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Chasing Moonbeams. Ch3.
Title: Chasing Moonbeams.
Author: pekeleke
Pairing(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17, eventually.
Length: 82K+
Warnings: Extremely Slow burn. Pre-slash to slash. Enemies to friends to lovers. Pinning!Harry. Oblivious!Severus. Implied Bottom!Severus. EWE.
Disclaimer: Don't own these characters. I make no profit from writing fanfiction.
Summary: “Really?” Harry beams, green eyes wide and full of wonder. “You’re going to let me snog you to my heart’s content?”
“Of course not.” Severus replies contrarily, curling elegant digits around the brat’s neck and tugging him down low enough for a quick and dirty kiss before the Savior has a chance to protest. “I’m going to let you snog me to my heart’s content, Potter.”
Chapter 3
Severus wakes to a world of muted pain, woolly-headed dizziness, and the familiar quietude of the staff’s wing in the Hogwarts’s infirmary. He’s inhabiting the same bed he used to favor when he’d worked as a professor, the one that sits directly under the only window in the place and is, therefore, the single reasonably cool space in the overly heated ward.
It takes him about five groggy blinks to realize that it’s early evening in Scotland, and he’s got not a clue about what day it is or how in the bloody hell he’s ended up here. Surely he’d have bled to death, ended up freezing, or died of starvation in the week that separated his Saturday morning fairy encounter from his Friday evening drinking date with Minerva. He can’t possibly have spent almost a week failing to die in his front garden, can he? Gosh, he’s a hopeless underachiever in that department, and he rarely ever remembers the bloody ordeals. His mind should have the decency of allowing him to recall at least one ghastly detail of his no-doubt hellish experience this time around. He has no recollection of what happened in the shack after he’d lost consciousness, either.
“How are you feeling, Severus?” Minerva’s soft question startles him into looking towards the bedside chair he’d assumed would be empty. Why he’d assumed such a thing, Severus doesn’t know. He’s not alone anymore. Hadn’t been alone back then either, despite his reluctance to see it at the time. Minerva must have found him and brought him here. There’s no way she would have willingly left his side in those circumstances. Severus wouldn’t have left hers if their roles were reversed.
“Like I’ve been trampled by a stampeding swarm of Trooping Fairies.” He tries to smile but, judging by the distressed look on her face, fails at it abysmally. “Salazar, I’m out of shape. Those blasted gnats kicked my arse in under six minutes.”
“Don’t you dare jest about that. The fairies could have killed you. They would have killed you if your precious protégé hadn’t run straight to Harry.”
Severus frowns, confused. “Harry?”
“Don’t play dumb either, Severus. You know as well as I do that Harry Potter is the Auror in charge of patrolling Sunlit Lane.” Minerva growls, apparently deciding to vent her worry in the form of anger at his supposed slight against the blasted Savior.
“Give me a break, woman. Poppy has me stuffed so full of pain-relieving potions I can barely remember my own name, and you expect me to recognize Potter’s? It’s not like the brat and I are bosom buddies, Min-min.” He reminds her and watches her sag against the backrest of her chair as if a voracious Dementor has just drained the last drop of energy keeping her upright.
“Never mind that. Young Mr. Nothbury ran straight to Harry, and he rushed to assist you. It’s his job, Severus. You should have summoned him to the scene by sending a volley of sparks up in the air or something, instead of acting like a brainless idiot and allowing yourself to be cornered by a bunch of wild fairies.”
“Me? Acting like a brainless idi—Minerva!”
“Do not Minerva me, young man. Do you have any idea of how worried I’ve been since Harry showed up with what looked like your corpse in tow? I flashed back to the Final Battle, Severus. In the middle of the Great Hall. I must have frightened half the children with my hysterics.”
Severus stares at her, wide-eyed. They don’t often acknowledge how much they’ve been damaged by the roles they played during the Second Wizarding War. Or how deeply they care for one another. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just— I saw little Nathaniel in danger and summoning law enforcement, summoning Potter, was the last thing on my mind. You know I learned the hard way to avoid Aurors at all costs, Min-min.”
“You should have relied on Harry though. He never hurt you back then.”
“He was a child back then too, and I— I know I shouldn’t, because he’s all grown up and powerful to boot, but I played the role of his protector for so long that it goes against my instincts to summon him close to danger.”
“He’s pretty pissed off about it, as am I. Some idiot or other at the DMLE has launched an inquiry into the whole thing. It looks bad for the Safe Neighborhood Program that you came so close to death after being attacked virtually on your doorstep while a patrolling Auror was on duty. I heard Prickard pretty much imply that Harry ignored your plight on purpose because of a war-related grudge.”
