Chapter 4
"The Confrontation"
Harry’s house was an absolute mess. The small apartment, located on the west end of a very comfortable neighborhood, was classy and cozy. Copied from Michelangelo’s study of the Sistine Chapel, the cherubs frolicked across clouds and walls in each apartment, hand painted and preserved with careful charms to make sure the paint would never crack or chip.
Harry had looked for a month before he’d found just the place he’d wanted. With nothing but the clothes on his back, his trunk, all of his Gringotts gold and Hedwig, he had stayed at a very small, dingy hotel until he’d found just the place he knew would fit the persona he had begun to create mere moments out of Hogwarts, when his tears had still been hot and his agony so sharp he couldn’t bear it. He had saved endlessly for all the squashy leather chairs, the thick rugs, the portraits on the walls. He had saved for every bric-a-brac, every magazine subscription, every plate and cup and pot and pan. He had slaved to make sure that this apartment was a representation of not just Harry Potter, but of Nicholas Chekit, the person he had become when he’d decided to make Avignon his home.
The house was a jumbled mess, like his emotions–shoes and socks sat by the door akimbo, books in stacks, scrolls and magazines heaped on the table. His TV was on BBC and it provided soothing background noise as he worked.
He sat hunched over at his kitchen table, smoking what had to be the fortieth cigarette since Severus walked back into his life. His morning potion sat next to his half empty coffee mug, and his ulcer, as if remembering it was still there, gave a painful thump at the lack of food in his stomach. His hair was a disarray as always, tangled with his earring, and he hadn’t bothered to put on anything but pajama bottoms when he’d woken up some four hours before.
Before him on the table lay his latest project, a mahogany Miracle clock. It kept track of the household members’ emotions, an invention that he was particularly proud of. His design lay by his hand, along with his tools, scattered with cigarette ashes and pencil shavings.
He’d been reduced to chain smoking. The plan, the entire visage of normalcy that Harry had struggled so hard to create was pulled open like a gaping wound, ripped raw and bleeding, though he did his best to ignore it.
Severus had showed up at the door of his clock shop.
Oh, he’d seen him. Before Armand could drag him in, before Snape’s dark eyes had ever flashed on him, Harry had smelled Snape–potions, after shave, cinnamon, and the slightly bitter scent of dark chocolate that always clung to Severus’ robes where Harry knew he had his stash put away.
In his darkest fantasies he had once envisioned Severus coming in, all apologies, dark hair shining and eyes misted, begging him to return. Likewise, in Harry’s deepest of desires, he had always thought Severus would come for him, period.
But Severus didn’t come and when Harry realized he never would, he died and Nicholas was born.
He snorted to himself, absently. Severus was back. Not because he wanted Harry, not because he had come to see him, but because Dumbledore had sent him.
A bitter block of ice lodged thickly in his gullet, racing up to his prickling scar. The emotions raging inside of him-- fear, pain, anger, horror-- could not be quenched, could not be sated. He held them back as his only salvation, his only key to staying sane.
His hands shook nonetheless.
Sometimes, when he really tried, he could imagine Snape had loved him as a man was supposed to be loved. When he lay in bed at night after a particularly trying day, tears caught in his eyelashes, the endless loneliness would only make his loss all the worse. For a moment, he could let himself believe that he had been loved for something beyond what he was–the Bloody Boy Who Lived To Be An Outcast.
Sometimes it was that illusion, more than anything else, which got him out of a lonely bed every morning.
When he left Scotland he’d raised walls around his heart to keep the pain away. It couldn’t reach him–humiliation, horror, rage, none of it could find its way into him; he was safe, he was Nicholas Chekit. Nicholas had never felt pain like this, never cried until he screamed into his pillow. He had never been abandoned, set adrift, alone in life, nothing but a seventeen year old who had lived through more horror than anyone had a right to. Nicholas never let himself wonder how a person who was so empty could still carry on as if nothing was wrong. Nicholas had never pondered death a better alternative than the hell his life had become, where demons staked out his soul and whatever was left inside of him was what he tried to live with, as if he were a complete person.
And then Snape had to show up and screw everything up.
He was so angrily snuffing out his fag into the ashtray, his blood roaring in his ears, that he almost didn’t hear the timid knock at his door. He glanced at the large clock above the kitchen sink and knew at once it was Anna, coming to yell at him for ditching work yesterday after Severus had come to see him at the café. Well, tough. He had a few weeks of paid holiday saved and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to use some of it now. He wanted to bathe--positively wallow--in self pity. After the lifetime he had endured, he reckoned he had a right to.
