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The boy is doubtless traumatised, Severus is sure he must be. And he had assumed that the boy had been talking to Poppy, or at least Albus, for Merlin's sake, but no, apparently not. And now Poppy is gone for the summer, and Albus is oh-so sure that Petunia would not welcome his presence (why she is looking after the boy, even now, Severus is unsure, but apparently she has married and has a child of her own, has grown up to be better than the cruel girl she once was; blood protections only work when there is love in a household, and if there had been no wards, then Albus would have removed the boy already, so she must be less of a vindictive cow, yet the point remains-) but would apparently be more amenable to Severus being the one to visit. Which, truly, is an absurd notion.
Equally, however, what Albus requests Severus generally finds himself doing, no matter how begrudgingly, so he is now stepping up to a sickeningly bland house in a sickeningly bland suburb, the summer heat fierce enough that even the clearly well-tended garden is wilting a little. Pity.
There are wards here, and yet they are faint in an alarming way. Perhaps, it could be posited that as he wishes no ill-will upon the boy, they are only faint to him, rather than weak in general, however that is very much not how Albus led him to believe that they worked. And, regardless, there is no sense of strong wards; even wards that allow one through should give a good sense for their sheer power, and there is a distinct lack of that here. There is no ozone at the back of his throat, no faint thrum to his wand where it is pressed against his wrist. No, there is very little of anything notable at all. How... vexing.
No matter, for now, he dismisses as he knocks upon the door, gaze idly tracing his surroundings, noting that the fence looks freshly painted. In fact, the front door does too, if perhaps a day or two before the fence. Well, at least an effort is made.
Growing impatient, however, he knocks again. Oh, how he detests waiting upon other people, truly, no less-
The door swings open, a pinch-faced woman, all coiffed hair and narrow eyes, smiling at him, very obviously fake. Within a single second, the woman- Petunia's face drops, settling into a scowl that might, should she have a single ounce of conviction to her, be at least a pale shadow of his own most thunderous expressions.
However, Severus has faced down the Dark Lord and petulant teenagers, time and again, and Petunia measures up to exactly neither.
"Tuney." His sneer is acidic enough to taste vile even upon his own tongue,
"I am here to see the boy." She sneers right back, if anything managing to nudge the door further closed and, whilst the man is undeniably glad to see less of her hideous face, the insinuation of needing to hide something is equally unpleasant.
"Why?"
"Because, Tuney, he is a child who gets in a lot of trouble, and it has been deemed necessary that he be checked on." It's gratifying how she flinches slightly at his sharp tone. Still as weak-willed as ever, clearly.
"No! I will not have a freak like you in my house-" Oh no. She did not keep that appellation from their childhood, did not just use it so thoughtlessly and casually. (Has she used it against her nephew too? It was too easy of an insult, too quick to fall from her lips in so casual a way, for it not be something that she is accustomed to using, and surely now, nearly two decades after they last interacted, even their childhood spats would not have been significant enough for this to linger even now-)
"Oh? Well, with an attitude like that, I certainly believe that availing yourself with my presence may be a necessity."
It takes no more words, nor magic, to barge forwards, shoulder first, abruptly enough that the door crashes open, smashing into her shoulder on the way, and it sends the bitch careening back into the wall behind her even as Severus stalks into the hallway, headed straight up the stairs without a glance. Well, not enough of a glance to need anything beyond the general notice of family photographs lacking a familiar child, and an immaculately clean space, to be sure that the child almost certainly isn't downstairs.
Then he finds a set of four doors and what looks like an airing cupboard. And ordinarily he would simply start in the closest room, as none of them have anything on the doors except one with some... choice signs upon them, two of which include the name Dudley, however there is a series of locks upon one of the doors, and that says more to Severus than he would like to hear. It appears that they like to lock the freak of the house away.
Fortunately, it only takes two flicks of his wand and a low murmur for the padlocks and bolts to draw back or clatter to the floor, and the door swings open of its own accord to reveal a shadowed glimpse of a ducked head of dark hair from the ball of child curled up in the furthest corner.
(Severus, abruptly, is reminded of what a pensieve once revealed to him, because he only saw himself like this once, when looking back through a selection of moments in a fit of what must have been irrationality, trying to not throw up at the sight of a man too great in his memory's stature to be anything but a monster, yet now, having looked back upon his father as a man, it was obvious that Tobias Snape, whilst not a small man, was hardly some giant either. How the fear-shattered perspective of a child had warped things... How fear-shattered the child before him now appears to be.)
"Potter-" He almost curses himself for the choice of appellation, because he cannot really speak it without a curl to his lip, an edge to the word, but it is done now, and the child has already flinched, dammit.
"If you would collect your things, or tell me where they are so that I can do so as well, you shall be coming with me."
"I- Snape? What- Why?" And there is the defiance. Severus knew there was a damn good reason that he had been more than reluctant to attend this repulsive Muggle household when Albus had asked it of him. He has no patience at all for arrogant little boys-
No. Potter is an abused little boy, to some degree, that much is blatant. Harry is like he was, once. There is no denying it, with the snide words slipping from Petunia without a thought, the locks, the meagre food tins not far from his feet, and everything about this visage of a trembling child.
Fucking shitting dammit.
Sometimes, just sometimes, by which he means far too often, Severus detests his life.
Now, however, is not the time to allow himself to wallow, to indulge in a pity party that will likely have to wait for longer than he would like, because Pott- because there is a child that needs his help. And Severus has done this several times before for Slytherin students over the years, albeit never with quite this weight, personal and societal, behind it.
