2009_Worth_It_by_Inoru_no

Worth It
by Inoru no hoshi

In the aftermath of the incident at the Department of Mysteries, damages and losses were swiftly tallied. The totals had the Department head and immediate aides up in arms and mobbing the Minister, loudly demanding that something be done about "that reckless Potter boy!"

Though Fudge blustered and prevaricated, "something" turned out to be putting "that reckless Potter boy" on trial in absentia. (Wagging tongues of those in the know whispered, scandalized, that it was the second time in a year the Boy Who Lived was the focus of a trial, and how much of a hooligan was he, really?)

Albus found out about the trial almost at the last minute, a fact that disturbed him; though no longer Chief Warlock, he had friends high up in the system yet, and he should have at least heard an inkling of it before then. He suspected that he might not have learned of it at all, or not at least until long afterwards, if he hadn’t been listed as Harry’s barrister, and as such had been called upon to be the young man’s defense.

The elderly wizard took a seat at a table, and glanced around the court room, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes masking worry. The room, unlike the one the August trial had been held in, seemed to have been modeled after a Muggle courtroom: it was warm and well-lit, with wood rather than stone and metal setting the tone of the décor. Of course, Albus reflected wryly, they aren’t trying to intimidate a stubborn, powerful adolescent this time.

Also unlike the prior trial, the only persons who knew of it or were allowed into the room were those that were presumed to be necessary to the proceedings. There wasn’t a reporter in the bunch; Albus knew that news of this trial wouldn’t get out until after the verdict was reached - and possibly not until after it was carried out, if indeed it turned out to be something actionable.

The clerk, a steady older man with watery eyes and whose palm not even Lucius Malfoy could have greased, announced Minister Fudge as the presiding judge, and the occupants of the room rose to their feet. The portly man - who looked ill-at-ease in his stiff and somber robes - told them to be seated, and fussed with a small pile of parchments, rolled and otherwise. Fudge wasn’t quite certain what he was doing presiding over the trial; normally someone else presided over this sort, rare though they were, but apparently the head of the Department of Mysteries had deemed the normal judge untrustworthy - and the Minister was, as always, the only listed alternate.

With minimal prompting, the opening statements for and against Potter were given, with the prosecution’s succinct listing of total damages and pressure for the full extent of the law to be brought to bear butting horns against the defense’s insistence that a fine suitable to the coverage of the damages be levied, if indeed it was deemed a punishable offense in light of the over-all circumstances.

With the opening sallies made, things began in earnest, and Fudge soon decided that he knew why the normal judge of such proceedings was old before his time: the bickering between the sides, though couched in polite terms mostly, was vicious. (Had he followed that thought further, he would have also considered this the reason for Veritaserum’s creation, and also why Muggle barristers tend to be considered outriders of the devil by many.) This wouldn’t have been something hard to bear for a short time, but the trial dragged on for several days - excruciatingly long, when one considers that most legal issues tended to be solved within a few hours, at the maximum, thanks to truth serums and the general handiness of magic itself.

On the third day of the trial, after the back-and-forth had become surprisingly tedious and redundant, Fudge declared that he had heard enough, and that he and the seven-person jury would retreat to cast their judgments of guilty, or not guilty, and to what extent the punishment, if any, should be.

Compared to the lengthiness of the trial itself, the verdict was returned within eight hours. The clerk once again bid the attendees to rise as the Minister stood from his seat behind the bench and cleared his throat.

“Harry James Potter has been found by this court to be: guilty,” Minister Fudge announced. “He is hereby ordered to pay a sum of five thousand Galleons to the Department of Mysteries as payment for damages rendered. However, as much of the worst damage was done to priceless and irreplaceable artefacts, and as this is the third time he has fallen afoul of the law, we hereby sentence him to Laughlin’s Law - this will no doubt curb his impetuousness.”

Albus actually found himself gaping as whispers filled the courtroom: Laughlin’s Law hadn’t been brought to bear for over thirty years.

“Two weeks grace we allow for his guardian to carry out this second sentence,” Fudge continued. “After that point, this court will see it carried out in full.” He rolled up the scroll he had been reading from and set it down, then banged the gavel thrice.

“Dismissed.”

