Chapter Text
Change You See
Chapter 1
Harry scowled up at his moonlit bedroom ceiling, deeply lost in thought as the clock on his busted desk ticked over to 11:55. Five minutes until his 17th birthday. 4 months since the death of the Dark Lord. Bastard should’ve known better than coming to Hogwarts, should’ve realized that without a Horcrux or a Shade-host he was vulnerable as hell. He especially should’ve realized that the connection between them meant Polyjuice wouldn’t work on his teenage nemesis.
Thank God for Snape, now reigning champion for Bastard of the Year, and thank God for Sirius’ determined brother. Between the two of them, there’d only been the one Horcrux left, the one Harry carried. For that matter, thank God Voldemort had been as stupid as he was ugly, and had never suspected he’d given Harry more than just a scar the night he killed James and Lily. He might not have turned his back on the prone form of his not-quite-dead adversary if he’d known the first Killing Curse wasn’t going to stick.
The sound of the clock’s glaring red numbers ticking another minute echoed dully in the Gryffindor’s head. He was hot, probably running a hell of a fever from the infection in his leg, and the bruises across his emaciated form were starting to hurt the worse the fever got. Though that might have been the headache. Getting punched in the head repeatedly tended to blur the lines between cause and effect, even after 17 years of carefully tending his own wounds.
The infection was the worst he’d had in a while, there was a smell about it that was a little like death and a little like bad perfume, and it was seeping something similar to vanilla pudding; however, he wasn’t even sure if Vernon or Petunia were aware of it. Certainly, they hadn’t left any illicitly obtained antibiotics on his one food tray each day, as they had in years past. That was okay, he had a cauldron, and he was pretty sure enough ingredients, in his trunk. So, if he didn’t succumb to the fever in the next three minutes, he’d be fine once he reached Grimmauld.
Dumbledore had insisted he return to this accursed hellhole until he was of-age for unfathomable reasons, but Harry had been the one to decide he’d go to Grimmauld when he was retrieved, rather than the Burrow. There were Death Eaters crawling out of the woodwork in droves, and it wasn’t horribly surprising that the vast majority were about as psychotic as Bellatrix Lestrange. Without Voldemort to temper their behavior, they were making a nuisance of themselves all across Great Britain. The last thing he wanted in the world was to put the Weasley clan in danger. Ron had understood. He hadn’t been happy about it, but he’d understood. According to his last letter, the twins had decided to fund a family trip to Romania, anyway, to visit Charlie and, of course, Norberta.
Harry didn’t know if Grimmauld was still being used by the Order; he didn’t even know if there still was an Order. All the meetings he’d spied on had revolved around Voldemort, not his followers. It wouldn’t surprise him if they’d rightfully decided to leave the mopping up in the hands of the Ministry and Aurors. Which meant there was a good chance he didn’t have to worry about a big group of wizards coming to get him again, this time with his relatives home to pitch an epic fit. However, he still needed to come up with an excuse that Remus, or whoever came to get him, would buy about his sorry state. Falling down the stairs every day for a week seemed a little farfetched, even for someone as accident prone as he was.
Of course, whether he could muster an appropriate and believable lie about the gravity of his appearance, his starvation and injuries, came second to the damnable locks on his door. He’d thought already about waiting downstairs, to at least hide that much, but the onslaught of the fever and growing headache had made him question the sense in actually falling down the stairs. He doubted his leg, or his emaciated body, could support him for such an exhausting venture.
Not to mention, his magic was being quite erratic, likely for the same cause of the aforementioned fever, so trying to unlock the door may well destroy it… or get him killed by his uncle, no matter who was coming, when the door slammed or cracked. His magic wasn’t just being erratic, it had become almost destructive and overeager. Vernon hadn’t been convinced, during the earlier routine beating, that anyone was coming, since Harry could have no more uses for his wizard friends, and he could easily do further damage to his nephew under the assumption no one would know or care.
The mistake which had landed him with the majority of his wounds had also added another half-dozen locks to the half-dozen locks on his bedroom door. It had been interesting to learn, however, that the strange magic the Ministry used to track underage casting only tracked spells cast with a wand. He wished he’d known that in the last few years, it might have made his summers more bearable. He didn’t doubt that his underdeveloped magic could still have been capable of the powerful toolless casting.
He hadn’t learned this entirely without fault, though, and had somewhat hoped to instigate an earlier rescue once he realized the infection in his leg was only getting worse. His uncle, unsure and unhappy about waking up a week ago to find half of the locks on his door slid free (it had taken most of the night to do that much, before he’d even figured out how to use his wandless magic, and that wandless casting didn’t necessarily require an actual spell) had installed the new ones to prevent further attempts of escape.