"Because this household and your relatives are unfit, that much is abundantly clear, and I refuse to leave any child in such conditions."
"Why- why are you even here?" An understandable suspicion; not even one that Severus can find himself annoyed with, at that.
"I am here at the request of the headmaster," he offers, words overly delicate, albeit he attempts to hide exactly that because a boy like Po- Harry will not appreciate pity or pandering, no matter Severus' previous misconceptions,
"You underwent... an unpleasant ordeal, at the end of the school year, and a wellbeing check was deemed wise. I find myself unable to leave you here as you are. As your relatives are."
"What's it to you?"
"What it is to me, P- Harry, is that these conditions are beneath even a mistreated house-elf." The child mutters something then, something mostly indistinct with how it is churlishly murmured into his still-drawn up knees, gaze mutinous at best, and it sounds alarmingly along the lines of 'Wouldn't like to hear about the cupboard then', however Severus shall not push the matter. Not as of yet, at least.
For the time being, he shall reiterate his own previous question, not wishing to waste another moment or breath here than strictly necessary.
"Your things, child. Where are they?"
"We're really going?" Ah, there is the tiny glimmer of hope that Severus was both waiting for and dreading. This little boy is human; he is young, he is scared, he is hurt, and he will lash out as a result, but he will also begin to expose his own fractures, one by one, in the hopes of a kind touch that may heal them.
Severus has never truly been a kind touch before, not since his childhood days of bright days in endless summers, when all he knew were the wonders of a good friend and a whole world awaiting him, but perhaps here and now, he may find it within himself to become one. Perhaps, ironically enough, he too can have hope.
That is not to say, of course, that he intends to be the one to look after Potter after dragging him away from this blatant hellhole. For the evening, and this night, and undoubtedly the morning after, however? Well, he shall have to suffice.
"Come along then. Gather your things yourself, if you will be too dumbstruck to tell me where they are. Is there anything not in this room?" he checks, unable to gentle his tone, albeit it's less provocative than usual. Which must have worked reasonably well, given that the child, for all that he is ridiculously tense, struggling for several moments with himself before allowing a small truth, a small allowance:
"Uh, most of my things?"
"Very well," Severus nods, easily enough,
"Do collect your present belongings, and then I suggest you show me to the rest of your belongings. And do hurry, child, it would be preferable that we return before dinner time."
"Uhm." Severus does not do anything so immature as roll his eyes, for all that the temptation is there,
"Do come along P- Harry. Enough with the dawdling." There's a glare in those green eyes, one that speaks more of mistrust than anger, even as he agrees,
"Right."
Severus can deal with a certain level of mistrust, he is very much expecting it in fact, yet this is still a level that is untenable, should he want the boy to come with him and not attempt to run away in some misguided attempt at being safe the moment that they leave this house.
He will have to be honest then, and not brutally so.
"Child, just because I am not here to punish you in any way does not mean that I do not require you to treat me with respect, understood?" There's almost a relief to the way that Harry's fingers shift, fists twitching in a split second of relaxation.
"Sure... Sir?"
"Rather, child." The snide veneer slips slightly, revealing something that verges dangerously close to amused, albeit somewhat bitterly. It earns him yet another wide-eyed glance from the boy, one that he does not deign to acknowledge.
Several moments pass, something akin to a stand-off without the tension they are both familiar with from the classroom. It is still uncomfortable, of course, but it is not almost literally sparking with magic.
Finally, the boy gives in. He even dares to turn his back upon the teacher. Severus watches on with half an eye, managing to stay impassive, as the child wriggles halfway beneath his abysmal bed, clearly wary but currently compliant, and there's the very faint protest of what must be wooden floorboards, and then some empty food wrappers are being pushed out into the open, a fact that Severus barely resists the urge to chide the child for, mouth open before he forces his logic to the forefront. The relatives' idea of feeding Potter have clearly been lacking. Keeping food wrappers is hardly hygienic, no, however little about Potter's current living conditions are.
The sight, or not, rather, of an invisible bundle being clutched by the boy, has a surge of irate something through Severus that he hardly dares put a name to past his fiercely renewed urge to snap at the child because what on Merlin's green earth is he doing with some sort of invisibility cloak? Nothing else would give beneath Potter's touch like that, nor offer the same barely-there iridescence that catches around the edges of such objects when they are not being worn.
But now is far from the time to try and dig into that absolute mess of potential danger, not when the child currently remains in a very different sort of danger, so Severus curtly ensures that the child has nothing else in this pigsty in the so-called room, then precedes the way down the stairs at the child's hesitant behest.
It takes no less than seven deep breaths and bringing the full extent of his Occlumency to bear that allows Severus to control his magic and tongue at the sight of a cupboard beneath this vile house's stairs, one that Potter- Harry had haplessly gestured to mere moments ago and Severus, unthinkingly, no consideration for possibly finding a sight such as this, had simply spelled the door unlocked, only to reveal a horror of far too casual a sort.
'Harry's room' proclaims a crayon-bright, albeit very crumpled and lopsided, piece of Muggle paper.
The school trunk is settled, discarded, also lopsided, atop what can only be the mattress of some sort of once-cot or a toddler's bed, a tad too big for the floor space, judging by how it is long-since curled up one wall at the head end. There are a few rags, broken crayons, scraps of paper, and what looks like the remnants of two battered toy soldiers. Spiderwebs and dust are almost thick enough in the small space for the whole thing to be mist-greyed, the very air dense. Suffocating. Perhaps he should have the boy's lungs checked over. (By Merlin, if he hadn't already believed so, P- Harry will certainly be in need of a full, historical diagnosis spell, if not several for the sake of full veracity and assurance. Severus finds a part of himself sinking into ht list of necessary and likely potions the child will need. It is a good distraction from his mounting fury.)