Albus sat at his desk, which was littered with parchments both clean and written on, scrunched and otherwise, and he felt despair creeping up on him. Laughlin’s Law was old, dating back at least five centuries, and was the only legal way for one wizard or witch to enslave another. At one time, it had been invoked for petty reasons, by equally petty persons, but in all the years he had lived, Albus had only heard of it being laid down a handful of times, and always for serious infractions. He supposed he could consider it a small blessing that the court hadn’t immediately chosen who Harry would be given to.

Not that it seemed like he could take advantage of that small hope. He had asked around, quietly and stressing the utmost importance of it not being bruited about, and as yet had found that he had indeed surrounded himself with virtuous people in his old age. Perhaps overly so. He sighed and slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands as Fawkes began crooning soothingly from his perch.

Mentally, he ran through the list of people to whom he could entrust Harry, though it would avail him little, as he had already asked them all: Minerva, Filius, Remus, Arthur and Molly, Moody, William Weasley, his brother Charles-- One by one, everyone he had asked had a reason for refusing it, some coolly, some affronted, and some apologetic. Still, it meant that he was at a loss for what to do.

Fawkes suddenly alighted on his shoulder, apparently having decided that the perch was too far away for his gentle singing to do much good. Albus lifted his head and sat straighter, though no less happily. If those he would trust the boy’s life and good health to would not, then simply someone he trusted would have to do. And of all the people in that category, the one he trusted the most was amongst the least likely to refrain from taking Harry and making the boy into a true slave to himself.

Muggles have a saying for times like this, he thought as he pulled a clear scrap of parchment to himself, and wrote a short missive on it. “Needs must when the Devil drives.” He folded the scrap over, then proffered it to the phoenix, asking, “Take this to Severus, please.”

And after the bird had trilled and disappeared, he said to the empty room, voice heavy with sorrow, “I hope you will forgive me someday, Harry.”

For once, Harry was having an utterly boring summer. Despite the lingering grief over Sirius, and the worry about what Voldemort was getting up to, there was little actually going on. He didn’t even have many chores to do (although, for once in his life, he was actually insisting on doing some, rather than the Dursleys heaping them on him will-he-nil-he, as he had decided that if he wasn‘t kept somewhat busy, he‘d go mad), and he didn’t need to sneak the paper or lurk outside a window in order to try and catch news: his relatives were slightly more cowed this year, and raised little fuss. News there was, reports of odd incidences and inexplicable deaths, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it. So he was bored, and rather in the doldrums.

And, he reflected wryly as he stared out the window at the gray dawn, I haven’t even been back for two weeks.

He held a quill loosely in one hand; the desire to keep himself busy had led to him working on his summer assignments earlier than he usually did (a side effect of which was that he was actually doing his best to do them well without relying on Hermione). His other hand was propping up his chin as he continued to stare out the window.

Outside it was clouded over, threatening rain as it had been for most of the days since he had returned. It was the exact opposite of the summer before, but he figured the residents of Privet Drive appreciated it about as well as they had the oppressive heat of the previous year. And it was early, so early that the shadows of night weren’t near wholly fled and only the Wilkers down at number seventeen were also awake - and that only because Mr. Wilkers apparently had a long commute to his job. Harry himself had become used to little sleep over the past year - six hours at a stretch was more than he usually got - which explained why he had already been awake for over an hour.

Suddenly he realized that his assessment of the wakefulness of the neighbourhood was wrong - or at least that someone would be having some very early visitors: down the street, he could see two or maybe three people walking purposefully along the pavement. The streetlights had winked off almost a half-hour before, so he couldn’t make out any details of who they might be, though he thought they were wearing long coats. Curious now, he set the quill aside, made a face at the unsightly blotch dripping ink had made on the parchment, then stood and moved closer to the window. As he watched, the light grew stronger and the figures drew closer, until he could see that it was only two people, who wore long robes and cloaks over against the threat of rain. They were wizards, and wizards meant that it was number four that was to get unexpected visitors.

He grabbed his wand off of the desk and went downstairs, avoiding the creakiest spots along the way (a great deal of the floor and stairs creaked; Harry felt that this was a side effect of it being home to a walrus and a whale, since he figured the house hadn’t been built to withstand such, eh, impressive girths as the father and son both sported). In the front hall, he didn’t turn the light on, but rather stood to one side of the door and peered out of the window there. This way, he would be able to see the people on the walk and open the door before they rang the doorbell. Mornings were peaceful before his relatives woke, so he felt the need to prevent their waking just yet.

