kbinnz - Harry's New Home

The screaming portraits of former medi-witches and тАУwizards, frantically babbling about monsters attacking students in the Infirmary, had simply provided the final proof. He had run faster than he had thought humanly possible, heading for the Infirmary, only to find Dumbledore moving even faster still.

Who would have thought that under those ridiculous-looking, headache-inducing fluorescent robes the old coot wore running shoes?

Every professor in the castle, it seemed, had been summoned by wards or portraits or both, and a solid phalanx of faculty had burst into the Infirmary together. Poor little Flitwick had realized that with this much adrenaline in the air, Hagrid would never even notice trampling him, and the small professor had cleverly used a flying charm to keep himself out from underfoot as well as to provide air cover, if needed.

Snape had never before тАУ even during the war тАУ seen Dumbledore looking so dangerous, and McGonagall's expression should have been enough to banish any number of Dark Lords foolish enough to cross her path. He had noted Sprout and Sinistra's absence and assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that they were safeguarding the students, but then they were through the doors and Snape only had eyes for Harry.

His frantic gaze swept the Infirmary, noting the broken furniture, the youngest Weasley wavering on his feet with his face a mask of blood, and Granger, bushy hair flying every which way as she spun, wand up, to face them. His horrified stare fell on the gory corpse only long enough to register that it was an adult's and therefore of no immediate interest to him. Then тАУ thank Merlin тАУ he had spotted Harry.

The boy was standing unnaturally still and quiet, and was staring at the headless body with a disturbingly blank expression, but he was there, upright, breathing, with all his limbs. No blood was visible тАУ unlike Weasley тАУ and he was moving of his own volition.

Snape felt a wave of almost unbearable relief wash over him, so strong that he felt his knees nearly buckle, but it was immediately followed by a flood of rage so powerful that he actually moved forward to grab the boy and shake the living daylights out of him. How dare that child cause him to feel such panic?

But before he could push past the Headmaster тАУ who was, oddly, still poised as if for battle тАУ his Dark Mark flared to life. Snape gasped aloud as the half-forgotten agony of the brand blazed anew, his other hand surging to clutch his burning forearm. How could this be? The only thing that could awaken his Mark was тАУ

"Potter!" Oh, no. No no no no no no. He wasn't ready. His plans were only half-laid. Not yet. The monster couldn't be back yet. It was too soon. Harry was still just a little boy. He wasn't ready to face a deathless Dark Lord. No no no. Not yet, dear Merlin, please not yet!

But Snape would know that voice anywhere, that breathy, hate-filled, power-laden voice. And he listened, numb with terror, as it threatened the only thing that mattered in his life. As it threatened an eleven year old with an eternity of pain and he could do nothing but grip his forearm and struggle to breathe.

Happily, incredibly, unbelievably, the eleven year old was made of sterner stuff. Harry yelled a word that Snape would definitely have to speak with him about, then chucked a bedpan through Voldemort's insubstantial form.

That broke Snape's stasis, and he brought his wand up just as Albus roared at Voldemort, the power of his magic rippling through the room. Snape joined in with the other faculty in attempting to subdue the shade тАУ even Hagrid fired a crossbow bolt at it тАУ but to no one's great surprise, the Dark Lord, or what was left of Him, managed to escape.

And then that redheaded nitwit had babbled something and Snape had rushed over to see Harry. It was an unfamiliar Harry, looking much older than his age, who had first looked up at him, but then something in the boy's eyes had shifted and Harry had suddenly recognized him. Just in time to pass out.

Snape never again wanted to remember that horrible moment, before Minerva assured him that Harry was indeed breathing, when he was certain that Voldemort had managed one last Avada Kedavra before leaving.

That was probably why he had been so uncharacteristicallyтАж agitated... when the healers had arrived. It wasn't as if he really cared about the brat, it was simply that, linked to him as he was by two Unbreakable Vows, he naturally wanted to ensure that the little fiend received the best possible care. It had nothing to do with more sentimental notions, regardless of what Dumbledore or McGonagall might have intimated. It was just that this was, after all, The Boy Who Lived, and he wasn't about to allow some brand new, wet-behind-the-ears, healer in training to practice on the child.

Perhaps he had been a trifle sharp with the Chief Healer when the man finally deigned to arrive (Snape was unimpressed with the Healer's claim of being delayed by a multi-victim accident involving the Knight Bus), but that certainly did not give the man the right to dose him with Dreamless Sleep, nor to accuse him (publicly, no less!) of being an overprotective parent. Snape huffed at the memory. Some nerve! As if he were guilty of coddling the brat! Obviously, despite his many degrees, the Chief Healer was too thick to realize that Potter was a special child and required exceptional treatment. After all, it's not as if anyone understood why the brat had survived a Killing Curse тАУ obviously there was something special about his physiology and extra tests would naturally be required to ensure that he was truly unharmed.

It had been around that point, as he was volubly pointing out the Chief Healer's incompetence in not re-casting his diagnostic spells, that the man had forced the potion down his throat. Snape had had only enough time to give Albus a look of reproach for deflecting the Dark Curse he'd sent at the Healer before the potion rendered him unconscious.

And now it was obviously morning and the potion had finally worn off. He lay quietly for a moment, reveling in the quiet and wondering if he could possibly permit himself to drift off again. Then he heard a whimper of distress that he instinctively identified as Harry's and his eyes flew open.

"Potter," he whispered, cognizant of being in the Infirmary and remembering how battered the Weasley boy had looked тАУ to say nothing of Poppy. "What is it?"

Harry looked over at his professor, his eyes filled with tears. He wasn't even sure what was wrong, exactly. It just all felt awful. The horrible head growing out of Quirrell's skull. The fight and how Ron had been covered in blood. The disgusting threats Voldemort had made against Hermione. The Dark Lord's casual, offhand instruction to Quirrell to kill him. The sudden realization of what his parents' last moments must have been like. The awful knowledge that Voldemort was truly back and determined to kill him. The sickening noise that the transfigured pumpkin had made as it crushed Quirrell's skull like an eggshell. The guilt over nearly getting his friends killed with his stupid "Case of the Mysterious Turban". Or the fact that he felt absolutely no guilt for actually killing another human being. Was he no better than Voldemort?

Snape scowled at the brat's inability to express himself. Was the child one or eleven? He had asked Potter a simple question, and the boy appeared incapable of doing anything but quivering his lip at him. Obviously he was going to have to take control of the situation. "Come here," he ordered firmly, folding back his blankets. He could hardly keep hissing over at the next bed, and if Harry chose to ignore him, what recourse would he have? The obvious course of action was to bring the boy to him. After all, why should he go to the boy? He was the adult. Let the boy be the one to get out of his nice warm bed.