"Are these all of you things?" He keeps his tone as neutral as possible, only allowing the very faintest edge of something... not kind, certainly, but perhaps attentive, to seep into his words. It would do no good to give the boy yet more fear in trying to read something out of nothing. And anger blatantly isn't an option. Potter will doubtless already be hesitant to trust him in any particular capacity after his abomination of a first year.
(Severus cannot afford to acknowledge it at present, not even, or perhaps even more so, not in the sanctity of his own mind, but he fears his assumptions of the boy's unkempt hair and few friends and several Hospital Wing trips may be far less James Potter's bloodline showing through and far more something that Severus is most relentless and exacting in noting down in his students, including those beyond the walls of his own House. To miss such an egregious case... Well, as said, it will not to dwell on such things at present. It will wait in a way that their current location assuredly will not.)
Regardless, Po- Harry has nodded a confirmation that these are all of his things, and that is quite all Severus needs to affirm before nodding himself, curt, and shrinking the trunk and passing it to the child,
"Keep it close, and come with me. We shall settle you somewhere safe for the night and attend more official matters in the morning." It is far into the evening already, after all, and his own first and second year snakes have a curfew not exceeding two hours from now. It would certainly test Severus' patience in a most unfavourable way should he have to deal with an overtired child in the midst of a major emotional and physical upheaval. No, better to take him to Hogwarts and get him to some sort of bed.
"Sir, what, where are we-" Something caustic, sarcastic, finds itself at the tip of Severus' tongue, but he swallows it back without too great a difficulty. There is a bruise, perhaps hand-shaped, over the boy's collar, mostly hidden beneath his horrifically baggy clothing.
"Hogwarts, child. I find this household to be a most dissatisfying abode." In that final comment, however, the man allows a good deal of his absolute derision and disgust to drip from his words, undoubtedly reflected in the scowl he can feel tugging at his features.
It does not appear to frighten the boy though. Or at least not exclusively so. Rather, whilst the child shrinks back at the blatant vitriol, there is also a spark of something in those green eyes (so like Lily's, yet with a shadow over them that, even in the height of war, Lily's had never had, for it is the darkness of a childhood without trust or safety or comfort; it is of the same tones of night-ink-depths which Severus sees of himself in a mirror. An unpleasant sight, certainly, but an even more unpleasant realisation. He has been... very much mistake regarding Harry, has he not?)
"O- okay." The boy's acknowledgement, wary though it may still be, has Severus nodding once, and ushering the boy towards the front door. Petunia, the cow, has yet to make a reappearance and Severus is perfectly content with that. Her interference with or comments upon this would make it more than simply tempting to hex her. But taking revenge, no matter how well-deserved, would likely only make Harry leery of him. Or more so rather. The child already has little enough reason to put any faith in him at all, there is no need to exacerbate the matter.
"We are going to Apparate from an alley two streets down. I trust you are not too injured for the walk?"
"No, sir- I mean, yes- No?" The confusion should, perhaps, be aggravating, yet the tilt of the child's head and shuffle of his feet instead have it falling somewhere in the realm of exasperating, and a little endearing too, for all that Severus refuses to acknowledge the latter.
"Very well then. Come along."
It is a simple enough matter to set off, albeit the wizard finds himself adjusting his pace slightly after a few moments, attempting to accommodate the child's far shorter stride. He has no need or want to listen to just-wheezing breaths for two streets, nor for the child to trip upon the pavement or get left behind entirely. No, better to have the boy at his side, or as close tot hat as the child seems willing to come. At least he is in reach.
(The consideration of whether he has simply been taught never to walk equally with others, particularly adults or authority figures, or whether such a thing is a result of the boy's own nerves or disgust around the Potions Master, is a interesting one. It will bear more thoughts upon it at a later time.)
"Do you know anything of Apparition?" Severus is unsurprised when, after a moment's intense scrutiny and a second one of careful thought, the child shakes his head mutely. No, he had rather suspected as such.
"No matter. I trust you are familiar, however, with the Muggle concept of teleporting. This is much similar, in its broadest concept, though more restrictive and slightly more uncomfortable than teleporting is generally considered to be." That scrutiny instantly returns, even more rigorous than before, and there is an undeniable spark of intelligent observation to the child's gaze that Severus has never noted before. (Has he missed it before? Or is P- Harry simply more cautious now than ever before? What relative impact has the debacle with Quirrell had, in comparison his life previously?)
"And we're really going to Hogwarts?" The lack of title would have irritated Severus before today; right now, he gives himself a single thought to it at most.
"We are. You shall not be returning to this abhorrent place again, should I have any influence upon the matter." He hadn't quite intended to say as much as that, yet it passes over his lips with a great weight all the same, entirely unbidden for all that he certainly means it.
Severus, for all of his genuine faults and less genuine appearances, does not condone any child coming to harm. It results in men like him.
Particularly those too small and scared for their age, with wide eyes and flinches and a glare too fierce for their face. (Harry Potter, he now realises, is very much one of those children. And, perhaps, from that, Severus can remind himself of his own care for students, for those who have gone through similar things as to what he himself once did, regardless of unkempt hair and green eyes and a curse scar.) They need more, deserve more, and Severus has long-since worked to get them exactly that.
Harry Potter needs the same sort of help, that much is more than clear now. Of course, given the boy's status, such a thing may not be the simplest case that the teacher has dealt with, probably the opposite, in all truth, however Severus is not one unused to hard graft and careful planning. That it is for the sake of a Potter, of Lily's child, (of a little boy called Harry who so clearly didn't expect help-) is irrelevant.
