Seven Drops and Asphodel Blooms
Summary: When Harry blows up his aunt during the summer, Dumbledore is much quicker to react. Snape finds him far before the Minister does, but his plan of dropping him off with a lecture and half a dozen additional summer assignments doesn't work out.
In which Harry spends the summer at Spinner's End.
Chapter 10
As the weeks went by, Harry felt like he'd never been away from school – except that Potions was no longer a subject he dreaded.
The rumors about Snape being an imposter who took Polyjuice potion to keep up the charade never spread past a handful of Gryffindor desks, and died out altogether once the news of Harry's detention trickled through.
(Seamus suggested that Snape had been too dizzy from Harry's potion fumes to punish him right in class. Dean stopped spreading his theory that somebody had snuck up on Snape and hexed him in his sleep.)
Harry never told Ron and Hermione about the conversation that had actually earned him the detention. He was far more interesting in talking about Lupin.
"Do you think they already knew each other?" Harry smoothed out his Charms homework, wracking his brain for possible side effects of an incorrectly cast Full Body-Bind curse.
"I wouldn't bet on that." Ron peered over Hermione's shoulder. He slumped, realizing she was working on Arithmancy, not Charms. "He'd never met you before. Didn't stop him from hating your guts."
"But that's because he already hated my father."
"They look like they could be the same age," Hermione mused. "Maybe they went to school together."
Since Snape had already ended all further discussion of the topic, and it didn't feel right to ask Lupin when Harry'd only known him for a handful weeks, there wasn't much they could do other than guess and wonder.
Their usual trump card for acquiring information other people tried to keep from them wasn't much help, either.
"It's none of yer business, innit?" Hagrid definitely knew something. He always talked loudly and avoided eye-contact when he tried to hide something from them.
"At least tell us if they know each other from before," Ron coerced. "We already pretty much know. So really, you wouldn't be giving away anything."
"Did you bring yer leftovers, like I asked?"
Harry and Ron both emptied their pockets of the toast and bacon they'd snuck from breakfast that morning. They followed Hagrid around his hut and began feeding them to his enclosure of puffskeins.
Hagrid – having narrowly avoided being sacked – had quickly adjusted his lessons after his herd of hippogriffs had almost gone wild during class. Though Hagrid had saved Malfoy from falling victim to one of the hippogriffs' claws ("A pity," Ron insisted), nobody had seemed more shaken by the experience than him. He'd kept his more dangerous creatures locked away since then.
"Where'd you leave Hermione? Haven't seen her outside of class all school year."
"Where do you think she is?" Ron rolled his eyes.
"I think she's got Runes," Harry offered.
"You should ask her about her timetable the next time you see her," Ron said. "It's completely bonkers."
Hagrid gave a nondescript hum. He sat cross-legged on the ground, holding a tiny puffskein in one over-sized hand and a delicate brush in the other. The puffskein hummed so loudly it appeared to be vibrating.
"You two take care of her, y'hear? She's a smart one, but she doesn't always know what's good fer her."
In between classes and heaps of homework, Harry was almost too busy to worry about what would happen once the school year came to a close. Just when he managed to shove the thought away for good, Dumbledore dragged it back to the front by inviting him to his office for a chat. Harry was essentially told what he already knew: that there was no solution yet, but that they had all school year to figure something out.
When Harry breached the topic to his friends, they made it sound very simple.
"Of course we'll take you," Hermione assured him the second he brought up spending a part of the holidays with them. "I'll send an owl to my parents and ask. They'll definitely say yes, though."
"Forget a few weeks," Ron said, "I already said you can stay the whole summer if you want to."
Though Harry had no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would agree in a heartbeat, he felt guilty at the thought of making them take him into their already cramped home for two entire months.
Halloween rolled around. After two years and two disastrous Halloween feasts, Harry would have been more surprised had this one passed uneventfully.
This year, Black paid them a visit in their dormitories.
Harry sprinted through the entrance hall, into the dungeons, past their Potions classroom and skidded to a halt in front of Snape's office, where he spent those detentions that didn't involve him scrubbing cauldrons.
He knocked twice, then held his arm stiffly at his side to stop himself from hammering up a storm on the door.
