If You Are Prepared II: The Boy Cannot Know
Chapter One: Gifts
~~~~~~~
"The bumpers are in place, Severus. Everything is in order."
Oh joy. While Dumbledore is enjoying his Winter break, indulging in the Yuletide festivities, I will be de-splinching Harry Potter. Of course, this means that I won't have to endure that bloody hat gag that never ceases to give Dumbledore a good laugh at my expense. I silently curse Lupin and Longbottom once again. May both of them rot in hell.
"Don't look so worried. You'll do fine."
I'll do fine. Of course I'll do fine. It's Potter I'm worried about. The boy cannot focus on a bloody digestive potion, let alone Apparating. He'll be losing bits and pieces of himself all over that dungeon. And I can think of a million things I would prefer to do during my break than to go around collecting Potter's stray parts. I guess I should be glad it's only one room. Loath though I am to admit it, however, I agree with Albus that it's necessary training. If the foolish boy falls into Voldemort's hands yet again, at least he'll be able to get away. Let's just hope the same for Voldemort.
Stop. My stomach drops at the thought, and I quickly pack it away. I am dismayed it has taken me so long to be able to repress Dumbledore's news. Out of practice, I daresay. It's been fourteen years since I played Death Eater. My selective memory skills were essential during that time. I was brilliant at it, able to fool even the most effective truth seeking methods. I was my own secret keeper.
I will retrain myself over the holiday.
"Well, I'll be going, then. I'll pop in after a few days to see how the two of you are getting on. If things get out of hand, you know how to reach me. Good night, Severus. And say hello to Harry for me, hm?"
I sneer and he chuckles before shutting the door behind him. I get the distinct impression that the man loves to torture me. It occurs to me that Dumbledore is a sadist. He forces amity on people the way that Voldemort forces enmity. Dumbledore's personal brand of sadism is accepted because it doesn't leave any traceable scars. He has all but gift wrapped the boy and set him on my lap--not bothering to include a bloody receipt so that I might exchange him for something I actually like.
Harry Potter, the stale fruitcake in my Christmas stocking.
I walk to my desk and pick up the bottle of red wine that I've left to breathe. A little reward for getting through yet another term without hexing a single student. I pour myself a glass and walk over to sit in the newest addition to my chambers: an over-stuffed leather armchair in Slytherin green. A gift from Albus Dumbledore, the King of Subtlety—though he has not said as much. I asked him about it and he twinkled in his usual mischievous manner. My resentment for the presumptuous gesture, I'm ashamed to say, drains from me the instant I sit down. I suspect that there may be a stress-relieving charm on it because as I sit, my mind fills with a low, pleasant humming noise and my body begins to tingle.
When I first hear the knock, I am much too content to be annoyed. I regret vaguely not having given the boy the password so that I wouldn't have to get up to answer. Some dim aspect of my almost sedated consciousness orders me up. Once I find my feet again, I reprimand myself sternly for even playing with the idea of giving the boy free access to my chambers. I resolve not to sit in the chair while he's here. I couldn't be held responsible for the kindnesses I might commit in such a state.
I shudder at the thought and open the door.
~~~~~~~
It's been a week since Dumbledore gave him the pass to my private life. He stopped bothering to look apologetic after the third night. Now he has the audacity to beam at me when I open the door. Despite my forbidding sneer. I step aside and wave him in. I always do. My own conscience has grown weary of cursing me for my weakness, given how often it has had occasion to do so. Instead, it's taken to collecting all its grievances and unleashing them all at once in random attacks of self-loathing. These attacks normally occur right after I see the boy off for the night.
He brushes past me and I notice he's brought a rather large knapsack with him.
"Moving in, Potter? Let me guess, you asked the headmaster for permission, right? Perhaps you have another pass."
He gives me a look. And rolls his eyes. At me.
This has become an all too common occurrence. His total disregard for my attempts at provocation never ceases to render me speechless. Every other student in this school cowers before me and would sooner snog a mandrake than invoke my wrath. Potter shrugs it off dismissively. I throw a scathing remark at him, and he rolls his eyes. I am stunned by his impudence. The boy deserves to die.
Stop.
"I figured since we have to leave in the morning, and there isn't anyone left in Gryffindor that I might stay here. If that's all right. I'll take the sofa, this time." The boy has the nerve to pretend that I have a choice. He knows bloody well I'll let him stay. Though, for the life of me, I can't figure out why, exactly, I'm going to let him stay.
You enjoy his company. I most certainly do not.
I choose the dignified route of not answering his implied question. I won't kick him out, but I refuse to offer an invitation. I shut the door and walk back to the hearth. I sit in the chair I brought to Hogwarts from the manor. I can hear the boy put his bag down and walk over.
He stares at the chair and then looks at me with a wry grin. He thinks I bought it to accommodate him. I'm happy to disappoint him.
"It was a gift," I clarify.
"From whom?"
"Your biggest fan."
