Chapter Text
"Dear, dear! How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle!"
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
In a small and murky flat in Newham, Harry Potter wiped his hands, turned off the oven and squatted down. Through the glass panel, the apple pudding could be seen bubbling up oddly. Nose wrinkling, Harry cocked his head. "You think it's ready?"
From the wheelchair positioned by the streaky window across the room, a soft rustle of blankets was followed by a hoarse, dry cough. The shadow of long, bony fingers flexing tiredly reflected on the wall.
Harry slipped on his tartan gloves and pulled out the baking tray. He tossed it on the countertop, squinting against the steam that quickly obscured his vision. Blindly fumbling around, he located a fork, stuck it into the pudding, waited a moment, and then took it out.
"It's ready," he announced, barely glancing toward the wheelchair before removing his glasses to wipe the steam off with his shirt. "Though I can't promise it's tasty. Looks quite unsavoury. Can't tell what's apple and what's cinder. Should've just ordered, honestly." Cutting a slice proved his point. "Yup. Burnt."
A moment later, he walked to the wheelchair, carrying a plate in each hand. Outside the window, the rain fell heavy against the sooty cobblestones. Brown eyes looked up, and Harry instantly glanced away. He handed the man one of the plates. "Here."
A pair of pale, wrinkled hands took hold of the plate and fork with difficulty.
"Don't fucking drop it," Harry snapped.
The man nodded. He brought the plate up to his nose and sniffed. He seemed pleased, despite the foul state of the pudding. "I do not understand you, Harry Potter." The remark was made with a hint of amusement. Curiosity flashed in the brown eyes, and, for a fleeting moment, they turned red. One could have imagined it.
"There is nothing to understand. Eat."
The man cut a piece with his fork and brought it to his mouth. His lips were thin and white, surrounded by deep lines and a couple of thick, wiry white hairs. Harry seated himself on the window sill and took a bite off his own slice, watching the rain. It truly tasted like nothing; overcooked and raw both at once. It stuck on his teeth like sugary candy and made his tongue numb.
"I found Snape," Harry announced quietly.
Voldemort stopped chewing. Harry could feel the sudden mood shift; the hope radiating off the old man, giving him life, fuelling his futile pipe dreams once again. It made Harry want to take ten steps away, or to shower in boiling water and scrub himself with an iron sponge; anything to wash all this sanguineness off his existence permanently.
Voldemort shifted forward on his seat, setting his plate aside. "Severus. Where?"
"He was on the news. He published this article on the…" Harry dipped two fingers into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of the Evening Standard. "On the wonders of supernovae." Harry wasn't sure what the word meant, nor did he care to know. "He teaches Science at a Roman Catholic school for boys here in London. In Brixton, I think." He scanned the article again, looking for the school's name. "No, in Brentford. The school's called Copperwood."
"Ah… A teacher."
Harry made a face. What else could Snape be? That, at least, was hardly surprising. He tucked the clipping back into his pocket and resumed eating.
"You must go to him."
"He doesn't know me, Tom."
Voldemort huffed at the name; his aversion to it had yet to recede fully. "Did you try?"
Harry shook his head. "I'm not embarrassing myself like that again."
"You must attempt to—"
"No, I mustn't. There's no point talking to them. You know that."
"You must try."
Harry looked at him sharply. "You've got quite the cheek, making demands like that."
"It's a plea."
Harry scowled.
"I want you to promise me that you will try."
Harry wanted to slap him. Strangle him. Topple his wheelchair over and leave him there, on the floor, to die of hunger and then rot. His wand was still in his bedroom, hidden under his pillow, and he knew he'd use it if he could.
"Fine. Sure. I'll try. Again. Eat your bloody pudding."
Standing on the tube platform, Harry tapped his fingers on his arm and yawned. If the map was anything to go by, it would take over an hour to reach Brentford, let alone the twenty minutes on foot right after to find Snape's school. The clock hanging above his head couldn't possibly tick any slower; the Piccadilly line was notorious for never being on bloody time.
