Fic; The Dumbledore Stratagem 1/3 (completed) Title: The Dumbledore Stratagem, Chapter 1/3 (completed) Author:sarkysue Character(s)/Pairing(s): Snape/Harry, Draco, Neville Rating: NC17 (although nothing until the last part) Length: 6300/17000 Warnings: Spoilers for HBP, maybe for others too. Summary: A story in which Draco is pretty much a sociopath, Snape is verging on the Heathcliffian and Harry is, well, Harry. Stuck in a hideaway with his two least favourite Slytherins, Harry starts competing for something he didn’t even realise that he wanted. Beta:bethbethbeth Notes: An alternative to DH, kind of. Chapters will be posted daily. Cross posted all over LJ and on IJ and DW too. Big Thanks to my beta. Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story and no money will be made from it.
“Checkmate,” Draco Malfoy says, laconic and triumphant. “Again. Potter, are you even trying?”
Harry favours him with a grimace and works hard at not knocking all the chess pieces over in petulance. The truth is he is trying, trying his bloody hardest in fact. It turns out that Malfoy is irritatingly proficient at the game of chess and despite Harry’s best efforts and countless games he has only been victorious once. And that time Malfoy had been completely preoccupied with smarming up to Snape, so it didn’t really count. Harry has the sneaking suspicion that Ron might have been going easy on him on the occasions where Harry had beaten him. Either that or Malfoy is some sort of chess genius.
“I’m a Slytherin,” he’d said smugly after the tenth game Harry had lost. “We’re all about strategy, Potter.”
At least now even Malfoy has gotten so bored of his gloating that he no longer puts any enthusiasm into it.
“Another game?” Malfoy asks him stretching as he does so, gracefully, like a cat.
Harry wants to say no, wants to tell Malfoy to get lost, but a glance around the bare room reminds him of his distinct lack of other options. He’s been here in this godforsaken hut, cut off from all normal semblances of humanity, restricted to his sick bed due to a nasty curse courtesy of Lord Voldemort, with strict instructions from Snape (which are the strictest known to man) to not use any form of magic lest it kills him or signals for an army of Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself to descend upon them. It’s all part of some scheme, The Dumbledore Stratagem, which means Harry had to get himself cursed so that they could reverse it and defeat Voldemort whilst he is unwittingly weakened. That’s the plan anyway, but nobody knows if it’s going to work and there’s a great possibility that Harry will die in the process. He’s gotten used to that prospect, but if he’d have known about the Snape and Malfoy hut bit, he never would have agreed; it feels like he has been here for at least a hundred years.
In reality it’s only been eight and a half days, and for two of those Harry had been unconscious. As it was, the hut offered him one of five options – staring at the walls, bickering with Malfoy, bickering with Snape, bickering with Snape and Malfoy or playing chess. Snape had started angrily whittling the pieces for a chess set after only two hours of Harry regaining consciousness. He must have worked through the night, for he stormed in the following morning and flung the chess board and pieces at them.
“Now shut up!” he’d roared. “The next one of you obnoxious little cretins that dares to get on my last nerve will be banished from the house and left to their fate in the Black Forest. Do you understand?”
They’d nodded silently as Snape glowered at them in turn and stormed out. Malfoy had given Harry a smile dripping with self-satisfaction that suggested that none of Snape’s vitriol had been aimed at him, and then they’d started playing chess. The pieces were quite clumsy, the board made out of a slice of tree trunk with squares roughly carved into it, but it had its own charm. Harry probably would have treasured it if had come from a different maker.
He looks at the grey light from the window and sighs, it’s only late afternoon—too early for bickering, something that they tended to save until the evening when everyone was a bit tired and narky and Snape was there to get annoyed and shout at them. Most nights culminated in everyone storming off to bed and slamming their doors. Well, everyone except Harry whose bed had been made up in the living room so he could have the fire. He looks at the pile of dull ash in the fire place and thinks about the hours he has to get through before the fire will be lit and it will be almost bedtime.