He supposed, in hindsight, that he should have found a shirt. Maybe pulled his pajama pants up higher onto his hips. Because when he opened the door, Severus Snape was standing there.
God, he looked dashing and a part of Harry’s heart, long hidden in Nicholas’ body, wept so hard that he felt the stinging bite of it in the back of his throat. Snape seemed a little older and a little wiser than the last time Harry had seen him. There were more lines around his mouth and eyes; his hair, once so dark, lay long and tied at the nape of his neck, streaked with gray. His robes were the normal black, buttoned to the throat, long and sweeping and impressive. He looked...he looked handsome, painfully handsome and Harry swallowed against the stone in his throat.
He didn’t miss those eyes sweeping over his half naked form and felt the flush, be it anger or embarrassment, creep up his chest.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Snape took a deep breath. "I’m not leaving until you come back."
"Then you may be here a while. Is that all?"
Snape stopped ..stared...then glared and the familiar sneer crossed his face. Harry rolled his eyes, turned from the door and walked into the apartment. "Shut up and come in. I don’t want my neighbors talking."
Harry absently heard the click of the door behind him but ignored it–he tapped his wand against the tea kettle to warm it and poured himself a cup of tea without bothering to offer some to his unwanted guest He was trembling, badly, but he prided himself on strong, even hands as he settled himself back at his desk and sipped his tea. "Sit."
Snape sat, amusingly enough, right in front of him.
And Harry, because he had little patience for these things, got right to the point. "I’ve received six owls from Dumbledore every day for the past four weeks."
Snape’s eyebrows shot to his hairline before he could stop it and Harry was darkly glad to see the shock cross Snape’s normally stoic face. Nice to see you can still get him into letting his guard down.
"That’s quite a few."
"He asked me to come back to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. I’ve already told him no, several times, so I don’t see why you’re here unless you’re going to bodily drag me back to Hogwarts. There’s nothing for me in Scotland anymore." Harry was deeply, irrevocably pleased to see the man flinch and barely curbed the smirk that wanted to cross his face. "I won’t have my life ripped apart again. So I'm not leaving, and you're not going back without me, so I'm afraid you're stuck. Ever think of taking up French?"
Severus glared. "You’re returning with me to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter. Dumbledore needs you for more than your rather obviously nonexistent teaching abilities."
"Oh, what then? To join the Order? Fuck that, and fuck you, Snape." He picked up his chipping tool again and hunched back over his clock. "You can show yourself out."
"Mr. Potter, you are trying my patience," Snape snarled.
Despite himself, Harry gave a bark of laughter. There was no mirth in the sound. "As I see it, you are a guest, an unwanted guest at that, in both my house and my city. I don’t really give a rats fucking arse if I’m trying your patience–I’m twenty four years old and long since passed the point where a little bit of snarling is going to make me do anything I do not wish to do. I’m not a child anymore, and most certainly not one of yours to command." Harry looked up. "Get out."
"No."
Harry arched a brow. "I’ll call the police."
"Whatever happened to not making a scene in front of the neighbors?" Snape sneered.
"Then leave, and tell Dumbledore that he can take his job and shove it."
Snape, as Harry knew he was going to do, subtly changed subjects. "You were Lupin’s first choice." When that was met with silence, he continued. "He died on June twenty-eighth, and was buried in the small yard beside the Quidditch pitch. It’s a nice plot, for being a plot–Dumbledore is a sentimental old fool and had a proper headstone put up."
Harry hated being manipulated. He did. And he knew he was. But hearing Snape talk about Remus, even in that cold voice of his, made his heart swell. He knew Remus would have never gone along with anything Snape had planned; he would have warned Harry. Remus had been the last link to his family, and in being so, became his family.
It hurt Harry more then he could say to know he was dead.
And using that hurt like a weapon, Sever–....Snape had come and killed seven years of careful defenses like a bulldozer. It was his talent.
"Was he in pain?"
"No. He went to sleep and died peacefully in his bed," Snape said, in a deceptively quiet voice. "He..." And now, his voice went gruff, and Harry thought he might actually be getting emotional, but was spared that shock when Snape grit out, "He was a good teacher."
Harry couldn’t help but snort. "That’s the hardest thing you’ve ever said, isn’t it?"
