Chapter Text
It was his fault.
Harry sat on the edge of Ron’s bed, elbows digging into his knees, fingers twisted so tight in his hair that his scalp throbbed. The room smelled faintly of dust and broom polish, the crooked walls pressing in around him. Out the window, the orchard stood in the summer dusk, fireflies drifting like sparks. It should have been peaceful. It wasn’t.
Hours. It had been hours since the attack. Since Privet Drive was nothing more than rubble and scorch marks on the pavement. Since they had—
Harry gagged, dragging his sleeve across his mouth. He couldn’t think the word, but it pounded through him anyway.
Since they killed them.
Uncle Vernon’s furious shouting, Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice, Dudley’s whining—those sounds haunted him now. He had hated them. He had wished never to go back, to never see them again. And now… now he never would. The thought wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire, grief knotted up with guilt, twisted with a relief so sharp it made him sick.
It was his fault. Of course it was. Voldemort hadn’t wanted them—he had wanted Harry. They had died because Harry Potter lived in their house. Because he had stayed there, thinking those wards were enough.
The Weasleys hadn’t pressed him with questions when he arrived. Mrs Weasley had her hands full with the Order, cooking, fussing and keeping voices low so as not to disturb him. Mr Weasley had gone off again, another emergency. Fred and George kept their laughter muted, their whispers guilty. Even Ginny, fiery as ever, had given him a wide berth.
And Ron—Ron had brought him upstairs without a word, just a hand on his shoulder, and left him there to sit and breathe.
Harry pressed his hands over his face. He wished Sirius were there. The thought burned like acid. Sirius was gone. The Dursleys were gone. Everyone seemed to go, one by one, because of him.
A sound tore out of his throat—half sob, half growl—and he slammed his fist into the thin quilt. Again. Again, until his knuckles throbbed.
“Stop it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Stop. Stop.”
But the pictures wouldn’t stop. Aunt Petunia’s face frozen in shock, Uncle Vernon’s booming voice cut short, Dudley screaming—
Harry curled onto his side, dragging his knees to his chest as if he could make himself small enough, invisible enough, that the world might forget him and the Weasleys might survive.
The floorboards creaked outside the door. He thought briefly that Ron might knock. His heart lurched. But the sound faded, and the house settled into its familiar hum: ghoul in the attic, clock ticking in the kitchen, a world that had taken him in despite everything.
Harry pressed his forehead into the pillow, choking back the thought: I shouldn’t be here. I’ll get them killed too.
And in the dark warmth of the Burrow, surrounded by everything he had once longed for, Harry finally let the tears come, fierce and silent, until exhaustion dragged him under.
The house was wrong. Jagged and so wrong.
A slam of the front door. Uncle Vernon shouting—
“What the devil do you think—”
—then a blinding green flash that burned away half the words. His uncle’s face, frozen mid-fury, then gone.
The hallway stretched too long, floorboards bending like a tunnel, shadows spilling from the walls. Aunt Petunia’s voice—high, thin, breaking—echoed in his skull, but he couldn’t see her, only a hand, pale and shaking, clutching Dudley’s arm.
Dudley’s scream tore the reality in half. The boy was small again, round-faced like when he was nine, mouth open in terror, but then he blurred into his teenage self, still screaming, still shrinking back as spells ripped the wallpaper from the walls.
Harry’s wand was in his hand—he knew it, he felt it—but every spell he tried sputtered, scattered like smoke before leaving his lips. Stupefy! The red light fizzled, swallowed by shadows. Expelliarmus! His voice cracked, drowned by laughter. High, cruel, familiar.
The air warped. The living room sagged sideways, picture frames clattering in slow motion. He was running, feet sinking into carpet that turned to tar. He lunged for them—for anyone—but his arms were heavy as stone, too slow, always too late.
Then green light again. Always green.
Harry jerked upright in bed, breath clawing its way into his lungs. His heart hammered so loud he thought the whole house must hear. For one fragile beat of time, he didn’t know where he was—still in the hall, still in the living room, still too late—until the crooked ceiling and slanted walls of Ron’s bedroom came into focus.
The quilt was tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to shut it all out. But the dream left its claws behind. He could still hear Dudley’s scream. He could still smell scorched plaster. He could still see Uncle Vernon falling—
His stomach lurched, and he doubled forward, pressing his forehead hard against his knees.