He leaned against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut. What would it feel like, for the wall to smoothly give in and dissolve against the pressure of his body? Would the bricks slide to the side, forming a secret archway? Would Harry fall through, like Alice down the rabbit hole? Would he find himself standing on a different platform, holding an owl cage, pushing a luggage trolley to the train? He smiled. A sudden vibration against his backside startled him, and he blinked his eyes open, reaching for his phone. Fucker, the screen read. Incoming call. Harry pressed the green button and brought the phone up to his ear. "I'm not even there yet."
"Where are you?"
"On the way."
"What is taking you so long?"
Harry pressed his lips together. "It's across London, Tom. Literally on the other bloody side."
"Hurry."
"Yeah, fuck you," Harry muttered, pressing the red button with malice just as the ground shook and strong lights emerged from the dark tunnel. The train came whooshing, then screeched to a stop. Harry pushed onto the carriage with his gut twisted into a knot and his teeth clenched. He sat next to the window, dropped his backpack between his legs and folded his arms over his chest. His phone vibrated again. He ignored it.
He glanced at his watch, only to discover that it had stopped working over an hour ago, and was stuck at 10 AM precisely. Bending down, he unzipped his bag and took out his notebook. His Snape page was mostly empty; a list of random trivia filled up one corner (he is a teacher, he studied Science) and then the address of the school he worked at was written on the bottom. That was all.
He flipped to Hermione's page, feeling immediately better. She had a boyfriend named Joseph. They broke up 'cause he moved to Ely. He said he'd call her but he never did. She works at the Mocha Pot, same shift as me. Her mum is a dentist. Her stepfather an engineer. She's into sappy books about weird muscled men falling for incredibly good-looking girls. Gross.
Harry traced a line with a finger. She says we're friends. Last reset: June 2004.
Over five months ago. Five months of friendship. Good enough. Better than nothing. He flipped to Ron's page. Empty. Someone sat next to Harry, and Harry squeezed himself further into his corner and snapped his notebook close. There weren't that many pages worth reading anyway. Hagrid, not nearly as tall as he should be, renowned member of the Kennel Club. Harry had seen him in an advert near Bond Street. Lavender Brown, a college student. She'd taken the same bus as Harry toward Trafalgar Square over a year ago. She'd been telling her friend that her final exams were coming up. Padma Patil. No information about her, but Harry had caught a glimpse of her walking into a clothes shop back in February. He wasn't even entirely sure that it was really her.
They hadn't located anyone else until now. Snape was the last person he had expected to find. Snape was dead; or so Harry had thought. What he dreaded the most was not having to face the man—he knew from experience that such encounters never stuck. But he still had the image in his head of Snape lying on the floor, in the Shrieking Shack, bleeding to death. He still felt his fingers encrusted in his blood when he thought of the war. Still heard Snape cursing Dumbledore up on the Astronomy Tower, that voice ringing in his ears: Avada Kedavra. Avada Kedavra.
He wasn't ready. He still wasn't.
He needed time, he thought, to come to terms with the idea of confronting Snape. Not that his needs ever mattered; time was not on his side, and he would meet Snape today, whether he liked it or not. Voldemort's orders. Naturally. Harry's stomach turned at the thought and he felt queasy.
He didn't want to see Snape. He really didn't. He swallowed hard to fight the nausea and shut his eyes.
Earl's Court, the train's speakers announced. Six stations to go.
Despite his heavy winter jacket, Harry felt cold.
Two hours later, Harry got off at Boston Manor and followed the signs until he found himself out on the street. Across from him, he spotted a muddy path and made his way over to it with his backpack on one shoulder and his heart up his throat. A rusted sign with the school's name suggested that he was headed in the right direction.
"Right," he muttered, alternating quick glances between the map and the street. It was supposed to be straight ahead, then left, and then right. Straight ahead, then left, then right, was Snape, teaching Science. "Right. Alright."