"One of," Snape let out a long breath through his nose. "I...understand you do not want to return to Hogwarts, especially not in light of the way we...parted ways." He couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. "However, Dumbledore would not disturb your peace without good reason. He is not a sadist."
"No, that title is saved especially for you." Harry leaned back in his chair and took a long drag of his cigarette, enjoying Snape’s eyes flickering over his chest before back to his face, a faint tinge of color rising in his normally sallow cheeks.
Harry smirked.
"In any other circumstance, I’d tell you where you can put your damn job. But the owls can’t continue. I value my peaceful life here, and Dumbledore won’t get a clue, no matter what I say in my return letters. So I’ll throw you a bone, Snape, though you’re, by far, the most undeserving person I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. I’ll come with you to Hogwarts, and I’ll tell the Headmaster myself that I’m not taking the job."
The man looked affronted but sneered, nonetheless. "Thank you for being so gracious, Saint Potter."
The name scraped across Harry’s endless walls like a knife. He covered it with a smirk. "Haven’t been pure for about seven years. No use to start now," Harry smirked, just to watch some of the color bleed out of Snape’s face.
Snape’s black eyes burned with an unspoken retort as he inclined his head and stood. "Will it take you long to get your things?"
"No, but you’re not staying here," Harry said, putting the cigarette out. "Meet me at the shop in an hour."
"Don’t trust me around your precious possessions, Potter?" Snape asked. The look on his face said just what he thought of Harry’s possessions.
"No, I just don’t trust you, period." He opened the front door, and arched a brow. "An hour."
Snape smelled of chocolate when he stalked by him.
And if Harry’s knees were a little wobbly after he closed and locked the door, his eyes a little bright, well then, there was no one to see it.
Except Hedwig, who was glaring angrily at him.
"Just for the day," he assured her. "Would you like to keep sharing your water dish with the school owls?"
- = - = -
After packing a change of clothes, his paperwork, and a few other essentials for his day trip to Scotland, Harry met Snape at the shop as he’d told him to. They took an illegal Floo out of the country with black Floo powder Harry had never seen the likes of. It was a significantly smoother ride, in any case.
Returning to Hogwarts was worse than a punch to the gut.
Instead of depositing them in Hogsmeade as Harry had initially thought, the Floo connected directly to Snape’s office, and when he stepped out of the hearth, his heart seized. He never thought, not in a million years, that he would be back in these rooms with this man. Something in him was inexplicably ashamed. Harry had sworn to himself that he would never again find himself in a position to be manipulated by these people he had once loved and yet here he was, out of sheer annoyance, honor, and his own damnable, never ending curiosity.
The little tea he’d drunk that morning leapt in his throat, so high and thick that if he spoke he was sure to vomit. Instead he swallowed, ignoring Snape and straightening his back so he stood at his tallest, head straight and eyes dismissive of the rooms. "Still living like a bat, I see," Harry said, finally pushing the tea back down where it belonged, in his stomach. "Let’s get this over with."
Snape inclined his head once again, silent as the grave, and tossed a handful of pale Floo powder back into the hearth. The flames licked up, neon green this time. "Professor Dumbledore?"
In the fire a long-bearded, twinkle eyed face appeared, and the moment Harry met his eyes, he knew he had been deceived. He knew Dumbledore very well, very well, more than anyone he’d ever met, and though the man was still an enigma, his motivations were not.
He’d been tricked.
"No," he said, backing up. "No."
"Harry..."
Harry. He hadn’t been called Harry for so long that it almost sounded foreign.
"No. No, Dumbledore."
The last time Dumbledore had looked at him like that Sirius had just died and Dumbledore was telling him that he’d have to kill Voldemort or be killed in return. The last time Dumbledore had looked at him like that, the twinkle in his eyes had been tears, of which a single one trickled down his face into his beard. The last time Dumbledore had looked at him just like that, Harry had been a sixteen year old boy, being told his leg would never get better, that he would limp for the rest of his life and he should be grateful all he’d lost was full mobility, the ability to play anything more than school Quidditch, proper posture and feeling at the back of his thigh.
The last time Dumbledore had looked at him like that, he had congratulated Harry on finishing Hogwarts and asked him what Harry was going to do with the rest of his life.
"Please come to my office, Harry, I have much to explain to you. Severus, would you be so kind as to join us?"