“That’s ridiculous. You just said Potter rushed to my assistance as soon as he learned what was going on.”
“Yes. But Harry arrived too late, lad. The fairies had already dispersed, and the lane was empty. He found recent signs of a magical confrontation. Followed the worryingly long trail of blood leading directly to your property, and found you passed out in your front garden, mostly exsanguinated and slowly choking to death. He found your wand too. T-the fairies— they snapped it, Severus.”
Severus recoils when he hears the news. His throat grows tight, and his dark eyes burn with the weight of a grief that’s much heavier than he’d have expected. It’s not like his wand was a person. It was only a wooden stick. Severus can Apparate to Ollivander’s and buy himself another one any time he wants. It’s not like-
Fuck. That piece of wood has been in his possession since he was eleven. Being chosen by it is the first act of magic Severus ever experienced, and he’s always been inordinately fond of that memory. That wand has protected him, avenged him, and accompanied him during the best -and the worst- moments of his life.
“I’m so sorry,” Minerva whispers into his grief-stricken silence, and Severus realizes he can’t answer. Not in words. He’ll break into a million pieces if he so much as opens his mouth right now, so he nods dumbly and tries to curl his hands into fists. The sudden pain that flashes through his right hand the moment he attempts to close his fingers makes him bend double instinctively, curl his shaking body over his wounded limb protectively, and cry out in shock.
Minerva rushes to his side so fast that Severus would have teased her about using her position as the school’s Headmistress to perform unsanctioned in-Hogwarts Apparations when it suits her if he’d been in the right frame of mind. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right, I promise. Just breathe through the pain of it, lad.” She advises in her matter-of-fact teacher tone while patting his shoulder awkwardly. Minerva has never been particularly motherly and is as bad at the touchy-feely side of friendship as Severus himself. Comforting shoulder patting was always Albus’s territory.
“Your hand is taking its sweet time to heal, that’s all,” Minerva explains soothingly, watching carefully as Severus takes a deep breath through his nose and holds it in for a few seconds before letting it back out. “There are too many small bones to regrow in that area. Poppy says Skele-gro is too blunt a tool to use on such delicate reconstruction job, and with your line of work— We’re trying our best to ensure you retain full mobility, Severus.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
“She’s mixing Skele-Gro with Bone Shaving Paste, isn’t she? She’s trying to minimize the overly large size typical of Skele-Gro replicas caused by the potion’s over-enthusiastic production of new bone.”
“She said something along those lines. You’ll probably understand her ramblings better than I do. Poppy didn’t give you Skele-Gro. She dosed you with Oseum-Knit-Supreme-Something-Or-Other on Master Bollingfrog’s advice. He’s developing some sort of universal cure for bone-related injuries that will supposedly make Skele-Gro obsolete.”
Severus blinks, unable to comprehend how it is possible that Emille Bollingfrog, one of the most illustrious and internationally renowned Potions figures of their time, not only managed to hear whispers of little old Severus Snape’s fairy-induced wounds but also bothered to give Poppy Pomfrey advice on how to treat them. “I read about that on Potioneer's Quarterly. Bollingfrog is running human trials in Germany for his latest Fracture Be Gone formula. It’s going to revolutionize the treatment currently offered on Wizarding Trauma Centers.” Severus whispers dazedly, signs of honest to Merlin hero-worship shining brightly across his face. “I can’t believe I’m now part of all that. I’m his first British test-subject. Am I not, Minerva?”
“I’m not sure about that. The man was only here for five minutes.”
Severus jolts in the bed and looks around wildly. “Bollingfrog was here?”
Minerva laughs, delighted at seeing him so flustered for once, and pats his shoulder fondly. “Where else would he have gone? This is where Harry brought you, and Bollingfrog wanted to see your injuries up close. Apparently, nobody has been lucky enough to survive a Fae’s Bone Crusher in at least three centuries.”
“That’s—I- I can’t believe I almost met Emille Bollingfrog, Min-min. He’s been my academic hero since I was 12 years old.”
“Then you’re going to be a happy man indeed, lad, because that hero of yours is equally smitten with your potion and spell-crafting prowess. He’s especially impressed by your improvements to the Wolfsbane Potion, and that Ocluxir formula you patented two years ago. He’s also a regular Mufliato caster and is convinced that his experimental brew would be a lot more effective if it were administered via specialized charm, something along the lines of your Vulnera Sanentur. He’s been collecting more data than he needs these past six months in the hope of catching something that’ll pick your curiosity enough to entice you into accepting a commission to create it. I thought he was going to burst into song when he realized the Bone Crusher survivor that Poppy’s St. Mungo supervisor had contacted him about was you.”