The floor creaked faintly under his feet as he shifted, the old Burrow groaning in its sleep. But below, the house was awake. Voices carried up through the floorboards: Mrs Weasley’s low murmur, Ginny’s voice, the twins whispering over something. A pan clattered in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Family sounds.
All without him.
Harry dragged his knees tighter against his chest. They hadn’t forgotten him; he knew that. They had given him Ron’s room, made space, filled his plate at supper, told him to rest. But the truth was harsher: he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t one of them. He was a stray dumped on their doorstep, too dangerous to turn away, too much trouble to keep.
The protection was gone. That was the truth nobody said aloud. With Privet Drive destroyed and the Dursleys—
Harry swallowed hard and shoved the word aside.
—with the blood wards broken, there was nothing that made him safer than anyone else. Now he was just another liability. Another shadow creeping into their cheerful, chaotic home.
Like a guest who had stayed too long.
His stomach churned. Maybe that was why Ron had left him alone upstairs. Ron hadn’t wanted him here, not really. He hadn’t known what to say, so he’d slipped back into his family’s noise where he belonged, leaving Harry to sit in silence. And who could blame him? Why should Ron have to carry Harry’s curse, too?
Harry pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of the house—the laughter, the warmth that wasn’t his, the proof that he didn’t fit.
He wished, absurdly, that someone would just knock on the door. Even if it was to tell him he was being pathetic, even if it was to scold him for moping. At least then he’d know they saw him. At least then he wouldn’t feel so much like a shadow hiding in a corner of their home.
But the voices downstairs went on without him.
And in Ron’s room, Harry curled smaller and smaller, wishing he could vanish before the Weasleys realised what a mistake it was to take him in.
The knock startled Harry. He sat bolt upright in Ron’s bed, wand clenched in his hand before he even knew he’d grabbed it. His heart hammered in his ears.
Another knock. Hesitant.
Harry froze, chest heaving. No shouts, no masks, no green light sliding under the door. Just the old floorboards creaking under someone’s weight.
“Harry?”
Ron’s voice.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to tell him to go away, that he didn’t want anyone to see him like this, sweaty and shaking and pathetic. But his voice wouldn’t come.
The handle turned. A sliver of warm lamplight spilled into the room, and Ron’s lanky silhouette filled the doorway.
“Er… d’you want me to—” Ron scratched the back of his neck. “I can go, if you’d rather be alone.”
Harry shook his head before he could stop himself.
Ron stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click. He crossed the room in a few long strides and sat down at the end of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn’t try to look Harry in the eye. Just sat there, picking at the seam of his pyjama trousers.
“I don’t… I dunno what to say,” Ron muttered after a minute. “I’m rubbish at this sort of thing.”
Harry gave a small, rough laugh. It hurt coming out.
“Then why are you here?”
Ron shrugged.
“Because you’re my mate. You shouldn’t have to sit in the dark on your own.”
Something twisted in Harry’s chest. He pressed his forehead into his knees, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I’ll just drag you all down with me. You don’t—”
“I don’t care,” Ron cut across, firmer this time. “You’re not dragging anyone down. You’re here. With us. That’s it.”
The words landed heavier than Ron probably meant them to. Harry’s eyes stung. He didn’t trust himself to answer.
The room was quiet except for the faint creak of the Burrow settling. Ron shifted, clearly restless. Then he blurted,
“Want me to just… stay a bit? I can shut up. Just… sit here.”
Harry nodded, quickly, before his throat closed.
So Ron stayed, awkward and silent, a solid presence at the end of the bed. It was clumsy, it was uncertain, but it meant Harry wasn’t alone.
After a while, the floorboards creaked again outside the door. There was another knock, gentler this time.
Ron looked up.
“Yeah?”
The door opened a crack. Lupin stood there, lamplight behind him, face lined and tired.
“Sorry, Ron,” he said quietly. “May I speak with Harry alone for a bit?”
Ron hesitated, glanced back at Harry, then nodded. He pushed himself off the bed.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he muttered.
He gave Harry’s shoulder a quick, awkward squeeze before slipping out.
The door shut behind him.