Speaking of Pott- Harry, the child is gaping up at him, blatantly shocked, although the moment that Severus' attention settles on him, the expression smooths away, leaving a half-ducked head, flat mouth and brows, and a pair of eyes that glint with something undecipherable. How interesting.
"Are you ready to go?" he asks, instead of permitting himself to focus upon that.
"I- yessir."
"Very well. Hold on tight, and do be aware that the sensation of Disapparition is often an uncomforta-"
"Boy!" The child at his side flinches back terribly from the sudden shout, shoulders hunching and arms wrapping tightly around himself, although Severus cannot see his face, not in the glancing half-moment he has to examine the boy on his way to look up at the grotesquely overweight man, red-faced, who is panting and stomping over. The idle of a car engine down the road catches Severus' attention. Ah. How unobservant of him.
"Freak! You'd better come here-" Severus is beyond disinclined to listen to so much as a single word more, and accordingly leans down to sweep the child close, grip firm, and pivots on the spot.
Then they're staring up at Hogwarts' gates, except the child in his arms is far too busy hyperventilating against Severus' chest to notice.
"Child, you need to breathe." The words do no good at all, more's the pity. No, Harry wriggles, half-breaths hitching, and successfully writhes out of Severus' grip, for all the good it does him when he ends up trembling on the ground, curling into himself, hands finding his hair to tug viciously there. He still isn't breathing properly.
"P- Harry, follow my breathing. In for one, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three..." He counts, measured, low, steady, although he doesn't dare to reach out again, not even as small tufts of hair begin to slip free of the violent tugging. He has zero doubt that touch, right now, would make things worse.
Fortunately for Severus' composure, the boy does eventually begin to calm down, more steady breaths than hitching ones. Sooner or later, his hands even fall away from his hair, far too many strands falling away alongside, caught by the breeze and whisked away. The teacher wouldn't be surprised, not in the least, if some of the child's scalp was left bloody from all of that hair-pulling. Either way, it's not his priority. Not as of yet.
"Well done, Harry." Said child tenses at that, yet something in it also seems to be him leaning forwards, listing closer, head still too ducked for a glimpse of his face, unfortunately. Severus continues talking regardless,
"Are you able to walk?" It doesn't quite come out as soft as he might have intended, but it is still a far sight from his usual caustic tone, a fact which is apparently enough for Harry to finally look up at him. (There is something in that gaze, a defiance that Severus is far too familiar with, a sight he had thoughtlessly associated with arrogance; now, however, he looks and looks well, only to find it a defiance born of need, of desperation and hunger and fear. It is the necessity of a strong front to protect, to preserve vulnerable insides. It is something that Severus remembers exhibiting himself all too well.)
"I'm fine," he snaps out, but the very faint tremble to the words speaks volumes, doubly so when Harry visibly hesitates, too-thin shoulders drawing in, voice far softer, more faltering, when he speaks up again only a minute later,
"Thank you."
"It was of no trouble," Severus assures, and he doesn't let himself hesitate before he rises halfway back to his feet, extending a hand slowly at the same time.
For several breaths (exactly nine, to Severus' undeniably rather apprehensive count-) the child only stares, oh-so suspicious.
Then he reaches out, a too-small, callused hand slipping atop the man's own.
Still keeping his movements measured, deliberate, Severus lets his fingers tighten around the boy's hand and, as he rises to stand fully straight, he smoothly pulls Harry up as well, until they're both upright, hand in hand. And whilst it takes another two breaths, the child's hand is delicately twisted away from a hold that makes no effort to keep him trapped, only Harry's flush left to show that it ever happened in the first place. Severus has no issue with that, truly. Saves both of their dignity, frankly.
"Do come along then. I believe you will need to get some rest, and I have arrangements to make."
"Arrangements?" In general, Severus would applaud that sort of scepticism, the caution a favourable asset to and indication of at least some level of self-preservation, which is frankly more than he had expected of the seemingly reckless child. (How much of that was simply having no concept to the value of his own life? How much was learned self-sacrifice?)
"Indeed. I shall confer with Headmaster Dumbledore so that a safe place may be arranged for you," he intones, unrelenting. He will not allow the boy to be taken back to those beasts; nor, equally, does he wish the onus for such a thing to be upon his own shoulders.
"Oh." There is... doubt, Severus thinks, to be found in that single syllable, and he cannot help but to wonder at the source of it. What reason would Harry Potter, favoured Golden Boy of the Light, have not to trust Albus Dumbledore? Well, perhaps judging that to be the source of the child's doubt is an assumption too far, perhaps it is Severus' own involvement that is presenting an issue. Somehow that doesn't feel like the case though.
Regardless, the boy truly does need to rest, and undoubtedly to have an abhorrent number of potions shoved down his throat as well, so Severus begins the traipse up the path to the castle, keeping some for amount of attention on the child that hurries to follow him. It has him adjusting his pace slightly once again, admittedly. It would not do to have Harry collapsing now that they're on Hogwarts grounds and so close to the Hospital Wing.
Fortunately, the child remains upright and moving by the time Severus is pushing open one of the Entrance doors, holding it open for Harry to step through, slipping past Severus with a clear skittishness still. It is quite reasonable, however something of a shame too. (Severus knows that he, at nearly twelve years old, had been almost purely untrusting of the world, particularly of those who had shown negativity towards him in the past. He also knows that, had somebody retrieved himself and his mother from his father's grasp, it would still not have endeared him enough towards them to trust them at once. So he understands, even if it doesn't stop him from being... somewhat frustrated. But Harry does not know his motivations, his promises or past or purposes. Thus, he cannot blame the boy. No, he can only seek to show him good things, some level of gentleness alongside structure, and hope for the best.)