Severus can’t believe his ears. He’s dreaming. He has to be dreaming. And he has no interest at all in waking up. This is, hands down, the best bloody dream he’s ever had. Bollingfrog, Emille Fucking Bollingfrog, knows who he is. Is impressed by Severus’s measly contributions to the art of potion-making, and wants him to develop a customized charm for his revolutionary universal bone cure. That’s— crazy, right? It can’t possibly be true. Severus must have finally gone round the bend.
Severus stares unblinkingly at Minerva, wondering why his crazy mind wouldn’t have been kinder to her and erased the bruise-blue bags under her eyes instead of creating so unlikely a professionally appealing scenario. His dearest, closest, friend looks so very old and tired that Severus can hardly stand it on a good day. Wouldn’t he be hallucinating her happier if he’d really gone crazy, or at least crazier than usual? “You can’t be serious,” he ventures at last, deciding to test the waters. Maybe he’s not mad after all. Maybe she’s just trying to tease him.
Minerva cocks her head to the side in that sharp, bird-like gesture of hers that has the power of making Severus feel hopelessly naked. She often reads him like a book, and it’s a thoroughly unnerving experience. “Why would you doubt me? It’s true that the man was here, lad. He’s larger than Horace and has a most dreadful mustache. Reminds me of a balding walrus who is inexplicably fond of wearing ghastly silk scarves. He doesn’t look very dignified, does he? Albus would have loved him to bits.”
“Yes, he would have.” Severus laughs at her accurate description of every picture he’s ever seen of Emille Bollingfrog. He finds the way Minerva’s tiny nose wrinkles in disdain at the illustrious potion master’s choice of attire a bit ironic. It’s difficult to take fashion outrage seriously when it's voiced by a tartan-loving witch with a penchant for two-hundred-year-old hats.
“Did Bollingfrog mention whe—
“Sorry to interrupt, Master Snape, Headmistress McGonagall, but we’ve DMLE business to conduct, and our time is precious.”
Both Minerva and Severus look towards the doorway, where Michael Waxley Prickard, the bastard bully who had plagued Severus’s first few years as a Hogwarts’ teacher with constant disrespect and a student-led rebellion that held his youth against him, stands. Prickard holds a fussily feathered quill in his right hand and an official-looking clipboard on his left. Harry Potter towers over his shoulder, sporting a most admirable thunderous scowl.
Minerva scowls too, most probably ticked off by Prickard’s pompous dig about the preciousness of his time. Severus’s left eyebrow rises in silent inquiry, inviting the ridiculous idiot to speak further. Severus never liked the boy Prickard had been and doesn’t much like the man he’s grown into either, so he sees no point in interacting with him unless he has to. At this point, he doesn’t have to. Prickard has no reason to be here. He’s some sort of Ministry toady, one who holds a position so obscure that Severus has no idea what the hell the man does with his days, nor does he care. Severus has the awful suspicion that he’s about to find out regardless.
“How can we help you, Mr. Prickard? I certainly have no wish to impose more than strictly necessary on your precious time.” Minerva says crisply. Potter registers the coolness of her tone and has the good sense to flinch. Prickard shows no sense whatsoever.
“That’s Senior Inquisitor Prickard, if you will, Headmistress. The Ministry Of Magic has opened an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the attack by magical pest that endangered the life of one Severus Tobias Snape, of Sunlit Lane, Surrey. The Magical Assault in question took place on Saturday the—
“I thought we were short on time, Michael. Everyone here already knows what happened and when.” Potter pipes up, cutting off his companion’s officious little recitation just as Severus’s suddenly heavy eyelids start hinting their displeasure with his tenacious refusal to sleep. He is incredibly tired and still woolly-headed. Bollingfrog’s cure-all certainly packs a punch.
“Well, I’d never-” Prickard splutters pointlessly, and Severus smirks in amused pleasure.
“I’m afraid I agree with Auror Potter, Senior Inquisitor Prickard.” Severus enters the fray for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. He’s not keen on falling asleep with either man in the room, and the chances his traitorous body might decide to ignore the dictates of his will and force the issue rise with every increasingly slow blink he takes. “I must urge you to be hasty if you wish to interrogate me. The potions currently coursing through my system are designed to encourage rest.”
