Severus was contemplating a particularly difficult and troubling interaction between fluxweed and dragon blood in his latest iteration of the Wolfsbane potion when his wards alerted him that there was a visitor at the front door.
He weighed whether or not he could afford to ignore the visitor. On the one hand, there was a decent chance that it was just his elderly neighbor from two houses down, Mrs. Caldwell, asking if he could fix her leaky faucet again. On the other hand, it could be one of his suppliers or vendors.
"Blast it all," he muttered, setting his cauldron to simmer and placing a stasis spell over it.
He had started his own brewing business ten years ago, converting his parents' old bedroom into a potions lab. He'd built up his reputation as a master brewer over time, and he now supplied almost a dozen wizarding apothecaries across Britain with potions.
But summer was supposed to be his quietest time of the year, and it was his chance to focus on his personal research projects instead of his business-related brewing. People didn't get sick as often during the warmer weather, so his orders slowed down.
He grumbled to himself in annoyance as he headed downstairs and toward the front door. If he could just have a little uninterrupted free time to think, maybe he could come up with an ingredient that would stabilize the two troublesome ingredients without sabotaging the potion's other properties…
He was contemplating nightweed as an option when he swung the door open, aiming to deal with his unwanted visitor in 30 seconds or less so that he could get back to work.
"...had better be an emergency," he threatened under his breath as part of his opening salvo, only to falter when he saw who was standing on his doorstep.
"I assure you it is, Severus," Dumbledore replied, his tone sober but his eyes as annoyingly twinkly as always.
"Headmaster," he inclined his head reluctantly in greeting. "What can I do for you? It is unlike you to call in person."
Dumbledore had written letters and Floo-called him a few times over the years, mostly to ask if Severus had heard this or that bit of information about former Death Eaters. But he'd never shown up in person before. Severus thought wistfully of his potion in stasis upstairs and suddenly had the unpleasant premonition that his peaceful summer was about to be disrupted.
"It would be best if I wasn't on the front porch when I share my news, my boy."
Severus fought the urge to roll his eyes as he opened the door wider so that Dumbledore could step inside.
"Ah, marvelous. Thank you, Severus. It's nice to see what you've done with the place."
"Headmaster, is this a social call or an emergency?" Severus asked pointedly, watching as Dumbledore made himself quite at home on the sofa, conjuring up a tea set with an easy wave of his wand.
"The latter, I'm afraid. I'll come straight to the point, as time is of the essence. Harry is missing, Severus."
It took Severus a minute to even understand who Dumbledore was referring to. Ah, yes. The Potter brat is named Harry.
He turned away toward the window as the headmaster fixed his tea, not wanting him to see Severus' face as he recalled the last time he'd seen the boy, nearly eleven years ago now.
"Missing?" He echoed once he was sure his Occlumency shields were at full strength. "Do you believe something sinister has occurred?"
"Hard to say," Dumbledore replied. "He may have simply run away due to a disagreement with his family. Almost twelve is a trying age, you know."
Severus sneered. That sounded about right, since he recollected that the boy was being raised by his grandparents. After eleven years in that environment, the child was probably James reincarnated, down to his spoiled attitude and sense of entitlement.
"Or something worse may be afoot," Dumbledore continued. "There were some…unexpected difficulties at Hogwarts last year."
Severus nodded. He rarely spoke to anyone in the wizarding world these days, but he'd gotten a cryptic missive from Lucius that had indicated as much. There hadn't been any details provided, however.
"Voldemort — or a figment of Voldemort — attached himself to a young professor and attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone, which was being housed at Hogwarts."
This was such a ludicrous statement that Severus didn't even flinch at Dumbledore's use of the Dark Lord's name. He wheeled around, incredulous.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Unfortunately, there was a bit of a…confrontation at the end of the year, and Harry was involved. He came through just fine, but I am not entirely sure what became of Voldemort's specter thereafter."
Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. Of course Potter's self-important spawn would be throwing himself into danger and trying to play the hero. And of course Dumbledore would decide to house an extremely rare and powerful artifact at Hogwarts during the Boy-Who-Lived's first year as a student, when every remaining Death Eater would be watching and waiting to make their move against the boy.