“Yeah,” he finally says to Malfoy with weary resignation. “But I’m going for a piss first.” He lifts the game board off his lap and slithers out of the warmth of his pile of blankets.
When he comes back in Malfoy is standing staring out of the one grubby window, eyes fixed in concentration. Like he’s eyeing his prey, Harry thinks as he slips back into his bed carefully so as not to spill the chess set.
“Admiring the view?” he asks after Malfoy doesn’t make any move to resume his seat.
“I am actually.”
“It’s been exactly the same for the past eight days, what can be so interesting about trees?”
“Oh, I’m not looking at the trees.”
Harry sighs. “Then what are you looking at?”
Malfoy drags his eyes from the window and eyes Harry smugly, pausing for dramatic effect.
“...Severus,” he says breathlessly with a huge amount of pride – like he’s just learnt a new dirty word – and smirks with an air of satisfaction as Harry’s face creases with confusion.
“Snape? What’s so interesting about looking at Snape?”
“What do you think? The man’s divine.”
Harry splutters. Lost for words he pulls a face of pure revulsion to convey his disgust. Malfoy sighs, shaking his head with mock sadness like he is an old sage aware of things beyond Harry’s comprehension, and turns back to his view.
“But he’s grotesque!”
“Oh Potter,” Malfoy says in an irritatingly sympathetic tone. “I don’t expect you to understand, not when your tastes are so… so insular.”
“Insular?”
“Not all of us can find satisfaction in rutting with one of the Weasley herd. Not when there’s so much better breeding about.”
Harry is too disgusted to respond to the insult. Nor does he point out that Snape’s ‘breeding’ is hardly anything other than pretty regular. He instead gapes at Malfoy and shakes his head.
“You’ve lost it Malfoy. You’ve been cooped up for too long and you’ve gone mad. It’s Snape. Snape.”
“Oh Potter. You really are blind in more ways than the need for those hideous glasses. Frankly I don’t know how you can’t see it.”
“See what exactly? That he’s an ugly, greasy, bad tempered, old, old,” he says again for emphasis, “git.”
Malfoy sighs again and Harry has to stop him self from lobbing the chess board at his head.
“He’s sexy. All dark and brooding and with just the right amount of… meanness.”
Harry suddenly feels unwell. “I might be sick,” he says.
“Come and look if you don’t believe me.” Malfoy challenges crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall to offer Harry his view.
With a huff, Harry gets back out of bed and comes to peer out the window. Outside Snape is chopping wood.
Harry scoffs. “Yeah, very impressive. Excuse me whilst I swoon.”
“Sexy.” Malfoy reasserts.
“Old.”
“Strong. Look at his arms.” Harry looks. And then looks again. Snape has got his sleeves rolled up snugly around his surprisingly muscular upper arms.
“Pft. A bit of arm muscle is not enough to distract from the rest of it. No way.”
Malfoy shrugs. “Graceful,” he murmurs as Snape swings the axe with an elegance that should not be possible with the task in hand. The block of wood breaks perfectly in two and Snape’s robes swish around him as he bends to reach for another.
“Handsome,” Malfoy continues quietly. They watch as Snape pauses for breath, bringing his arm up and wiping the sweat for from his face on his forearm. He is panting from the excursion, his face flushed from its usual sallow hue and distinctly lacking its customary scowl. As they watch his black hair is swept back dramatically by the wind.
“God,” Malfoy sighs. “Look at him.” And for a moment Harry finds he has lost the power to disagree. At that instant Snape’s eyes fall on the window and both Harry and Malfoy scarper back to their usual places, the bed and the armchair respectively.
They are still arguing about it later, during yet another game of chess that yet again Harry is losing.
“But he’s so powerful… ” Malfoy says wistfully.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Slytherins and power, how original.”
“And commanding…”
Harry thinks about changing the subject, sick to the stomach as he is of both hearing about Snape’s supposedly finer attributes and the dreamy expression Malfoy adopts for listing them, but he doesn’t want to forfeit the slim chance of winning that Malfoy’s preoccupation may afford him.
He slips his bishop into play without as much as a glance at the board from Malfoy.