Prickard huffs like a disgruntled cockatoo and steps forward. “As you wish, Master Snape. The last thing either the DMLE or The Ministry Of Magic desires is to impinge on your recovery. May I be so bold as to request extra seating for myself and my associate? I see only one bedside chair next to you.”
Minerva swishes her wand so sharply a loud whoosh follows the motion, and the most uncomfortable pair of chairs Severus has ever seen materializes so close to their ‘guests’ that they both take a hasty step sideways to avoid being hit on the shin by the settling furniture. “There you go, Inquisitor Prickard, let’s agree to drop the Senior part of your title, shall we? It’s too much of a mouthful to pronounce every two sentences, especially when you’re already short on time. Please feel free to take a seat.” She growls while pointedly remaining by Severus’s side even as both men sit.
“First of all, allow me to extend my most sincere apologies on behalf of both the DMLE and the Ministry of Magic for your current state of health, Master Snape. Moreover, I wish to reassure you that the memory of the fairy attack that a member of the Ministry’s Forensic Team was forced to extract without your consent while you were unconscious will be returned to you, alongside what’s left of your snapped wand, as soon as the DMLE closes the case. It is my hope that you don’t feel unsafe in the present company but, please, let me know if you do.”
Severus frowns. “Why would I feel unsafe?”
“You’ve got no wand at your disposal.” Prickard points out tactlessly, and Severus doesn’t like the malicious little look the bastard throws Potter’s way. “You must feel especially vulnerable right now. It could be argued that the entirely avoidable loss of your wand directly threatens your well-being.”
“I don’t think so. A dear friend of mine is standing, wand at the ready, by my side while one of the DMLE’s finest sits not five feet away. I freely confess I’ve seldom felt safer, Inquisitor Prickard.”
“Hmmm.” The insufferable prat grunts unhappily and makes a show of copying Severus’s stiff answer onto the parchment affixed to his clipboard.
“This is an official inquiry form, Master Snape. I feel compelled to inform you that the parchment has been dipped in Veritaserum. Once you sign your name upon it, every falsehood recorded here will be highlighted, and it could be used against you on a Wizengamot hearing should Wizarding law find you guilty of obstructing the course of justice.”
“And, pray tell, what course of justice would I be obstructing? I hope you’re not here to accuse me of wrongdoing for trying to rescue a frightened child from a bunch of wild fairies.”
“Your actions in your own defense and that of young Mr. Nathatiel Nothbury aren’t the focus of my investigation, Master Snape. I’m here to judge Auror Potter’s fitness to perform the duties that are part and parcel of his job description. A neighborhood patrolman has failed to rescue a child and a middle-aged private citizen from the danger they encountered while on the middle-aged wizard’s doorstep. Said patrolman was on duty. The middle-aged wizard almost died. The child is possibly traumatized. I’m certain you can see why the Department of Performance Standards has demanded an inquiry into this matter. Whispers of incompetence often cast long and nasty shadows. The Ministry can’t afford either a public safety scandal or one hinting at official discrimination against a former spy with fully sanctioned ties to the Death Eaters.”
“I see.”
“This inquiry’s goal is to ensure that both your safety and civil rights as a law-abiding citizen of the British Isles are being protected in good faith, Master Snape. Please do not lie to me during the course of my investigation.”
Oh, boy, Severus doesn’t like the sound of this. Someone in the bloody Ministry is out to get Harry Potter, and it looks like they’re willing to use the fallout of Severus’s little fairy debacle as leverage. Kingsley’s hands better be tied pretty dammed tight if he’s allowing this travesty, unless he’s trusting Severus to get the brat out of this mess, and has chosen a better battleground to launch a more spirited defense of his pet Savior already. “Why would I lie to you, Inquisitor Prickard?”
“You claim to trust Auror Potter’s ability to defend you in case of danger.”
“So?”
“Auror Potter has submitted his own account of what his professional interactions with you have been like since he assumed his role as the ministry assigned protector of your neighborhood. Auror Potter’s report was written in Veritaserum-infused parchment, Master Snape. In his report, Auror Potter states that it is his professional opinion that you do not consider him qualified to protect your person against a magical threat.”
“Auror Potter’s professional opinion is obviously a load of bollocks, then.”
“Severus!” Minerva half-laughs while trying her best to appear to admonish him sternly. Potter stares at him, wide-eyed, while Prickard goes purple in the face. The hand holding that utterly poncy quill of his twitching apoplectically.
“You realize I must write down your answers verbatim, do you not, Master Snape?” Prickard squeaks, perhaps under the misguided impression that Severus gives a shit about his squeamish reluctance to write an obscenity or two on his precious official inquiry parchment.