The silence stretched after Ron left, broken only by Harry’s uneven breaths. Lupin stepped in, shutting the door softly behind him, and crossed the room. He didn’t come to the bed. Instead, he lowered himself into the rickety chair by the desk, his movements unhurried.
Harry kept his face turned away, scrubbing furiously at his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he rasped. The lie was paper-thin.
Lupin didn’t argue. He simply sat there, hands folded loosely in his lap, steady as stone.
It made Harry’s throat burn. He wanted to shout at him, to tell him to go away, that he didn’t need pity. But all that came out was a whisper, raw and bitter:
“You don’t have to pretend you care. Nobody else does.”
“I’m not pretending, Harry,” Lupin said softly.
Harry’s eyes flicked toward him. In the dim light, Lupin looked worn, shoulders slouched, lines etched deep into his face. Not a man here on duty—just a man carrying his own grief. Honest.
“I do care,” Lupin went on. “More than you realise.”
Harry’s fists tightened on the blanket.
“They’re dead because of me.”
Lupin’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed firm.
“No. They’re dead because Voldemort kills. That is not your burden to carry, Harry. Not this time. Not ever.”
The words cracked something in Harry’s chest. He stared at the quilt, voice shaking.
“I hated them. I wanted to be free of them. And now I am. And I… I feel relieved. What does that make me?”
“It makes you human,” Lupin said gently. “Relief and grief can live together. You can mourn their deaths and still be glad you’ll never go back. It doesn’t mean you wished this on them. It means you survived something cruel, and now you’re free and that freedom is tangled up in loss.”
Harry’s eyes stung. Tears spilled hot and fast, and he hated that he couldn’t stop them, but Lupin didn’t look away. He simply sat with him, silent, bearing the storm without judgment.
When the silent sobs finally slowed, Lupin leaned forward. His voice was low, steady.
“You are not a curse, Harry. People don’t die because of you. They die because of him. Don’t ever let Voldemort convince you otherwise.”
Harry’s throat ached.
“Then why does it feel like everyone goes, no matter what I do?”
Lupin looked stricken. Then he exhaled slowly.
“Because war takes. Even from the best people. Especially from the best. But you’re still here. And that matters.”
The room went quiet again. This time, the quiet wasn’t crushing. Just still.
When Lupin finally stood, his movements were quiet, deliberate, like a man rising from vigil. He paused at the door.
“You’re not alone, Harry. Not tonight. Not ever, if you’ll let us be here.”
Harry could only nod. His throat was too tight to speak.
Lupin gave him one last, steady look, then slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
Harry lay back down, pulling the blanket half over his head. The house creaked around him. For once, the noise didn’t make him feel like an intruder.
The ache in his chest was still sharp, still heavy. But he let his eyes close, and exhaustion carried him into uneasy sleep.
The kitchen smelled of frying bacon and strong tea. Morning sunlight spilled through the crooked windows, catching the clock on the wall as its many hands twitched about their faces.
Harry sat at the table between Ron and Ginny, staring at his plate. He wasn’t hungry, but Mrs Weasley kept bustling back and forth, filling dishes, tucking stray curls of hair back behind her ear, pretending not to notice how little he ate.
“Here you are, dear,” she said, setting another slice of toast beside him. Her voice was bright, too bright. Then she cleared her throat, her tone softening. “We managed to salvage your school trunk. The cupboard it was kept in was mostly undamaged by the fire. I’ve mended the scorched bits as best I could.”
Harry’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth. His chest tightened in a strange way. He hadn’t thought about the trunk, hadn’t thought there was anything left of Privet Drive at all. The idea that it had survived, charred but whole, while everything else was ash, made his insides twist.
“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice sounded rough, unused. “For… for fixing it.”
Mrs Weasley gave a soft smile, her eyes shiny.
“Of course, dear.” She hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. “Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything left on the second floor. Your room was… well, that whole part of the house is gone.”
Harry set down his fork. He felt almost nothing at first. Just a blank hollowness. The room had never been his. Four walls, a sagging bed, Dudley’s broken toys shoved in the corners. Nothing he cared about. The emptiness pressed against him anyway, though, like a reminder of how thoroughly it had all been burned away.
