Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Another Life ❯ Winken, Blinken, and Nod ( Chapter 3 )

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

Harry woke to the sounds of conversation just past the door. He rolled out of bed, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, and stared at the door. It was not his door. He looked around and found he was not in his room. Slowly, the memories of the day before filtered into his mind. This was Snape’s place. Well. That was all right.

On the edge of the bed was a silver robe. He glanced down at himself, wondering it pajamas was good enough for whatever company was out there. A dark patch of bruised skin at one wrist made him pull on the robe over them. The long sleeves covered most of each hand.

Harry stood there for a while before remembering that he didn’t have to wait. Snape would not hurt him for leaving the bedroom without permission. At least, he rather hoped not. With a slow burning courage, Harry went to the door and opened it, glancing through. The common room was filled with people. Hermione in the kitchenette, making tea. Ron and Remus on the couch, talking. Ginny on the couch’s armrest, smiling pleasantly. Snape in the armchair, muttering obscenities. How nice.

Snape’s voice paused as he turned to look at the guest room door. He waved Harry forward, and the boy came out to stand next to him. The others immediately greeted him, warmly and like they normally did, except no one got up to hug him. He was a little confused at the mix of disappointment and relief he felt. Hermione brought out the tea and set it on the table between the seats.

“It’s good to see you, Harry,” she said softly. “We were very worried when we heard about the Dursleys.”

Harry stared at her. She knew? She knew what they had done? Immediately, he jerked his gaze to Snape. The Potions Master sighed a little.

“Death Eaters arrived at your house after I took you,” said Snape. Harry’s face went blank. “The muggles are dead and the house destroyed.”

Slowly, he nodded his understanding and pulled the robe tighter. Hermione reached over and patted his arm. He barely kept from wincing as she inadvertently found one of the worse off bruises. Salves and potions could only heal his battered body so fast.

“Since you’re sixteen,” Remus began suddenly, “you’ve been declared legally responsible for yourself. The only one with any real sway over you is Dumbledore, since you’re a student here.”

Harry only looked at him and nodded after a while. He understood.

“You’re welcome to stay with us,” said Ron. Ginny nodded in agreement.

“We’d love to have you.”

Harry looked at both of them, his face expressionless as he thought. Then, he slowly shook his head as an apologetic, bitter smile flit over his lips temporarily. That ‘said’, the silent boy went back into his bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. The four Gryffindors stared after him with various expressions.

“What’s wrong with him?” Ron asked with a frown. Snape rubbed his temples.

“His vocal cords and voice box were severely damaged,” he replied. “The healing potions are doing all they can, but he may never again speak anything above a whisper.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Hermione said very quietly, but Snape already knew that. As the four sets of eyes came to rest on him, he scowled at the lot of them.

“Whether I like Mr. Potter or not, I will not divulge information he has not freely given or shown the want to give.” His voice was dark, stern, and cut off their complaints on the subject. They sat in silence, sipping cups of tea or just thinking.

A little voice piped up from on top of the couch’s armrest.

“Will he be okay?”

Snape regarded the red haired girl with a dull sort of tiredness.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

The Gryffindors didn’t stay long after.

It was dark. It was quiet. It was cold.

He floated, though whether or not it was air or something more solid around him, he hadn’t the faintest. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, or even if there had been a Somewhere Else before. His memories were a jumbled mess of faces and voices and words and none of it made any sense. Nothing was important anyway and he wondered if he really existed when he cared to wonder about anything at all.

Sometimes, he would hear something around him, but never understood the garbled words. Sometimes, he would feel the touch of something, but never saw it. Sometimes, he would remember what it was like before the floating, but never kept hold of the memory. It almost made him wonder about where he was. Almost. Not quite.

Then he noticed something was strange. Light, pouring from one side. He watched it, as there was nothing else to do, noticing that the light was growing. Soon, it encompassed everything. His body warmed with it. It felt like warm, soothing hands petting over his skin, comforting his very soul. A soft sound filled his ears, a woman’s voice, urging him to her. He tried to answer her, but no sound came from his lips. Instead, he forced himself to move.

The journey was agonizingly slow. Every movement he forced sent spasms of pain through his entire body, but he kept going. She called to him, always so soft and reassuring. Then, the light shifted and condensed into one form. He could barely make out the outline and didn’t fight when the figure reached out to him and touched his face. At that, he we plunged back into darkness.

The sound of dripping woke him. He groaned and held his head, fighting the ache that was welling up in his temples. His body was sore and felt so very heavy. Opening his eyes, he looked around and was stunned. The room was eerily familiar, but his thoughts were too messed up for him to remember why terror was making its way into him.

The sound of harsh breath alerted him to the other’s presence. Laying with her back against one wall, blonde hair loose and stuck to her forehead with sweat, was Narcissa Malfoy. She looked half dead, gray eyes fogged with exhaustion and face so very pale. Still, she managed a weak little smirk towards him.

“Hello,” she whispered faintly, “Cousin Sirius.”

Harry liked it when Snape left the door to the lab open while he worked. It wasn’t so much that he liked potion making or the lab itself; it was more that he liked not being completely alone. He curled up in a chair near the door, his book of rhymes held lovingly in his lap, and read while his professor mixed and managed four cauldrons, each containing a different potion. It was a peaceful, nigh pleasant way to spend the day.

