Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Another Life ❯ The Dish Ran Away With the Spoon ( Chapter 2 )

Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, Angst, DARK themes, Backstabbing, Incest, Yuri/Fem-slash, and other various nastiness. Hard R rating.
Disclaimer: Ain't mine.

Morning spread a blanket of light over the boy sitting at the window. He wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, but that hadn’t stopped him. Staring out, watching the sky change colors with day, gave him a great sense of peacefulness, and that was something he needed. It made him not have to think. Not like sitting in the bed with nothing to do. Nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and think.

“Mr. Potter, get back into bed this instant!”

He moved quickly to do as she said, mechanically making his way to the bed and sitting upon it cross legged. The pajama bottoms rode up a little, revealing one of the small bruises littering his body. Madam Pomfrey bustled over, frowning at him as her hands sat on her hips.

“You’re healing, Mr. Potter, and that means rest!”

Even if he could have said something, he didn’t want to. He simply stared at her. She scowled a while longer before it softened.

“Child,” she murmured, her entire manner going from raging matron to kindly mother, “You have so little understanding of how important you are…”

He told her exactly what he was for. Even without more than a whisper, she heard, understood, and was saddened.

“You are not a weapon, Harry…” She sat down, the bed drooping under her weight. Harry frowned at her, but she gave him no room to argue. “The world needs you, yes, but we still want you to be happy. Once the war is over, and it will be over soon, dear, I know it, you’ll have a new life, another life, to do as you want.”

He stared at her. Those green eyes were dulled and she knew he didn’t believe her. It broke her heart to see him like that. She reached up and pet his cheek.

“Have faith,” she murmured. “You’re far overdue for good news.”

He nodded to her, smiled quietly, and she believed him to have heard her.

Pick up the cup, sip, set it down. Wait. Pick up the cup, sip, set it down. Wait. It was like a dance, a very annoying dance, but necessary. Ebony eyes met pale blue across the desk. Both realized exactly what they were doing, but neither was ready to fail in the game of patience. The dance would have to continue and they to play their parts or they would get nothing for their efforts.

“More tea, Severus?”

“No thank you.”

The pot was sat down again. He sipped what was left in silence as he waited. No doubt, the other man would soon grow curious enough to ask. Dumbledore was always so very curious.

As if answering the internal countdown, the jovial voice raised, “As much as I enjoy your sudden wish for companionship, Severus, I doubt that is all you have come for.”

Snape set down his cup. Let the games begin.

“I came to speak to you about Potter.”

The twinkling eyes dimmed. The old face wrinkled with regret and grief. The whole body sagged to make him look hundreds of years old. Snape almost smiled. Albus Dumbledore was one of the greatest actors he’d ever met.

“Why was he left there?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Harry’s blood bond with the Dursleys kept him safe from Voldemort.”

“But not safe from them.”

“If I have known, I would have put a stop to-”

“You did. He told you. Nothing was prevented.”

The mask almost broke at the accusation. Almost. But Dumbledore had been playing this game for decades.

“Severus, it’s not that simple...”

Snape stopped listening. He let Dumbledore prattle on, giving every twisted reason that sounded so good, so very real, so intelligent… Snape hadn’t realized just how good at the game Dumbledore really was. He could sell anything, when the prey didn’t know to watch out.

Eventually, Snape gave his leave. He knew the seeds of doubt of his loyalties had been sown, but there were other things to deal with. Such as one Harry Potter being moved to his rooms that afternoon.

It was a good half day before news of the Dursley’s demise reached the Wizarding World, while the muggles were lamenting it nearly immediately. Arabella Figg came home to see the perfectly kept house burned to the ground. After that, it spread like wildfire through the Order…and then to those outside of it. The next issue of the Daily Prophet ran the story and caused a great wave of panic. No one knew where the Boy-Who-Lived was, except that he was supposedly ‘safe’. Cornelious Fudge’s assurances that the boy was safe were barely listened to. The man had lost far too much of his sway. Some even wondered if he had kidnapped the boy and killed his muggle family himself.