"How does this concern me, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore had the audacity to look disappointed by Severus' apathy.
"I have alerted some trusted Order members, and they are searching for him. I merely ask that you keep your eyes and ears open, Severus, and alert me if you hear anything about this from Lucius or the others."
It was a reasonable ask, so Severus nodded in assent.
"Very well. Are you not participating in the search yourself, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "Although I am concerned for Harry's wellbeing, I am leaving for Albania tonight. I believe it's crucial for me to investigate where this manifestation of Voldemort came from."
Privately, he thought that Dumbledore seemed to be fairly apathetic about the boy's safety himself if he was willing to leave for the continent at a time like this.
He waved his wand and vanished the tea set. "I won't keep you from your travels any longer, then, Headmaster," he said.
Fortunately, the headmaster seemed to get the hint, and he stood to leave. For a moment, as he rose, he looked oddly old and frail, and although Severus had mixed feelings about the man, it was alarming to be reminded that Albus Dumbledore was mortal.
As the headmaster left, Severus wondered if the most powerful wizard of the age had the stamina and strength to withstand another war.
Then he remembered that Dumbledore's problems weren't his concern anymore.
Except where the boy is involved, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
Summoning a headache-relief potion, he headed back up to his lab to resume working, doing his best to push the entire conversation from his mind.
Living on his own was harder than Harry had anticipated.
If he had access to his trunk and his money, it would've been quite easy, even with all the sneaking around and the lack of electricity and hot water.
But he had none of his possessions. It had been almost a week, and he'd already used up his remaining two pounds — on rice, beans, and a bottle of cleaning solution.
It wasn't all bad. He'd made decent progress on the house, and he loved curling up in his mum's bed each night, snuggling under her blanket and cataloging the new noises of this neighborhood, like the hooting birds and the rustling trees. Everything was wilder here than in Surrey, where each garden was perfectly maintained and sprayed within an inch of its life with pesticides to keep wildlife away.
He also loved the way that rain clattered on the old tin roof of this house. It leaked in a few places, so Harry had found a few old buckets and placed them around to catch the drops. And on clear nights, he loved slipping into the back garden late at night, when he felt confident his neighbor would never see him, and laying in the overgrown grass to look up at the starry sky.
But he didn't love being hungry all the time. He'd gone without food for long stretches of time at the Dursleys before, but it was much harder now that he'd gotten used to eating well at Hogwarts. He'd finished up the last of his measly rations of rice and beans yesterday afternoon, and he knew that he needed to shift his priorities from cleaning the house to finding a source of food or money.
So he'd crept outside before dawn this morning to get a closer look around the back garden and see if there were any salvageable vegetables growing amidst the massive thicket of weeds.
He'd found gardening tools and seed packets in the old shed, so he knew his grandparents had gardened at some point. As he searched through the garden, he couldn't help but peer enviously over the other side of the fence at his neighbor's property. The man's garden was completely overgrown and untidy, much like his own house's garden, but he could see a small greenhouse built onto the back of the house that was perfectly maintained and full of blooming, thriving plants.
He wondered if there were any fruits or vegetables in that greenhouse. His mouth watered as he daydreamed about tart berries and crunchy cucumbers and crisp snap peas.
But when he looked down at what was actually available on his own property, all he saw were weeds.
He sighed as he climbed to his feet. Once he got the house in better shape, he could spend some time tending to the garden and planting vegetables with the seed packets from the shed. Aunt Petunia was so obsessed with pruning and weeding and mowing her garden that Harry's childhood had basically been a landscaping apprenticeship.
But that would take time, and he wouldn't be able to reap the benefits of that work until next year's growing season. He needed a more immediate solution, so he went inside the house and washed up. The knees of his trousers were filthy from scrubbing and cleaning, and his mum's jumper was starting to look a bit dusty, but he didn't have anything nicer available, so it would have to do.
He slipped out the front door just as the sun was coming up, darting across the street just in case his neighbor happened to be looking out his window. He hadn't seen the dark-haired man again since the first day, but he was being extremely cautious. Most of the houses on his block seemed to be unoccupied, rundown and boarded up. He did notice one house with a front porch light on, three doors down from number 17. As he walked by, he glimpsed an elderly woman sitting near the window. It made him nervous, but she didn't seem to see him pass by.