"Had I known you would enjoy your detention so much to return for more, I would have thought of something better for you to do." Snape scowled at him through the half-opened door.
"May I come in?" Harry shifted impatiently on his feet. Belatedly, he added, "Please."
Snape looked at him as though any Gryffindor climbing down to the dungeons voluntarily ought to be checked over for brain damage. "If you must," he said stiffly, turning on his heel without opening the door further.
Harry followed him inside, his need for answers stronger than his learned aversion to the place. "It's about Black."
Snape stilled. "If you're wondering how it was possible for him to break into the castle–"
"I know that he's after me," Harry interrupted. "McGonagall told me."
Snape's glare gained in intensity. "Then I'm certain Professor McGonagall has already informed you of everything you could possibly want to know."
Harry pressed his lips together. There was no trace of surprise on Snape's face. Of course there wasn't. He, like every other adult in Harry's life, had already known and decided to keep it from him.
"I have questions," he pressed out, trying hard not to feel resentful.
"And you have not asked your head of house because...?"
The heat that shot into Harry's head was only partly caused by anger. Truth was, he'd been too busy keeping his temper in check to ask McGonagall anything. He'd kept his mouth shut to keep himself from yelling at her and landing himself in even more trouble.
"As exciting it is to await your reply," Snape said, "I do have work to do."
Harry tried to remember why coming here had seemed like a good idea.
Right. Because there wasn't an adult Harry knew who hadn't kept the same secret, and because if nothing else, Snape was the least likely to sugarcoat the truth to spare Harry's oh so fragile psyche.
"Did he really kill all those people?" Harry asked quietly.
Snape leaned back, folding his hands neatly on the table. "Black had shown his willingness to kill by the time he was fifteen."
"Still," Harry said, imagining a blank-faced, dead-eyed teenager that looked remarkably like Tom Riddle at the same age. "Ron told me he killed thirteen people at once."
The corner of Snape's mouth pulled downwards. "What he chose to do with it notwithstanding," Snape said, sounding reluctant, "one cannot deny that he had talent."
Harry wondered if Black had been a Slytherin, just like Snape. "But why does he want me? I didn't get him thrown into prison."
"Oh?" Snape stretched out the word in a sarcastic drawl. "So you were not the reason his master was vanquished?"
Harry squirmed. "Not like I did it on purpose."
"Do explain that to Black. I'm certain it will make all the difference."
It occurred to Harry again that everybody was expecting him to be terrified. McGonagall definitely had been. So had Ron and Hermione.
But Harry had escaped Voldemort on three separate occasions by now, the last of which had been just this recent school year. He'd earned the right not to be treated like a child when Voldemort had decided that his age didn't spare him.
The heat in his stomach boiled back up. "Why didn't anybody tell me sooner?"
"At the risk of appearing repetitive," Snape said, "why have you not asked Professor McGonagall?"
It wasn't like he hadn't meant to. "I didn't feel like talking."
"As opposed to now?" Snape rubbed his temples. "I do not owe you anything, Potter, least of all answers." He hesitated. "However, I personally do not see the gain in keeping you oblivious for as long as you have been."
"But you didn't care enough to tell me yourself."
"No," Snape said easily. "I did not."
The answer only confirmed what Harry had already thought. "Everybody else though," he said, changing tracks, "Dumbledore, and McGonagall... Did they think I couldn't handle it?"
"As usual, your egocentrism is astounding," Snape said. "Has it not occurred to you that they would prefer that their students feel safe within the castle walls?"
"I'm not afraid," Harry said heatedly.
"And do you not see how that is a significant part of the issue?"
A knock sounded from the door before Harry had the chance to figure out what that meant. Snape sent him a look that dared him to say more, then called for them to come in.
Professor Sprout skipped over the doorstep, dirt crumbs on her robes and leaves of fern tangled in her hair. She halted in her tracks at the sight of Harry, taking in the lack of detention-worthy materials in front of him with climbing eyebrows.
Snape had picked up a quill and started writing as though he was alone.
"Severus," Sprout said, "are you aware that there is a student in your office?"
"Those little cretins will break into anything."
A certain private Potions storage from his second year made Harry want to sink into the ground inconspicuously.