“Write away, I beg you.” Severus invites magnanimously, thoroughly enjoying the pompous git’s discomfort.
“Why do you describe Auror Potter’s professional opinion thus?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Potter defeated bloody Voldemort with an Expeliamus, Inquisitor. He’s patently overqualified to defend little old me.”
“Auror Potter’s report states that you have, and I quote: ‘never engaged in casual conversation with me nor brought to my attention any matters that especially concern him regarding either his personal safety, or the neighborhood’s in general, in the twenty-seven months I’ve been in charge of the Sunlit Lane’s beat.’”
“So what? I don’t need to speak to him to recognize his dammed magical prowess. Of course Harry Potter can protect me, my entire neighborhood, and every other bloody neighborhood in England. He’s done it already too. Anyone willing to deny that is an utterly dumb moron.”
Prickard’s fluffy quill flutters left and right before falling from its owner’s seemingly lax fingers. Minerva struggles to turn her delighted snort into a thoroughly unconvincing cough attack, and Potter looks poleaxed. There’s a strangely vulnerable expression taking hold of Potter’s features, and Severus doesn’t want to see it there. He doesn’t want to feel responsible for it, and finds the idea of anyone else seeing it at all positively revolting. Harry Potter should never again have a reason to look vulnerable. He earned that right at wand point almost seven years ago, if nothing else.
“Do you also dispute Auror Potter’s report that he recently attempted to engage you in friendly conversation, and you failed to respond to his greeting?”
“Do I strike you as a man who regularly engages in friendly conversation?” Severus snaps impatiently, trying to put Prickard on the defensive. He’s grown impossibly tired in the last minute or so. His focus isn’t at his sharpest, so there is a chance that he will make a mistake neither he nor Potter would be in a position to rectify once he signs that blasted form. Playing the careful game of I’ll-Hide-My-Lies-In-The-Closest-Related-Truth-Vaguely-Pertinent-To-Your-Question that’s often the only way to fool Veritaserum requires both close attention to detail and an inexperienced interrogator. Or at least one stupid enough to allow himself to be flustered. Severus is an old hat at flustering inquisitors. He’s run rings around much tougher cookies than Michael Bloody Prickard, but he’d done that while in full possession of his faculties. Right now he’s drugged to the gills, and in enough pain to be seriously considering setting his right arm on fire.
“I wouldn’t dream of making that sort of judgment, Master Snape,” Prickard replies stiffly and gosh, but Severus grows tired of the little toad’s officiousness.
“Wouldn’t you, Inquisitor? I remember a time when you had no such scruples. You once judged me on my age, my looks, my blood status, my ‘downright nasty’ character, my house affiliation, and my fitness to perform a job I was both qualified for and had been hired to do. Since you’re still showing a rather consistent inclination to judge other people’s fitness to perform their duties, I’d say it’s safe to assume the rest of your judgmental tendencies haven’t changed over time.”
Prickard’s back is now so stiff Severus is honestly shocked he hasn’t heard it snap yet. The inquisitor’s narrow face is blotchy red, and his tiny blue eyes glare at Severus with a familiar mix of blatant disrespect and growing alarm. Prickard comes from a long line of stiff upper lip pureblood elitists. He doesn’t like direct confrontation, plain speech, or being called out on his bad behavior, past or present, by a lowly half-blood. Severus would bet plenty of his hard-earned galleons on the chances of the man walking out of this meeting straight into a bathtub filled to the brim with boiling hot water and magically collected rose petals. He can easily imagine the idiot’s eagerness to macerate himself thus in the hope of removing the taint left on his precious pureblood skin by Severus’s half-blooded company and the muggle tendencies Potter often displays due to his muggle upbringing.
“It is not my place to judge anyone, Master Snape, let alone you. I collect information that may be used to do so, but that is also a decision I’m not qualified to make. I leave that responsibility to the Wizengamot, just as I left it in the hands of Hogwarts's council when I was a student here. I had every right to protest your appointment as a teacher back then, just as I have a duty to perform my job to the best of my ability in the present circumstances.”
“I hope that between the memory already in your possession and this interview you’ve managed to collect all the information you need, Inquisitor. Severus has had a very trying ordeal and is meant to be resting. Madam Pomfrey will have my hide if I allow you to disturb him for much longer.” Minerva intervenes crisply. Potter cringes, and Prickard shrinks in his chair very slightly. Severus frowns. Prickard was one of the few students who wasn’t positively terrified of her, way back when. Maybe it isn’t her displeasure that disturbs him, perhaps it's the idea of being thrown out on his arse that is rubbing Prickard’s prim and proper sensibilities the wrong way.