“Hedwig?” His voice cracked slightly. He hadn’t seen her since—
“She’s perfectly safe, dear,” Mrs Weasley said quickly. “She was here when it happened. Flew in with your letter for Ron not long before.”
Relief punched through the hollow feeling, sharp and sudden. Harry swallowed hard and nodded. He stabbed at his bacon to cover the sting in his eyes. At least Hedwig was safe. At least he hadn’t lost her, too.
The four of them ate in near-silence after that. Ron pushed eggs around his plate, sneaking glances at Harry, but he pretended not to notice. Ginny kept her head down, her hair falling forward as she tore her toast into tiny pieces. Mrs Weasley fussed quietly, sliding Harry’s plate closer now and then, as if hoping he might change his mind and eat more.
When he finally set his fork down for good, she rose with a rustle of skirts.
“I’ll just see to the laundry,” she said, patting Harry’s shoulder on her way past. Her touch was warm, gentle. “Don’t sit here alone too long, dear.”
Harry gave a vague nod, staring at the crumbs on his plate.
The Burrow ticked and hummed around him, homey and alive. He tried to let the sounds soothe him, but the tightness in his chest stayed. He didn’t know how to tell them that every kindness felt like a debt he couldn’t repay, another reason he shouldn’t be here.
Ron shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth and muttered,
“You want to go upstairs later? Maybe chess?”
Harry didn’t answer. He just stared at the empty perch by the window, imagining Hedwig safe in the orchard somewhere, free in the sky.
At least one thing had survived him.
When Harry turned, the trunk waited by the kitchen wall, patched and scarred where the fire had licked at it. The metal fittings were blackened, the leather warped along the edges. Harry stared at it for a long moment before bending down to drag it up the stairs. Each bump against the narrow staircase jolted through his arms, familiar and strange all at once.
In Ron’s room, he dropped it at the foot of the bed and knelt to open the latch. It stuck a little—mended, just like Mrs Weasley had said—but with a sharp tug, it gave way. The lid creaked open, and the faint smell of smoke and ash spilled out.
Inside, though… his things were there. His robes and shirts folded in uneven piles, still smelling faintly of dust. His textbooks stacked in the bottom compartment, spines cracked and worn. His cauldron, dented but whole. He touched them almost disbelievingly, as if expecting them to dissolve into cinders under his hand.
He dug deeper. His broom polish kit. Then, at the very bottom, the swish of silvery fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. Relief flickered through him at the sight of it. He lifted it out carefully, folded it back, and reached further.
The Marauder’s Map slid out from between two books. For a second, he almost smiled. At least some part of what mattered hadn’t been burned.
He searched for the last thing automatically. The thing he always checked, when he needed reminding of where he’d come from, of who he’d lost. His hand fumbled through shirts, socks, and a pile of parchment. Nothing.
Harry froze.
He shoved clothes aside, tipped books, pawed through the trunk as if it might be wedged in a corner, stuck between pages. His photo album wasn’t there. His chest tightened with a sudden, sickening certainty.
The album wasn’t in the trunk. He had taken it upstairs last week. He’d needed it after… Sirius. Needed to see his parents smiling at him. He’d left it on the bedside table. Upstairs.
On the floor that was gone.
His breath hitched, sharp and painful. The realisation slammed into him harder than the fire itself: his only photographs of his parents, gone. Burned to ash in a house he had never even wanted to call home.
Harry sat back on his heels, the air knocked out of him. His hands trembled in his lap. The weight of it sank in slowly, like ice spreading through his veins. That album had been a gift from Hagrid, the one thing that had carried him through years at the Dursleys. The only proof he had of James and Lily Potter as people, not just names in other people’s mouths.
Gone.
Something inside him felt like it had cracked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream or be sick or just… stop existing for a while. The Dursleys dead, the album gone, Sirius gone; it was as if Voldemort were stripping his life piece by piece, until there would be nothing left but Harry himself.
He slammed the trunk shut. The sound echoed too loudly in the small, crooked room, rattling the old windowpanes. He sat down hard on the bed, staring at the floorboards, fighting the sting in his eyes.
There were no pictures anymore. No parents smiling at him from moving frames. Just memories of smiles he’d never seen in life, flickering in his head, fading with time.
And he hated Voldemort more than ever for taking them.