He made his way down the block and toward the city center, heading for the small corner store where he'd bought his supplies when he first arrived.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders to make himself look as tall as possible, smoothed down his perpetually untidy fringe, and opened the shop door.
The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, looked up from his newspaper and gave Harry a dubious glance, probably immediately guessing that Harry didn't have any money to spend in the shop.
Refusing to be cowed, Harry stepped up to the till as confidently as possible. "Excuse me, sir," he said. He tried to make eye contact with the man, but it was difficult. Harry had always tried his hardest in primary school to get adults to like him, but Petunia's sharp tongue inevitably turned them against him.
"What can I do for you, lad?" The man asked, keeping a close eye on him, as though Harry might snatch something and make a run for it.
"I was wondering if you have any work available, sir. I can stock shelves or unpack crates or sweep — or help with the till if you show me how — or do anything else you need."
Harry waited with bated breath to find out what kind of adult this man would be. With any luck, he'd be the sort who'd take on cheap labor without questioning or caring much.
The man eyed him, something in his expression shifting.
"Why's a little'un like you out looking for work?"
Harry deflated inside.
"I'm older than I look. Just turned thirteen."
"That's still mighty young to be out looking for a job. You sure you're alright, lad?"
Harry started growing tense. Maybe this had been a bad idea. The last thing he needed was for someone to get suspicious and start asking questions. What if the shopkeeper phoned the police or child services?
"I'm just trying to earn some extra spending money for the summer."
The man had that odd expression in his eyes again as he took in Harry's dirty appearance and thin frame, and Harry realized it was pity. He'd seen one or two of his primary teachers get that look before — the rare few who had seen through Petunia's lies. One of them had even made a report to the principal on Harry's behalf, but the principal was friends with Uncle Vernon, so it had been quashed immediately, and Harry had been sent to his cupboard for a week for "telling nasty, ungrateful lies to his teachers."
Harry took a step backward, feeling his heart begin to pound in his chest. Coming here was a mistake.
"Where are your parents?" The man asked.
Harry was so stupid. Why hadn't he thought about this ahead of time and come up with a suitable cover story? He was getting sloppy and lazy in his desperation for food.
"I — they're —" He stammered inarticulately.
Then he turned and ran out of the shop.
Harry sprinted all the way back to Spinner's End. Fortunately, nobody chased him, but he wasted a lot of energy and felt very lightheaded by the time he made it back to his street.
He dropped into a dejected walk, shuffling miserably down the pavement, absentmindedly kicking at a stone and considering his predicament.
On top of his fears about food and getting caught, he was growing anxious about his friends. It had been an immense relief when Dobby revealed that they had been writing to him this entire time, but without Hedwig, he had no way to contact them. His friends had scribbled their addresses (and Hermione had added her phone number) on a spare scrap of parchment before term ended, but it was locked away in his trunk at Privet Drive.
He desperately wished he could see both of them so much that it felt like a physical ache in his chest. He missed Ron's constant stream of jokes, chatter about Quidditch, and complaints about studying. He missed Hermione's determination for them to be the best students possible and her attentiveness to her friends' needs (even though she was a little overbearing at times).
But besides that, he was worried about what they must think of him right now. Did they figure he was ignoring them or refusing to write to him? Or did they know that something was off?
Hermione was such a rule follower; what if she contacted Professor McGonagall or Professor Dumbledore? Or worse, the muggle police? And what if Ron said something to his dad, who worked for the Ministry? What if he got the twins involved, and they decided to do something reckless?
There were so many different ways for him to be discovered.
He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of a dog barking — and it was growing closer to him!
Harry let out a terrified yelp and reflexively bolted. He had met some sweet and calm dogs over the years, but his experiences with Aunt Marge and Ripper had taught him to run first and ask questions later.
It took him a few seconds to locate the source of the barking, and when he did, he slowed down and stopped. There was a small, elderly dog waddling toward him. From the pink collar, he guessed it was a girl, and she was barking fiercely, but she was rather overweight, so she couldn't move quickly.
