Harry's frozen form was dragged inside of number 15. He tried to open his mouth and scream for help, primary school lessons about stranger danger flashing through his mind, but the magic held him firmly in place.
He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid! Before this moment, it had seemed like a good thing that nobody knew where he was, but now…this man could do whatever he wanted to Harry — could turn him over to Voldemort or beat him senseless or lock him up — and nobody would come to rescue him.
He was deposited roughly into a kitchen chair. He could still move his eyes, so he flitted them around desperately, taking in his surroundings and looking for a means of escape. The kitchen he was in was strangely familiar, and it took him a second to realize that the layout was the same as his own house next door but mirrored. The tall man was standing between Harry and the back door (which led to the greenhouse), but if he could go the opposite way and get to the front door…
"Potter!" The man spat suddenly. "Cease contemplating your escape. I demand to know the meaning of this!"
Harry flinched — or rather, he tried to, but his body wouldn't allow him to.
The man glared expectantly down at Harry, his eyes so dark and furious they looked completely black.
He seemed to remember that Harry couldn't talk, because he waved one hand sharply, and Harry felt the body-bind release his head so that he could speak.
He gasped a sigh of relief and immediately launched into a desperate apology.
"Please, sir — I'm so sorry, sir — I swear I was going to pay you back right away — I know it was wrong —"
Rather than being moved by Harry's pleading, the apology just seemed to irritate the man further.
"Trying to honor the memory of your father by coming here?" He sneered, something wild in his eyes. He said your father like it was a filthy curse word. "What, did you find his little diary with a list of pranks to play on me? Come to finish the job?"
Harry blinked, unable to parse what the man was saying. "What? No, I — you knew my father?"
The man frowned suspiciously. "Playing innocent won't get you anywhere with me, Potter."
"I wasn't trying to play a prank on you, I swear!"
"It's plain to see that you've inherited your father's arrogance. Let's see," the man drawled, counting off Harry's wrongdoings on his fingers. "The Boy-Who-Lived runs away from home on a lark, sets everybody into a frenzy looking for him — including Headmaster Dumbledore, the most important wizard of the age — and has the nerve to show up in my greenhouse at 1 a.m. with a litany of excuses for himself. Have I overlooked anything?"
Harry gulped. He didn't know that the headmaster had been looking for him! And how did this man know Dumbledore?
"I'm not — my dad wasn't — it wasn't on a lark," Harry protested. He lifted his chin, trying to channel his Gryffindor bravery. It was difficult when he felt like a cornered animal ensnared in a trap. "I had a row with my family and had to get away for a bit," he said. "I own the house next door — my grandparents left it to me."
He felt like he'd justified his actions, but it only seemed to make matters worse. The man tilted his head as he considered Harry, and it felt like how every primary school teacher had looked at him after Petunia warned them at the beginning of the year that Harry was a "deviant and a troublemaker."
"So precious, famous Harry Potter wasn't getting his way at home and decided to make it everyone else's problem," the man declared in a soft, dangerous voice.
"No!" Harry snapped. How did this man keep managing to twist everything around? Still, Harry clamped his mouth shut. The man didn't remind him of Vernon, exactly — there was far more intelligence in those dark, glittering eyes than in his uncle's — but there were similarities in height and temper. He didn't want to push his luck.
"What. were. you. doing. in. my. greenhouse," the man said through gritted teeth, clearly reaching the end of his patience.
"I — I —"
For a few seconds, Harry contemplated lying. But it felt like the man's eyes could see right through him, into his brain. Harry blinked and broke eye contact, staring at the worn kitchen floor tiles, which were in much worse shape than the tiles in his house.
"I was hungry," he heard himself admit in a quiet voice. "I wasn't able to bring much money when I left home, and I ran out of food two days ago. I'm sorry for breaking in. I didn't want to steal, but I couldn't think of anything else to do. I didn't mean to — to cause a frenzy or inconvenience anyone — and I was going to pay you back — "
His voice had become embarrassingly wobbly, so he shut up.
A long silence followed his confession.
After a minute, Harry dared to peek up through his fringe.