It wasn’t very long before the two figures were within view, and then turning at the end of the walk. He waited until they were only a few feet from the door, then wrenched it open and levelled his wand at them. “Who’re you?”

“Moody and Lupin,” the front-most figure growled in reply, pushing back his hood enough for Harry to see Moody’s distinctive visage.

“Prove it,” he demanded. “Where’s Headquarters?”

“Number twelve,” Moody replied, grizzled voice as quiet as he could make it.

Harry nodded and turned to the other figure, still a bit suspicious. “What was my godfather to you?”

“Lover,” was the immediate answer, though it was easy to hear grief in it.

“Satisfied, Potter?” Moody asked, magical eye shifting this way and that in search of threats.

“Yeah,” he answered, lowering his wand and tucking it into a pocket. “I suppose you’d best come in.” He stood back and the two wizards tromped inside. Harry closed the door behind them; then, seeing that both men had moved into the living room, followed after.

“What’re you here for?” he asked, curious.

“Dumbledore sent us to fetch you,” Moody responded, looking no less alert inside than he had on the stoop. “Pack your things.”

Harry blinked and frowned. “Has something happened?” He paused, then hurriedly added, “I mean, school hasn’t been out for even two weeks yet, and I’m not usually allowed to leave until after my birthday.” His voice held a tinge of resentment.

“That’s what Albus needs to speak with you about,” Lupin told him, with a small, weary smile. “Sooner you’re ready, sooner you can find out what’s going on.”

Harry turned and started back towards his room, but paused in the doorway. “This isn’t going to be like last year, when nobody told me anything, is it?” he asked, darkly suspicious.

“No,” the werewolf assured him, smile widening a bit. “Go on.” He made slight shooing motions, which amused Harry a bit as he went up the stairs. He tried to ignore the fact that the man’s smile had looked a bit fake around the edges, especially after the last question he’d asked. It didn’t take him long to pack, as he hadn’t unpacked all that much in the short time he’d been there, and also his relatives hadn‘t locked up his trunk, for once: just some clothes, the summer work and attendant texts, and his photo album. He shoved his feet into his trainers, which were even closer to falling apart than they had been the summer before. As his feet hadn’t grown too big for the much-abused shoes over the months he’d been away, his aunt and uncle had seen no reason to give him a new pair - there were times when he hated being small. He hurried back down the stairs, Hedwig‘s cage in hand (the owl herself was out hunting; Harry knew she‘d find him, wherever he ended up).

“I’m packed,” he told the waiting wizards. “Could one of you float the trunk down? I didn’t want to drag it down the stairs and wake up my family,” he explained, stressing the last word a bit sarcastically.

Lupin nodded in understanding and went up the stairs. Harry grabbed a piece of paper off the pad his aunt kept by the phone in the hall, hunted in the shallow drawer underneath the table said phone and pad rested on for a biro, and scribbled a short note: Aunt Petunia: Something has come up and have been fetched by my lot earlier than expected. See you next summer, I suppose. -Harry He took it into the kitchen and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet; there was no way it’d be missed.

He returned to the hall just as Lupin reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry’s trunk floating in front of him. “Let’s go,” Harry said, suddenly impatient to be off. Then: “Are we going by broom again?”

“Portkey,” Moody growled, pulling a peculiarly shaped piece of metal out from what Harry supposed must have been a pocket in his robes. “Grab hold.”

Harry’ put his hand on it, and a moment later Lupin’s joined it. He noted out of the corner of his eye that his trunk was no longer floating, but rather Lupin had grabbed hold of it by the handle on one end. The grizzled ex-Auror muttered, “Goshawk,” and Harry felt the hook of the Portkey grabbing at his middle.

When the whirling sensation (which somehow forcibly reminded him of his aunt’s blender) ceased, Harry found that he had landed with a thump and clang on the floor of the Headmaster’s office. He scrambled to his feet, cheeks red, and studiously ignored the muffled snickers he could hear from both Moody and Lupin.