The whole effect was rather funny, and Harry found himself kneeling down to greet the little dog, his heart still beating a little fast but the panic fading away.
"Hiya," he murmured, holding out a hand for her to sniff as she warily approached him. "I get it; I don't like strangers either. I won't hurt you, girl, I promise."
Maybe she could hear the truth in his voice, or maybe Harry just smelled so bad that he didn't read as a threat, because her whole demeanor changed. She came closer and continued to sniff him curiously, her curly tail wagging steadily as he gently scratched behind her ears.
"Well, it seems she's taken a liking to you, boy," a croaky voice said.
Harry looked up, startled, to see the old woman he'd glimpsed through the window before. She was sitting in a rocking chair on her porch with a cup of tea.
"Er, hi, ma'am. Is this your dog?"
"Yes, that's Lucy. Are you from the humane society, then?"
Harry frowned, not sure how to answer this question. "Pardon?"
"The humane society. I contacted them ages ago to say I needed a volunteer to help me walk Lucy. These old legs don't get around well anymore, and lord knows she could do with the exercise. They promised they'd send someone when they got more volunteers, but it's been months now."
Harry looked down at the dog. He had his own priorities to worry about, but he couldn't say no to helping and let Lucy suffer, could he?
The woman shifted in her chair, and Harry noticed then that her eyes were clouded over, as though she was completely or almost completely blind.
"Yes," he decided. "I'm with the humane society. My name's Harry."
"Pleased to meet you, Harry," the woman said. "I'm Eve Caldwell."
So that was how Harry found himself with an unexpected dog-walking job. He took Lucy to a nearby park and back. She walked slowly but seemed to enjoy herself, stopping frequently to sniff things and mark them with her scent. Harry passed the time by imagining his mum walking to this same park. He sat on the swings for a bit while Lucy rested, pushing himself back and forth and pretending his mum was sat on the other swing.
He didn't expect anything in return for walking Lucy, but he was pleasantly surprised when Mrs. Caldwell invited him in for tea. It would've been polite to say no, but Harry's head was starting to swim with hunger, and he couldn't pass up the potential opportunity to get a snack.
"Do you need anything else done while I'm here, Mrs. Caldwell?" He asked as he followed her into the house. It had once been a grand place, much grander than his own house, but it had clearly faded into disrepair. Harry felt bad as he surveyed the dusty curtains and muddy floors. It must have been hard to grow older and be unable to keep up with your house.
"You're a dear boy, aren't you?" She remarked, and Harry blushed. "Would you mind grabbing the post for me, then?"
So Harry hurried back outside and grabbed the post from her mailbox. He tried not to snoop, but he couldn't help but notice there were a lot of bills marked "second notice" or "final notice."
When he returned, Mrs. Caldwell had two cups of tea waiting and a tin with two remaining biscuits in it. Harry peeked around the corner and into the kitchen, and he could see how bare it was.
So even though his mouth watered and his stomach growled, he didn't eat a biscuit.
The tea helped a little bit, and he made sure to add sugar to give himself a little burst of energy.
"So — Harry, was it? What brings you to Cokeworth? That's not a local accent you've got."
"No, ma'am," he said, stalling for time to think of an answer. "I grew up in Surrey. I'm visiting for the summer."
Mrs. Caldwell snorted. "Visiting Cokeworth on holiday? Now I've really heard everything. Did some tourism office scam your family into coming here, then?"
Harry grinned. He liked that Mrs. Caldwell had a sense of humor. "No, ma'am. I have some family in the area that I'm…uh, visiting."
He felt bad fibbing to her since she'd let him into her house and trusted him with her dog, but there was no way around it. And his answer was the truth, in a way.
"Well, I fear you'll be in for a long and boring summer, Harry. There's not much to see here besides old buildings and old people like me, I'm afraid."
Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that without commenting on Mrs. Caldwell's age, so he just added, "And Lucy."
"And Lucy," Mrs. Caldwell agreed. "Come back any time you'd like, dear. The two of us will be glad to see you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Caldwell." He felt in much higher spirits than earlier this morning when he'd left the corner store. His first friends in Cokeworth!
