Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Actodum’s Gate ❯ The Devil Himself ( Chapter 1 )

The Devil Himself.

Rivulets of water clung to the young man; the chilled liquid coated his fingers. It was refreshing in the crisp morning air.

Smiling, Harry Potter swam under the lake's surface one last time before crawling out of the large pool and onto the thick gray stone that seemed to jut from its top.

He was hiding here from Voldemort. It was one of Dumbledore's ideas; seeing as how the school was becoming less and less safe…the Headmaster felt it best for Harry to be moved someplace where the maniac wouldn't have the ability to search for him.

Remus had gone the night before; Harry had a feeling (though he did not conclusively know) that it was because of the full moon. The members of the Order were taking turns in keeping him company in his temporary exile within the forest that rested beside his newly-adored lake.

Maybe Tonks would come in Remus's stead. A bit of merriment came forth in his heart at that thought; she was quite lovely, and could do all sorts of tricks with her changing ability. Metamorphmagus, yes that is what it was called.

Harry wore a pair of dark, old shorts, legs still chilled as they rested beneath the surface of the wide, clear water. The green-eyed young man could nearly see fish swimming beneath him, struggling in their own lives to reproduce, and other such fishy things.

Oddly pleasing to watch in a simple way he couldn't resist the urge to tease his toes over the top of the water, one of the yellow fish nibbling at it lightly.

Here, he nearly felt free, watching as the mist of the morning came over the unaffected forest. Here, he had no real name or future, no past to worry about. He was not the Boy-Who-Lived, or James's son, as Sirius had always felt in his heart.

Here, he could be nothing at all, a morbidly appealing idea to the young mans teenaged mind.

Nature was home to him now; he'd been away from Hogwarts for a good three months, living off of what he could find in the surrounding area, as well as the parcels that Dumbledore would send, always laden with charmed pies Mrs.Weasley had baked for him. She was such a sweet woman.

Harry allowed a brief, sad smile to come to his face; Ron and Hermione always knew what to do or say to make him happiest, even when he felt so out of place. He missed them both terribly, though the previous night he'd received two letters, one from each of them. The two bits of folded parchment sat beside him on the large granite rock.

Hermione's letter was, as always, filled with detail, and held most of the information that she felt he'd need for his classes. Although Harry had repeatedly told her that he was still doing his lessons just fine with his own study and the members of the Order to guide him.

In true Hermione fashion she had haughtily reported that he needed. “The approved teachers to correct to mistakes and make sure he had an equal teaching for each subject.”

After all, Professor Flitwick couldn't teach Potions if his life depended on it!

Ron's letter was more sociable; it spoke of each of the Quidditch matches and their scores. Gryffindor had won the first three games, and lost one (a fact that Ron repeated at least three times in the first paragraph much to Harry's amusement). Hufflepuff had lost two and won three by the skin of their teeth.
Ravenclaw was much the same, and Slytherin had not won a single game all year. That was uplifting in a sick manner.

Sean had managed to get himself cursed by Malfoy after class something about purple fur in odd places. Harry rolled his eyes slightly at Ron's insults referring to the blonde; they always seemed awkward when he put them down on paper, as if their venom simply couldn't be transferred onto the piece of parchment.

The dark haired boy stood up and stretched, tan skin reflecting the sunlight under the wide, blue sky. He picked up the two letters, along with the black bag that held everything else he owned. Harry took his time as he ventured upward off of the stone that lead to the shoreline, and then he trotted up the slow slope to the large field that rested in front of the cabin he was staying in.

He spotted a dark figure walking from his left, dear God it was Snape: the Devil himself.

Harry could feel a twist in his stomach, a feeling that always seemed to associate itself with the Potions Master; no matter how many times the man had seemed to prove himself loyal to the side of Light.

Severus Snape was someone that had always left Harry very uncomfortable; was all hard angles. Dark robes that bellowed outward from his long thin frame as if he were one of the Dementors…Maybe he was… “Mr. Potter.” he spoke, ink-colored eyes staring at the wet young man as he came closer.

“Professor.” Harry spoke in reply; though at the moment he wasn't truly his teacher, Harry doubted that the ill-tempered teacher would accept any other sort of address. So the boy desperately withheld the words that clung to the inside of his throat.

This was torture. How could they? This man was supposed to keep him safe from Voldemort?