In lieu of any of this, Severus moves on to information, for the cool logic of it is far more preferable,
"Madame Pomfrey is not currently in attendance, however the Hospital Wing is still best equipped for our current needs, and as such that is where we are headed." He pauses at that point, giving Harry the time to speak up should he need or want to, however he simply gets briefly narrowed eyes and a jerk of the child's head, hair flopping, light glinting over his glasses. It is no wonder that Severus always found so much of his parents in the boy. Equally though, a notable portion of that is simply appearances, surface level.
Severus is suddenly struck with the realisation that, under Petunia's dubious care, Harry Potter will not have heard a single truth of his parents.
He shall surely need more than a single evening to think over all of what he is pushing to the side time and again, but that, too, is something to be pushed aside for the time being, considering that he has a fearful child waiting upon him still.
"Is there anything you need beforehand, b- child?" He avoids the instinctive appellation with a flashing memory of a child who cowered from the voice of his uncle, and it earns him a lingering glance.
Severus is gratified to note that there is something considering in that look, something more akin to assessment than fear or outright suspicion. Well, even if Harry is mistrustful of him, he is not petrified, a fact which will give them something to work with. (Quite why Severus feels the need to have something to work with, he isn't sure; he will be turning the boy over to Albus' purview as soon as possible, and will doubtless have to return to his own position as future-once-again spy and hated Potions professor in time for the new school year, with no mention of this to ever be made again. He is not some saviour.)
In reply, the boy simply starts walking towards the main staircase ahead of Severus. It is rude, on the surface, but he had noted the clench to Harry's jaw, the curve of indecision to his posture, the slump of his shoulders, and it had spelled out something in the realm of uncertainty. Snapping at the child right now will do no good.
Nor, apparently, will attempting to climb the grand entrance stairs, judging by how halfway up, when Severus is half a dozen steps behind, the boy wobbles on a foot, faltering, and he is tipping backwards before anything else can be done or said. The man is already moving, reaching up, Snitch-fast, hands hooking beneath the child's armpits, fingers splayed against too-sharp ribs, half-catching the boy, half-guiding him into a safer landing place of his own chest rather than the ancient stone stairs and their still-sharp corners. (The boy is light, bird-like in his seemingly hollow bones and pointed edges and a quiet, cut-off cry that calls to a sky that will never answer, only a wrench of something dark in Severus' chest to offer recompense-)
"Careful," he comments, just slightly on the softer side of chiding. The green eyes, slightly hazy, flash up at him with something that starts as fear-flight-panic, but ends up glancing away as something more reserved, harder to read. Severus might flatter himself to think that there was a light of gratitude, perhaps, towards the end. Either way, Harry is already attempting to twist out of his hold, but this time Severus does not let him, not truly at least. He keeps his hands loose, but follows the boy, maintaining an arm curled around his back, the other poised, albeit in a telegraphed way. He will not have the child tumbling down the stairs and cracking his thick skull open.
Perhaps he should think less of the child as thick-skulled. It won't aid the situation. Even if the boy is a dunderhead at times.
No, that's assuredly not the point right now. The point is that Harry is still trying to wriggle away from his hold which, whilst it shows the boy's thick skull, is very much a problem.
"Child, am I going to carry you, or use a stretcher spell for you?"
"You-!" Ah, there's vitriol that was surely waiting to burst out the moment the child felt safe or settled enough to dare lash out. Well, perhaps there are positives to it, even as the kid snaps at him.
"Harry-" That choice of appellation, in itself, seems to surprise the boy enough to mute him mid-sentence,
"-you need to rest, and I did not take you out of that house only to have you braining yourself upon the stairs of Hogwarts' Entrance Hall. As such: spell or carry?" The words are firm, unforgiving, for all that they are not harsh either. It has the brat shrugging, jerkily, before muttering something about a spell.
Severus takes perhaps a little too much satisfaction from Conjuring a stretcher that has inbuilt spells to force a patient to lie down. Of course, he keeps an eye on the child's breathing, because he very much doesn't want to incite another panic attack from Harry.
The boy is fine though, judging by how he is already grumbling protests, but he has also slumped onto the stretcher, not relaxed for all that he is very blatantly exhausted. (Something in the back of Severus' mind, deep behind the Occlumency shields, is aware that he would... appreciate the chance to feel the boy's heartbeat against his arm. He will not, however, give in to such a whim. No, better to give the boy the space he blatantly prefers and needs. No matter how it feels rather unnatural.)
Severus walks far more quickly to the Hospital Wing than he otherwise was going to, for all that he also keeps slow and steady enough that the stretcher he holds as it levitates beside him to keep it in place. It keeps it moving smoothly in the right direction.
"As I mentioned, Poppy, or Madame Pomfrey as I would hope you to know her, is not currently in attendance of the school." The words were not particularly intended, but he had caught a single hitch in the boy's breath, with a bitten lip and roving eyes alongside. The teacher very carefully tilts the stretcher the tiniest bit, just enough that Harry is no longer fully reclined.
"As such, I will be attending to your initial care. I trust you are willing to, what's the phrase, put up, with my tender care?"
"Uh, sure. Sir."