“I’ve got a few questions left. I promise to be swift.” Prickard mumbles stiffly, finally Accioing that ridiculous quill of his up from the floor.
“Get on with it then.” Minerva snaps with all the subtlety she’s never had. There is a reason why she used to be the head of the Gryffindor House, after all. Potter shifts anxiously in his chair while Prickard twitches angrily at her tone. It’s becoming apparent that the Inquisitor isn’t used to being dismissed, and he hates it with a passion. Michael Prickard reminds Severus of Dolores Umbridge, and just like he did with her, Severus wonders who the hell has given this little nobody so inflated a sense of his own importance. Tools, they’re both nothing but tools. Umbridge’s elitist ideals had led her to serve Voldemort’s purposes better than most ‘proper’ Death Eaters. Severus would bet his Order Of Merlin on the chances that Prickard’s equally rigid beliefs are helping some cowardly ministry higher up further his own agenda. Whoever they are, Severus hopes Shacklebolt eats their balls for breakfast in the not so distant future.
“If, as you’ve already stated, you trust Auror Potter’s ability to protect you -and other members of your neighborhood- in the event of a magical attack then explain in your own words why you failed to summon him when you were facing an enraged group of Trooping Fairies who clearly outnumbered you.”
Severus sighs. He’s tired, in pain, and can’t honestly see any danger in admitting the truth, so he does. As painful as reveling it may be, as vulnerable as it’ll leave him, candor is the best possible defense he can think of. “I did not think of it. I was too busy trying to ensure both Nathaniel’s and my own survival. I agree that, in the same circumstances, most people would instinctively seek help, but I’ve led the sort of life were no cavalry has ever showed up to save the day. I did not summon Auror Potter because I’m a traumatized war survivor who, when faced with danger, flashes back to some of the worst moments of his life. I fought those fairies like I fought in the war. It’s what I did for twenty long years, Inquisitor. Habits such as those are difficult to break.”
Silence descends upon the room, as thick and suffocating as a fur-lined blanket wrapped too tightly around one’s body on a bright summer day. Minerva’s distressed gasp breaks the quietude. Her hand settles upon Severus’s bony shoulder in a motherly gesture of reassurance, and Severus turns towards her, eager to avoid looking at the other men. She looks pale and haunted, guilt written large in her brown gaze. Severus has never begrudged her naivete in believing him a traitor after he’d murdered Albus. Yes, he’d wished she’d had more faith in him, especially during the darkest days of his awful tenure as Hogwarts’s Headmaster, but Albus’s plan had hinged on everyone in the Order disowning Severus. The Dark Lord wouldn’t have grown to trust him as much as he did by the end if Minerva hadn’t tried to murder him.
“Gosh! That’s one hell of a fucking blunt answer, Snape.” Potter chokes out. His gaze is soft with pride-ripping compassion, and he seems to be trembling from head to toes. Even Prickard looks a bit wild about the eyes as he holds onto his quill for dear life, carefully scribbling Severus’s answer on his official inquiry form.
“I’d urge you not to speak any further to my witness until I’ve completed my inquiry, Auror Potter. Any attempt on your part to communicate with Master Snape at this point could be presented in a court of law as an attempt to influence his testimony.”
“For Merlin’s sake, Prickard! Can’t you pull that damned stick out of your arse for one bloody minute?” Minerva snaps. “Harry here isn't trying to ‘influence’ your witness. There’s nothing to witness after all. You already have the memory of the attack, and Severus wasn’t even conscious when Harry showed up at his place, so what in the bloody hell are you trying to accomplish with this ridiculous interview of yours?”
“It took Auror Potter exactly five minutes and fourteen seconds to arrive at Master Snape’s location after young Mr. Nothbury first reported the incident that resulted in Master Snape’s life-threatening condition and the unlawful snapping of his wand.” The inquisitor says tightly.
“So?” Minerva all but growls, not too impressed with Prickard’s latest recitation of facts.
“Auror Potter’s average Apparating time on DMLE record for a distance equal to the one separating his initial position when Mr. Nothbury reached him to Mr. Snape’s location is forty two seconds. Had he arrived at Master Snape’s doorstep in that time frame, Auror Potter may have been able to prevent the worst of Master Snape’s injuries. He’d have ensured that a civilian’s wand was never illegally snapped, and apprehended the still at large perpetrators of a heinous crime.”