The dark blob at the corner of Harry's peripheral vision nodded, firmly took his elbow, and the touch made Harry’s skin crawl. The memory of that touch, warm on his legs and thighs and cock, a touch Harry had thought was for pleasure, not betrayal, made his throat burn. He jerked out of the hold and made a sound low in his throat that would have made the Gryffindor lion proud. "Don’t touch me."
Dumbledore backed out of the Floo, and a highly stunned Snape and furious Harry stepped in, spinning for only a moment before arriving in Dumbledore’s office.
It was exactly as Harry remembered it. Though it had been nearly six years since he’d been there, the smell of magic and lemon drops was as familiar as if he’d just visited yesterday. Fawkes still sat gently on his perch–older now, with more gold in his plumage, but still handsome and bright eyed. When he saw Harry he chirped a few notes of welcome. It sent warm feeling through Harry’s heart, and put him at a false sense of ease. Another tool of manipulation.
"Harry," Dumbledore murmured.
The old man looked exactly as always. He still wore the ridiculous hats, the blinding robes, the long beard and silver spectacles. His blue eyes even twinkled with happiness. In that instant, Harry hated him with all of his soul for allowing Snape what others had never dared–the ability to wound him so deeply that he carried it as he did the scar on his forehead.
Dumbledore had let Snape hurt him right under his nose–he had to have known that Snape was seducing him, he had to, and for that Harry could never forgive him. Dumbledore had effortlessly destroyed every semblance of Harry Potter that had existed, changed him, molded him into this being who lived day to day without any type of direction. He was like an emotionless robot–never able to date, never able to have friends--living alone with his clocks and a past that haunted him as easily as any ghost.
"I haven’t appreciated the flood of owls over the last month, Dumbledore. I came to tell you in person that I’m not accepting the job." He was deeply proud of his calm voice.
Dumbledore’s inclined his head, still smiling that absolutely infuriating smile. "We’ll talk about that in just a moment. Tea?"
"No." Harry ground out, but because Snape and Dumbledore both were staring at him, he sat. "No, Dumbledore. You can’t manipulate me into this. I won’t let you. The days when you could still do that are long gone."
"Mmm. How have you been, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, sipping from his own cup of tea.
Harry stared at him. "What...the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"I haven’t seen you in many years," Dumbledore said, a little sheepishly.
"I’m as fine as can be expected for a man who had to change his name to get away from a life he thought he knew," Harry snapped back. "You haven’t called me back because you want me to teach, you want me back to fight your battles for you. My scar has been burning, I’m having nightmares." When Dumbledore just stared at him, Harry smirked. "I’m not a stupid child any longer, Dumbledore. What, you thought you’d just casually slide it in one day over breakfast? ‘Oh, Harry, could you do us a favor and kill Voldemort again; really old chap, this really is the last time?’" Harry sneered in an almost perfect imitation of Snape. "Fuck that, and fuck you. I’m done being a pawn in your little game, I’ve paid my dues a thousand times over. I want my peace–I’ve earned it."
Dumbledore’s lips tightened; the twinkle in his eye dimmed the softest bit. "Harry, the reason I have asked you back is because Professor Lupin requested your presence, specifically, in his will. He would like for you to take care of his estate and his work, and he trusted no one for this job but you."
At the mention of Remus Harry flinched, so of course Dumbledore took his advantage.
"Professor Aturro, a professor we had three years before you came to Hogwarts, cursed Hogwarts' professorship for Defense Against the Dark Arts just before the squid in the lake ate him."
Snape snickered evilly from Harry’s left, and Harry glared.
"Remus was able to break the curse by his sheer willpower. No professor managed to hold the job for much more than a year, but he held it for eight–it was hard at times and there were many trips to the infirmary, but he succeeded. The job is safe now and he asked specifically that you be the one to take it when he passed on. I would not be doing his memory justice if I did not contact you, even in this most difficult manner," Dumbledore said.
They were playing on his guilt complex.
And it was working.
Harry looked down at his knees. Remus–eyes twinkling, his limp desperately pronounced, face scarred, but still...still Remus. Still in there, his soul intact, rubbing shoulders with such colleagues as Severus Snape.
All with a smile on his face.
"I don’t want to be here," Harry said, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He thought this kind of pain was over with and that he wouldn’t have to endure any more of it. And yet, here he sat, hunched in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk like a naughty first year. He thought he might throw up.
"It is entirely your choice, Harry," Dumbledore said, very quietly. As if Harry had any choice at all. "You would have private rooms, and aside from teaching and attending staff meetings, you could still make your clocks. If you like, a special room will be set up for you for that very purpose."