The bastardly walrus had been more than a little displeased, at the train station, when Arthur Weasley had stupidly told him that Harry had done his duty by the Wizarding World admirably. Arthur had spoken with fatherly pride; Vernon had sneered with disgust and hatred. Mostly, he’d been angry that Harry was being imposed on his hospitality when the Blood Protection was no longer necessary, and that he’d had to endure a conversation with the redheaded wizard. He’d locked Harry up as soon as they’d returned to Privet Drive, after a few swift kicks to remind him who was boss, and of course nightly reminders of that same fact. Harry had been out of his room a few times, but it only ever seemed to be so they could increase his torture by forcing him to do some chore or other, and then punish him severely when his over-strained body failed to get whatever it was done in a timely fashion.
If it weren’t for Hedwig, to whom Harry owed his sanity, he’d probably have made further attempts to escape, once he’d figured out he could cast wandlessly both legally and literally. Vernon, however, had told him in no uncertain terms that any more ‘funny business’ would see his beloved bird dead in her cage, dutiful weekly letters or no. Harry had, understandably, decided that it was best he let sleeping dragons lie. The frequent beatings weren’t the worst of his life, and it was only two months. He wasn’t nearly desperate enough to risk Vernon catching him mid-escape, not with his leg being so bloody uncooperative. It had given him time to start honing the powerful toolless casting, though, until the fever set in this morning.
A new sound in the sleeping household drew Harry from his thoughts, and he sat up, smothering a groan when this action caused his head to spin gaily and his ribs to scream in protest. He was grateful that whoever had been sent hadn’t decided to knock in the middle of the night like a lunatic, and even more grateful that that someone was clearly not Tonks. The whisper of footsteps on the stairs, somehow missing the perpetually squeaky 8th step, suggested it was someone vastly more adept at stealth than the young Auror.
Moving to the edge of his bed, Harry slipped into his tired hand-me-down sneakers. An attempt to stand on his busted leg, however, sent him back onto the broken mattress with a loud squeak that could’ve woken the dead, and he sighed when he heard his uncle give a loud snort down the hall, a sign he was waking up. Oops. So much for slipping out quietly. He sat patiently as the chains and tumblers on his door slid free and had a distant hope that whoever was retrieving him would at least have some tact when his uncle came roaring out of his own bedroom. The last thing he wanted was to see his honorary godfather, or anyone else, in prison for attacking a Muggle, no matter how justifiable the attack might be.
When the door opened to reveal the last person on Earth he would’ve suspected, or desired, to come to his rescue, he groaned at the ill-humor of fate. It was someone with tact, at least, but all his planned attempts to lie or falsify his current injured and malnourished state were a wasted effort, save as the diversion of the last hour. He had never been able to lie convincingly to the Potions Master of Hogwarts, and he couldn’t hope to do so now with so much evidence stacked in plain view. Even claiming to have gotten in a couple fights with his cousin wouldn’t be believed by the sharp-eyed clever git. Why did Dumbledore send him?
After a long moment where Snape took in the sight of the dozen locks and then his student, those impossible black eyes widened from their curious scowl. Harry had a moment to think with interest that it was the first time he’d ever seen the man’s face so open, so unmasked. The naked horror was the first real emotion he’d seen in those black eyes, aside from anger. Unfortunately, Harry could take no comfort in this interesting crack in the man’s stoicism, since the righteous fury that quickly replaced it sent prickles of fear dancing over every nerve in his body. Snape came fully into the room, pausing halfway across the small space as if he’d been struck when the dim light of the moon suddenly filled the room unclouded, giving a clearer view of the battered Boy Who Lived.
“Potter, what the hell?!”
Harry smirked as he heard his uncle tumble, startled, out of his bed down the hall at the sound of the strange, booming baritone in his house. “Hello, Professor,” he returned nonchalantly.
That dark scowl deepened, but before the Potions Master could form a response, Vernon made his appearance.
“Hello, Uncle,” Harry said, staring with interest at the rapidly purpling face in the doorway beyond his Defense professor.
Snape rounded on the man, and Harry waited for one of them to let loose the seething anger brewing between them. It was palpable, and Vernon’s fear of magic was nothing in the face of his own stupid rage. He had hope, at least, that Snape was intelligent enough to recognize the need for discretion in this matter. At least until he was in a better setting for using this against him, as he had everything else.
“Potter, get your things,” Snape ordered in a dangerously calm voice, still staring at Vernon.
“They’re downstairs,” Harry responded immediately.
“Then retrieve them!” Snape snapped.
The Gryffindor rolled his eyes, but before he could make another attempt at rising to his unsteady feet, a new face appeared over the shoulder of his uncle.
