Chapter Text
Dumbledore finished the line he was reading before looking up. “Severus. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“You said it was urgent.” Severus remained standing until Dumbledore inclined his head toward the chair. He sat, ignoring the ever‑present tea tray on the headmaster’s desk. “It’s been rather a long day. If this is something Minerva might have dealt with—”
“I’m afraid not.” Dumbledore folded the letter and set it aside. “It concerns Harry Potter.”
Severus stilled—just for a moment. “What about him?”
“You know he has been living with his aunt.”
“So you’ve said.”
“She has written,” Dumbledore went on, touching the folded parchment, “to say she cannot keep him any longer.”
Severus’ expression barely shifted, but something in him tightened. Petunia Evans he knew well enough: Lily’s sister, and her opposite in every meaningful way—narrow, ungenerous, and willfully so. “Why?”
“There was an incident at the park.” Dumbledore’s tone was mild; his eyes were not. “Harry was on the swings. He jumped—and continued rather farther than a Muggle child ought.”
Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. “He is six. Accidental magic at that age is hardly unusual.”
“Whether unusual or not,” Dumbledore said, “it was witnessed by several Muggles. The Ministry had to intervene.”
“Of course they did.” Severus’ voice thinned. “And Petunia—what? Declared him unfit for her household?”
Dumbledore hesitated, which was answer enough. “She writes that she cannot cope with him if he is going to display ‘unnaturalness.’”
“She means she cannot bear to be reminded of Lily.”
“That may be part of it,” Dumbledore allowed. “Nevertheless, she will not continue to have him in her care.”
Severus stared at the letter, jaw set. “And what,” he said quietly, “do you intend to do with him now?”
Dumbledore exhaled, a soft, tired sound. “That may depend on you.” He folded his hands. “Harry cannot remain where he is. He needs safety—and someone who understands the world he has inherited. There are very few I would trust with that.”
“What of the protection bound to Lily’s blood? You said he must stay with Petunia for it to hold.”
“That remains the case,” Dumbledore said quietly. “And he may need to return there in time. But Voldemort is weakened, his followers scattered. For now, Harry’s immediate welfare must come first.”
Severus let out a short, incredulous breath. “And you believe I am suited to… looking after a child?”
“I believe,” Dumbledore replied, meeting his eyes over the rims of his spectacles, “that you understand more of his circumstances than anyone else alive. And that what bound you to his mother has not lost its power.”
The old ache stirred—controlled at once. Dumbledore knew exactly where to press; the years had done nothing to blunt it. He drew a slow breath. “There are others in the Order far better suited to a task of this nature. Arthur and Molly Weasley—”
“They have seven children of their own. A lively household, but hardly the quiet Harry needs just now.”
“And I am a professor,” Severus reminded him, voice clipped. “Or do you expect me to abandon my duties?”
“The term is nearly over. Horace can manage for a few weeks without you; he has done so before.”
Severus’ fingers curled once against the arm of the chair. “And after that? Where is he meant to go?”
A faint draft stirred the silver instruments on the shelves, setting one of them to a soft, chiming click.
“I will need time to arrange something more lasting for Harry,” Dumbledore said. His gaze settled on Severus with quiet weight. “For now… I would ask that he be under your protection.”
There was no argument to make. A breath later he was in Little Whinging, striding past its prim, indistinguishable houses toward Number Four. As he stepped onto the walk, the lace curtain twitched—up a hair, then sharply down. Before he could knock, the door opened.
“You.” Petunia’s face pinched, recognition and distaste tightening together. “Of course he’d send you.”
“As you see.” Severus’ tone stayed flat. “Where is the boy?”
She stepped back just far enough to admit him. “I’ll fetch him. Stay there.”
He moved into the narrow hall, its walls lined with photographs of a large, smirking child, each frame polished to a shine. Severus didn’t need to be told it wasn’t Harry. There was none of Lily in that face—and, much as he despised the man, none of James either.
He looked into the sitting room. A large television took up most of the wall, and beneath it an electric fireplace glowed a dull, artificial red. A heavyset man levered himself up from the sofa, staring at Severus in open suspicion.
“Dumbledore sent you, did he?”
Severus regarded him coolly. “And you would be…?”
“Vernon Dursley.” His expression soured at the sight of the wand protruding from Severus’ sleeve. “I won’t have your sort in this house—”
Petunia stepped forward, Harry half a step behind her. “He’s here for the boy.”
“Good,” Vernon said. The sound of his voice made the child flinch, eyes dropping at once. “He can take him and go. Dudley’ll be home soon, and I told him the freak wouldn’t be here.”
Severus did not react, though the man’s manner was at odds with everything he’d assumed. Petunia’s home was supposed to be respectable, her care at least adequate. Yet they spoke of the boy as though his presence were an offense.
“Harry,” he said quietly, testing the name against the small, wary figure before him. The child’s eyes flicked up, quick and cautious, then dropped again.
“Come here.”
Harry edged forward in small, careful steps. Only then did Severus take in the hanging clothes, the cracked, taped glasses, and the eyes—brilliant green and painfully familiar.
For a moment, his vision tightened to that color before he forced it wide again.
Petunia thrust a worn pillowcase toward him, knotted tight at the top. “His things,” she said, her mouth pinched. “You can go now.”
Severus accepted the bundle with a curt nod. “Harry.”
Harry looked up at once. “Yes, sir.”
“We’re leaving.”
Harry followed him out of the house, slipping past Petunia as though accustomed to being dismissed. Outside, Severus paused on the step. The boy waited beside him—motionless in a way no child should be, as though uncertain what was permitted now.
“My name is Severus Snape,” he said at last. “You’ll be staying with me.” He paused. “For a short time.”
Harry watched him, unblinking behind cracked lenses, but said nothing.
Severus drew his wand from his sleeve. Harry flinched, chin dipping in a small, defensive motion. Severus slowed the movement, letting the wand rest at his side.
“Take my hand,” he said, extending it. “We’re Apparating.”
A flicker of worry crossed Harry’s face, but he obeyed immediately, his small hand light in Severus’.
“It may feel strange,” Severus said. “You are safe.”
Harry swallowed, then seemed to realize a response was expected. “Yes, sir.”
Severus tightened his grip. The world narrowed—pressure, darkness, the drag of displacement—and then they were gone.