For those who knew and loved Harry, the article sent a cold shivers down their backs. Urgent owls poured into the ministry and Dumbledore’s office, begging for reassurances that he was, in fact, in good hands. Notices were sent out that the boy was safely cared for, but the rumors spread through to make every man, woman, and child worry about their hero.

Harry Potter, himself, knew nothing of this. No one had spoken to him except Snape and Pomfrey, and neither of them said anything about it. He was blissfully unaware of the turmoil and it was probably for the best.

By three that afternoon, he was safely tucked away in the Potions Master’s chambers, in a little guest room that had been cleaned up for him. Pomfrey fussed over him, then started giving Snape instructions that she’d already written down, then fussed over Harry again for a good while before she let them be. The rooms were noticeably more silent without the medi-witch’s presence.

Snape gave him full access to the rooms, except for his personal potions lab. There were far too many dangerous potions brewing there at any given time. Oddly enough, Harry plopped himself down on one dark, leather couch with a book in his hands, plucked from the professor’s vast collection.

No one would ever believe Snape to own a book of nursery rhymes, especially one so lovingly worn. Neither said anything about it.

The afternoon wore on into evening. Harry drank the doses of whatever potions he was taking (he didn’t even try to keep up with them, there were so many,) without any resistance, despite the many nasty tastes. One made him sleepy, but he continued to read. Snape came in to find the boy sleeping quietly on the couch. He closed the book, marking his place with a bit of parchment, and gently carried the skinny boy to his bed. The book was left on the nightstand.

Snape was almost disturbed by the lack of annoyances that day. Once Potter had been moved to his rooms, the boy hadn’t bothered him at all. As if Potter was afraid of him. The Potions Master was unsure of how he felt on that. Generally, he liked being an object of terror. However, this time it rather bothered him for some reason he was unsure of.

Forgoing thoughts of Potters and their fears, Snape spent most of the evening on his potions. It was satisfying and, more importantly, gave him something much more productive to focus on. When he had completed all he needed, the dark man retired to his bed for a well needed sleep.

Night had barely begun when Snape’s eyes snapped open. Something woke up, but now awake, he could not figure out what it had been. He stood, pulling on a robe, and left the bedroom. The common room was still and quiet, no danger to be seen. He frowned. His senses never woke him without reason, and generally only when it was important.

A moment later found him opening Potter’s door. Inside, a strange hissing sound caught his attention. On the bed, mouth wide in silent scream and body thrashing, was Harry Potter in his night terrors. Snape wanted to groan and spout off lines like “I’m not paid for this” and the like, but all he ended up doing was going to the bed and shaking the boy awake.

Harry’s opened wide and unseeing as he fought Snape’s hands, that horrible, hissing scream issuing from his mouth. Snape shouted at him, dodged the flailing arms before finally grabbing them and pinning them on the sheets.

“Potter, wake up!”

Nothing. The boy continued to fight. Finally, the Potions Master got fed up and grabbed the boy, dragging him up against his chest and holding on. Harry froze after a few seconds, unused to this treatment. Slowly, so slowly, the boy relaxed against him, lifting those thin arms around his neck. Snape couldn’t muster up any disgust as moisture soaked into the shoulder of his robe and sleeping gown. No sound, but the small body shook as if he were sobbing his heart out.

“Are you heartless!”

“No. I just believe it when someone tells me something like that.”

“Are you saying I don’t have any trust!”

“Is there a reason you’re so adamant to prove me disloyal?”

Smoldering blue eyes met brown and held. A spark shot through them and they broke off at the same time. Hermione and Ron sat in silence. Pursing his lips, Ron spoke up again, quieter this time.

“I’m just worried about him.”

“I know,” she replied softly. “Me too.”

They sat quietly for a while before both looked up to speak again. They paused, each waiting for the other to talk first, then smiled embarrassedly when neither did. This brought a few chuckles.