You don't have to, Harry, Remus' voice in his head was nothing more than wishful thinking, but it helped some, but how long are you going to run away from the past? You'll have to come back and face it someday. Why not today? I know it hurts, but you’ve been gone long enough. France is not your home–it doesn’t complete you like Hogwarts does. Come back, Harry. Show them what you’ve learned. Show them the man you’ve become.
Harry shook, in abject misery. He didn’t owe anyone anything.
Except Remus.
"Professor Lupin believed in you, Harry, in ways not even I could. He cared very deeply for you, and wanted you to be happy. He requested that we offer the job to you–nothing more. It is your decision," Dumbledore murmured.
Remus, who had saved his life there at the Battle of Yorkshire, who had nurtured his homosexuality, who had told him his parents and Sirius would have too. Remus, who had been the last link to his family, who had loved him just because Harry was lovable and worth being cared for. Remus, who would have killed Snape if he’d ever known how terribly Harry had been hurt by him.
Remus, who he had never spoken to again, who had died friendless and alone in his chambers. Who had no children, who had lost everyone he had loved, who had suffered more than any human being had any right to. Remus, who Harry had adored.
"Until Christmas," he said, quietly, and hated Dumbledore for not even sighing with relief. He didn’t bother looking up. "That’ll be ample time to find another teacher."
Dumbledore nodded, gently. "Yes, it will. Thank you, Harry."
Harry felt like he was going to vomit at any moment–he’d been manipulated again, and it was his own sense of honor, the same kind that put him in this situation to begin with, that did it. When he was younger he’d had no sense of it–now, he was perfectly aware of how conniving Dumbledore was.
And it was all his own fault.
"Severus?" He heard the Headmaster ask, "Could you please leave Harry and I alone for a moment?"
As if from inside a bubble, Harry heard Snape leave the room, and when the door clicked shut behind him, the bubble popped. He heard and saw everything in startling detail, from the sparkle of Dumbledore’s glasses, to the ticking of his instruments on the wooden table beside the door.
"Harry..." Dumbledore sighed. He walked around his desk and took the seat beside Harry’s own, his wizards robes flaring around his carpet slippers. Easily, with only a wand flicker, he levitated cups and a tea pot from further back in his rooms and set them on the desk.
When Dumbledore offered, Harry took the cup of tea.
"Harry, I know you’ve become aware of Voldemort’s return. Your scar has been prickling...your dreams are once again not your own. I...would like for you, if you think it would be satisfactory, to join the Order of the Phoenix. Before you say no," Dumbledore added, holding a hand up just as Harry had been about to speak, "I’d like to tell you that the Order, as well as Grimmauld Place, has the Fidelius Charm on it. It is another means of protecting you, if you join. You are not alone, Harry."
Not alone. Not alone. What a joke, what a fucking joke. No, of course he wasn’t alone, he’d just spent the last six years picking his life back up from the ashes, piecing it back together into some semblance of normalcy, enduring day after day and night after night with the knowledge that no one had ever loved him beyond his scar because he thought it was fucking amusing.
No more guilt. No more remorse. Everyone has to face their past sometime, Harry.
Instead of arguing with Dumbledore when he was so very tired, Harry simply nodded. He doubted he’d had a choice to begin with. "All right."
Dumbledore was quiet for a few moments. "Our first meeting will be the evening that the children arrive. Report to my office, and we can both portkey in, if that’s all right?"
Harry nodded again. He didn’t really care, to be honest.
"Wonderful. Dobby will lead you to your rooms–they were Professor Lupin’s. I hope you find them satisfactory," Dumbledore said, and beckoned for the little house elf, who stood nearly quivering with joy from the doorway.
Harry might have imagined it, but he thought he heard Dumbledore whisper just as Harry was shutting the door behind himself, "I’m so sorry, Harry."
Harry followed Dobby to his new rooms in a quiet, very private part of the castle, barely listening to Dobby’s twittering and squealing. The rooms were modest but homey, and all of Remus’ furniture had remained. His books on the shelves, his hearth rug, his couches. The personal belongings were gone, but the strange, homey scent of spice and aftershave that was totally Remus remained.
By that night when the faculty congregated for dinner, Dumbledore introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor; Harry James Potter.
And when Harry went to bed that night he cried until the bed shook, his salty tears soaking the sheets and pillows of home.
OR
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