only a bird. If the cage were hidden, she might forget all about it. And once it stopped raining, she'd probably go out to hunt.
He turned back to the table and the line of boxes and jars he'd scavenged from the refrigerator and the cupboards. He stared at them, hoping desperately for inspiration. Except for some old breakfast cereal -- wretched fibre-heavy stuff that tasted like scorched straw unless you drowned it milk and sugar -- the array consisted of things that you put on food, or in food, instead of actually being food. If there were any bread left he could make bread and jam, and if there were crackers he could make cheese and crackers.
Too bad there weren't.
There was flour, though, and yeast... You could make bread and cracker, couldn't you? Dudley lumbered over to the shelf of cookbooks and pulled out the fattest of them to look for the recipe for bread. He found it, and ran a finger down the list of ingredients and the directions. No. That would take too long. Snape was hungry now.
The photographs of prepared foods caught his eye and he flipped through the pages, hoping for inspiration...
****
Harry lay on the couch, curled up around his snowglobe as he watched the tiny figures wandering in and out of the doors of the one place he wanted to be more than anything in the world right now.
He didn't know what kind of dinner Dudley might come up with, and he didn't much care. There wasn't anything left in the cupboards except a few staples, and Harry was pretty sure that Dudley didn't even know how to boil a pot of water. He'd better figure it out. Letting Snape go hungry would only lead to more trouble. Not that Harry cared. It was all Snape's fault anyway.
Somehow.
Probably.
Well, maybe it wasn't, not entirely, but Snape hadn't made things any better. Why hadn't he hidden his arm from Dobby? If only Dobby hadn't seen the Dark Mark, he wouldn't have thought Harry was in danger. And if Dobby hadn't thought Harry was in danger, he wouldn't have panicked, and if he hadn't panicked he wouldn't have messed up all the pipes. And if Dobby hadn't messed up all the pipes and trapped Snape then Harry wouldn't have had to send him back to Hogwarts. And if Dobby hadn't had to go back to Hogwarts he could have brought some groceries. And if there were any groceries, Harry could make another dinner – or even some sandwiches just to tide them over.
Of course, the first dinner wouldn't have burned if Harry hadn't had to leave the kitchen to fight fake Death Eaters.
"It's Malfoy's fault." Snape would still be sleeping if it weren't for the racket. Dinner would be made. Uncle Vernon wouldn't be a toad...
Harry wouldn't be grounded for the rest of his life.
"If I ever get back to Hogwarts, I am going to make Malfoy eat whatever it is that Dudley cooks." Harry told the snowglobe. Maybe Uncle Vernon would get tired of keeping him locked up. Harry was tired just thinking about it.
And then, suddenly, his anger ran out, and the tears he was holding back eased away, leaving a heaviness to his eyelids that was hard to resist. He could feel his body sinking more comfortably into the couch cushions and hear his own breathing steadying into long slow sleep. Distantly, he heard Dudley talking in the kitchen, but the words made no sense, and were no closer to him than the lessening grumbles of occasional thunder.
He shouldn't sleep. But maybe he could just rest a little until Dudley had made the food. It wasn't like his cousin was stupid enough to open the front door again, after all.
*****
Fresh, clean water and soap were going to be something he would miss when the Aurors hauled him back to Azkaban, so Snape made the most of them now. He'd just enough shampoo left in his pocket kit to deal with his hair, but the rest of the kit was sadly depleted. Fortunately, among the scented concoctions in the shower there was one bar of simple Castille soap. Sapo castilliensis at least was a commodity common to both the Muggle and magical worlds – and the recipe was so simple he didn't think that even Muggles could muck it up. He'd tasted a corner of the bar to be sure, of course, and then had had to resist the temptation to eat the entire thing instead of using it for washing – only the irritation of the chemicals still on his skin, and the promise of something to eat downstairs held his resolve.
He blinked into the cool flow of water, letting it soothe away the last bits of grit on his inner eyelids and all the traces of lather in his hair. It was sweet, and he opened his mouth to it, rinsing away the taste of the pipes before drinking deeply. He wished for a toothbrush to take the taste of mouse away – his own had lost the cleansing spell to Potter's clumsiness. His feet left pools of water on the floor as he went over to search the drawer in the vanity and the cabinet on the wall for one that was still in the wrapper. It tasted of plastic, like most Muggle things did, but it worked well enough to tuck into the kit. Perhaps the Aurors would ignore it and he could it take along to Azkaban.
His clothes were clean enough now. The chemicals had rinsed away, and he dried them easily with a quick spell. He put everything on, glad of the sturdy weight of his proper clothes about him once more. Re-setting the cooling enchantment on the wool took a more complicated spell – it was only at the edge of starvation like this that you noticed the personal cost of a spell, even with a wand – but succeeded, and now he was nearly ready to face the Aurors.
He checked his pockets again. All well and good. The more ... unusual... potions were barely noticeable in the clutter of perfumes, lotions and nostrums in the cabinet. He could trust Potter to nose around and discover them before his Aunt did. And if he doesn't, Snape smiled, not at all nicely, it will serve her right.
Now all he needed were his shoes.
Wherever they were.
He wasn't going to go to Azkaban without shoes.
After an unconscionably long time he thought of using a spell, and only jumped a little when a double thudding against the door announced the arrival of the missing footgear. Snape caught his breath, and went out into the bedroom to put them on.
He caught the image of himself in the mirror as he straightened again and paused to assess it. The black mass of clothing, wool too fine and heavy to wrinkle he adjusted to its best drape. His nails were clean, his hands immaculate, what a joke. His hair was still dry from the washing, he shrugged back one vagrant lock. His face -- not much to be done about that. He looked as hungry as he felt, eyes deeper in shadow, skull starting to show under pale, drawn skin. He checked the buttons of his left sleeve, glanced up once more. There should have been more lines in his face, or even a shock of white in his hair, he thought, to commemorate the past month, but he couldn't discern any obvious change.
The Weasley twins have marred me more than Lord Voldemort, then? He will be disappointed.
As will Dumbledore.
Too late to change things – and if by chance someone were forced to investigate the Dursleys' behavior because of what had happened so much the better. Potter might actually spend his summers gaining weight.
I must eat. Soon.
One last adjustment of his cloak and down the stairs. He was almost ready. All he needed was food.
Just before Snape reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang. He went to the door, annoyed with himself for having wasted too much time on bathing. He'd have no time to eat after all. He squared his shoulders, furled his cape neatly into place, readied his wand, assumed a reasonable expression, and opened the door.
But the person standing on the step was not an Auror. It was a bespectacled Muggle youth in dusty black attire holding a large red bundle. He blinked at Snape for a long moment and then broke into an incredulous grin. "Are you Neil Gaiman?"