The man was scowling fiercely and scribbling something on a scrap of parchment. He turned to the small fire blazing in the kitchen hearth, waved his wand so that the fire flared green, and tossed the paper in the flames. His side profile was illuminated by the fire's glow, and all the breath suddenly left Harry's lungs.
"Hang on," he blurted out. "I recognize you — you were in a photo with my mum!"
The man went very still, and Harry wondered if he'd just made a fatal misstep. Why couldn't he just keep his big mouth shut?
He held his breath, waiting for…something — some kind of violent reaction or outburst — but nothing happened. The man seemed to have decided to completely ignore Harry's presence now, rummaging around in the cupboards, his back to the kitchen table.
The fire flared green and spit out a new piece of parchment. The man grabbed it deftly, scanned it, and then cursed under his breath and tossed it back into the flames where it was quickly consumed. He turned away again and resumed ignoring Harry.
After another minute or two of this, during which time Harry felt like he could barely breathe, the man finally walked back over to Harry, his expression even more foul-tempered than before, and he slammed a plate and a glass down on the table.
With another wave of his hand, the body-bind released Harry's arms, leaving him frozen from just the waist down.
Harry blinked and looked down at the dishes in front of him, nonplussed. The plate held a serving of bread and leftover pasta that was freshly warmed, a delicious smell wafting up and making his empty stomach start growling anew. The cup was full of water, fresh and cool-looking.
"Er…sir?" Harry ventured. Surely this was some kind of test or trap? Maybe he wanted Harry to eat the food so he could tell the police that Harry had stolen it. Or maybe it was laced with some kind of potion or poison, and the man wanted to knock him out so he could do something awful.
That seemed unlikely — like something that would happen in one of Aunt Petunia's soap operas — but Harry couldn't think of any good reason why the man would feed him, especially given how angry he was with Harry.
"It's food. Eat it," the man said shortly.
"But, sir —"
Dark eyes flashed warningly. "It may not be up to your usual standards, Potter, but I assure you that I will not be catering to your every whim."
Harry hunched his shoulders and reluctantly picked up his fork, eyeing the food uncertainly.
The man rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to maim or kill you, boy, I would not choose such a pedestrian method as poisoning your food."
"But…I was going to steal from you," Harry asked before he could think better of it. "Why would you feed me?"
The man scowled in the direction of the fire, where he'd been passing messages. "Because according to Headmaster Dumbledore, you are my responsibility until I can return you to your relatives. And I will not have you whinging to the headmaster that I mistreated you. You said you were hungry; now eat."
Harry's fork clattered to the table.
"Return me?" He gasped, panic flooding his veins. "No — please, sir. I'm fine next door, honest. If you just let me borrow an owl, I can get money from my account —"
"Potter!" The man snapped. "Enough melodramatics. While I am not going to traipse about the country in the middle of the night on your account, rest assured, I will be bringing you to your relatives first thing in the morning."
It felt hard to breathe. Dudley's old t-shirt, which hadn't bothered him all week, suddenly felt too tight around his throat again. He thought about Dudley's dark, stale second bedroom, its walls pressing in on him; his only contact with the outside world through the cat flap.
"You can — you can just tell Dumbledore you were mistaken about finding me! I won't say anything to him — just let me go back next door —"
"Headmaster Dumbledore, Potter. And it's not up for discussion; you are a child and cannot live on your own."
"I can't go back," he croaked. "Please. I can't — they'll be furious —"
"You should've thought of that before you picked a fight and ran off," the man said unsympathetically.
"You don't understand — I didn't pick a fight!" Harry insisted urgently. "It was a misunderstanding. My relatives were having a dinner party, and there was this house elf, and he wouldn't listen to me —"
For a few seconds, it had seemed like the man was actually listening to what Harry was saying. At the mention of a house elf, however, his expression shuttered and grew cold again.
"Potter, you may be used to bossing others around and getting your way at home, but you will not receive the same treatment here. Now eat, or I will vanish the food."
It was too much to process all at once. Harry was torn between the frightening possibilities of what awaited him at Privet Drive tomorrow and the present threat of his angry neighbor. But experience had taught him to prioritize basic survival above all else.