He had been walking for some time, and was beginning to worry that he might have to ask someone for directions, when he finally located the school's entrance. It was hidden at the end of a short cul-de-sac, surrounded by barely-standing workhouses, strong-smelling trash barrels, and piles of dirt. Harry stared at the school's name carved above the gate, half-expecting it to be wrong. No school had the right to be located in such a depressing district. He didn't know what he expected, but this wasn't it.
Wet wind whipped through his clothes; Harry pulled on his hood and shoved his hands in his pockets. He could not see much from where he stood, but the building seemed shoddy, and the yard was littered. Harry pushed against the iron gate, which opened with a rusty creak. Wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck, he took out his phone and hurriedly pressed the buttons. A couple of beeps later, Voldemort's weary breaths filled the silence.
"I'm here," Harry stated.
Voldemort released a sigh of relief.
"I haven't seen him yet. I'm gonna wait for him to clock off. Unless you'd like me to barge in looking for him, which I will do if you insist, mind you, I don't give a fuck. It's not like he'll remember any of it tomorrow."
The response didn't come right away. "Wait for him there."
"'Kay. You know he's not gonna know me, right? You do know that."
"You must try."
"Sure. Fuck off." Then, "Hey, wait. You still there?"
"Yes."
"Take your pills. Now. I know you didn't yesterday, I'm not fucking stupid. They're next to your bed."
"Yes, thank you. I will."
"Now."
Harry stayed on the line until he heard the familiar sound of water being gulped down disdainfully. He could clearly imagine the look of sheer abhorrence on Voldemort's face.
"I have taken them."
"Good."
Hanging up, Harry shoved the phone back into his pocket and exhaled loudly. Would he really have to stay here for another two, three hours? He'd catch his death. How utterly stupid of him to come this early in the first place! Why did he have to listen to Voldemort when it was clear that he knew nothing? And how long until someone noticed the creep with the backpack standing outside the boys school? He'd end up on the registry. How nice. This was madness. In a normal November, Harry would be with Ginny, lounging by the fireplace, chugging down elf wine and joking about the silliest things.
This November… well. Harry was trying. He was doing his best.
The bell rang at half past two, which was exactly an hour and forty minutes after Harry had first arrived. Frosted to the bone, he rubbed his hands together and hopped up and down repeatedly. It wouldn't do any good for Snape to appear only for Harry to faint from the cold shortly after. His poor limbs were stiff. He'd stopped feeling his toes over an hour ago. He wondered whether Voldemort could feel it, and if his teeth were clattering too.
Before he knew it, the students were surging to the gate like a pack of feral animals, screaming and laughing. They were loud and violent, and Harry had to push through them to stay in place. He was hoping to find someone he could ask, perhaps another teacher that might know where Snape was, but there were no adults in close proximity at all. A middle-aged woman was standing outside the building, but she was too far away, and Harry hesitated to enter the school grounds uninvited.
Lifting himself up on his toes, he frantically scanned the crowd, focusing on the few teachers he could spot. None of them looked like Snape. He had nearly convinced himself that he should simply leave when he finally saw a boy coming out of the building in the company of a tall, skinny man, who could not be anyone but Severus Snape himself, in the flesh.
God.
Harry would have been thrilled, had he not been terrified. A cruel, horrible part of his chest felt certain that the man would narrow his eyes at him and spit out sharply, Mr Potter, our new celebrity, before dragging him down to the dungeons for detention.
Harry clutched his backpack's strap, bracing himself for the worst. A day lost, that would be all. It wouldn't change anything. He was deliberately stalling, he knew that, but his lungs were tight and his tongue was dry.
"Professor Snape!" he called out.
Snape hadn't heard him. He was still quite far, immersed in some jolly conversation with that boy, his hand resting on his shoulder as they walked. It was a matter of seconds. Soon Snape would be standing right here, in front of Harry, looking down at him like they were still at Hogwarts.
Harry worried his lip.
Messenger bag on his shoulder, tie around his neck, coffee in hand, Snape did not seem the type to strangle someone on the spot. If Harry handled this properly, maybe—just maybe—he could make it alive out of this one.
