TBCтАж
*Chapter 30*: Chapter 30
Author's Note: For those of you who like illustrations, Mystykyten has done two wonderful pictures for this fic. The website where you can view them can be found in my Profile.
Harry woke up slowly the next morning, gradually becoming aware that his surroundings differed from his usual bed. On the one hand, he could hear Ron's snores, which made him think he was in the Tower, but on the other hand, his bed felt different, and there were no curtains blocking out the pale sunlight of the near-dawn hour. He turned his head and found his guardian sleeping in the bed beside him, and for a moment he couldn't understand where he was or why. He felt safe тАУ after all, his professor was right there with him тАУ but he couldn't imagine where they were.
He felt tired, even though he had just woken up. Nothing hurt, but he felt exhausted, as if he had been playing Quidditch for hours and hours the day before.
Quidditch.
Bludgers.
Stone pumpkins.
And then Harry remembered everything, and he couldn't restrain a whimper of distress.
Snape was having a well-deserved sleep. With all his work with the Marauders and school and his snakes and Harry, he had been more than usually busy. As much as he had shouted at the Healer forcing the sleeping potion down his throat, he had had to admit to himself that it had been much too long since he had managed to have a good night's sleep. What's more, the potion would be the only way to prevent his slumber from being disturbed by nightmares.
He had been grading papers during his free period when every (newly upgraded) ward in the castle suddenly went off, and Snape knew all too well that the only thing that could cause that level of response was the Dark Lord Himself. Somehow, someway, Voldemort had risen, right there at Hogwarts. And Snape had known, with a dread certainty that made his heart freeze in his chest, that He was after Harry.
The screaming portraits of former medi-witches and тАУwizards, frantically babbling about monsters attacking students in the Infirmary, had simply provided the final proof. He had run faster than he had thought humanly possible, heading for the Infirmary, only to find Dumbledore moving even faster still.
Who would have thought that under those ridiculous-looking, headache-inducing fluorescent robes the old coot wore running shoes?
Every professor in the castle, it seemed, had been summoned by wards or portraits or both, and a solid phalanx of faculty had burst into the Infirmary together. Poor little Flitwick had realized that with this much adrenaline in the air, Hagrid would never even notice trampling him, and the small professor had cleverly used a flying charm to keep himself out from underfoot as well as to provide air cover, if needed.
Snape had never before тАУ even during the war тАУ seen Dumbledore looking so dangerous, and McGonagall's expression should have been enough to banish any number of Dark Lords foolish enough to cross her path. He had noted Sprout and Sinistra's absence and assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that they were safeguarding the students, but then they were through the doors and Snape only had eyes for Harry.
His frantic gaze swept the Infirmary, noting the broken furniture, the youngest Weasley wavering on his feet with his face a mask of blood, and Granger, bushy hair flying every which way as she spun, wand up, to face them. His horrified stare fell on the gory corpse only long enough to register that it was an adult's and therefore of no immediate interest to him. Then тАУ thank Merlin тАУ he had spotted Harry.
The boy was standing unnaturally still and quiet, and was staring at the headless body with a disturbingly blank expression, but he was there, upright, breathing, with all his limbs. No blood was visible тАУ unlike Weasley тАУ and he was moving of his own volition.
Snape felt a wave of almost unbearable relief wash over him, so strong that he felt his knees nearly buckle, but it was immediately followed by a flood of rage so powerful that he actually moved forward to grab the boy and shake the living daylights out of him. How dare that child cause him to feel such panic?
But before he could push past the Headmaster тАУ who was, oddly, still poised as if for battle тАУ his Dark Mark flared to life. Snape gasped aloud as the half-forgotten agony of the brand blazed anew, his other hand surging to clutch his burning forearm. How could this be? The only thing that could awaken his Mark was тАУ
"Potter!" Oh, no. No no no no no no. He wasn't ready. His plans were only half-laid. Not yet. The monster couldn't be back yet. It was too soon. Harry was still just a little boy. He wasn't ready to face a deathless Dark Lord. No no no. Not yet, dear Merlin, please not yet!
But Snape would know that voice anywhere, that breathy, hate-filled, power-laden voice. And he listened, numb with terror, as it threatened the only thing that mattered in his life. As it threatened an eleven year old with an eternity of pain and he could do nothing but grip his forearm and struggle to breathe.
Happily, incredibly, unbelievably, the eleven year old was made of sterner stuff. Harry yelled a word that Snape would definitely have to speak with him about, then chucked a bedpan through Voldemort's insubstantial form.
That broke Snape's stasis, and he brought his wand up just as Albus roared at Voldemort, the power of his magic rippling through the room. Snape joined in with the other faculty in attempting to subdue the shade тАУ even Hagrid fired a crossbow bolt at it тАУ but to no one's great surprise, the Dark Lord, or what was left of Him, managed to escape.
And then that redheaded nitwit had babbled something and Snape had rushed over to see Harry. It was an unfamiliar Harry, looking much older than his age, who had first looked up at him, but then something in the boy's eyes had shifted and Harry had suddenly recognized him. Just in time to pass out.
Snape never again wanted to remember that horrible moment, before Minerva assured him that Harry was indeed breathing, when he was certain that Voldemort had managed one last Avada Kedavra before leaving.
That was probably why he had been so uncharacteristicallyтАж agitated... when the healers had arrived. It wasn't as if he really cared about the brat, it was simply that, linked to him as he was by two Unbreakable Vows, he naturally wanted to ensure that the little fiend received the best possible care. It had nothing to do with more sentimental notions, regardless of what Dumbledore or McGonagall might have intimated. It was just that this was, after all, The Boy Who Lived, and he wasn't about to allow some brand new, wet-behind-the-ears, healer in training to practice on the child.
Perhaps he had been a trifle sharp with the Chief Healer when the man finally deigned to arrive (Snape was unimpressed with the Healer's claim of being delayed by a multi-victim accident involving the Knight Bus), but that certainly did not give the man the right to dose him with Dreamless Sleep, nor to accuse him (publicly, no less!) of being an overprotective parent. Snape huffed at the memory. Some nerve! As if he were guilty of coddling the brat! Obviously, despite his many degrees, the Chief Healer was too thick to realize that Potter was a special child and required exceptional treatment. After all, it's not as if anyone understood why the brat had survived a Killing Curse тАУ obviously there was something special about his physiology and extra tests would naturally be required to ensure that he was truly unharmed.
It had been around that point, as he was volubly pointing out the Chief Healer's incompetence in not re-casting his diagnostic spells, that the man had forced the potion down his throat. Snape had had only enough time to give Albus a look of reproach for deflecting the Dark Curse he'd sent at the Healer before the potion rendered him unconscious.