Severus nearly smiles at that, though it inevitably would have been an ugly sight to see,
"Very well. You may find the school disconcerting right now, of course, given that the corridors are unusually empty. Although," he tacks on, measuring his words as carefully as he would ingredients, if perhaps somehow even more so, because he knows how to fix most mishaps in potions imbalances, however he certainly has less finesse when it comes to the emotions of children,
"Given your proclivity to late night wanderings, perhaps it is not so unusual a sight for you."
"I don't-" Harry is blatantly struggling against the charms keeping him in place now, and it isn't a moment's thought for Severus to gently press fingertips against a bony shoulder, careful not to press in a way that may aggravate any contusions or such. The boy tenses for a moment.
Until, to Severus' admitted gratification, he relaxes somewhat once more. Good.
"Child, we are not in term time. I would rather a statement of preferring not to say than a lie." Those eyes cut up to him, too sharp, too clever, and there's something verging on mischievous there, rooted in a careful prodding, pushing the boundaries, the lines, the limits,
"Then I have no comment."
"Wise. Regardless, we are here. Do not attempt to squirm away from your treatment, as you very much require it. I have dealt with such cases before, and will not neglect full and due diligence in this one, understood?"
"Yessir," the child mutters, not entirely belligerent. Severus will take it.
If the first potion he gives the boy, before anything else, is a sleeping draught, then he will simply be glad that the boy shows no inclination for reading two years ahead in his subject. Is is underhanded? Certainly so. Is Severus a Slytherin, and Harry a child who very much needs rest? Also most certainly. It becomes rather a moot point as such.
(He does hope, though, that should the child take note, and he doubtless will, that there will be no grudge born over it. There was logic to his choice, after all. But what logic of his a not-yet-twelve year-old will find, even one with some level of cunning, will understand, Severus finds himself unsure.)
Staring down at the sleeping boy, the teacher weighs the benefits of simply going ahead with all of his preferred diagnoses now. For some reason it is only now that he notices the dark circles beneath the boy's eyes. Ah, the suspected trauma that had him visiting the child in the first place is clearly to be found here, if he has been having nightmares, although of course it could also be a reflection of the wonders of his blasted relatives' care. Severus suspects both. At least one is being dealt with, now that he is very much not going to return to their cruelty. Severus will not stand for any child returning to conditions like that.
Perhaps, on that note, he is best off finding Albus first, although the fact that the man hasn't turned up to irritate him yet is curious.
The answer to that is revealed no less than ten minutes later when, upon having cast a likely excessive number of Wards, both protective and monitoring, over the child, Severus finds himself staring at the stone gargoyle to the headmaster's quarters, with its wings overly flared and mouth open for the stone tongue to loll out. Severus presses the tip of his wand to the faint rune upon its surface, and Albus' voice, far too chipper, emanates from the guardian.
Severus does not utter a string of profanities, but it's damn well a close thing.
Albus is not here. Of course he's not. No, why would the old bastard be present one of the very few times he needs him, and always here looking to bother him when Severus wishes to be left alone?
There's nothing for it, he shall have to look after the boy then. The Weasley abode is not safe, nor does Severus have any wish to attend to a household of rowdy redheads, and frankly he doubts that it will do Harry any good either, at this unbalanced moment even more so. The boy's other friend, Granger, is in the Muggle world, and whilst less traceable, it too would be unsafe. He has no others. And all of the previous Order members are neither easily accessible nor appropriate, let alone both as would be preferable. Even the other faculty are all away on various holidays, trips, or at conferences for their respective subjects. Albus gave no timeframe of when he would be back from dealing with this conference, and knowing bureaucracy, it will not be a hasty thing. And to give a child free reign of a massive, magical castle full of cursed objects and moving staircases... There really isn't any other option, is there?
Hopefully the boy will take it well enough.
"Okay." That response to Severus' words the next morning, those that he had barely been able to keep from fumbling, only his Occlumency-fuelled calm and surety in the situation allowing him to remain slow and clear-spoken, was absolutely not what he expected. He had suspected some discontent, shock and fear and confusion a potent combination for an abused pre-teen, however he is now faced with a carefully blank expression, eyes overshadowed. A child with a carefully guarded heart and mind.
Perhaps he should simply be grateful for the acceptance of his plan without any argument that would have incurred his ire, however Severus is brutally familiar with the concept of things being too easy. It is indicative of delusions at best, or outright, malicious falsities at worst, and he has no doubt that this falls somewhere within that realm. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate indeed.
(Severus spent the night at the child's bedside. A Conjured chair was sufficient for comfort, as it was carefully cushioned, the back tilted slightly that he should not have a crick in his neck come morning. If, when the weight of the sleeping potion had lifted from the child's slumber, leaving Harry to something less restful, the teacher had resorted to tucking the blankets more carefully over him or, when that had not sufficed, to brushing slightly matted curls back from a scarred forehead, careful to keep his touch light and unobtrusive. No point to disturbing the boy. Not when the only reason for his... his attentions is to keep Harry asleep anyway.
Even if the good night's rest results in far too thought-out reactions like this one.)
The man suspects that keeping Harry's opinion considered, at least outwardly so, will keep this process to run far more smoothly, he is sure, and so he accepts the too-easy answer accordingly,
"Very well, then. As you already have your belongings together, and I can pack away my own necessities rather briefly, we may soon leave. Are you amenable to that?"
"I- Yessir." Whilst the respect is appreciated in and of itself, he doesn't exactly enjoy the thought of how it may be rooted in fear to some degree. That cannot be helped as of yet though. No, for now he makes do with settling into a lower posture on his still-Conjured chair, hands open, ensuring that his hair does not swing too far into his face, trying to keep things clear, so that his expression is readable, trying to allow Harry to get a read on him.