“We should go down and socialize a little,” said Hermione.

“They might think we’re snogging or something,” said Ron.

“How insane!” cried both as one and fell into a fit of laughter. They went down the stairs of Grimmauld Place, still snickering to one another. Ginny stood at the end of the stair and looked up at them grinning.

“Waiting for us?” Ron asked immediately.

“I knew you’d come down soon.”

“How? I could have gone to sleep.”

“It’s a chick thing.”

The three teens made their way into the kitchen for a late snack, but were met by Remus Lupin at the doorway.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to barge into you like that, Professor,” Ron said as he stepped back out of the other male’s space.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied softly. There was a harried look to his face and his eyes were tired. “I was looking for you three anyway.”

They all perked up, wondering what it could be. Lupin sighed a little.

“Tomorrow, I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to Hogwarts.”

“Harry’s there, isn’t he?” asked Hermione. The wolf nodded a little.

“We would like to see him,” Ginny said, smiling softly.

“Good.” Lupin looked a little relieved actually. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”

The small glass ball rolled in his palm easily as he stared at it. No matter how long it had been, he could still see her face as she gave it to him, her soft words of love and adoration. The way her eyes sparkled.

Green eyes.

Green eyes that stared at him with such hatred. Lillian’s child. The boy that could have been his. Should have been. If only that damned James Potter and Dumbledore hadn’t stuck their necks in. He hated them. Oh, how he hated them… Lillian had been pure and they stained her completely.

He remembered storming the house. Killing James Potter, watching the incredulous expression on his face. Going to the nursery to see the brat, the child that should have been his but wasn’t, and there she was, standing in front of the crib.

“Not Harry. Not my baby,” she pleaded.

“Not you,” he had responded as he raised the wand. He remembered the wet feeling on his face. Then, he remembered the calm that had come to her as she reached back behind her and touched her child for the last time.

“I love you, Thomas.” Her last words. Her last, sweet, beautiful, painful words. Then she fell dead from a spell he had never remembered casting, but knew he had. The baby was awake and cried. He wanted so very badly to hate it, to hate this crime against him by James Potter. He wanted to. And even as he cast the spell on it, the one that tore him from his own body, he hadn’t been able to.

“My Lord?”

Lord Voldemort whipped around and glared at the wizard who dared interrupt him. The man visibly crumpled under his stare.

“What is it?” he hissed.

“Something has been found, my Lord. A letter, addressed to Tom Riddle,” murmured the man quietly as he stared at the ground. “None of us have been able to touch it without being burned.”

The Dark Lord was intrigued by this and followed his servant to investigate. In the dining room, sitting upon the table, was an old envelope. The dainty handwriting was unmistakable. Lord Voldemort grabbed it, then hissed when it burned his hand. He let go and stared at the offending object.

“Why,” he whispered to himself, far too low for anyone else to hear, “Why is it that you taunt me so, Lillian?”

He stared on at it, then with a flash knew what to do. Immediately, he ordered the room cleared. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a chain. On it hung a small silver ring. He slid it off the chain and onto his finger, amazed that it still felt so right to wear it. With this done, he reached for the envelope again.

No pain. A warmth, but comforting, spread through his fingers and up his arm to spread over his entire body. Carefully, he opened it and pulled out the single piece of parchment. He could only stare at her familiar writing at first, then he read.

My dearest Thomas.

If you’re getting this letter, then I have died. Don’t be sad, my love. I lived a full life. My only regret is that I haven’t survived to see my baby grow up. I hope James has raised him well, but if not him, then that he has lived well with whoever has taken him.

I know you are angry with me, and perhaps have shut me completely from your life, but please remember that I loved you with all of my heart.

The reason I am writing this is to tell you a very important thing. My son, my Harry, is not the child of James Potter.

He nearly dropped the parchment. Instead, his fingers tightened over it as he stared at the written words.

Harry is your son.

Conditions Met:
1. Voldemort must be Harry's father