So although he was aware that he was taking a risk, and although his head was swimming with worries, he lifted his fork and quietly began to eat.
The food was surprisingly good, and he made short work of it. The man stormed off and disappeared upstairs while he ate, and Harry relaxed a little. His legs were still frozen, so he couldn't get up and make a run for it now, but if he was going to be stuck here for the rest of the night, maybe there'd be a chance to escape at some point.
The man returned downstairs and, with a wave of his hand, Harry's now-empty dishes floated over to the sink and began washing themselves. Harry watched with curious amazement. He'd never seen magic used in somebody's home before. It seemed dead useful, and he wondered why Petunia hated it so much.
"Follow me," the man said, waving his hand to unfreeze Harry's legs. He grabbed Harry's arm — not gently but not too hard, either — to make sure Harry couldn't run. Harry winced when he touched the spot that Uncle Vernon had bruised last week.
If the man noticed, he didn't say anything, but he did shift his hand down further on Harry's arm where it didn't hurt. Then Harry was escorted up a narrow, rickety staircase and down the hall. It seemed that he was going to stay the night in this house's version of his mum's room. When the man pushed the door open, Harry could see that, like the kitchen, it was the same shape and size as the house next door, just mirrored.
This particular bedroom was clearly being used as a library nowadays, although a small twin bed sat under the window. The rest of the room was stuffed full of bookshelves and an armoire. A desk in the middle was piled high with books and parchment rolls. It was cozy in a different way from his mum's room.
"I have set wards on this room, Potter, and I highly suggest you don't test them. I'm allowing you freedom of movement, but I can easily place you in a body-bind for the rest of the night if necessary."
Harry's heart sank, and he shuddered, thinking of how helpless and vulnerable he'd felt when frozen. "What…what kind of wards?"
The man's lip curled, as though he knew exactly what Harry was thinking and was pleased to preemptively thwart his escape attempts.
"All the windows in the house have been spelled shut. Furthermore, if you set foot anywhere besides this room and the toilet next door, I will be alerted immediately. I trust I do not need to tell you that I will be…displeased if I'm awakened."
Harry was surprised that he was even allowed to visit the toilet. "Yes, sir," he muttered.
"We will leave at 7:30 tomorrow. Be ready by 7. I do not care what you do until then, but keep quiet."
Harry nodded morosely. His chances of escape were dwindling from slim to none. "Er, sir…" he called as the man turned to leave. "What…what should I call you?"
Harry wasn't sure why it mattered, to know this man's name. But it seemed…odd to meet someone who'd known both of his parents — to have seen the inside of his house and eaten his food — and to not have known his name or anything about him.
What had the photo said…Severus? It was an unusual name — if only he could contact Hermione, he could ask her, and she'd probably know all about its origins.
The man paused near the door, giving Harry an inscrutable look. "Nothing," he said finally. "As we are only going to be acquainted for the next seven hours, you don't need to call me anything."
Then he shut the door behind him.
Harry made his way to the toilet a short while later. On the way, he tentatively tried to walk past the toilet and further down the hall, but he was blocked by an invisible wall that felt like a concrete barrier. He kicked it, and his only reward was a sore toe.
"Right," he grumbled to himself. "Bloody wards."
When he entered the toilet, it looked like a muggle room, but Harry practically jumped out of his skin when the mirror began speaking to him.
"He left those supplies for you, dearie. Best take care of that shiner!"
Harry hadn't looked at his reflection properly all week — he'd been too busy cleaning and fretting. The boy staring back at him in the mirror didn't look great. His hair was even more unruly than usual, and his baggy old clothes, while relatively clean, were permanently stained with dirt and grime. His face was thin, starting to border on gaunt. The bruise under his eye from where Uncle Vernon had backhanded him was now a sickly yellowish-purple color.
He was surprised to find a muggle toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a small jar sitting out on the countertop.
He wondered if this was some kind of trap, too, but since nothing had happened to him (yet) after eating the food earlier, he cautiously reached out and picked up the jar. It turned out to be a bruise balm, the faded label reading, "Apply twice daily to affected area," in a cramped, spiky script.