"Hagrid?"
I raise an eyebrow and sneer. He grins. Blasted boy.
"Don't you like it?"
"There's something queer about it. I think it might be hexed. You may sit there."
He snorts, but takes my invitation. I watch as the same relief that I'd experienced washes over him. His eyes flutter closed and I try not to think about what that image calls to mind. His mouth curls into a sated smile and he sighs. I drain my glass of wine.
"Oh my...oh, that's nice," he breathes obscenely. I'm vaguely aware that my eyes have doubled in size. I shift in my seat and try not to notice the way his lips are slightly parted. He moans contentedly and blinks his eyes open. He gazes at me dreamily.
"God. Whoever gave you this chair must like you a whole lot. Are you sure you don't want to sit here?"
I would have snorted at that comment, but the sound of his breath hitching followed by a whispered "god, it feels like fingers..." hurls my mind into a fury. My eyes dart frantically away from the orgasmic boy and land on the bottle of wine sitting next to the chair that is molesting my student. I lean forward to pick it up. I freeze as a hand touches my shoulder.
"Snape, you have to try this," he whispers absently.
A dilemma. I can run the risk of exhibiting the same reactions to the chair that I apparently haven't spent nearly enough time in, or I can continue to watch the boy get off. Neither option seems appealing. Or decent.
The boy stands up and I silently applaud him for his self-control. He sits in the other chair and I stand to glare down at him.
"Go on."
I don't move and he stands up, physically encouraging me to sit in the chair. I find myself too stunned that he is handling me to stop myself from falling backwards. I am caught by the sinfully soft seat and lean back automatically. The pleasant humming fills my brain and, once again, my muscles begin to tingle. I can feel myself sighing, but can't seem to control it. I can't say how long I've been sitting there before the "fingers" that Potter had spoken about spring into action. My eyes, which I hadn't been aware were closed, snap open. I can see Potter grinning at me but I can't bring myself to scold him for it because those fingers have paralyzed my will and begun working all over my body, coaxing out every last wit. Someone groans and I realise that it was I, but I don't remember to be horrified by it.
A faint voice says, "Happy Christmas, Professor."
~~~~~~~
Somehow, I manage to peel myself out of the chair. The rush of consciousness nearly knocks me back into it. My body feels roughly like well-kneaded bread dough and my brain seems to be made of the same stuff. The boy has stretched himself on the rug before the hearth and appears to be sleeping. I am struck by the beauty of his face in the warm glow of the fire. Shadows dance across it creating a remarkable play of illusions. I kneel beside him and put my hand on his chest meaning to wake him, I think.
"Harry."
He opens his eyes suddenly. He smiles. "You all right?" His voice pulls me back into myself, and I can feel my neck muscles tense up under the weight of it. "You called me 'Harry'. I think the chair's confounded you." He laughs.
"Dumbledore." I grumble and look at the offending furniture with disdain. It occurs to me that I had meant to say much more than 'Dumbledore'.
He yawns and stretches. "I think I'll be able to sleep tonight. Do you have an extra blanket?" My brain lags behind and I stare at him stupidly. The chair, I've decided, is a dangerous Dark Arts item that slows the user's thought process to such an extent that it renders even the most powerful wizards incapable of defence. I have decided to look up its maker and file a complaint with the Ministry. Why would Dumbledore give me such an object? My stomach tightens. Maybe it wasn't he; maybe it was planted here. Lucius may have placed it here, knowing I would sit in it, planning to take advantage of my befuddled state. He might have had Draco do it. Does he know I've been working with the boy? Perhaps he will try to come tonight and take Harry. Potter, I correct myself.
"Professor? Are you sure you're all right?"
"Potter, dormitory." He raises his eyebrows. I wonder what the hell happened to the rest of that sentence.
"Why?"
"Don't. Now. Go." I growl and then analyse the statement. There are words missing. It had begun as "Don't argue with me, you little bugger, now is not the time. Go." No matter. It seems my message got across. I realise that I probably shouldn't let him walk back alone. I'll have to escort him.
"Well, all right. But I don't understand. What's wrong?" He is concerned but not angry, I note. He walks over and picks up his sneakers and then goes to sit in the chair to put them on. He mumbles something which I don't pay attention to. I'm too busy trying to convince my mouth to say "Don't sit there."
"Don't." I manage to say the moment he seats himself. He looks up at me as though I'm mad.
"Don't what?" he says finally.
"Chair. It. I." Some part of my brain is forming coherent thoughts, but that part seems to be disconnected from the part that controls speech. I feel my mouth moving now, but hear nothing.
"Oh. Sorry, I shouldn't have fallen asleep when you were in the chair. The woman I bought it from didn't tell me it turns your brain to mush."
I hear the words right away. Each individual sound has a separate meaning. I try to string the meanings together and I finally succeed after a few minutes. Of course, my concept of time has been sucked up into that evil fabric, so I might be off on how long it actually took.