“And his voice…”
“Oh whatever,” Harry mutters.
“Come on Potter, straight and noble as you are, even you cannot be immune from that voice?”
Harry shrugs and shakes his head, baffled.
“Really?” Malfoy asks, like he’s the weirdo. “Imagine him saying, ‘Potter, down on your knees. Now boy.’”
Harry shrugs again, now hoping for a change in subject, chess game be damned.
Malfoy makes an exasperated noise and clears his throat. “Potter,” he says, his voice low and silky, his face edging slowly towards Harry’s. “Potter. Get. Down. On. Your. Knees. You will be punished, Potter.”
Alarmingly, Harry feels a frisson of sexuality strike him right in the groin, made all the more hideous by the fact that he’s not sure if it’s the idea of Snape or Malfoy or, even worse, some sort of ghastly Snape and Malfoy hybrid that has caused it.
“Potter,” Malfoy continues, with menace. “’Potter, you’ve been a naughty boy. Potter I’m taking you to my office right now. Potter, take off your clothes.’ And then he’d sweep you up in arms and carry you and throw you over the desk like you didn’t weigh a thing and—”
The door opens with a bang and Snape comes in, bared arms full of chopped logs, the muscles straining under the weight. His hair is still swept back and the exposed skin of his throat and neck glisten with sweat. With seeming effortlessness, he lobs the wood into a pile against the fireplace and stands up dusting his hands.
Malfoy gasps and for some unknown reason Harry goes bright red.
Seconds tick by as the two of them continue to stare at Snape until he narrows his eyes with suspicion.
“What?” He demands, drawing his shoulders up to full height so he can loom at them from the doorway. Which only makes things worse, Harry thinks.
The both start blathering incoherently while Snape scowls at them in turn, a look Harry is very much familiar with as meaning ‘Don’t think I don’t know that you’re up to something, Potter,’ and then sweeps gracefully to the ground to start stacking the fire.
Malfoy grins devilishly at him and then puts a hand to his forehead, falling against the back of his chair in a mock swoon. Harry elbows him in the ribs and giggles silently behind his hand.
*
They spend the evening as they always do; Snape guarded as ever, sits poised and upright in the armchair in the corner, reading and making the occasional note, a shield of sheer disinterest keeping him separate from Harry and Malfoy, who play chess on the other side of the room.
“What’s that you’re reading Severus?” Malfoy asks his voice full of false interest as he tries to garner Snape’s attention.
“A thesis on magical repairment,” Snape answers flatly, not looking up from his book.
“Oh, that sounds interesting,” Malfoy says with an enthusiastic grin that gets ignored. He turns back to his game with Harry, slightly disgruntled until his eyes light up; he moves his knight and swipes Harry’s last bishop off the board.
“Tut tut Potter, that was pretty careless,” he says oozing smugness. “I’m beating him again Severus.”
Moments later Malfoy announces checkmate and after his customary “I won again Severus,” he lies back in his chair and stretches his legs toward the fire.
“Umm, it’s so warm and toasty in here. Thank you for getting the firewood Severus. I would have helped of course, but my wrist still really is quite sore…”
Harry scoffs quietly, and Malfoy glares at him. Malfoy’s poorly wrist – hurt somehow on the journey to the hut – is one of those come-and-go injuries that always seem to get worse when there’s work to be done.
“Well I don’t see you jumping from your sickbed to help out either Potter,” he snarls.
Harry pulls a face but stays quiet. He feels more aware of Snape than usual and is less inclined to fall into their usual childish bickering. Malfoy, however, has other ideas.
“All you do is lie about all day losing chess games. I’m surprised really, surprised that the world is relying on someone as obviously stupid as you are to save them.”
Harry gives Malfoy a bored sort of look, and rolls his eyes.
“I don’t think people are aware of quite what an imbecile you are. They can’t be; they must not be able to see you for what you really are. Lording about like a hero with your pig-ugly gang of simpletons. Not to mention Guinea-pig Weasley or whatever your rodent face girlfriend calls herself.”