Harry sniffed it and was pleased to realize that he recognized some of the scents from Potions class with Professor Slughorn — soothing herbs like chamomile and wormwood.
Satisfied that the balm was intended to heal and not harm, he scooped out a small dollop and rubbed it gently on his cheekbone and around his eye. He didn't want to be greedy, but he took another small scoop and massaged it into his bruised shoulder.
It didn't make the bruises instantly disappear, but it did make the constant low ache recede. Harry finished washing up, and then he returned to the library, sitting on the small bed next to the window. Now that he was fed and no longer in pain, he felt his body inadvertently relaxing and his limbs growing heavy.
Outside, the tree branches rustled in the night breeze, and he tried to memorize the sound. He would miss it when he was trying to fall asleep in Dudley's second bedroom or in the boys' dorm at Hogwarts.
"I really screwed up, Mum," he whispered, hugging his knees to his chest. In the past week, 17 Spinner's End had become more of a home for him than the Number 4 Privet Drive had been for ten years. At least he could go to his other home — Hogwarts — in a month or so. But while he loved the castle more than almost anywhere else in the world, it wasn't truly his. It belonged to all the students and staff and ghosts and caretakers. He was starting to understand now why some of his classmates complained that they missed their families and felt homesick at the beginning of term.
He didn't think he could actually fall asleep with everything swirling around his head, but his body was exhausted, and he eventually laid back, staring up at the ceiling, where he could see curious little scuff marks. He rolled to the side and caught sight of words carved into the nightstand.
S.T. Snape was here.
It reminded Harry uncomfortably of how he'd carved something similar into the wall of his cupboard around age 9 or so. He'd felt like a ghost back then — invisible and unwanted by his family, scorned by his teachers, and shunned by his classmates. He'd been driven by a powerful urge to leave behind some mark or trace of his existence, so that somebody — maybe a future resident of Number 4 Privet Drive or an archeologist centuries in the future — would find it one day and know that Harry had been a real person.
As he lay there, he pondered his strange neighbor — Mr. Snape. The man was a study in contradictions — he seemed to loathe Harry's dad, but he'd been friends with Harry's mum, although he'd gotten very quiet when Harry had brought up her photograph. He was harsh and unwilling to listen to anything Harry said, but he'd made sure Harry had food, a place to sleep, toiletries, and bruise balm. He'd obviously grown up here, since there was a childhood picture of himself and Harry's mum together — but he was a wizard too. Maybe that was how he'd known Harry's dad — through Hogwarts?
But why had Lily torn that photo of the two of them?
He sat up and looked out the window, peering longingly at his mum's bedroom, just a few meters away. He tried to prise the window open, but true to the man's word, it didn't budge.
He wondered if Mr. Snape and Lily had spoken to each other through these windows as children — passing messages and calling out to one another.
The cold, dour man didn't know how lucky he was.
"At least you got to know her," Harry muttered angrily under his breath.
He stared through his mum's window, imagining her standing there, her red hair glowing in the moonlight.
But when he blinked, all he could see was the truth: a silent, empty room across the alleyway.
Harry awoke to early morning sunlight streaming onto his face, startled to realize that he'd actually fallen asleep and slept through most of the night.
He'd just left the toilet when Mr. Snape appeared on the landing.
"Come along, Potter," the man ordered. "We need to be on our way."
It seemed strange to see the man in daylight, still dressed in all black, his dark scowl and piercing stare incongruous with the birds chirping outside and the summer warmth Harry could feel on the wood floor beneath his socks.
Harry found himself wondering if the man was secretly a vampire, and he barely stopped himself from snickering at the thought of the man sleeping in a coffin in one of the other bedrooms.
"Something amusing?" Mr. Snape snapped.
Harry quickly shook his head and followed the man downstairs.
To his surprise, Mr. Snape had laid out a simple breakfast for both of them — toast and eggs, with orange juice for Harry and coffee for himself.