"Er, Mrs. Caldwell," he ventured a moment later, nervous that he was overstepping. "Have you lived in Cokeworth for a long time?"
"Oh, all my life," she chortled. "Nearly 80 years now, boy. I was born and raised just a few blocks from here."
Harry couldn't help but lean forward eagerly. "And this house? Have you been here long?"
"Well, let's see…I was married in `48, so it's been 44 years now."
Harry's heart leaped eagerly. Mrs. Caldwell had certainly known his grandparents and his mum, living just a few houses down from them for all that time! A deluge of questions wanted to pour from his lips, but he stemmed the tide and held it back. Maybe he could figure out a way to ask about the Evans family on a future visit, in a roundabout way. But it would be suspicious to give too much away now.
If Mrs. Caldwell thought he was behaving oddly and asking too many questions, she didn't let on. "Time for Lucy and I to have our afternoon nap," she told him, fishing around in a coin purse that she pulled out of her pocket. "Here's 50p for helping with Lucy and the mail."
Harry eyed the money. "Oh…I couldn't, ma'am. It was no trouble to help," he said firmly, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach.
"Nonsense. Don't undervalue yourself, boy. If you've done a job well, take pride in it and advocate for yourself to get what you deserve out of it."
This was so comically opposite Aunt Petunia's view of Harry's work ethic and what Harry deserved that he could only stare bewilderedly at the 50p that Mrs. Caldwell pressed into his palm.
"Have a good day, Mrs. Caldwell," he said, recovering his manners a minute later.
"Welcome to Cokeworth, dear," she said. "It's not much, but it's home."
It made his heart ache, because he was going to have to leave soon if he couldn't feed himself.
Harry pocketed the 50p, but he hesitated at the door frame, his conscience warring with his empty stomach.
And in the end, he couldn't justify accepting the money. He slipped it into the pocket of a housecoat hanging near the door and stepped into the afternoon sun.
Harry took a shower and scrubbed his clothes clean with a little sliver of soap he'd found in a cupboard. Then he sat shivering in his mum's room as his clothes dried, wrapped up in her lilac comforter on the ugly brown shag carpet, watching the sun set.
"I don't know what to do, Mum," he whispered when it was fully dark, laying back on the carpet and looking up at the ceiling. "I tried my best to figure something out, but I'm running out of ideas. Maybe I'll have to go back to Privet Drive."
As expected, there was no response to his words. But it still hurt. And it made him angry, suddenly.
"It's not fair," he whispered fiercely, reaching up to swipe at a tear that was making its way down his cheek. "It's just not fair, Mum."
He didn't usually indulge in self-pity. Growing up at Privet Drive had taught him that he could cry and moan all he wanted in his cupboard, but nobody cared. But it was all piling up — the fact that he'd never gotten to meet his grandparents and his mum, the fact that he had to live with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, the fact that all of this would be fine if he could just get access to his trunk or his bank account.
He'd been so close — so close to finally escaping and finding a safe place to live.
To comfort himself, he rolled onto his side and curled up into a ball, the position he'd always favored in his cupboard.
And that was when he saw it — what looked at first like a scrap of parchment tucked under the desk. Harry reached over and pulled it out, holding it up to the moonlight.
He sat up when he realized what it was — not paper, but a picture. There was a thumbtack hole at the top, which meant it must have been hung up on the wall, but it had either fallen or been taken down at some point.
Studying the photo, the latter seemed more likely. It was a muggle polaroid that had been partially ripped at the top — as though his mum had started to tear it in two in a fit of anger but hadn't followed through on fully ripping it.
The picture showed his mum in the back garden, sitting next to a dark-haired boy. His mum was beaming, holding a butterfly that she'd somehow coaxed into landing on her hand. The boy was leaning away slightly, his body language showing that he was uncomfortable with being included in the photo. But his eyes were on Lily, and there was a half-smile on his face. The caption, written in a fine hand that was probably his grandmother's, said "Lily and Severus, 1971."
Harry wasn't sure exactly why, but he found that this particular photo struck a chord deep within him. Maybe it was because it was the only picture he'd seen where his mum was actually here at this house. All the other pictures in her room were from Hogwarts or family holidays.