The silence pressed in until it felt like it was choking him. Harry sat frozen for a moment, staring at the shut trunk as though he could will the album back into it. But the truth gnawed at him, louder than the ticking of the Weasley family clock downstairs, louder than the thud of Ron’s footsteps in the yard.
It was gone.
His only photographs of his parents, gone.
Something inside him snapped.
Harry yanked the trunk open again, his movements jerky, desperate. His hand closed around the nearest book—Magical Drafts and Potions—and he flung it down onto the floor with a muffled thud. The sound seemed too loud anyway. He sucked in a ragged breath through his teeth, chest heaving.
Another book followed, then another, each one hitting the floorboards in heavy bursts: A History of Magic, The Monster Book of Monsters, Transfiguration notes, shirts, parchment—anything he could grab. He didn’t care where they landed, didn’t care about the mess. He only cared about the motion, the release, the thud that was solid enough to drown out the roaring in his head.
His growl ripped out between clenched teeth, stifled, swallowed back before it could escape the walls of Ron’s room. He pressed a fist against his mouth to smother the sound, breathing ragged and uneven. He couldn’t let them hear. He couldn’t let the Weasleys know how broken he was, not after everything they’d already given him. Not after they’d taken him in.
“Why—” the word tore at his throat, no louder than a hiss. His hands shook as he grabbed a stack of parchment and ripped it down the middle, the sound sharp in the quiet. His chest ached with the need to scream, but he swallowed it back, choking it down. His breath came in rough bursts, almost sobs, almost growls.
Another book slid from his grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His robes went next, crumpling in a heap beside the others. He knelt among them, shaking, fists curled in his hair.
His lungs burned. Every breath scraped at his throat, but he kept the sounds low, strangled. He couldn’t let them come running. He couldn’t bear for Ron, or Ginny, or Mrs Weasley to open the door and see him like this—crouched on the floor, surrounded by torn parchment and broken ink bottles, nothing but a wreck.
His forehead pressed against his arms, tears soaking through the fabric. They came silently, but relentlessly.
Inside, he screamed words he couldn’t voice aloud. Why me? Why always me? Each thought slammed through him like a blow. Faces flickered in the dark behind his eyes—his mother’s scream, Cedric’s blank stare, Sirius falling, Aunt Petunia’s shock frozen in firelight. One loss after another, ripped away, until nothing was left.
His whole body shook with the effort of holding it in. The rage and grief tangled together, burning in his chest, and all he could do was press himself smaller against the floorboards, smother the sounds into his arms, and let the tears take him.
Silent, fierce, endless.
The wreckage of books and parchment lay scattered around him, mute witnesses to a storm he refused to let anyone else see.
And through it all, the ache remained: the album was gone. His parents were gone. Sirius was gone. Everyone went, sooner or later, and Voldemort always laughed last.
Harry’s chest heaved as the sobs wore him down, ragged breaths softening into shudders. He stayed hunched there in the mess, swallowing back every sound, until exhaustion dulled the edges of his grief.
And in the silence of the Burrow, he hated Voldemort more than words—or screams—could ever reach.
The Dark Lord’s rage still echoed in Severus’s bones days after. The failed ambush at Privet Drive had been met with an explosion of fury so sharp it left every Death Eater trembling. The offenders had been punished until they could not stand, and the rest of them were forced to watch. Severus, of course, had not been part of the mission, nor trusted with its purpose. He had known nothing of it until summoned to witness the aftermath.
It was only by sheer, twisted mercy that the boy yet lived. Harry Potter had been ordered alive. Another flick of the Dark Lord’s wand, another whim, and the Order would have lost its golden child. Severus ground his teeth at the memory. Luck. Nothing more than luck.
And now he was summoned to Albus. He did not need a prophecy to know what would come: questions, demands, another piece of his soul to be signed away in service of a cause that cared little if it left him hollow.
The stone gargoyle leapt aside, the spiral staircase carried him upward, and in moments he was stepping into the familiar office, all whirring trinkets and watchful portraits. Albus waited behind the desk, half-moon spectacles low on his nose, as though Severus were a tardy student called to account.
Severus inclined his head, stiff.
“Headmaster.”
