Chapter Text
Severus Snape was sitting in his least uncomfortable chair in the sitting room of Spinner’s End, exhausted by a long night of brewing. The latest publication of his potion journal sat on his knees. He had tried to read it to relax, to no avail. Actually, this particular edition was having the opposite effect: some underqualified and overconfident imbecile was trying to argue that adding valerian to Felix Felicis would mitigate the nasty side effects that came with the potion running its course – depression, anxiety, and other reminders of luck running out. As if there was a way to counteract the human condition with valerian.
Severus would have overdosed on it as a teenager, if the plant had these effects, if he hadn’t learned about occlumency. He frowned at that thought: he would have to rethink what ingredients should be locked away from experimenting students when the school year started over. If published authors could dream up usages for ingredients, Merlin knows what teenagers could come up with (he knew, and it was not good). There was no need to test their creativity.
The sun was barely rising over the battered, deserted houses of this part of Cokeworth and like every single morning, Severus considered moving far, far away from his childhood home and its tainted memories. He really hated this house, old, dirty despite his best cleaning spells, with threadbare furniture that took the air out of Severus’ lungs every time he looked at it but that he could not bring himself to throw away. Still, he had the urge to overdo it on fire strength every time he had to brew something intricate to finally be free of this place, level it to the ground, and be done with it all.
He could afford to move away: his salary as a Hogwarts professor and Head of House would allow him to live way more comfortably than he was, and he was making quite a bit of money selling potions to clients of … diversified backgrounds. He could probably survive solely through his potion expertise.
He would have, at least. But Severus stayed, and taught teenagers even though he disliked teaching and teenagers, played a role he did not understand fully with no question asked, all in the name of a promise he made for a boy he did not know and, trustfully, did not want to know.
Severus rarely let himself think about anything that happened before 1981, and that might be the reason he was the greatest potion master of all time (though his skills had to stay under the radar, as per Dumbledore’s orders, which prevented him to revolutionize the field, and it hurt, but he had to let it go and forget he ever wanted a chance at a life for himself, he damned himself too thoroughly to deserve it): no other thought allowed but potions, potions, potions.
Every time he felt the all-encompassing grief menacing to rise and drown him, he focused harder on drowning the feelings instead. His mind shield was a river where he dumped anything he wanted to hide from others or himself, the water too cold and painful to dive in, the current too fast to catch up to the thoughts. But he kept a tight leash on what he allowed himself to do, knowing that using his talent to its full capacity would have dire consequences. Indeed, Severus knew only of one person who had mastered occlumency at this level. And it was someone who let teenagers fight in a war. Severus did not allow himself to numb himself completely, ever. He had made that mistake already and he would pay forever for it.
26 was too young to have wasted his life, he thought, but wasted it was; and now Severus was pretending that every “discovery” in his potion magazine did not make him want to cry with boredom. He still forced himself to read every word, mentally correcting the potions and finding ways to make them both more time-efficient and less expensive – something none of those potion masters seemed to care about.
He sighed when he was finally done reading and let the paper fall to the ground as he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of his neighborhood: dogs barking, a baby crying, some drunk man yelling. No magic anywhere in this city apart from the magic protecting his house, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. Calming, bittersweet, like magic had always been to him. Something that had saved him and doomed him.
He had given it his all before starting teaching at Hogwarts in September 1982, wanting to cleanse his house from the dirty magic of the death eaters that had been by, wards uselessly strong for a place everyone knew he lived in. It would not prevent anyone who really want to get in to enter, but it would let him know early enough to be able to get away and avoid them.
The lack of anonymity was another reason to hate it: Spinner’s End was the house of a loveless family, and then it became the house of a death eater, and it still was for the majority of the wizarding population. His name had been cleared in the name of the law only; he would forever be a traitor and a death eater. Dumbledore has done the bare minimum to explain to the Order that Severus was a spy for the Light; for reasons only known by the headmaster, Severus needed to remain on the line between the two sides of the war, keeping his cover even though the person he did it for was dead.
Severus had lost the only people he had ever cared for, he had lost his identity, his chance at fulfilling his dreams, but he had promised, and so he stayed. Here in Spinner’s End, at Hogwarts, in England, it didn’t matter.
Severus was considering letting himself fall asleep in the sitting room when he felt the wards being breached by an owl. Blinking at the sunlight, harsh against his tired eyes, he got to his feet to open the window and let the small owl in. As he took and opened the letter, he absentmindedly thought he did not expect any mail. His blood turned ice cold as he took in the words on the page.