“Oh!”
Potter shrinks in his chair upon hearing Minerva’s little gasp of shocked horror. How she manages to infuse such barely-there sound with that amount of disappointment Severus has never known, but he’s found himself on the receiving end of it often enough to know precisely how Potter feels right now.
“Do you still feel safe in the present company, Master Snape?” Prickard pushes his advantage with the type of unholy smirk Severus hates to see gracing the lips of an honest to Merlin bully. Minerva’s trembling fingertips curl protectively around his shoulder, and he’s sure she’s about to rip Potter a new one for daring to take his sweet time in coming to Severus’s assistance. Severus himself isn’t overly concerned with the moral weight Prickard is trying to attach to the delay in Potter’s response. Severus is a practical fellow. He is aware that Potter doesn’t like him, has never done so, and probably never will.
Potter is a man of honor, though. Severus understands there must be more to this supposed time-discrepancy than meets the eye, but his head is pounding like there’s no tomorrow, and he’s wilting where he sits. He needs time to think about this. Time to examine the handful of facts Prickard has chosen to give him and figure out how the inquisitor is using them to manipulate him. Because Prickard is trying to manipulate him. Of that, Severus is certain.
Severus looks at Potter and sees a heavy sort of anguish darkening the usual brightness of the Auror’s verdant gaze. He doesn’t see shame. Or malice. Potter is subdued, but not remorseful. Whatever his reason for taking his sweet time to arrive at Severus’s doorstep Potter is at peace with his decision. Severus doesn’t think the brat has it in him to carry out a murder through inaction. If Potter did then Severus wouldn’t be here, he’d have died in the shack six years ago. Potter had gone back for him then, and he’d showed up to save him this time around too. “Yes. I do.” He says calmly, and three equally startled gasps of disbelief rent the air in comical unison.
“Are you certain?” Prickard squeaks, horrified. His poncy quill is frozen in place just above his precious inquiry form, dripping ink drops onto the Veritaserum-infused parchment. “If I were to write a falsehood upon this paper, it will not remain undiscovered, Master Snape.”
Severus stares at Prickard. The man’s apparent displeasure with the results of his ‘investigation’ is written all over his face. His nasty little blue eyes are narrowed, and his mouth is pursed into a tight, whitish, line. There is a stiffness about his otherwise perfect pureblood posture that broadcasts deep frustration, and the fact that he’s lost that god-awful satisfied smirk he’d been sporting a mere minute ago is enough to convince Severus that whoever is behind this travesty of an inquiry has nothing of substance against Potter. Prickard obviously wants Severus to make a fuss. That means Potter is being unjustly raked over the coals, and Severus may not care much for the boy, but he’d be damned before he adds the sin of ungratefulness to his already long-enough list of shortcomings. Potter saved his life twice. He saved everybody’s life, Prickard’s included. Had the Dark Lord won the war he’d have almost immediately set about the business of making an example of every traditionally dark Wizarding family who failed to join his side. Prickard’s wouldn’t have been spared.
“Yes. I’m confident that Auror Harry James Potter can and will protect me to the best of his ability in the event of a magical threat against my person, Senior Inquisitor Prickard.”
“Severus, maybe you should wai—“ Severus shifts, pressing his left foot against the mattress on purpose. The excruciating flash of pain that rips through his limb makes him bend double in genuine shock. Bollingfrog’s cure-all may be better than Skele-Gro, but it’s certainly slower. Severus knows for a fact that the bones in his foot wouldn’t feel so fragile hours after the initial trauma if he’d been treated with Skele-Gro. Minerva’s focus shifts from whatever objection she’d been about to voice to his curled up form. The supportive hand she’d placed around his shoulder glides up and down his back in a gentle, soothing and motherly motion that catches on the knobs of his spine. Severus turns blindly towards her and presses his face against her side, trying to hide his sweat-soaked features in the comforting softness of her tartan robes. Her wand hand settles upon his head protectively, gentle fingertips carding through his dark hair affectionately. Severus loves her fiercely in this one instant, just like he’s loved her fiercely in so many others. She’s the mother he’d have chosen for himself if he’d been allowed to do so. The only mother he’d ever had in more ways than one. Salazar knows Eileen Prince hadn’t been fit to rear children. She should have never been allowed to have one to start with.
“This interview is now at an end, Inquisitor Prickard. I believe Severus has answered your questions and has nothing further to contribute to your investigation. Please make your way out of Hogwarts’s grounds directly. Both of you.” She says crisply, and the uncomfortable silence that had been coming from the chairs on the other side of the bed breaks with the sound of hastily shifting furniture.