It was absolute proof that she'd lived here once, at 17 Spinner's End. She'd probably sat on this same carpet before to look at the moon, just like him. If the picture was anything to go by, she'd undoubtedly laid in the grass in the garden, too. Maybe the roof had leaked when she'd been a child, and she'd known that you had to get up by 5 or 6 a.m. to empty the bucket so it didn't overflow. And had she also hopped over the fourth and sixth steps on the landing so they didn't creak at night?
Whatever the reason, Harry felt his resolve steel. Hadn't he promised himself just a week ago that he was staying, no matter what? He couldn't give in this easily. He would do whatever it took to stay here. And there was still one last thing he could try.
Harry drew a deep breath, summoning his Gryffindor courage. He felt awful about what he was about to do. No matter how hungry he'd gotten while living with the Dursleys, he'd never stolen from anyone before now.
As soon as Hedwig finds me, I'll get money from Gringotts, and then I can pay the neighbor back for the food, he reasoned as he crept through the bushes in his garden, making his way toward the fence that separated numbers 15 and 17.
There was a hole in the fence, far too small for an adult to fit through, but just the right size for an underfed eleven-year-old boy. Guilt stabbed at him as he ducked under and army-crawled through his neighbor's back garden.
This is someone's home, he couldn't help but think. You're not just grabbing a piece of fruit off a tree; you're going to break in!
"Just for a vegetable or two," he whispered aloud, arguing back against himself. "Nothing valuable."
It didn't make him feel much better. If he got caught, he could be in serious trouble. Way bigger trouble than just running away.
But the risk was worth it if he could stay.
So, holding his breath, he reached out and turned the handle of the door to the neighbor's greenhouse. For a second, he almost thought he felt a wave of magic pass over him, much like the sensation he got when he opened the door to his own house. But surely he was imagining it — or more likely, he'd received a static shock from touching the metal knob.
He waited for several seconds, and when nothing happened, he swung the door open, wincing at the slight noise it made, and stepped inside.
His mouth instantly watered at the mossy, earthen smell, a scent he associated with food. He tiptoed inside, crouching low to avoid detection. He scanned the first row of plants. Nothing edible, which was odd. He knew some people liked to grow plants for fun, but there were a lot of plants in here for a hobbyist.
He began to grow more anxious when the second row also revealed no edible plants. He started taking a closer look, scrutinizing the various pots as he passed. These didn't look like the houseplants he'd seen at Mrs. Figg's or Privet Drive. In fact, one of them reminded him of something they'd studied in Herbology and Potions last year — bubotubers.
He walked down the last aisle and his heart sank. No vegetables, no fruits. He'd taken a massive risk for nothing.
Things got even worse a moment later though.
All of a sudden, a chill crept down his spine, like walking through a Hogwarts ghost. The air around him seemed to go very still, almost as though he was prey and a predator was in the vicinity. He instinctively held his breath and froze in place, his heart thudding loudly in his ears.
Then something truly awful happened — a vice grip closed around his arm, and Harry sensed a tall, dark presence behind him. A harsh light flared, temporarily disorienting him.
His stomach plummeted like a stone, and he let out a panicked yelp.
In an instant, he was whirled around to face whoever had grabbed him. He squinted through the blinding light to see the man with the black hair and sharp features scowling down at him — the neighbor he'd seen from his mum's window.
"P-please, sir," Harry stammered through numb lips, his voice shaking with fright. He knew he sounded pathetic, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he envisioned himself in jail — or worse, returned to Petunia and Vernon by the police. "I'm really sorry —"
The man's eyes widened when he saw Harry's face.
"Potter!" He hissed. Harry felt the iron grip slacken ever so slightly and seized the opportunity, hoping the element of surprise would give him an advantage.
With reflexes honed from Harry Hunting and Quidditch, Harry dove backward, wrenching out of the man's grip and sprinting for the door as fast as he could.
But before he could get more than a few steps away, he found himself fixed in place, unable to move. Almost as if he'd been turned into a statue.
He could only stare, mute and horrified, as realization dawned.
Potter, his neighbor had said.
This man was a wizard, and he knew exactly who Harry was.