What a bunch of bull.

“The beast has been sent to work for the Order.” Snape went to the door of the cabin, pushing it open. His taller stature made Harry feel miniscule…overpowered by the mere glance of the icy, tainted man.

The teacher looked around the small space that the younger man called home shaking his head. Snape left to explore the other rooms; Harry sat down uneasily on the plush mismatched couch that was currently masquerading as his bed. It was made of odd bits of cloth, something that Harry felt only Remus could do and make remotely comfortable, even though with Severus Snape so close it was anything but.

Snape certainly wouldn't try and make anything in this stay `comfortable.'

…It just wasn't in his nature.

A part of Harry sighed at that; he was really enjoying his bit of vacation away from Dudley and his wonderful ideas of fun. Being free from bruises and overly cooked bits of food was something that he felt he should revel in.

…Well that was over. He knew at once his time in the sun was gone; darkness was looming in the horizon.

Voldemort, that awful creature, had managed to slime his way back to the land of the living, destroying everything and anything in his path. Harry had a feeling it would only grow worse, steadily worse, until he was forced into a final show down with the bastard.

Shaking his head for a moment, he lifted his gaze, spotting Snape staring at him; there was an unidentifiable expression on his long face, mouth down-turned into a clearly displeased frown.

“Yes Professor?” Harry questioned in a carefully placid tone; he didn't want the other to know anything about his thoughts at the moment. The man had seen far too much during the short period he had been teaching Harry Occumlency and Legimency.

“Nothing Potter...“ he replied in his dark tenor, something heatedly somber in his tone. He silently sat down upon one of the dilapidated wooden chairs, long robes falling to the ground.

The Potions master said nothing as he waved his hand slightly yellowed fingertips apparent; a pen floated over, as well as a fresh piece of parchment.

He started to write with a discontented expression upon his face until it finally receded into blankness. The younger student felt far too uneasy staring at him, and stood to go take a shower; he knew it would soon turn cold in the cabin, and he had no idea if Snape would bother lighting a fire.

Harry returned to the room once finished with his hasty bathing, now clothed in a pair of dark muggle jeans and an ancient shirt of Dudley's that was a muddled gray color. It was, personally, a color that he despised in its worn, unhappy way.

He found Snape looking over some written reports for his Potions classes, with his constant expression of silent concentration set firmly in place. The papers were from a First year's class (or so Harry supposed by the cramped writing and bits of black ink randomly spotting over the parchments).

The Potions Master didn't glance up, Harry taking this as a silent blessing he didn't feel the urge to deal with a glare. He went to his couch, and immediately spotted a new book sitting on one of its oddly shaped pillows. It was Voltaire, one of the muggle philosophers that Remus had an affinity for, and so it was something that Harry had grown slightly so curious over.

"…Don't you dare touch that book Potter. It is worth more than you - or anyone else, could ever pay me.” Snape quipped icily. Harry glanced upwards, a bit surprised.

" I just want to look at it. I'm not about to lose it, and it's not as if I have anywhere to go." he spoke calmly, green eyes staring at his new companion with a look of silent challenge.

Snape shot a small, malicious smile at the boy. "I didn't once comment on you losing it, Potter. If you truly wish to embarrass yourself trying to contemplate such complexities of the human mind, however, I dare say you should make some sort of attempt." his voice was low, gaining a nearly bored tone.

Harry sat down reading for about three hours, but eventually found that no matter how much he'd try and concentrate on the page before him his eyes would move elsewhere. He finally gave up, far too distracted by his own rambling mind to try and focus on the tiny black print before him.

Standing up, he tucked the book on the couch, walking over to the window, staring out at the large golden grain field before him. He almost wanted to go for a ride on his broom, but he knew he shouldn't until it was a bit later in the day, to make it less likely for the planes overhead would spot him. Muggles had never been particularly fond of flying boys on broomsticks.

“If you are so terribly bored, Potter, study. No doubt your horrid Potions grade could use with a good amount of improvement,” Snape spoke with a seemingly bored tone though although it was still biting just as biting. He did seem to adore insulting Harry, particularly for his inability to excel in what he, himself, did so utterly well.

Harry had to withhold the urge to tell the prick to go throw himself out of a window.

“I'll study in a bit,” he murmured quietly.