"You? I. But. Why?"
I resolve not to speak until my brain grows back together and I feel a panic wash over me when I consider that I may never be able to speak again. The panic has an undercurrent of rage directed toward the wretched boy sitting there. I am furious with him, and even more furious that I can't tell him so.
"It's your Christmas present. I thought it would be perfect for you. I mean, you could do with a bit of relaxation. Maybe you shouldn't sit in it so long next time. They really should put a warning on it or something."
My mind screams, "Get the hell out of here now before I hex you, you little prick. I'm going to bed. Good night!"
I hear myself say: "Now. You. Prick. Bed. Good." Were I still capable of blushing, I may have then. I renew my vow of silence and begin wondering if I would be able to raise my wand and say "Obliviate" before he could dodge the spell. After a moment of gaping, he doubles over in hysterics. I press my mouth together to keep from speaking and then turn and walk hurriedly toward my bedroom. I can hear him trying to calm himself behind me, wheezing with laughter. I slam the door behind me.
~~~~~~~
I snap my eyes open and the light of a lamp chases away the images of an unpleasant dream. I can't remember the subject, but the ghost of sorrow lingers around me. I rise from the bed and look at the time—half past five. I look toward the sofa, and notice the boy isn't there. He must have gone back to his dormitory—hopefully out of fear for his life.
Not without apprehension, I try out my speaking skills. I take a deep breath and say, "I am Severus Snape." That went well. Perhaps something a little more complex. "I am Severus Snape, Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and indentured servant of Albus Dumbledore."
All seems to be in order and reconnected. My body is stiff and my face wears its usual scowl. I sigh with relief and walk to the sitting room where I plan to spend the morning working on recovering my selective memory skills. I hold to the vague hope that I will manage it before being trapped in the room with the boy. It's hard enough to stay focused around him without being plagued by the knowledge that he could die at any moment. Dumbledore's words haunt me once more. "Should anyone kill Lord Voldemort, Harry will perish."
I snort at finding myself thankful that the Dark Lord is so damn difficult to kill.
The Dark Lord Who Lived. Really, his accomplishment is worth much more acclaim than Potter's accidental survival. He succeeded in performing a ritual that has killed all but two people who attempted it. No, he hasn't completely succeeded, I remind myself. He's only finished part of it—but the hard part, all the same. Most wizards, even most dark wizards, are not sinister enough to even consider the ritual. Of all the ways to gain immortality, Voldemort chose the most evil. He certainly insists upon excellence. Some part of me is impressed once more by his power. Sickened, but impressed.
I shake the thought off and go to sit in my usual chair. I glare once more at the cursed addition to my sitting room as I walk around it. My glare fades when I notice a body curled up in the seat. I sigh. So much for meditation. I sit in the chair opposite and watch the boy sleep, damning him for not having fled in terror last night.
As my eyes move over his face, relaxed and pale with sleep, I find myself filled with an indecipherable emotion. I try to push away the realisation that the face will never know the signs of age. The lines of experience and wisdom that mark the rest of us will not mar his skin. He will never be beautiful. He will never stop being beautiful.
He's dreaming. I watch his face twitch, his eyes searching from behind his eyelids. His parched lips move with unspoken words. He moans lightly and furrows his brow, and then mutters nonsensically. I find myself hoping that his dream is a good one and try to convince myself that I only want to avoid another emotional exchange. My breath hitches when I see the face curl up into a grimace and I bite my lip with apprehension when his breathing becomes more ragged.
Before I know what I'm doing, I have moved across the space between the two chairs. "Potter," I whisper, and my hand reaches to shake his shoulder. Upon contact, the boy screams and waves his arm wildly, a clenched fist colliding rather abruptly with my nose. I fall back to the floor.
You deserved that, you pathetic fool. I clutch my wound and wonder vaguely where I put my spine. I seem to have misplaced it.
"Oh god. Professor, I-" The boy slides off the chair and kneels before me. He pulls my hand away from my face. "I'm sorry. I thought you were...when...um. Sorry." At first I fear that the chair had taken his capacity to speak, and then I remember that he never could speak in complete sentences.
The contact had been more startling than painful. I recover quickly and stand. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought I told you to go back to your room."
"Oh, I was...I mean, I felt bad...you know. About the chair thing. I was—worried. About you. So, I stayed." Worried. He was supposed to be worried about what I would do to him once I recovered my wits. Stupid boy. "But you seem fine now."
Yes, I'm fine. But how was he able to spend the night in the chair without being turned into a lump of stuttering putty? "What did you do to the chair?" I ask. His awkward smile becomes a sly grin and I hate him for it.
"I used the keyword."
I wait. I will not ask him what the word is. He wants me to and he waits for it. His eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze, challenging me. Oh, bloody hell, this is ridiculous. "Well, are you going to tell me, or not?"
He smirks and looks much too pleased with himself. "Harry."
Of course.