"You are a child, and no child deserves to have to fight for survival within their own home. And whilst I am not a kind man, nor likely a good man, I am not inclined towards hurting children, particularly when there is no part to play within a classroom. Does that make sense?" The words are simple, succinct, and they gloss over details that, judging by the child's flaring eyes, Harry is very much curious about. But Severus has neither the time nor the wherewithal to go about explaining politics and prejudices and promises right now.
"It does," the child replies, something of a hedging tone to the acknowledgement. But his hands do not tremble and his shoulders barely hunch when he gazes up at Severus.
"Then, child, are you willing to stay in my house for the time being, until the Headmaster returns at the very least?" It is not immediate, the reply that comes. It's a thing of consideration, far more than Harry's previous agreement was, when he nods with the slightest of shrugs, that bruise still peeking out of his Transfigured pyjamas:
"Yessir."
There is little else to say to that, so Severus allows that for what it is,
"Alright. If you would follow me, we shall Apparate to my home. I trust you will not misuse the knowledge and trust I am placing in you by allowing you to see my personal spaces, yes? Consider it an equivalent exchange of sorts." There is intelligence in those eyes, a Greek fire or aurora, something too-bright and feverish,
"We're outside of term time."
"And what occurs in this period shall not bleed into coming terms." That statement ends up more of a promise than the warning it was originally intended as, softer around the edges and warmer in the centre. It sounds almost conspirational, gentle in the way of brushing wild hair back away from a scarred forehead in the dead of night.
Judging by half an instant of wide eyes, followed by a barely-there slump to overly thin shoulders, the child believes him. Or is at least willing to try to. (That realisation has a faint stir of warm-surprise-relief against Severus' ribs, all the sweet cool of twilight and the faint glow of pre-dawn.)
From there, Severus walks down to his private quarters. It is already becoming... not second nature, obviously, but rather a matter of only a few moments' thought, to slow his own pace. Fortunately, the good night's rest appears to have done the boy some good, given that he keeps up more easily, and with no notable wheeze. It would appear that the few potions that Severus had deemed fit to administer last night did serve their purpose. Good.
Also fortunately, the boy does not fall prey to the lure of inane chatter, through nerves or otherwise. Although a brief glance down (and slightly back, because that habit of walking nigh-on behind others will need to be broken-) reveals a fierce-gazed alertness, fingers twitching slightly with every turn or staircase they take, a combination that tells of the boy most likely attempting to memorise where the Potions Master's quarters, consciously or otherwise. It is a realisation that, for three long breaths, fills Severus with an odd, righteous sort of dread.
Until he reminds himself to think of the as Harry, not Potter. As the child who just agreed with him that what they learn of each other in this time period will not be utilised during term-time. Admittedly, it is an agreement with far more holes in it than Severus would normally ever consider, let alone permit, however Harry is a noble little Gryffindor and, for all of his own flaws, Severus knows that he himself will not take advantage of such information either. And in being silent, he will earn more of the boy's trust. Ergo, the agreement is sufficient. Severus need not be concerned about the gleam in those eyes that verges on calculating as they finally reach the corridor housing the main and only entrance to his dungeon flat, although of course there are three alternative exits, and taps his knuckles against a stone that is soft only to his own touch and magical signature, revealing the iron-wrought door handle to be unlatched and pushed upon.
With a child beside him that is blatantly drinking in every detail possible of his living room, it is hard not to falter and reassess his own living space with fresh eyes. To the boy, what do the too-many, stuffed-full bookshelves show? The navy, worn-leather sofa housing a slightly precarious stack of newspapers and monthly potions publications, or the coffee table still home to three dirty mugs; the meagre two picture frames upon his mantle, the snake-embossed Floo Powder jar, the slippers beside the door. Some of his research notes are still making a disarrayed home upon his small dining table.
It is a mess, to be succinct. And yet, when he glances quite briefly back down at the child, he finds what could only be called a soft sort of awe. (To a child forced into the cupboard a house left overly clean at his own hands, a house too orderly to have any space left for little freaks like him, perhaps a room like this looks more like what could become home, somewhere that he could tuck himself into a cosy corner of and fit right in.)
Seven spells later, however, for Severus has no desire to dawdle, alongside some far more delicate charms to carefully deal with the more volatile potions and ingredients that he deems necessary to bring with him, Severus has three trunks at his feet, and a good portion of the things around the room have been packed away as such, albeit the majority of his books remain. Shrinking the trunks down and tucking them away, except the one with the potions because too much magic will hamper their efficacy, the teacher turns to Harry once more, the final, far smaller trunk tucked under one arm.
"Shall we go?" He gets half a breath's scrutiny, before a very tiny, rather sweet smile that absolutely does not have something twisting in his chest.
"Okay."
Standing in front of Spinner's End is frankly a more vulnerable moment than bearing his Hogwarts flat was. That, at least, was not the place that he grew up in, or not in the same way as here anyway, for this is where he was happy at first, for several years, until magic crept in and jobs were lost and then he was snapped, snarled, snatched at by his largely-drunk father. Spinner's End is his home, in a very different way to how Hogwarts still is.
But he has brought the child this far, and this surely will not be for too long, so Severus spends a moment with his wand pressed to the padlock upon the garden gate, and offers Harry only a somewhat clipped warning before the ward magic pours river-cool down his spine, and the wards will allow him access now. If Severus also weaves in a little caveat that he will be warned if the child attempts to leave, then it is simply a reasonable precaution. He wishes for neither that Gryffindor brashness nor learned fear to send the boy careening into the unsafe outside world, doubly so without Severus' knowledge.