“Severus.” Albus’s voice was grave, stripped of its usual infuriating whimsy. “You have no new intelligence to share?”
“No.” The word was clipped, bitter. “The Dark Lord keeps me well away from his innermost plans, as you know. If I had been aware, perhaps I might have prevented Privet Drive from becoming a battlefield.”
Albus’s eyes flickered, sorrowful but unyielding.
“We were fortunate the boy survived.”
Fortunate. Severus folded his arms behind his back, keeping his face smooth. Fortunate, indeed, that the Dark Lord had wanted his prize alive. Fortunate that Potter’s luck had not yet run dry.
“Very well,” Albus continued, “we must move to the matter at hand.” He laced his fingers together. “The Ministry has received a flood of petitions under the Wardship Petition Act.”
Severus frowned.
“Wardship…? That archaic absurdity has not been invoked in decades.”
“Just so,” Albus said. “But now that the Dursleys are gone, young Harry is legally an orphan without guardians. And as The Boy Who Lived, his custody has become a political prize. Families, officials, opportunists of every stripe—half the wizarding world seems to believe they have a claim on him.”
The words settled like stones in Severus’s gut. He narrowed his eyes.
“And what does this have to do with me?”
Albus’s gaze sharpened.
“To prevent Harry from being dragged into the hands of those who would use him, we must establish a guardian ourselves. Someone unimpeachable in the eyes of the law. Someone who can protect him. Someone the Ministry cannot easily challenge.”
Severus felt the trap close before the words were spoken. His stomach turned cold.
“You,” Albus said simply.
Severus thought he had misheard. Then the truth crashed down. He let out a short, sharp laugh, ugly and bitter.
“Me. You would place James Potter’s spawn under my care? The boy despises me, and with good reason. I detest him in equal measure. Do you mean to make both our lives a living hell?”
Albus did not flinch.
“It is not a matter of comfort, Severus, but survival. No one else is both legally sound and politically difficult to oppose. You have been cleared at the Ministry. You hold a permanent post at Hogwarts. You have no heirs of your own. It must be you.”
Severus’s lips curled.
“And when the Dark Lord demands that I hand him the boy? What then? If I refuse, he will kill me for treachery. If I comply, Potter dies. Either way, a corpse results. Which do you prefer, Headmaster?”
Albus’s eyes, behind the spectacles, were sharp as a blade.
“Harry must live. If your cover as a spy must be sacrificed to that end, then so be it.”
The words struck like a lash. Cold. Pragmatic. Severus had known, of course, that he was expendable in Albus’s long game, but hearing it spoken aloud twisted like a knife. All his years of risk, all his crawling at the Dark Lord’s feet, and still his life was currency to be spent.
He clenched his fists behind his back, nails biting into his palms.
“So my death is an acceptable cost. How generous.”
“I do not wish for your death,” Albus said softly. “But Harry’s life must be preserved above all.”
Severus turned away, staring at the whirring contraptions that littered the shelves. Rage burned in his chest, tangled with something darker: fear, humiliation, a weariness that never lifted. James Potter’s son, delivered into his care by law and by Albus’s decree. It was absurd. Cruel.
And inevitable.
At last, he exhaled, slow and bitter.
“Very well. Draft your petition. I will not contest it.” He turned back, eyes like chips of obsidian. “But know this, Headmaster... When this ends in disaster, the blood will not be only on my hands.”
Albus inclined his head, sorrow shadowing his face.
“Thank you, Severus.”
Severus’s mouth twisted.
“Do not thank me. I am not your knight. I am your pawn, as ever.”
Severus turned on his heel, black robes snapping behind him, and swept from Albus’s office. The spiral staircase carried him downward, each rotation grinding the words deeper into his skull: You must be his guardian. Harry must live. Your death is an acceptable cost.
The corridors of Hogwarts blurred past. How many times had he walked these stones, years upon years, enduring jeers, enduring whispers, enduring the burden of playing two masters? He had thought he was inured to Albus’s manipulations. Yet the gall of it—the certainty with which the man had placed Lily’s son in his lap like a poisoned chalice—still burned like acid in his gut.
Guardian of Harry Potter. Absurd. Obscene. A punishment rather than trust. James’s smirk in the boy’s face, Lily’s eyes staring out of it like judgment, and Severus bound to protect it all because Albus willed it so.
