He's terrified.
He didn't know where he was. The building he was in seemed to be old, with long columns spread across the huge room and painted an eerie white. He leaned against a column, his bad leg bent at an odd angle and outstretched, his hands wrapping around it as though that would stop the pain.
He hadn't dared to find the light, so the only source of light there was the full moon outside, making his bad leg shine like there were a thousand watery red crystals on dark skin. He pulled the other leg to his chest and winced when the storm outside roared, rain hammering against flimsy windows.
He's terrified. He told himself he wasn't, told himself the loud cracks were just thunder, told himself to swallow past the lump in his throat, told himself to run, but he was—he's so terrified, and he's so tired: of hiding, of running. He wanted to go home. He wasn't sure where that was anymore.
He leaned against the wall, letting the tears trail down his cheeks. He hadn't properly slept in a long time, and the exhaustion was finally starting to show. He closed his eyes, and it took him a few seconds to distinguish the thunder from the sharp sounds echoing across the room. He shot up, turning around—it sounded like footsteps, and then something- someone hummed. As he gripped the edge of the column, a soft, white light turned the corner, and his breath hitched—
Three weeks ago
Contrary to popular belief, Severus Snape did sleep at night. Quite well; really, something about reaching his thirties in relatively good health and surviving another decade had made him dislike sleeplessness with the passion he reserved for James Potter, dark chocolate, and sugarless coffee. So when his extensive Floo wards woke him up none too gently at bloody 4 in the morning, he was, for lack of a better word, not happy.
Actually, no. There was a better word. He was bloody furious.
Severus stalked to the living room, switching on the light and glaring at the fireplace as he pressed the tip of his wand to the wardstones on the wooden mantle.
"Who is it?" He barked irritably, glancing around the room. He'd arrived at Spinner's End only a few days ago, but the place was already a mess. Books and cases of potions ingredients were strewn across the room, with his trunk half open and tipped over near the door. The furniture and flooring had to be older than he was, and it was ridiculous to think that the kitchen was even worse than this. He really ought to clean the house. The only reason he kept the Cokeworth house was for any visits from rather infamous(rich) people, and it wouldn't do to have the place look like an owl's nest year-round.
But then again, imagining Lucius Malfoy willingly stepping into this dumpster look-alike was a special kind of—
The wardstone hummed, and a deep voice boomed out. "Albus Dumbledore," the headmaster's voice echoed from the runes. Severus restrained himself from sighing. Of course, it was the headmaster who dared to disturb him. Minerva might be an evil witch, but not even she would dare risk being poisoned. She may be a genius, but Severus had to learn the hard way that potions were not her strong suit. Severus shuddered to think what would happen if she even attempted an antidote. And of course, his other acquaintances wouldn't dare call upon him like this, if they even had the need. If they did, well, they'd have much better means of contacting him, he thought, almost automatically stroking the scarred skin on his forearm.
Telling, wasn't it, that the people around him were all witches and wizards either past their prime, or a clique of mass murderers who thought of him as their own? What did that say about him?
Severus snorted and rubbed his eyes, and then, he stepped back, his wand glowing faintly. A stifled grimace and a slash of his wand later, the wards were released, and the fireplace came alive, glowing bright green.
Albus Dumbledore stepped through the Floo, his nightdress a sickening shade of orange and neon pink. Severus fought the urge to look away and bowed his head.
"Headmaster," he drawled to the old man, who, to his credit, didn't even cringe at the mess he was standing in. Instead, Albus looked almost terrified, his glasses askew and his hair a mess, eyes blown wide and hands trembling as he gripped his wand with far too much force than necessary.
Any traces of sleep immediately drained away as Severus straightened. He pushed the collar of his night clothes into place as he stepped forward towards the man, hands gripped tight over his wand and mind flailing to remember where he'd kept his change of clothes.
"Headmaster," Severus said bracingly, his hand poised over the professor's arm. "What's the matter?"
With sharp eyes that belied the tension within—Severus tightened the grip on his wand—Professor Dumbledore finally spoke, voice hoarse.
"Harry Potter's gone missing,"
A few hours ago
When he was finally sure that the Dursleys were asleep, Harry Potter jumped out of bed.
He's as quiet as he could be, tip-toeing across the grimy hotel room to the bags, where his duffel bag was. Harry slung it over his shoulder and turned to the door, and then, after a short pause, grabbed a handful of bills and coins from the wallet that stuck out from Uncle Vernon's bag and stuffed them into his own. Harry waited, almost foolishly, for guilt that never came, and swallowed. He was really doing this.
The hotel door opened with a barely audible squeak and for a moment, Harry wavered. He could turn back. He could climb back in bed, and wake up tomorrow for yet another bunch of letters— his letters —and see them being wrenched away from him. He could almost see it happening: a few dozen letters addressed to Mr. Harry Potter, found somewhere in this pitiful hotel. He could see Uncle Vernon reaching out to grab them, just like he took the first letter, just like he ripped the letters from that very morning and stopped at a lake to throw it in there, a cruel, grim look on his face.
A part of Harry didn't even understand why he was so bothered by this. It was just a letter. Nothing important, except it was his, and Harry couldn't remember the last time something was totally, completely his.
He gripped the door handle, looking into the hallway. It was dark and cramped, like the rest of this place, and Harry remembered how even in the evening the lights flickered, leaving the hotel dimly lit. It was a depressing place to be in even without the Dursleys' company. But maybe that was rich coming from him, whose bedroom used to be a cupboard. Dark and cramped and dimly lit didn't even begin to describe the cupboard under the stairs.
He could stay. It was that easy. Uncle Vernon would surely get tired of this craziness, or at least the mystery letter sender would, and they could go home, no matter how bad that could be. Come September, he'd be at Stonewall, anyway, with no more of Dudley and his gang and even less of Uncle and Aunt Petunia. And in a few more years, he could actually be out of Privet Drive. He didn't have to be Harry Potter, the freak, the boy under the stairs after that. He just had to wait.
He couldn't help but imagine what the Dursleys would do tomorrow if he did run. Would Aunt Petunia scream? Would they search for him? Or would they celebrate it—good riddance, the freak was finally out of their lives?
Harry leaned against the door, looking at Dudley's large frame as the other boy snored into his pillow. There was a part of him that expected him to cry, or to wake them up, but he feels strangely empty. He could stay. The Dursleys were family, weren't they? Aunt and Uncle, cousin. Family.
Except family wasn't supposed to be like this, like dislike and empty stomachs and a cupboard under the stairs. Harry knew that, of course, but it was like the fact was sinking into him. It was almost like picking away a scab, stinging and sore, but strangely satisfying when it was finally gone.
He could stay. Or he could run. It was that easy.
The click of the door was horribly, wonderfully final as he walked down the stairs.