“Vernon, what-? Severus?!”
Harry could do nothing more than gape at his aunt in shock. She knew Snape?
“This is how you care for Lily’s son, Pet?!” The Potions Master snarled, gesturing at his student.
Harry looked between the two, utterly baffled. Pet? There was some comfort, a small lightening in his heart, though, when Snape called him ‘Lily’s son’. A warmth in his chest, as he stared at the conundrum of a Potions Master. It was the first time anyone had labeled him as such, rather than the wicked and horrible father he’d come to disdain.
The horse-like woman sniffed indignantly. “Nasty little freak never should have been left on our doorstep, disrupting our perfect lives,” she excused, sneering unprettily at Snape. “We’ve kept him alive. He’s lucky we didn’t turn him out, useless little orphan.”
Harry saw Snape’s intent immediately, just as the man’s black wand slipped into his grasp from the sleeve of his robe, and he managed to shove aside his shock, finding his feet in the split-second before disaster struck. He fell on the Potions Master, literally, just as that pale hand began to rise. “Don’t! Ah!”
His abused leg gave out from under him with shooting agony, and he braced in preparation for the further pain that would come when his battered body hit the rapidly approaching floor of his tiny bedroom. It didn’t come. Snape, distracted from his confrontation, caught him deftly around the middle, lifting him to stand on his good leg as he drew Harry’s arm over his taller shoulders. Without any further discourse, he stalked past the Gryffindor’s relatives, who were wise enough to back away from the dangerous glare Harry was all too familiar with. Hopping along as quickly as he could manage, Harry was grateful for the arm around his middle that possessed an almost supernatural strength, keeping him from tumbling down the stairs. He didn’t have nearly enough muscle mass or strength left to support himself, apparently, after near-unbroken starvation for 2 months.
When they’d reached the bottom of the staircase, Harry drew away and stubbornly forced his weak body to cooperate. After so many years, it was easy to push his body well beyond normal human limits. He waved his hand at the latch on his old cupboard, shattering the lock and sending the door swinging open so violently it cracked down the middle at his uncontrolled and overzealous wandless magic. Hopping over and ducking inside, he further forced his body to find its own supernatural strength as he dragged his trunk off his old cot and into the entryway.
He retrieved his wand immediately from the inner lining of the lid and shrank it and his broom down to fit in his pocket. He'd tried a similar tact, wandlessly, on Hedwig’s empty cage after he’d sent her ahead of him this morning and had only succeeded in making the stupid thing too small to be located, practically vanished. He would have to acquire a new one, as he doubted Vernon or Petunia would be very likely to hold onto it for him when the spell eventually wore off, but it had taught him that wandless magic, once unlocked, was much harder to control than a spell cast from a wand. Especially when you had so many things messing with your magical core.
Turning, Harry found his aunt and uncle standing near the foot of the stairs with Snape glaring daggers at them from the doorway into the parlor. He staggered a little, and damned his own pride, but lowered his wounded leg so he could stand upon the swollen and useless thing. He was grateful Snape had helped him down the stairs, but like hell was he going to give any of these three people, who had none of them done anything but injure him with words or worse, the benefit of seeing him helpless. Forcing his leg to carry him, he limped as little as possible (which was still quite a lot) toward the front door.
“You ever come back, Boy…” Vernon growled angrily.
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry returned, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced the man. He made a decision, given the opportunity he hadn’t thought he’d get that they happened to be awake when he left. He’d wanted to say this for a while, and there was no time like the present. “You’ll kill me. Believe me, most beloved Uncle and Aunt, I have absolutely no illusions, you’ve made your positions as clear as glass. Now that I am leaving forever, though, there is something I’ve been dying to say to you.”
“Potter…”
Harry waved off the Potions Master, and the slight hint of concern in his tone. “Every little evil, every beating, every effort you’ve made at assuring me I can never be loved…” He looked away for a moment to gather his courage. When he looked back up, his emerald eyes flashed and both Muggles shrunk away slightly. “I’ve had some pretty intimate dealings with fate, seen and done things that make anything you’ve done to me pale in comparison. And I hope, from the very bottom of my heart, that I can forgive you someday. But to the point: you failed. I want you to know that. You never broke me. I am who I am because of you, and people like him, not in spite of you. In the end, nothing you did to me mattered, and in equal measure everything you did mattered. Because. You. Never. Broke me. And I pray to whatever God will hear me that, though I may one day forgive you, He never will, and you’ll both burn in whatever hell He sees fit to bestow.”