Stoically Harry doesn’t even blanch. He yawns heavily instead. For a moment he thinks he feels the weight of Snape’s cool gaze on him, but when he looks up Snape’s eyes are fixed on the book in front of him.
Malfoy tries out a few other choice insults before realising that Harry is not going to play along then, huffing noisily, folds his arms and slouches in his chair to show his displeasure. Both Snape and Harry ignore him until a little while later he asks Harry politely for another game of chess, as if nothing’s happened, and to keep the peace Harry wearily agrees.
When bed time comes Snape pauses before he leaves the room and looks at Harry with narrowed eyes.
“You’re not feeling any worse?” he says awkwardly, like it pains him to ask.
“Er… no. Not really.”
Snape clicks his tongue with impatience and strides towards him.
“It’s a simple question Potter, one I’m sure even you can manage to answer if you put your mind to it. If you are feeling unwell, I must know. I don’t have any time for heroics,” He peers at Harry’s face closely, like he is inspecting it for mistruths.
“No, I’m fine. Honest. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”
“No increased dizziness, nausea, headaches?” Snape asks, brushing his hand roughly against Harry’s forehead.
“No, I’m fine. Really.” Harry asserts, squirming his head out from under Snape’s hand. “And why anyway? You never normally interrogate me about my health before bedtime. That’s normally a morning thing.”
Still frowning, Snape gives him a contemplative look.
“There was a distinct lack of bleating from your corner this evening. You’ve barely said two words, not even when Draco mentioned your girlfriend. Tell me why.”
Harry flinches. Not only was it unsettling to know that Snape seemed to note bloody everything – even when he appeared resolutely disinterested – but he was also, Harry remembered belatedly, a revered Legilimens. Harry suddenly fears the man looking into his mind only to find images of himself striding about carrying heavy things and sweeping his hair back evocatively.
“I’m allowed to be quiet aren’t I?” he asks loudly. “Thought you for one would appreciate it… And she’s not my girlfriend anyway, not really. Were just friends, if anything.” Harry closes his mouth, confused as to why he’d felt compulsed to say that last bit.
“Uninteresting as I find most of what you say Potter, especially that to do with your love life, or lack of it, verbal restraint of any form is so rare in you I thought it could only be related to your health. My mistake.” And with that, Snape stalks from the room, the door thudding shut behind him leaving Harry alone and perplexed in the firelight.
It takes him ages to fall asleep that night. A thought is niggling away at him, one that makes him feel very confused and uneasy and that has something to do with Snape, although he can’t quite figure out what. He thinks it might be to do with wanting to Snape to like him, a thought so new and unfamiliar to him that it shocks any drowsiness straight out of his mind. He fleetingly thinks of his dad and godfather and feels a lurch of guilt. But then he thinks of Snape’s bravery and how he’s been worn weary with his efforts for the good cause, and any loyalty to James and Sirius feels misplaced and immature.
At length he decides that he will try and build a bridge with Snape. Whatever else, it would at least make his present days more enjoyable. He feels sure he can put it right with a bit of friendliness and a bit of gratitude, something Harry is aware he’s never been too generous in showing Snape before. And maybe all Snape needs to change his ways is the chance to be nice. Tomorrow Harry would make it clear that he has forgiven him for being such a bastard and is willing to put some of Snape’s unpleasantness aside in order for them to get along. The satisfaction of a plan makes him feel content and he squirms down into his blankets. In the darkness he smiles at himself and shakes his head; all it had taken to question years of hatred was the startling realisation that Snape was a bit sexy.
*
A roar fills his ears and the ground slams against him like someone has picked it up and thrown it at him hard. A mad cackle of laughter pierces through the darkness and just as he thinks he’s drowning in it, it goes silent and arms are dragging him away, dragging him to safety. Now he’s being plucked from his nest of twigs and trees, whilst an argument is shouted above his closed eyes, someone clasping him to his chest and running and running tirelessly, “The port-key! Draco come on!” Harry feels safe in his new nest of arms and scratchy black wool. Close to his ear he can feel a heart beat, hammering a soothing rhythm. Life. They’re alive. When he wakes, Snape is sat by his bed, tired eyes full of concern and relief. This time though, Harry stays quiet and Snape stays with him, a warm grip on his arm and nonsensical words of comfort murmuring from his lips.