Harry stared down at the food on his plate, wondering again if he'd be berated for eating it. He waited until Mr. Snape took a bite of his own food, and then he cautiously grabbed his fork. When nothing happened, he ate, glumly thinking that this was probably the last full meal he'd get for the rest of the summer. He felt anxious and nauseous at the thought of what awaited him at the Dursleys, but he choked down as much food as possible, chewing slowly and methodically.
"Enough," Mr. Snape said when it became obvious that Harry was pushing the last bread crust around his plate to delay the inevitable. "I haven't got all day."
He waved his wand and the dishes began floating over to the sink.
This was it, then.
"We'll apparate. What is the address?"
Harry reluctantly gave the address for Privet Drive. The man marched over to the front door, his expression clearly indicating that he expected Harry to follow without question or delay.
"Please, Mr. Snape," Harry blurted out as they stepped onto the front stoop. "Can't you just pretend you didn't find me? I'll leave you alone, I swear. I'll stay in my house —"
"You can walk on your own, Potter, or I can put you in a body-bind. The choice is yours."
"Can I just — have a minute to say goodbye?" He asked.
The man said nothing, but he didn't cast a spell or bodily drag Harry away.
Harry felt sick. He walked over to the fence that separated his house from Mr. Snape's, standing amidst half-dead plants and looking around desperately, trying to memorize the sight of the neighborhood and the house next door. He would need these memories to bolster him when he was locked away for the rest of the summer.
It was a truly beautiful July morning, as though the universe was mocking him. Bees buzzed in a nearby bush, and he could already feel that it would be a hot afternoon. Who would walk Lucy for Mrs. Caldwell? If summer storms came tonight, who would empty the rain buckets at 17 Spinner's End?
A sudden and overwhelming love for this place filled him, and he was surprised to feel a familiar building sense of magic within him. It was sort of like the accidental magic he'd done as a child, but that had always been brought about by fear or panic. This particular magic was motivated by deep conviction and love, and he felt it spill from his feet and into the earth around him, like he was leaving behind a little magical carving, just like the one on the nightstand upstairs, that said Harry was here.
"Sometime today, Potter," the man drawled sardonically, startling him from his reverie. "If you've quite finished communing with my hydrangeas."
Harry glared at the man's back as he walked over to where he stood. Mr. Snape and Professor Dumbledore might prove to be inconvenient roadblocks in Harry's quest to live next door.
But it didn't matter.
"I'll come back," he whispered under his breath. "I'll find a way, Mum. It may not be this year, or even next year, but I'll return here."
Harry discovered that he was not a fan of apparition. When they appeared on the corner of Privet Drive, he doubled over, trying not to throw up the breakfast he'd just eaten and vowing to stick to brooms as much as possible in the future.
When he finally straightened and stood up, Mr. Snape was glowering at him — which was not unusual — but his expression was unusually intense this time.
"What is this, Potter?" He demanded.
"Er…what? Sir?" Harry asked, still disoriented.
"Why did you give me an address for a muggle neighborhood? Is this some kind of ploy to waste my time?"
Harry frowned. "This is where my relatives live, sir. That's their house, just down there." He pointed down the row of identical houses at Number 4.
"You expect me to believe that this is where you grew up? Do you really think me so stupid, boy?"
Harry scratched his head, confused. There didn't seem to be a good answer to that question, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Fine. I am leaving you here, whether it is actually your home or not. I have been more than lenient with you and have given you ample opportunity to give me your real address."
Mr. Snape raised one eyebrow, as though Harry might suddenly start apologizing and confess that this wasn't the right house after all.
When Harry didn't reply, he gave a small wave of his wand and cast a spell over himself. Harry let out an impressed gasp as the man faded into the background, like a chameleon. He was still visible when he moved, and Harry could see his eyes since he knew he was there, but a casual observer would never notice.
"Go now. Inside. And, Potter?"
Mr. Snape waited until Harry met his gaze.
"If you even think of setting foot back in Cokeworth again before you're of age, I'll call the muggle police to come sort you out next time."
Harry blanched, thinking of the last time he'd been brought back to Privet Drive in the back of a police car. Mr. Snape looked pleased that his threat had gotten through to Harry. He stepped back into the shadows and motioned impatiently toward the house.