They broke for lunch and made their way side by side to the Great Hall. Harry limped a bit, but neither said a thing about it, and he was glad for it. Dumbledore was in the hall to greet them, as well as McGonagall and Pomfrey. Hagrid came in half way through the meal and babbled happily to Harry, who only smiled and nodded when it was appropriate. Hagrid didn’t distract him enough not to notice the tense state of Snape beside him. He glanced up and watched the Potions Master eat, noting that his inky eyes stayed settled on the Headmaster the whole time.

As lunch concluded and the others went off, Dumbledore stopped Snape and Harry.

“Hello, Harry,” he said gently with that grandfather smile. “How are you today?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and smiled weakly. That suited the Headmaster just fine.

“I heard you were staying with Professor Snape.” A nod. “It pleases me that you two are getting along so well.”

Harry felt Snape’s hand come to rest on his shoulder.

“I was going to inform you,” continued the Headmaster without pause, “that a room will be made up for you soon. I daresay that the dungeons aren’t the best place for a recovering boy…”

It was odd, the way his chest clinched at the words. He found himself talking, but couldn’t hear the words and it hurt to try to make them louder. Lifting a hand to rub his throat, he looked up at Snape. The Potions Master was amazed at the pleading look. There had been so little emotion on Harry’s face since his extraction from the Dursleys.

“I think Mr. Potter would rather continue his healing where he is,” Snape said quietly. Harry didn’t miss the sharp jerk of blue eyes to meet black. There was silence, and then the moment was over and Dumbledore smiled.

“Of course,” he said pleasantly. “You’re free to stay wherever makes you happiest.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t even notice that he had stepped closer to Snape during the tense, silent seconds. Dumbledore left them and Snape led Harry back to the dungeons. The boy let out a shaky breath and the man glanced over him, noting the tired eyes and pale skin. When they got back into his rooms, he gave Harry his potions and sent the boy to bed. Harry was asleep before his head hit the pillow. His door was left slightly open as Snape worked in the main room, getting ready for the school year.

When the nightmares came that night, Snape was ready. He held Harry and rocked him, soothing the demons that plagued the boy’s sleep. He stayed until he was sure Harry would be all right before moving out to spend the rest of the night on the couch, ready to wake if there was the slightest sound of distress from the guest room.

The letter stayed firmly held in his hands. He sat in front of the fire, staring at it, wondering if he should laugh at this cruel joke. He wanted to laugh. If he laughed, then it really was a joke. Somehow, the sound was caught in his throat.

His son? Harry Potter was his son? Harry Potter was Lord Voldemort’s son?

That cocky, messy haired boy with glasses and huge green eyes was definitely Lily Potter’s. His face was hers, his eyes… But he was so much James Potter’s as well. The attitude, the need to play hero, the lack of fear in the face of real danger… How could it be that this child was of his blood? The entire notion seemed wrong and false and completely improbable…Intelligence swimming through emerald. The set of that small jaw. Thin body shaking with fear repressed from the thin face. The need to be victorious.

Oh Merlin. He really could be his.

A long, thin hand covered his eyes as he shut them tight. He got up, rushing into the center of the room as he wrenched his gaze onto a full length mirror, set into the wall. Before him stood a man of few years. Dark hair spelled to perfect obedience and parted to one side in such a professional style. Slanted brown eyes with hints of crimson, just waiting to flash with anger. Pale skin, angular face. Thin, compact frame barely hinted at by the well cut robes. He stepped towards it, lifting a hand and touching the reflection, who only smirked back at him. Cocky, arrogant man, who had long faded into the visage of his present state. He stared at his hand, stared at the long, thin, skeletal fingers. They weren’t so different from the hand in the mirror, were they? Not quite so thin. Not quite so inhuman. His inspection continued. Thin, boney face, sharp cheek bones, gaunt, hairless face. This was different. This face had none of the boyish lilt that the one in the mirror did. His eyes were so very narrow now, fully red. Nose small and barely noticible. Bald head, not a hair to be seen. Far different than when she knew him.

Anger struck through him. How dare she make him feel like this? She was dead! Dead! Had been for sixteen years! How dare she do this to him now! He barely noticed the shattering sound as the mirror broke with his anger, broken glass littering the ground. His breath was hard and fast, eyes blazing. How dare she…

He suddenly remembered the first time he saw her.

She stepped into the classroom, muttering angrily at a tall boy with messy black hair. The boy retorted with smooth, seductive words, but she would have none of it. She caught his eye immediately. The long, wavy, red hair flew with her anger as she whipped around, framing her face as it fell like flickering flames. Her green eyes flashed with fury and such strength, power rolling off her in waves. Her sharp voice put the boy in his place and he visibly shrank back from her. She stalked to an empty seat already surrounded by others and plopped down, glaring at him from across the room.

He left his seat behind the desk and stood in front of them. Twenty faces stared back at him. Seventh years from all houses, his first class on his first day. He wondered if he could really do that. And then he looked at her, sitting in the front row. Her still raging emerald eyes were weighing him as he stood.

“My name is Professor Riddle. Welcome to Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. I‘m sure we will have a good year.”

Conditions Met:
1. Voldemort must be Harry's father
3. Sirius comes back