“Minerva—
“Not now, Mr. Potter. Please go.”
“Don’t worry, Headmistress. I’ll escort Auror Potter out of the premises myself. I—er wish you a swift recovery, Master Snape.” Prickard mutters stiffly before stalking away, Potter presumably in tow. Severus flushes with the embarrassment of having shown himself so weak before these men who have no care for him. He consoles himself with the knowledge that his relative mild humiliation protected Potter from Minerva’s harsh judgment. It also thwarted Prickard’s apparent goal of manipulating either of them into making enough of a fuss to justify the filing of an official complaint against Potter.
Severus no longer cares about the politics of the situation. He’s saved Potter’s bacon for now, and Shacklebolt can go ahead and do whatever he’s planning on doing to fix the mess the boy is in without involving Severus any further. He’s no longer the Order’s reluctant fixer of all Potter-related troubles. Severus has a postwar life to live that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Ministry. Or politics. Or the never-ending power squabbles between the old pureblood guard’s painfully outdated worldview, and the vision of the young, war-forged elite that earned its chance to decide where Wizarding Britain goes from here in a battlefield almost seven years ago.
Severus’s immediate plans for the future include recovering from his injuries in the familiar comfort of Hogwarts. Meeting Master Bollingfrog as soon as humanly possible. Suggesting adding some sort of accelerating agent to increase the healing rate of the man’s formula, and accepting his commission to design a customized delivery charm for the brand new potion. Once he’s properly healed, he’ll buy himself a new wand and go back home to his garden, his books, and his amusing interactions with young Nathaniel Nothbury. Potter will return to patrolling Severus’s lane, existing from nine to five in the fringes of his life without impacting it much, and that will be the end of this.
Severus smiles sleepily. He’s surprisingly content with the mundane simplicity of his short-term future. He is looking forward to most of it, in fact.
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His nick-name for Minerva is just as hilarious. (Min-min, indeed! I'm a bit surprised she allows him to call her thus. Maybe she's mellowed towards him after the war? Or is this an old nick-name from before? How would he have ever gotten her permission to call her Min-min as a young teacher? Maybe there'd been a Quidditch Cup, a bet, and large amounts of firewhiskey involved?) Their interaction is really nice to see. I love it when Severus has good relationships with the other Heads of House. And their relationship here seems very special.
His wand is snapped? I cannot imagine how that must feel for a magical person. But it might be like loosing a trusted companion. I understand Severus is devastated about that. (There's no Elder Wand lying around to fix the old one, is there?) But I see it as an opportunity to find a new companion. And I can't wait to see what kind of wand will choose Severus this time around. :)
And this Prick... what's his name? Whatever. Who cares. (I can't decide if I'd like to see him appear again or nevermore.)
Harry's reactions were very interesting. I understand that he'd be perplexed by this nice-ish Severus, who gives him one of the greatest compliments possible - his trust. (I know it's not yet the kind of trust I'm waiting for. But it has to start somewhere.)
I'm most intrigued by (No, not the fact that someone wants to incriminate or discredit Harry. That's for later.) the 'five minutes and fourteen seconds' it took Harry to get to him. For now I'll go with the explanation that Harry maybe did wait for Severus to deal with the threat himself (as you said, Severus can deal with things on his own, Harry would know and respect that). Or at least give Severus the chance to deal with it and then to call for Harry if he didn't. (I hope this sentence makes sense.)
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I honestly have no idea about how Minerva’s nickname came to be. I must say that I agree with you, there must have been very large amounts of alcohol involved in the incident, especially if we take into account that their standing Friday get-togethers Severus mentions in the story seem to be an excuse for the two of them to gossip like crazy and get blind drunk on Firewhiskey. :)
Yes. I’d imagine having their wand snapped must be truly awful for a magical person. LOL. About this Prick- character… Oh, yeah. I see you caught the essence of his name fair and square, I can say with total honesty that I positively despised his guts, so I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to see him anymore than you already have.
I’m glad to hear that Harry’s reaction to Severus’s admission of trust intrigued you. It's not easy to earn Sev’s trust, so Harry is already ahead of most people when it comes to befriending him. Both the answer to the question of what’s happening with the ministry and why it took so long for Harry to reach Severus’s side are coming up in the story, I hope you find them appealing. :)
Thanks so much for taking the time to both read and review another chapter of this fic, especially when you’re so busy studying for your test, teryarel. Your kind and lovely comments mean the world to me. :)