Harry gulped and took a reluctant step forward.
Back into captivity.
When he reached the house, Harry raised a hand and knocked on the front door, half-hoping that nobody would answer — that Dursleys might've decided to take a sudden vacation.
But he could never be so lucky. Dudley opened the door, probably hoping that Piers was coming over to invite Dudley out. When he saw Harry there instead, he stared dumbly before a cruel smirk spread across his face.
"Oh, you're going to be in for it," Dudley remarked smugly. "Just wait until Dad gets home tonight."
"Who is it, darling?" Aunt Petunia called.
Harry winced, his stomach tying itself in knots.
"The freak is back!" Dudley replied.
Aunt Petunia appeared a few seconds later, her eyes gleaming as she flung the door open and gripped his upper arm with a surprising amount of strength, dragging him into the house. "You!" She spat. "You ruined everything for Vernon! And then you have the nerve to run away? How dare you disrespect all the hard work he does to keep a roof over your ungrateful head all these years?!"
"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry muttered dully, his cheeks growing hot. He hoped Mr. Snape had lost interest and left already, because this was humiliating.
"Into the cupboard. Your uncle can deal with you when he gets home."
"The—the cupboard?" Harry croaked in horror, knowing he was making things worse for himself and unable to stop it.
Aunt Petunia smiled nastily at him, clearly pleased by his distress. "You've lost the privilege of having a room, boy."
She opened the cupboard door and had just started to shove Harry toward it when the front door opened again, this time with a loud bang that made all of them jump and flinch.
"What is the meaning of this?" A menacing, disembodied voice said.
Dudley let out a petrified shriek and dove behind Aunt Petunia for protection.
Harry winced. Why had Mr. Snape come bursting in here? Couldn't he see he was making everything worse for Harry?
"Wha — who?" Aunt Petunia stammered.
"What's the matter, Tuney?" Mr. Snape snarled. "Don't recognize an old friend?"
With a wave of his wand, Mr. Snape undid the spell so that he was visible.
Aunt Petunia and Dudley screamed in unison.
Harry sighed. He was screwed.
"I was led to believe that you were living with your closest relatives. Explain," Mr. Snape commanded, striding down the block so quickly that Harry had to jog to keep up, clumsily lugging his heavy trunk behind himself.
"Er…yeah," Harry said, not sure what he was supposed to explain. "The Dursleys are my only living relatives."
"You mean to tell me that James Potter's parents did not raise you?" Mr. Snape asked, his eyes narrowed skeptically.
Harry shook his head. "I think they died before my parents did, sir. I never met them." He shrugged. "I've been with the Dursleys since I was one."
Mr. Snape stopped walking so abruptly that Harry almost ran into his back. "And Dumbledore willingly left you with her when you were a baby?"
Harry could only stare. It almost sounded like Mr. Snape was mad on Harry's behalf. He wishes he knew what Mr. Snape and Aunt Petunia had argued about back at the house. Mr. Snape had sent him upstairs to pack his belongings, and then he'd performed some kind of spell that muffled the shouting match taking place in the living room.
"Yeah. He said something about me being safe there, because of my mum's sacrifice. Because Aunt Petunia is related to mum, and there's blood wards."
"Of all the — blasted, meddling old —" Mr. Snape muttered to himself, stalking forward again, even faster than before.
Harry could've sworn he even heard the man say, "...fucking Petunia Evans, of all people…"
He trotted to keep up, wincing when his trunk banged the back of his ankle.
"Mr. Snape?" He asked cautiously. "What will happen to me now?"
"That is for Dumbledore to determine," Mr. Snape said stiffly. Harry couldn't help but notice that Mr. Snape had dropped Dumbledore's honorific title.
Harry's heart leapt. "So I'm going back to Spinner's End with you?"
The man looked like he had swallowed a lemon. "An extremely temporary measure, I assure you. Do not bother unpacking or making yourself comfortable there."
He held out his arm for apparition, and Harry grabbed it without hesitation this time, his earlier promise to avoid apparition completely forgotten in the face of his excitement and relief.
He was going back!