"Professor Snape!" he repeated when Snape was finally almost within reach, cringing at how squeaky his own voice had suddenly become.
Snape turned. He patted the kid twice on the shoulder and said something to him that Harry wasn't close enough to hear. The boy cast a glance at Harry as well, before walking off to join a group of boys who had left the school grounds and were lazily drifting down the street.
Snape met Harry's eyes, and Harry swallowed. He waited for a sign of recognition; an expression of surprise, or even shock. Nothing, though. Absolutely nothing.
This was it, then. This was it. Harry strode toward Snape fast, a bit too fast for his liking, filled with unbearable anxiety and a hint of horrifying, ill-suited hope. He stopped right in front of the man, almost colliding with him as he was shoved to the left by another gaggle of boys pushing through the gate. He'd gotten it all wrong. The timing was awful, Snape was too busy right now and they were surrounded by too many people to talk openly.
"Professor Snape."
"Yes?"
"I'm Harry Potter."
"Bye-bye, sir!"
Harry cursed under his breath as a blond boy hopped between them and gingerly raised up his hand for a high-five. Snape delivered it nonchalantly, smiled at the kid and then pointed at his disarranged shirt. "Uniform, Darren, for the love of God!"
"Yes, sir!" The boy said without looking back, trying to tuck his shirt into his pants as he ran down the street.
Harry wanted to cry. "Professor Snape," he said louder. "I'd like to talk to you about something."
"Yes, of course," Snape replied with a frown of mild confusion. "Were you my student?"
"I—yes. Yes, I was, actually. Do you remember me?"
Another boy bumped into Snape, and Snape grunted. "Would you give me a moment—Harry, you said?"
Harry nodded. "Sure. Yeah. Um. I'll wait here."
Snape was gone before Harry had finished his sentence. He was now chatting with a couple of boys who were holding up an open textbook. Harry waited. He felt like an idiot, standing there, having nothing to occupy himself with, disrupting traffic and waiting for Severus Snape, of all people, to acknowledge him. This was hopeless. It took Snape forever to come back.
"You wanted to talk to me?"
Harry nodded, too late realising that tears were pooling in the corners of his eyes. He quickly blinked them away. "Yes. Professor Snape. Can we—um—go somewhere quiet?"
Snape seemed uncertain. "I'm quite busy today. What is this about?"
Harry took hold of Snape's hand. He held it tight even as Snape attempted to free it. "I am Harry Potter. My mother was Lily Evans. Lily. You and she went to Hogwarts. You were friends. Please tell me that means something to you. Please tell me her name means something to you."
Yanking his hand away, Snape looked at Harry coldly. "I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. Hogwarts?" He spat out the word as if it was the most discourteous, obnoxious thing he had heard in his entire life.
"I understand," Harry said, his throat tight, "that I sound mad. You've got every right to think that I'm—I'm—a madman, alright? But please spare me a moment of your time, one moment, alright, please—just say her name for me. That's all I want. See if it—sparks any memories. Because you loved her. You loved her so bloody much. You must remember her, deep down, if just a bit. You wouldn't forget her. She's the one person you'd never forget."
In the moments that followed, Harry felt his self-esteem decline rapidly, which was both anticipated and devastating.
Snape bared his teeth, an expression of great offence and displeasure written across his face. "I don't know you," he said unemotionally, in the same tone Harry knew from the times he messed up a potion so badly he'd earned himself time with Filch for a whole month. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Albus Dumbledore," Harry tried, his lip twisted in sudden anger. "You'll remember Dumbledore. You don't dare forget Dumbledore. You killed Dumbledore—"
"Killed!" Snape's face was red now; he looked around them, as if to ensure that no one had heard this. "You're insane," he hissed. "If I see you around here again, I will have you arrested, do you understand me? This is a school. Leave. Leave, now, shoo!"
Harry snorted. What did he expect, anyway?
Discarding the last shred of his long-lost hope, Harry nodded in compliance. "I'm sorry for bothering you, sir. Have a good day."
Turning his back on Snape, he walked away.