"Do endeavour to be careful of my home and belongings whilst you are here, child. Whilst things such as crockery can be easily fixed, and accidents will not be punished, deliberate damage will result in the equivalent of our usual detentions." Severus does not elect to remind the boy of his relatives' choices of punishments. Better, surely, to minimise the associations where possible, so long as he can still keep the actual punishments clear.
"As stated earlier," he goes on, as they enter the house itself, tactfully ignoring the boy's scrutiny of everything around them,
"If you do not wish to tell me something, I would prefer a statement as such rather than a lie. Similarly, if there is a situation where you wish to ask me something or to no longer be here, then you will come to me. You will not run away from here and put yourself at risk. Arrangements can and will be made if there is good reason for them, understood?" It's a fairly simple set of rules, to Severus' mind, but he would not put it past the boy to make them complex, intentionally or otherwise.
"Yessir." The teacher finds himself detesting how easy of a phrase that is for the child, how quickly he defaults to it, particularly when he only seems to say it on default, rather than a fully conscious thing. Severus will have to make do.
"Very well. I do not currently have a second bedroom suitable for habitation-" That, perhaps is a slightly flimsy excuse, but his childhood bedroom is untouched and has been for years. It will not be something easily cleared out today.
"-you will need to sleep on the sofa for the night. If you wish it, I will Transfigure it into a bed this evening. Until then, please deposit your belongings out of the walkways, and settle yourself at the dining table or sofa. I shall be putting together a quick meal. You cannot afford to miss anymore food."
When he closes the fridge, however, Severus finds that the child is sitting stock-still, perched on the very edge of one of the sofa cushions, staring down at his own tangling fingers.
"P- Harry. You may take a book from the shelves or your trunk, although if you choose the former do read the title aloud to me first so that I may verify its appropriateness." The boy startles, brow furrowing in what is certainly self-recrimination for that fact in an instant, and Severus very carefully makes no comment or movement about it. There is no point to shaming him for a logical response.
And, to Severus' somewhat pleasant surprise, the boy does shuffle to his feet and gives the shelves a glance over. Not only that, but the book whose title he murmurs is a relatively simple text regarding counter-curses; whilst it is not exactly the average second-year reading, it is not entirely too advanced either, nor, most significantly, is it inappropriate for him. No matter that the majority of Severus' Darkest, most arcane, and most legally questionable texts are very much well-hidden, that does not make his general reading habits palatable for a child's tastes.
But he grants the boy permission regardless, and continues to attend to the relatively minimal food that he had the House Elves send over pre-emptively to his home, just enough, originally, to tide him over until he could shop the next day. Hopefully the boy is not fussy.
Then again, with the amount of food he appears to have been granted over the years, let alone the quality of it, both nutritionally and in terms of taste, Severus very much doubts there will be any issues with such things.
"Brunch is ready, come and eat. Please do not bring the book to the table."
"Uh, yessir." Harry is on his feet almost instantly, and dithers with the book until Severus placing a plate on the table jolts him out of whatever conflicted thoughts he found himself caught within.
It is a shame, frankly, that he feels the need to intrude so little upon Severus' space as to put the book back on the shelf, although at least he seems to take note of the page, which shows some genuine interest. Perhaps the boy's academics, or intelligence, rather, as the more important factor, is not a loss.
They eat, then. Severus notices the small details, like how the child waits to begin eating until Severus has both taken several bites and, eventually, nodded an assent to him. It did not seem the correct moment to start a lecture about not needing permission for eating a meal. It is an awkward meal, undeniably. That fact, however, does not detract from the fact that Harry is safe in front of him, eating and breathing and relatively unhurt. Severus will find gratification in that.
(He will also find gratification in the way that Harry relaxes, even the tiniest bit, over the course of that first day. He does not ask for the sofa to be Transfigured into a bed that evening, after another full meal and a heavy snack, no matter that Severus offers exactly that.
In the morning, he will come downstairs to find a dozing child curled up in the narrow gap, almost a corner, between his sofa and the book shelves comprising the wall. It is a small space, darker than most of the room in the early morning light and faint embers of the fire, and it's enough to have a shudder up Severus' spine, more rage than anything else. The things done to this child. The atrocities.
But none of this is the time for it. No, Severus will refrain from chiding the boy, or even truly acknowledging his choice of little nook to clearly have slept in overnight, instead focusing on cooking them a very simple breakfast of buttered toast and some bacon. He shall have to ensure that he buys eggs and vegetables, and some fruit as well that the child may snack on. No point to encouraging bad eating habits amongst the general push for him to eat more. Although, that being said, perhaps he should allow Harry to pick out a single packet of something sweet for the week. Biscuits are chocolate. And Severus himself wouldn't mind salt and vinegar crisps again. He does not have many Muggle indulgences, but they, admittedly, are one of them.
Ah, it is of no matter. The boy may not even be with him past the day.
Or, apparently, he will, because Albus does not return to them until another day hence, and when he does it is a private conversation, the boy grumpily going to sit in the garden as the two men discuss options. He is, however, asked to come back to the living room for a decision to be made: and when the options of a stranger, albeit some assuredly good people, in the Tonks family, or staying with Severus, Harry hesitates. He looks to the man, eyes vivid yet overshadowed where they peek out from beneath a thick fringe and eyelashes, and he asked, within that gaze, too many questions to count. But not, however, too many to understand.
"Yes, child, it is fine. Things would continue as they are now." The words are measured, delicate, treading upon ice on the first day of spring, and, they, for better or worse, are quite clearly what the child needs. Harry asks to stay. Severus doesn't tell him no.
The potentials for their joint future will grow from there.)