Severus didn’t want to believe what he was reading, but not only there was little chance she would write to him for any other reason than absolute necessity, the content of the letter was also too detailed, too raw; some wounds that Severus had thought healed were making him numb, just as they used to, as he read. Barely thinking about what he was doing, Severus vanished his robes wandlessly, to be left in clothes suitable to a visit to a muggle neighborhood. He shot his wand from the holster on his arm into his hand.
The little owl on the window sill jumped at the loud crack of a hurried Disapparition, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and a letter slowly falling to the ground.
***
Harry Potter was sitting on the stairs of the house at Privet Drive, his face turned to the sky as he cried without a sound, only a few feet away from where Severus was standing, under a Disillusionment charm.
Harry, Severus knew, would be six years old soon, but he was small and skinny for his age, even with a t-shirt that was too long and hiding his frame. He assuredly looked like a Potter, dark skin and messy hair, but the resemblance of the boy with Severus’ bully stopped there. Severus followed the silver curse scar that started in the child’s hair and dipped through his right eyebrow into peridot eyes that belonged to his past.
It felt like a blow to the gut. Severus thought about meeting Lily when she was barely older than her son was now, when Severus first fell in love with her; he thought about Lily’s eyes on the day she broke up with him, years later, the green standing out even more in contrast with the tears and the reddened whites.
With one look, Harry reminded Severus of everything that Lily had been to him, but not only. The child was in a sorry state, and it was impossible to see him as the son of James Potter. Severus focused on the boy before him, dirty and too skinny and heartbreaking in his sadness, crying alone. Harry’s arms were covered in bruises, and Severus recognized them because it was the same pattern that had once been on his skin.
Severus did something he promised himself he would not do anymore. He let the river in his mind overflow, covering his mind with ice-cold water, freezing every emotion for a few seconds of blissful peace. He reluctantly reigned the river in again, feeling guilty that he gave in, though he was still dumping anything that looked like memories of his childhood, anything that made him think about adult hands around skinny arms.
Harry cried and cried; no one came to comfort him. After a while, the boy stood up and went to the garden, where he worked, still silently crying, until the end of the morning. At that point, Petunia yelled for him from the house and he hurried back inside, whipping his face and his hands with his t-shirt.
Severus was still standing in the driveway, unable to move his feet. His shoulders felt heavy with the decision he was about to take, with the magnitude of what he would do because there was no way this was the reality in which the son of Lily Evans would grow up. Severus thought about the first time he had seen Harry Potter, and felt that taking the prophecy to the Dark Lord was not his last betrayal to Lily. Trusting Dumbledore had been a terrible mistake.
The headmaster had kept Severus close after the war and he had the horrifying feeling it was because the Dark Lord was not defeated. Severus had obliged, accepting he had a key role to play in whatever schemes the headmaster had planned. He had been doomed for a long time and would ensure the Dark Lord would not rise again at the cost of his life if needed. But why would the old fool put the Boy-Who-Lived into an abusive home?
Because it had been a conscious decision, leaving a magical child in the care of a woman who not only hated magic but also deeply resented her sister. And even if Dumbledore did not know at first that it would turn out that way, Figgs wrote in her letter that she had tried to contact the headmaster, to no avail, after realizing Harry was not in a loving home. She had only written to Severus as a last resort.
It would not be the first time the headmaster had let a child into an unfit situation, and Severus had taken matters into his own hands when it came to the Slytherin students as soon as he became Head of House, four years ago. However, this was Harry Potter. It did not make any sense to let him grow up in such a place when there were countless safer options in wizard families.
Severus could not make sense of it, but Dumbledore clearly had a plan for Harry Potter that did not involve his safety. Now, Severus was harshly reminded that his loyalty lay with the child, not with Albus Dumbledore. Severus knew he would have to carefully revisit his memories of the war to try and understand the choices of the headmaster, but that was for later.
Severus carefully reached with his magic, trying to feel if there was anything protecting the child. He did not dare use his wand: he had no intention of setting off any alarm. But wandless magic was mostly undetectable, and if he focused enough, he would be able to determine if there were wards on the house.
After a few minutes of intense concentration, Severus did feel something, though it was not magic he was familiar with. It felt deep and ancient, but also so weak Severus doubted it could actually protect Harry. He certainly had no issue approaching the house and standing in the garden earlier, only a few feet away from the child. He may not have ill intentions, but still. Dumbledore had not even made sure the child was safe magically.
Severus silently apologized to Harry as walked down the street to apparate, wanting to take him away immediately but knowing that he needed to be ready before he did anything or Harry would be brought back by the headmaster. He could think about one person who would genuinely want to help Harry and who would not run to the headmaster. Too bad this person was also someone who would want nothing to do with Severus, and rightfully so. But he had to try anyway.
But first, a detour at Spinner’s End to get some potions. After all, it was the day after the full moon, and Merlin knew in what state Remus Lupin would be.