Harry arrived at the Mocha Pot when his shift was about to end. He had spent the best part of the day aimlessly walking around Brentford, taking in the neighbourhood and the community Snape's school belonged to. He had not realised he was so awfully late until he arrived at the train station and looked at the enormous clock next to the ticket booth. By the time he was back in Newham, the sun had set, and only its last colours could be seen among the clouds.
"Harry Potter," Hermione blustered in a tone that meant I cannot believe you made me do this by myself, "I wholeheartedly hate you."
Harry threw his jacket on a chair and put on his apron. "I know. I deserve it. Will you spank me?"
"Oh, don't be gross." Drenched in sweat as she was, she brushed her hair out of her face and threw Harry a tray. "Move," she demanded. "Vanilla latte to table 2, black Irish to 6."
Harry grinned, even as he loaded up the tray. From her wild temperament to her constant performance anxiety, Hermione was every bit the one Harry had always known. His brilliant, energetic, dark-skinned guardian angel. His neurotic perfectionist. His reason to hurry up if he wanted to keep his head.
"Don't look at me like that!" He pleaded quite desperately as he sprinted to table 2 and back. Apparation wouldn't have been faster.
"Where were you?" Hermione asked him as she frothed the milk and poured it into a cup.
"I'll have a breakdown if I talk about it," Harry replied honestly, rinsing a coffee cup with impressive speed. "Suffice to say I looked like a fool for about ten minutes straight."
"I refuse to believe it wasn't longer."
"Sod off."
"How's your grandpa?"
Harry wiped his hands on his apron and joined her in preparing the next order. "Tom's fine. He complains about a trillion things a day and is only satisfied when I submit myself to his every whim."
"Hey, be grateful. I never met my grandparents."
"Grateful to the bone," affirmed Harry, wiggling his eyebrows at her as he picked up the tray she handed him. "I aim to please."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry could see she was suppressing a smile.
Once their shift ended, Harry and Hermione bought beers from the tuck shop across the street and went up to the roof to drink, like they always did when one of them felt out of sorts. It would have been nice to be able to see the stars, but the sky was always pitch black and sombre here. Their imagination made up for it.
"That's where Orion is, probably," Hermione said, pointing above them. "Wait, where's north? No, no way it's there. God, I can't even see the moon. This city sucks."
"All cities suck, I think," Harry retorted. London was spread before them, illuminated by countless headlights and the wonders of nightlife. "Moving to London was once my dream."
"Disgusting." Hermione tilted her head back and drank.
"So. Are you going to tell me what happened today or not?"
Harry made a face. "It's very difficult to explain."
"I'm sure you'll manage if you try hard enough."
"Shut up," Harry retorted jokingly. He gulped down the remains of his beer and took a deep breath. "I stumbled upon my high school teacher today, and he didn't recognise me."
Hermione raised her eyebrows. She was clearly expecting more. "…And?"
"That's it. That's all."
She took another sip, quite amused. "And how did that make you feel, Harry?"
"Oh noo," Harry whined, lying back on the concrete. "She's playing therapist again!"
Warm laughter enveloped them, but when it died down, Harry found himself on the verge of crying again. "It made me feel like shit," he muttered. "It made me feel like I didn't fucking exist."
Hermione touched his hand. "I know the feeling," she said. "And I know it sucks."
"Is this where you tell me it gets better and I just have to wait?"
"It does get better. It also gets worse. And then better again. The pattern is quite random, in my experience. Life is a bumpy ride, idiot. I have you, though."
Harry snorted, despite the tear that fell down his face. "I love you, you know."
"Oh, Harry." Lying down next to him, Hermione kissed his shoulder. "I love you too."
At two in the morning, Harry accompanied Hermione to her car and stayed on the sidewalk until she drove away. Wandering around Newham at night was more often than not a clearly stated death wish; with a different robbery occurring every few hours and at least one serious gang incident every other week, Harry had promised himself a long time ago that he would always watch out for Hermione's safety. Even Harry himself, who lived in the same building he worked in and only had to exit a door and enter another when he wanted to go home, had been threatened at knifepoint twice in the past four years just for staring at someone a little too hard or speaking loudly on the phone.