Without waiting for a response from his frankly stunned relatives (and a thousand times more grateful that the boorish Dudley was staying with his older girlfriend for the night, in case Harry’s claims of rescue proved true) Harry turned and limped to the front door. A glance showed Snape was watching him with an inscrutable curious gaze he couldn’t begin to fathom. He stepped out onto the stoop, breathing deep of his first taste of real freedom. He expected any second that Snape would shove past him to lead him a respectable distance from the house before they took whatever mode of transport he had planned. Instead, he heard a whisper behind him that was so cold, so dark, burning with a fury that terrified him, it sent sharp shivers down his feverish arms.
“This isn’t over, Pet.”
Whatever Petunia’s former acquaintance with the Potions Master, it was enough that she was properly scared. So much that she even prevented the indignant response of her tactless husband, whose voice cut short before a single word could form. Finally, Snape joined him on the stoop, and neither of them flinched when Vernon’s lumbering footsteps preceded a loud slamming of his front door at their backs. Harry sighed as the thumb bolt slid home.
“Potter, are you-?”
“I’ll be fine,” the Gryffindor interrupted with false bravado, summoning as convincing a smile as possible. “I just want to get to Grimmauld, if it’s all the same.”
“St. Mungo’s would probably be the wiser choice,” Snape grumbled irritably.
Harry shrugged, finding real laughter. “Since when have I ever done the smart thing, Professor? I don’t care for hospitals, and if you try to force me, I’ll find my own way to Grimmauld.”
Snape scowled and taking Harry’s hand he apparated them without preamble. Harry was forced, therefor, to be grateful for the man’s quick reflexes keeping him from landing in a heap for a second time, in the front hall of Grimmauld. Snape righted him, and Harry took extra care not to jerk away angrily. For one thing, doing so when he was so disoriented would only finally put him on the floor. For another, even if the man was an abrupt ass, he had at least not forced the issue of medical care and had opted to fulfill his most hated student’s stubborn insistence. Instead, Harry extracted himself gently, and allowed for the hands that hovered near his waist as he found his balance.
“Thanks,” he managed to rasp past the lump in his throat. His body was a screaming fit of agony, his head throbbing, and his leg was alight with a new definition for pain that burned sickly. Blinking a few times, reassuring himself he wasn’t going to pass out or vomit, embarrassing himself further, he turned a grin on the Potions Master.
“You are more stubborn than she ever was,” Snape murmured, half to himself.
Harry shrugged, understanding immediately that Snape could only mean his mum. It raised questions, but he’d learned a long time ago to stop asking those. “I appreciate you interrupting your schedule to come and retrieve me, Professor Snape. Now that your charge has been fulfilled, however, I’m sure you had much rather be at home, in bed. I’ll see you at school.”
“Potter-!”
“I’m sure by then,” Harry continued. “You’ll have figured out the best way to use everything you’ve learnt tonight to its greatest advantage against me. Tonight, however, I’ll beg your leave that you defer your attacks on my character and upbringing, and simply go.”
Snape snarled. Harry knew he was baiting the man’s precarious grip on his anger, but he also knew there was no help for it. He needed Snape to go and making him storm off was the easiest way to go about that. If Snape tried to battle it out with him now, he undoubtedly would pass out, and he didn’t have that kind of time. It was already getting difficult to think, or see, and he needed ample time to brew the four or five potions that might fix him. Always assuming, of course, that he could find the appropriate recipes in his old texts, and that he had enough of the right ingredients. After a long, dark glare, the man scoffed at his apparent conceit and disapparated on the spot.
With a sigh of relief, the Gryffindor looked first to the stairs at the end of the hall, which led to the kitchen, and next to the staircase beside him which led to the upper floors, praying he wasn’t about to be set upon by someone else. His dumb luck was with him, and there came no sounds from anywhere in the house. If anyone was here, they were asleep, quite soundly. Leaning heavily on the wall, Harry made his way to the formal dining room. It wasn’t ideal, he’d rather be in the kitchen (or a proper lab, har de har), but needs must.
Taking out his trunk and undoing the spell on it, he dug around until he came up triumphantly with the small bag he needed, his Christmas gift from Hermione. She’d meant it as a sort of taunt, a way of teasing him about relying so much on the Half-Blood Prince, but he was certain it would prove useful. It was an apothecary satchel, full of jars and phials of the most common ingredients in a peculiar space that far exceeded the outside of the bag. This, and the few ingredients from his potions kit, should serve the purpose. He retrieved his cauldron and magical firestand next, as well as his six Potions texts, and after some debate he clambered onto the end of the long, formal table beside the stacked books to sit cross-legged on top. Lowering himself to the floor was a bad idea, a very vulnerable place to be since regaining his feet would be too difficult, and standing was absolutely out of the question. He settled in and began to read through six tables of contents.