"Have you something more to ask?" Snape tilted his head pointedly, letting him know that there was a correct answer.
"Nothing." Harry rose to his feet stiffly. "Thank you for your time," he added, trying to make the words sound less stilted than they felt.
The Quidditch season started. Their team captain, Oliver, was overly motivated as always, and Harry found himself spending as much time during practice as he did frantically trying to keep up with all of his school work.
Quidditch, like so many other things this school year, was yet another of Harry's favorite things that some higher force seemed driven to ruin.
Harry felt like he'd been run over by a bus. He spent seconds or hours trying to drag himself to consciousness – he kept falling back into the dark, his body too heavy to raise so much as an eyelid.
When he finally woke up for good, it was to a heated exchange of words. Harry frowned, trying to clear the fog from his head. He could barely make out what was being said – neither of the two raised their voice, though one of them sounded like they desperately wanted to.
"–were they doing on the field?"
"They claimed that Black might have meant to use the game as a cover."
A derisive scoff. "A likely story."
"I fear they simply could not help themselves."
"A truly ingenious way of ensuring Potter's safety. Black cannot get to him if the dementors finish the job instead."
"They've learned their lesson," the voice said firmly. "It will not happen again."
"How can you be certain? They don't think like we do. How could you know that they won't seize the very next opportunity–"
"Severus–"
"–successfully, next time."
"Had the Minister not insisted, they would not be at school at all." There was a bitterness underlining the words Harry had never heard from him – from Dumbledore – before.
The two lapsed into silence. Harry kept quiet as he sluggishly tried to figure out what had happened.
"He shouldn't have been playing in the first place," the second voice – Harry realized it was Snape – continued. "With Black at large–"
"Minerva suggested he sit out this Quidditch season. Harry declined."
"Because clearly his life is less important than winning the Quidditch cup," Snape spat. "You know perfectly well what dangers he's thrown himself into in the past. You cannot expect him to make reasonable decisions concerning his well-being."
"It's not like I enjoy it," Harry grumbled, deciding he'd heard enough. He pushed himself up on his elbows and grabbed blindly for his glasses. He hated people talking about him as though he wasn't there – even if in this case, they'd thought he was still fast asleep.
Both of them fell silent. Snape's lips were pressed together while Dumbledore looked oddly solemn. As soon as the thought crossed Harry's mind, his expression softened.
"How are you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, stepping closer to his hospital bed.
Harry supposed that it would have been too much to ask to break his streak of landing himself in the hospital wing every few weeks he spent at Hogwarts. "What happened?" He propped himself up against the headboard. "The game, did we–?"
Snape's gaze turned acrid. "The result of the game is hardly–"
"Severus. Would you be so kind as to lend us a minute?"
Snape looked like he wanted to argue, but caved. Harry was glad for it. Dumbledore's sympathetic explanation of what had happened during the match was awful enough without Snape there to make him feel worse.
Harry's team shuffled into the hospital wing as soon as Dumbledore had finished, replacing him. Harry tried to put on a brave face, but it felt impossible considering how spectacularly he'd just let them all down.
"Don't worry about it, man," Fred told him, trying (and failing) to put on a cheerful expression. "It was only the first game. We're gonna make it up with the next one."
"That's assuming the dementors won't crash that one, too." Alicia probably meant to look grim, but the shudder wracking her body ruined the image.
"No way are they gonna show up again," George said. "Did you see Dumbledore? I've never seen him that furious."
"It was that bad?" Harry asked.
"You've no idea. He stormed onto the field after Snape caught you and chased–"
"Wait." Harry straightened up. "Snape caught me?"
"Didn't they tell you?"
Harry shook his head. He'd wondered why Snape of all people had been in the hospital wing with Dumbledore.
"It was awful," Katie admitted, pressing her arms against her stomach. "Those things showed up, and everything was all... It was all so…" She shuddered. "We were flying so high, and we didn't realize you were falling until..." She trailed off, looking queasy.
Fred gave his shoulder a firm pat. "You'd do all of us a solid if you avoided another Quidditch-related near-death encounter."
He said it like it was a joke, but Harry felt heat rising into his ears. For the second time, he was the only one who'd reacted to the dementors so extremely. The Slytherins were probably having a field day.