Harry wakes and stretches. Somewhere in the hut someone is running water. Morning light is coming through the window, cold and crisp, and he snuggles down into the warmth of his blankets.
A while later Snape knocks at the door, pausing briefly, before entering with a tray of breakfast things.
“Morning,” Harry says brightly, smiling warmly up at him. Snape looks taken aback, and places the tray somewhat clumsily on Harry’s lap. He pauses to frown at him before leaving but Harry shrugs unperturbed; he knows civility between them was going to take time and determination, but he is anything if not determined.
Malfoy slinks in with a blanket artfully wrapped around his bare torso to reveal as much flesh as possible. He slides into the chair at Harry’s bedside and reaches a hand to snatch the piece of toast Harry has just buttered, taking a big bite.
“Cheers Potter,” he says in a way that normally would have made Harry want to clock him with the teapot.
“Welcome,” he says cheerfully instead, buttering another piece of toast.
Malfoy shrugs and starts admiring his reflection in the back of a spoon.
“Malfoy, that is Potter’s breakfast. He needs to eat it all to regain his strength.” Snape says from the hallway where he is donning his cloak.
Malfoy splutters embarrassedly, “But sir, my wrist.”
“Is perfectly well enough for you to make your own toast. Don’t argue. And put some clothes on! I will not play nursemaid to you if your stupidity means you catch a chill. I’m going to fetch some water, I want you dressed and fed when I return.”
Malfoy gives Harry a sour look as he slouches out the room, like it’s his fault he’s been told off, and Harry grins to himself behind his teacup.
Later, when Harry is returning from a chilly trip to the outhouse, he comes back to find Snape and Malfoy in his room, both so quietly absorbed in thought that they do not take any notice of him. Snape is leaning one elbow against the mantle piece of the rustic fireplace, his long fingers idly rubbing at his chin and throat as he frowns absently. Malfoy is draped in his usual chair, legs stretched out, one arm dangling over the side, the other behind his head. Watching them unobserved from the doorway, Harry feels a twinge of jealousy. Snape looks like a puma, black sleek and poised, and Malfoy like his cub and Harry feels suddenly aware of his messy unwashed hair and the grubby pyjamas he’s been wearing for over a week. They’re baddies, he tells himself consolingly as he climbs back under his blankets, and all the grace in the world would not make him want to be a Slytherin baddy.
Snape’s glance falls on him absently for a moment and then flicks to his eyes.
“Draco, go and busy yourself elsewhere. It’s time for Potter’s check-up.”
The daily ‘check-up’ had been hands down the worst aspect of Harry’s current living arrangements. The fear of their magic being traced meant that in its place Snape had to resort to Muggle methods of assessment. Ergo, there was a lot of Harry’s naked body getting prodded and poked whilst he shivered and tried to not to appear totally mortified.
“What are you checking for anyway?” Harry had asked the first time he’d had to get naked.
After a lengthy pause in which Harry had debated repeating his question in an obnoxiously loud tone or jabbing his finger in Snape’s eye, close as it was, peering at his fingers prodding along Harry’s collar bone, he’d finally answered.
“Your magic,” had been the clipped reply.
“What about it?” Harry had asked, panic springing in different directions with the sudden realisation that he had not used it, not even attempted so much as an ‘accio glasses’ since he’d come ‘round. Snape had taken and hidden their wands before Harry had woken up and then lectured him at length about how any use of his magic could finish him off, although Harry hadn’t really paid all that much attention, too dismayed at waking up to find himself trapped in a small house with Snape and Malfoy for what might possibly be his last few days alive.
“The extent of the damage done to it,” Snape had said, quite simply, like it was merely a trifling matter.
“What do you mean damage done to it? You mean it might be broken? You mean it might not be how it was?”