Snape nearly snorted as he gave a sneer, his coal colored eyes flickering upwards for a moment. "Why doesn't that surprise me? You're always so accepted for you faults—your laziness, your irresponsibility..." he went back to grading papers, returning his attention to the latest failings of this semester's class.

That `lazy' crack irritated Harry; it tugged at him in a way that he felt must be akin to how Ron felt towards Draco whenever he was being particular snobbish. But he wisely bit his tongue… Well, in actuality he bit the inside of his cheek. Ouch.

 

This was going to be a long month.

The boy went over to the back room that held his books and other magical belongings. He'd taken along the black bag from his swim. With Hermione and Ron's letters in hand, Harry set them aside, and then pulled a large set of other letters from one of the rogue boxes that rested on the floor. Carefully, he unwound the bit of string that held the large stack of letters together, and placed the two new arrivals with their brothers and sisters.

Harry set the bag on the bed for a moment, and pulled out one of his newer books. Something Hermione had sent for his entertainment in a fit of intuition, which only she seemed to be able to achieve.

Its title: “Friends for Friendless Fellows”.

A slightly depressing title in Harry's opinion, but some of the spells seemed amusing enough to warrant keeping it; and if Hermione knew anything it was books.

He spoke loudly using one of the new wand motions from his lessons of the previous week. “Adosam!”

The spell itself was to change an ordinary piece of soap into a living creature called a Mothios, it was a slightly higher-level spell but he'd never had a problem with attempting the unlikely.

The small soap man that he'd carved started to move, slowly standing, though it didn't hold any intelligence.

Yet.

In the book it said that with time Harry could even manage to get it to talk, if he sat down to teach the little thing everyday.

Smiling to himself, he touched the tiny, round head of the doll; it looked up, and took a hold of his index finger with its thick soap hands, making the boy smile wider.

He lifted it up and cradled it curiously in his left palm. Harry hadn't named his new companion yet; he felt that the little thing should show him his name…something similar to what the Indians did in long times past (or at least that is what Hermione had reported in one of her fits of nagging.)

“Mr. Potter, refrain from animating any more bits of soap. Those creatures become incredibly annoying once they learn to speak. I do not want to hear its incessant whining for you.” Snape had walked into the room just then, carrying his newly graded papers, he set them inside his thick black trunk, which Harry noticed was lined with scared bits of black silk…how befitting.

“I will just teach him to be quiet around you,” Harry bit out, severely annoyed now, back rigid as a board dark hair mussed and falling before his eyes.

He had set the curious figure in a newly formed house; he'd changed some old Popsicle sticks and a bit of mud into a shack for Soap Man. It was simple, but the little figure happily took up residence inside the largest part of the three-room house.

Harry then carried the shack out of the room and into the den, setting it down on the large windowsill so that the man could look outside, as if the large thick trees were from his window, not from another, bigger version.

Snape left the cabin and ventured into the forest, and Harry knew he had no real Order business; after all, why would they send him to 'baby-sit' if he did?

So he felt no urge to watch after him in chance of seeing someone else.

Yet another source of small irritation at least he thought so privately. They all believed him a child; he knew he wasn't. How could he be in these dark times, if they truly believed him a child? How could they possibly expect him to defeat Voldemort?

Some part of Harry believed he'd become rather jaded, most likely, but that was fine with him. He wasn't alone in his pensive thoughts of the world. Snape had never once said that life would be easy; that he would be protected. For all the things Harry disliked about the man…that was one feature he did appreciate. He was brutally honest.

Something most of the people in Harry's life refused to share, or even attempt too portray. They felt they could protect him with their lies.

`Get used to it.'

A feeling of all-too-familiar disdain came with that memory of Snape's dark tenor voice speaking to him…not at all in a way to comfort or coddle, but to mold and force him into the painful reality of his situation.

When Harry wasn't Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, or a punching bag with no face or meaning, he was just himself. His timid smile and haughty anger that had lost all reason seeped through the floorboards and stained everything around him. It was a weakness that Harry knew he had to force out of himself.

Shaking his head, he ventured into the den, sitting on his couch, and closed his eyes for a moment of thought, taking a deep breath. Then he took two thick blankets and lay down upon the ancient, ransacked couch, covering himself.

Harry soon allowed his mind to drift to a peacefully vacant dreamscape.