Desperate to move on, he asked, "So what happened?"
"Snape used some spell," Alicia said curtly. "Slowed your fall so you were hovering instead of falling."
"That's when Dumbledore jumped in and chased off all the dementors," Katie added. "I'd have been running too, if he'd stormed at me like that..."
Something occurred to Harry then. He peered around his hospital bed.
"What happened to my broom? Did someone bring it?" Harry's throat constricted when nobody would look him in the eyes. "What happened," he said dully, bracing for the worst.
"I'm so sorry, Harry." Alicia reached for something at her feet and gently laid down the lumpy blanket they'd used to wrap up the broken pieces of Harry's Nimbus 2000.
Harry slept fitfully that night. His dreams didn't make much sense. There were flashes of color and vague impressions of dread, confusing images that faded from his mind as soon as he jerked awake.
Something stopped him from drifting back to sleep. The hospital wing was dark, and he could barely make out a blurry shape next to his nightstand, one arm outstretched.
Harry fumbled for his glasses, instantly awake. "Professor?"
Snape jerked back. He almost dropped the cup he'd been about to place onto his nightstand.
"Madam Pomfrey has mentioned your troubles sleeping through the night," he said in an odd sort of voice. His back was rigid, the hand clutching the cup white-knuckled.
Harry realized Snape hadn't meant to be seen dropping off whatever he'd meant to bring him. A potion, probably. A sleeping aid? The cup was still steaming.
"Thanks," Harry said, propping himself up on his elbows awkwardly. His brain-to-mouth filter seemed not to have woken up properly, because just as Snape turned to leave, he called, "Professor!"
Snape paused. He cocked his head, signaling he was listening.
A tiny shred of his dream pushed itself to the front of Harry's mind. A visceral cold, a flash of green. A woman, screaming. A high-pitched laugh.
"Can I ask you something?" Harry said. "About... It's about the dementors."
Snape turned slowly, but said nothing.
"I've been reacting so much worse to them than everybody else."
"Yes," Snape said simply.
"I just..." Harry bit his lip. "Whenever they're near, I hear a voice."
Snape's expression was unreadable. He pulled a chair closer without looking and took a seat next to Harry's bedside table. "A voice," he repeated.
"A woman's voice," Harry said quickly. "And she's... she's screaming. Begging. She's..." Harry's voice gave out. The words chafed against his dry throat with a burning pressure. He knew that if he wasn't still shaken by his dream, he wouldn't be telling anyone this. Least of all Snape. "I think it's my mother," he whispered.
The moonlight peering through the window made Snape's face look ashen. "Your mother."
"Whenever the dementors come near me, I hear... I think I'm remembering. Her last moments. Before–" Harry's voice cracked. He looked away quickly, his eyes burning.
They sat in silence while Harry tried to compose himself. His throat felt like he'd tried swallowing glass shards.
"I was there that night."
Harry's voice failed him. "Wh-What?"
"I found them in the ruins of your house. Wandless, both of them. Defenseless." Snape's lips curled. "They stood no chance."
And yet they'd tried. They'd fought. For him, Harry. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out shakily, past the pressure in his throat. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to ask more or never mention their conversation again.
Against his will, Harry's mind painted the image Snape was describing. A woman with fiery red hair and eyes in the shade of his own, and a man who supposedly looked so much like him.
He wondered what had happened to their house. Had it been destroyed that night, or was it still somewhere out there? Where had his parents been buried? Harry wanted to ask, but the words died on his tongue.
A cloud edged its way in front of the moon, and the room darkened.
Snape leaned over and picked up the cup he'd set onto the nightstand earlier. It was still steaming faintly, though when Harry took it from his hand, the cup felt cool to the touch.
"Drink," Snape said.
Harry drank and slept.
The next morning, his glasses lay neatly folded on the bedside table. How odd. He couldn't remember having taken them off.
A/N:
Snape: You almost died!
Harry: Okay, but did we win the game?
Snape, contemplating how to exchange his suicidal kid for one with more self-preservation: ಠ_ಠ
Many thanks to To Mockingbird, Igornerd, JustAnotherOutcast and flyingcat!
~Gwen