He stalked through the Entrance Hall, the cavernous space empty at this hour, his footsteps echoing off the flagstones. If he refused, Potter would be handed to the Ministry’s darlings, pawed over like a prize calf until he was ruined. If he accepted, the Dark Lord would expect delivery. And when that command came—as it surely would—either Potter or Severus would die.
Two roads. Both corpses at the end. And Albus had already chosen which corpse would be preferable.
The night air was sharp as he descended the front steps. The castle loomed behind him, silent and watchful. Severus’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated them all—Potter, for existing as a living monument to his failures; the Dark Lord, for binding him with fear and oaths; Albus, for wielding him like a blade and discarding him just as easily. And himself most of all, for never breaking free.
By the time he reached the gates, the rage had sharpened into something harder. He paused there, one hand against the cold iron, and drew a long, steady breath.
One thought at a time, he pulled the storm back behind the walls of Occlumency. Brick by brick: the fury at Albus, sealed away; the humiliation of being called guardian, smothered; the exhaustion, buried deep. All that remained at the surface was disdain for Harry Potter, irritation at Albus’s games, and the weary loyalty of a spy tired of his double life. That mask, at least, was close enough to the truth to be unshakable.
When he was certain there were no cracks left for the Dark Lord to glimpse, Severus straightened. His face was stone, his mind calm, the storm within buried where no eye—mundane or magical—could reach.
With a twist of thought, he stepped beyond the gates. The world compressed, darkness folded in. He twisted into the void, the air compressing around him—
—and emerged in the cold splendour of Malfoy Manor.
The house was quieter now. A dozen Death Eaters rotted in Azkaban after the Ministry battle; Lucius among them. Narcissa and Draco made themselves scarce, and their absence only deepened the silence.
Severus’s steps echoed as he crossed the hall to the study. It had been Lucius’s domain once; now it was the Dark Lord’s. Black curtains hung over the tall windows, the room sharp with the scent of burning herbs.
And there he was. The Dark Lord. Seated in the high-backed chair, pale hands resting against the wood of the desk, crimson eyes bright in the dim.
“Severus.”
Severus bowed deeply, head bent low.
“My Lord.”
“You have news.”
“Yes, my Lord.” He straightened, his face the picture of disdain. “Dumbledore has informed me of the Ministry petitions for the Potter boy’s guardianship. He has chosen me as his candidate.”
The Dark Lord’s lips curved, thin and cruel.
“Has he, now?” A soft laugh. “How very predictable. Of all his pawns, he chooses you. Tell me, Severus—does this honour delight you?”
Severus lowered his gaze, voice flat.
“It disgusts me, my Lord. To be shackled to that insufferable brat. I accepted only because refusal would rouse suspicion. Dumbledore believes me pliant enough to keep the boy leashed.”
The Dark Lord’s laugh deepened, cold and pleased.
“And so he thrusts the Chosen One into your care. The irony is delicious. Dumbledore protects his prize by handing him to my most trusted servant.”
Severus inclined his head, every muscle held taut.
“Indeed, my Lord.”
The red eyes glittered.
“You understand what this means, Severus. Once the Ministry yields, Harry Potter will be within your grasp. Within my grasp. You will hold the key to deliver him to me at my choosing.”
The words struck like iron. Severus bowed again.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. I will see to it that my friends in the Ministry encourage this outcome. Quietly, discreetly. They will see that your petition is… favoured.”
“Your foresight, my Lord, is unmatched.”
A flick of the hand.
“You may go.”
Severus bowed deeply once more, then turned and strode from the study, the echo of laughter still crawling across his skin.
The cold night air struck him as he stepped out of the gates and disapparated. He landed hard in another alley, the cobbles slick underfoot.
His chest was tight, though his face betrayed nothing. He had played the part; he had spoken the words. The Dark Lord was satisfied, and satisfaction was always temporary.
Sooner or later, one command would come. Deliver Potter. And if Severus refused, death was certain. If he complied—Potter’s death, and his own soul with it.
There was no way out. Albus’s order had sealed it: his death was inevitable, whether by the Dark Lord’s hand or his own ruin.
Severus wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, lifted his chin against the wind, and walked back into the night.