Snape had ignored him and rummaged around in the large leather bag he had with him, eventually producing a small stoppered bottle.
“Drink this,” he’d said flatly.
“No! I won’t drink it! Not until you explain what’s happened to my magic and why it means you have to see me without my clothes on.”
Snape had breathed in heavily through his nose and clenched his jaw, fixing Harry with a look that could wilt flowers.
“If when I had first explained this you had listened, rather than obstinately refusing to do anything other than throw puerile insults and accusations at me, you would know the answer to all these questions Potter. As it is, I have told you once in detail and I am not here to pander to your tantrums and repeat myself incessantly.”
“Fuck you Snape. And give me my fucking wand.” Harry had got up off the bed, scrabbling for his pyjama trousers. It was only when he’d pulled them up that he noticed the room was spinning and there was the sound of wind whistling in his ears. He’d clutched at the bed, trying to anchor himself.
“Get back into bed Potter. You’re not well enough for histrionics.”
“Only if you explain.”
“Only if you get into bed.”
Harry had obeyed, not sure who was winning at that point.
“I will tell you this one last time, so please try and pay close attention. I need to check every magical point on your body everyday to see how and where your magic is affected. You will then have to drink an assortment of potions that will restore the specific areas and that will ensure the Dark Lord’s curse remains ineffective.”
“And it will work? My magic will be fixed?”
Snape had clenched his jaw tightly. “The main aim is to work with the Dark Lord’s curse but yes, as a side effect, your magic will be restored.”
“But—doesn’t the Dumbledore Stratagem stop Voldemort’s curse?”
“This is the Dumbledore Stratagem,” Snape had hissed so venomously that spit sprayed into Harry’s blank face.
“But—I thought that the Stratagem didn’t happen until I gave myself up to Voldemort and he tried to kill me?”
“That is because you are too arrogant to listen, you insolent little brat! This, what I am doing right now, is what stops the curse!”
But Harry still hadn’t understood and Snape had stormed out the room and then come back and gnashed his teeth for a bit before he explained.
“If the Dark Lord were to perform the Killing Curse on you now it would drain your magic into him. But once your magic is restored this will not be possible and instead when he tries to kill you his magic will be drained away from him.”
“And he doesn’t know we can reverse his curse?”
“No Potter he doesn’t, and the only people on the planet who do know are in this very room.”
“But why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not really weakening me, giving Voldemort a better chance of finishing me off? This Stratagem might kill me anyway mighten it? Dumbledore told me before he died. How do I know you’re not making sure that that happens?”
“For god’s sake think,” Snape had said through gritted teeth. “Why would I have bothered bringing you here, why would I have bothered with all this,” he gestured wildly, “when I could have taken you directly to the dark lord himself?”
Admittedly Harry hadn’t had an answer to that.
“Yeah, well… You still killed Dumbledore.”
And Snape’s face had gone so eerily blank that Harry found he could no longer look at it.
Now, the door clips shut behind Malfoy and Snape’s mouth lifts at the edges, his eyes remaining steely and cold.
“Undress,” he says and Harry is instantly reminded of Malfoy’s impression the previous day. He tries with all his might to not let his face colour-up.
Eyes not breaking contact with Snape’s, he pulls back the blankets and starts unbuttoning the neck of his shirt. As he pulls it over his head he mentally curses Malfoy. These examinations had never had even the slightest whiff of sexuality before, but now, as he shucks off his pyjama trousers, Harry feels a new nuance of tension ripple through the room.
Snape doesn’t seem to notice, hands already working over Harry’s face, fingers resting briefly as they find the points they were searching for. It feels gentler than usual, probably because Harry hasn’t made his usual jokes about Snape getting off on seeing his naked body.
Snape’s fingers trail down a line of his neck, his eyes fixed and intense on Harry’s skin.
“Nice weather today.”
Snape’s head snaps up. He glances at the window and then looks back at Harry, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“It’s raining,” he says warily, like he’s not sure if he’s being led into a trap.
“Yes. Well.” Harry says with a shrug. “I quite like it. The rain I mean. Generally speaking.” Harry swallows. Snape’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure out a cryptic crossword puzzle.