When he returned home, Voldemort was asleep in his bed, breathing evenly. Harry sat next to him. He gently placed his hand on Voldemort's arm until his eyes snapped open. "Harry."
"Hey."
"…Severus?"
"He didn't know who I was. Obviously. He thought I was a creep and told me to go away."
"Did you mention your mother?"
"Yup. Nothing." Harry offered his hand. "Come on."
Voldemort hesitated. "It's… late."
"I know. My bad. Come."
Voldemort took his hand, and Harry gripped it tightly. He leaned over Voldemort carefully, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and, supporting his weight as best he could, pulled him up to a sitting position. Voldemort immediately wailed in pain; breathless gasps filled the room as he held onto Harry with exhausting effort.
"Can you stand?"
"I believe so."
"Dizzy?"
"No."
"Come on." Harry helped him get his legs off the bed, and then positioned Voldemort's arms around his neck. "One, two, three." They stood together, Voldemort swaying on his feet for a few moments before managing to stand without leaning most of his weight on Harry. "One step at a time. That's it. That's right. Almost there."
Harry guided him to the bathroom, lowered his pants and helped him to the toilet seat. Voldemort sat down heavily, grunting. "My bones."
"I know. You took your pills, you'll be fine."
"I despise Muggle medicine."
Harry, who was in the process of adjusting the water temperature so he could fill the tub, turned and stared. "Did you not take your pills?"
"Tomorrow."
"Did you lie to me? I went all the way to Snape for you!"
Voldemort simply waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Leave."
"I hate you. Go fuck yourself." Seething in anger, Harry left the bathroom and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. "I went to Snape for you!" he shouted again.
There was nothing on the nightstand; Harry quickly went through the drawers and looked under the pillows. "Where did you put them? WHERE?" He tossed Voldemort's blanket to the floor, looking under the bedsheets and the mattress. He knelt down and squinted at the dark space under the bed. Nothing. Harry strode to the kitchen, looked into the bin, then went to the living room and continued searching until he found them. Tucked between the sofa's cushions, were the two pill bottles, poorly wrapped in a paper tissue.
"TOM!" Harry returned to the bathroom furious and out of breath. "How are your pills in the living room?"
Voldemort shrugged his shoulders.
"Did you get up on your own?"
"I did not."
"You filthy liar, you hid your pills under the cushions in the living room! How did you get there? Did you at least use the cane? Did you? What would have happened if you fell while I wasn't here? Who told you you could walk around on your own like that? You promised you wouldn't!"
"I do not answer to you, Harry," Voldemort said calmly, and the words would have been scathing and cutting were they not delivered by a naked man sitting on the toilet.
Harry huffed. "Very well. Here. Take them. They're painkillers, you know. And this one's for your blood pressure. That's all. They don't bloody bite. Go on."
He held the pill bottles between them. Voldemort looked down at himself bluntly. "Could I perhaps have some privacy?"
"No. Take them." Harry unscrewed the bottles and handed him the pills. He filled up the glass on the sink and held it to Voldemort's lips. "I hate you," he hissed as Voldemort swallowed the pills. "God, how I hate you."
After Voldemort's bath, Harry took him back to his bed and sat on the chair beside him, waiting for him to fall asleep. He didn't have to do that; he was aware of how entirely optional it was. Any day now, he was going to stop. "You want Alice?" He asked, despite his anger. Habits were habits, after all.
Voldemort's smile was barely visible in the night's darkness. "Yes, please."
Harry turned on the bedside lamp and picked up the book from the carpet. "Alright. So. Let's see. And just so you know, if you mess with your pills again, I'm throwing this away."
"Yes, yes."
Harry flipped the pages quietly and then cleared his throat. "Alice turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen. She found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked, and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again. Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it but a tiny golden key."
"I don't like this part," Voldemort grumbled, coughing hard. He turned to his side, away from Harry, and closed his eyes. "Tell me about the tea party."