“Potter, important as your opinions on the weather maybe, full focus is required of me to get this examination out of the way. Please be quiet.”
“Righty-oh.”
Snape goes back to his work, his fingers dancing softly down Harry’s ribcage, over his stomach, and Harry, cursing Malfoy yet again, thinks desperately of horrible things, of anything but Snape’s fingers touching him between his slightly parted thighs.
“Dress.” And it’s over, and for the first time Harry doesn’t feel overwhelming relief.
“Dizziness, nausea… bowel movements?”
“Um, nausea not so much, dizziness only when I stand for too long and, um, bowel movements fine.”
Snape nods and rummages in his bag.
“Drink these.” Snape hands him the potions, clips his leather bag shut and stands.
“Thank you,” Harry says, fighting a smile as Snape looks at him with suspicion, yet again. “For doing this. For everything I mean.”
Snape raises his eyebrows but doesn’t respond, just lifts his bag and goes to leave the room.
“Well done,” Harry blurts.
Snape pauses halfway to the door, turns slowly to face Harry, his chin coming up so he can peer down his nose at the boy in his bed.
“For sorting this out. This hideout, the potions, the food. Good job, is what I’m trying to say. It’s really impressive.”
Harry grins encouragingly but Snape’s face darkens and Harry isn’t sure why.
“I mean, you really pulled it off. Getting me and Malfoy here to safety, making sure we don’t kill… each other…”
Snape looks positively livid and Harry stutters to a halt in his blathering, trying to figure out exactly what part of his thanks has pissed Snape off.
Silence stretches out, and Harry squirms in his bed. A muscle is going in Snape’s jaw, and Harry watches is it as he waits.
“Complimentary as you may think your shock at my being able to manage to orchestrate simple plans is Potter—”
“No! I just wanted to say thank you, I’m not shocked about it. Not at all.” Which is a lie. He is shocked, shocked at the thorough preparations, the potions, the charmed food supply, the secret location. Shocked that this plan was so well concealed from him, shocked at how well Snape had played his role, shocked by his brilliant timing, shocked at how brave he was, marching across battle lines – with the threat of death from both sides – to grasp Harry and bring him here.
Harry hopes his face is managing to hide this shock however, and he tries another smile to smooth things over. Snape only looks angrier if anything.
“And am I supposed to fall to my knees with gratitude that Harry Potter has deigned my cognitive abilities worthy of a mention? What would you like me to do, a little dance to celebrate my relief and joy that you think I’m doing a ‘good job’? Should I be chuffed that you see me as some sort of vaulted babysitter here to make sure you and Draco are entertained and well fed?”
“Oh for fucks sake, I was just trying to be nice.”
“Why? If you think that I am working to keep you alive for any other reason than the hope that you will destroy the Dark Lord and leave me free to live my life in solitary peace and quiet then I am afraid you are sorely mistaken. It is not compassion that drives me Potter.”
Harry huffs and folds his arm. “I know! God you’re such a git. I just thought that seeing as we are all here we might as well try and get along.”
“So because Harry Potter decides that he’d have a nicer time if there were a few more smiles, a lark and a joke over dinner perhaps, everything else must be forgotten?”
Snape leans in close, his sour breath hot and angry against Harry’s skin.
“I will not. Bend. To your whims. Do not forget that I despise you Potter.” And with that he sweeps from the room, leaving Harry a fuming bundle of rage beneath his blankets
When Malfoy slinks back in eating an apple, Harry’s still muttering to himself.
“What’ve you done now?” Malfoy smirks from the armchair. “Severus looked awfully agitated.”
“Oh piss off Malfoy. Why I thought it was worth being nice to that absolute arsehole is beyond me.”
Harry sulks for the rest of evening, his mood made worse by Malfoy using the distance between him and Snape to his advantage, sitting at Snape’s feet asking him questions about his family about his school days with Lucius, offering to fetch him a hot cocoa.
Thankfully they do not stay up too late, Snape walking briskly from the room without so much as a glance at Harry.
“Night Potter,” Malfoy says, blowing him a kiss from the door way, and smirking as Harry flicks him two fingers.
Bloody smug gits, the pair of them, Harry thinks. But he was no longer entirely comfortable with this summation. Malfoy, sure, but Snape… He sighs heavily and rolls onto his back.
Tonight he’d watched with bitterness as Snape and Malfoy had talked. Snape looking at ease for once, talking freely, his black eyes glittering in the firelight. He’d even smiled once or twice, at Malfoy, the bloody slimy undeserving ferret. And he was funny, saying things to make Malfoy laugh, using odd turns of phrase – “her wit was more the dull end of a turnip than it was razor sharp.”
It was like he was being charming on purpose, just because Harry couldn’t join in. They had talked about Lucius and Narcissa at length, Snape telling carefully reassuring anecdotes about their strength and resilience, which Harry knew were to put Malfoy’s mind at ease about them being held captive. But this only made Harry feel worse, it meant Snape could be kind, of all things. He sighs again and thinks glumly about his disastrous attempt to get along with Snape earlier.
*
His check-up the next day is without a doubt more tense than the day before, but Harry forces himself to say ‘Thank you” when he is wordlessly handed a collection of small glass vials, even though he’s feeling a bit sore where Snape has jabbed at him so hard.
Snape plainly ignores him and doesn’t even ask him about his bowel movements before he stalks out the room.
Harry is just settling in to a game of chess with Malfoy when their peace is interrupted by a pigeon tapping on the window with its beak.
“Severus! Come quick!” Malfoy hollers, his voice full of rising panic, pointing fearfully at the window as Snape rushes into the room.
Nervously they watch as Snape opens the window, allowing the pigeon to hop on to his outstretched arm so he can detach the letter secured to its ankle.
“What is it? Is it Voldemort? Is he coming?” Malfoy bleats.
“Yes, because Voldemort always sends a harmless bird to give prior warning to an attack.” Harry drawls.
“Shut up Potter.”
“Both of you shut up. I need to think.”
Snape paces the room, private turmoil etched across his features as Harry, Malfoy and the pigeon – now perched on the window sill – watch on in still silence. Occasionally he looks to them as if to ask for their counsel, but turns back to his pacing before any words are spoken. Harry and Malfoy share a few sidelong glances, but neither of them plucks up the courage to ask what the hell is going on.
At length he picks up a quill and scribbles something on a page of notebook, tearing it out and folding it neatly. He tucks it into the pouch cuffed to the pigeon’s ankle and mutters something. The bird takes immediate flight, and Snape watches it go before turning to them.
“Longbottom has been cursed. He will be arriving in due course.”
“But—” Malfoy is silenced by a thunderous look, and then Snape marches out the room.
“God, he could tell us what is going on. It’s our lives too, why should we be put in danger?” Malfoy whines as soon as Snape is out of earshot.
Harry ignores him and stealing out of bed he grabs the parchment left discarded on the table, holding it firmly as Malfoy cottons on and tries to snatch it. Together they read:
Severus,
Neville Longbottom has been cursed in what we believe to be similar, if not the same as the one that hit Harry. He-who-must-not-be-named is looking for him, we think he is feeding on whoever’s magic he can until he has Harry’s.
You are the only one who can save Longbottom. I know you said to only use the pigeons in an emergency, but Severus, the boy is being hunted and we can not keep him safe for long.
I can assure you we can get him to you safely, without you telling us your whereabouts and with no fear of him being intercepted on his journey. Please send word of your decision,
Minerva.
Malfoy instantly starts up moaning, but Harry doesn’t listen as he climbs back into bed, his mind full of questions that he fears will never be answered adequately. Worry for Neville eats into him, as does the realisation that he hadn’t been thinking about all the people not included in the safety of their hide-out. Guiltily, he wonders what they’re going through without him…
Still, he takes comfort that Neville will be under Snape’s expert care. What ever else, Snape did know a hell of a lot about this curse and if anyone could save him, Snape could.