“Ah, Harry! Welcome,” Dumbledore said suddenly, peering out from a door that Harry had never noticed before. “Come in here, please,” the wizened man urged, stepping to one side and beckoning to the teen. “No, leave the cage. Thank you, Alastor, Remus,” he added as Harry set the owl cage down and strode towards the door which the Headmaster was holding open. “You may go.”

Harry didn’t hear any reply except a quiet snort from Moody, and when he looked over his shoulder he saw that both had already left by the main door. He faced forwards again and slid around Dumbledore into the room beyond.

It was, he was a bit surprised to see, a warm and comfortable-looking sitting room, with a thick and plush carpet, plump but not over-stuffed chairs and sofas, a few tables of a dark, highly polish wood, and fine hangings on the stone walls. A fire leaped merrily in the fireplace, and there was breakfast laid out on one of the tables. A firm hand on his shoulder pushed him a bit further into the room, and then he heard the door closing behind him. The hand was moved away, and then the Headmaster was moving towards the table, waving Harry into another seat near it.

“I’m sure you haven’t had a chance to eat breakfast yet,” Dumbledore said, sitting down. “And neither have I. So come, sit and eat with me.”

Harry sat, but didn’t immediately reach for a plate. “How come you wanted to see me?”

“You should eat first,” the Headmaster replied quietly. “I promise you that I’ll tell you, but I would like to eat a peaceable breakfast, as indeed I’m not even properly dressed yet,” he added, and Harry saw that what he’d mistaken for a sombrely-patterned robe was actually a simple nightshirt. It amused him that the elderly man’s day-wear would be all the colours of the rainbow and his night-wear staid as anything, while most people would do it the other way around, if the rainbow of colours was deemed necessary.

Harry narrowed his eyes at Dumbledore, and gave him a hard look. Finally, he took a plate and dished himself some food. He was a bit hungry.

For a time, the only noise was the crackle of the fire and the chime of utensils on plates. Harry ate only about half of what was on his plate, and he hadn’t filled it as full as he might have. The elderly wizard continued to eat for only a short time after Harry had set his plate down and lifted his cup to sip from slowly.

Dumbledore leaned back and folded his hands loosely on his chest as he looked solemnly at Harry. “You probably won’t like what I have to say,” he began after a short time. “But that is as it must be, I suppose. After the goings-on in early June, the Department of Mysteries demanded you be brought up on charges due to the collective damages done there-in. And so you were - and found guilty, as well.”

“I think I’d remember being in a courtroom again,” Harry interrupted, frowning. “And since I don’t actually remember that happening, how could I have been…?”

“Trial in absentia,” the older man explained. “It’s not done often, but it is wholly legal.” Harry nodded slowly, so Dumbledore went on, “They fined you five thousand Galleons-” Harry choked. “-but while an impressive sum, it’s not the reason you’re here. You are here because judge and jury found you to be in need of strong curbing, and so sentenced you to Laughlin’s Law.”

Harry had barely begun to inquire as to what that was before Dumbledore explained in a quiet and subdued voice what said Law entailed. “And then I was given two weeks to find someone I deem suitable to take you in hand, so to speak, and that,“ he finished, “was itself almost two weeks ago.”

“Are you serious?” Harry asked incredulously, once he had managed to find his voice. “About that law, I mean?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” Dumbledore sighed.

“Couldn’t you, I don’t know, tell them they can’t do that?” Harry asked, forgetting in his shock that he still didn’t quite trust Dumbledore, not after the way his fifth year had gone.

“I don’t sit on the Wizengamot anymore, Harry,” the elder wizard replied, looking both troubled and regretful. “At least not near high enough to legally have that sort of influence. Aside from which, our courts don’t have a very good appeals system - a point on which I believe Muggles have outdone us. I could demand an appeal, it‘s true,” he mused, “but the court likely wouldn’t get around to granting it for months, perhaps years, and the likelihood of the verdict changing is really quite slim. And in the meantime, you would still be under the Law.”

Harry scowled. “That’s stupid.” He jumped to his feet and started pacing, feeling as if he might explode if he didn’t do something, no matter how ineffectual. “So, I suppose you’ve made a choice, huh?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes, I have. I doubt you will like it, and for that I am very sorry,” Dumbledore said, standing and moving over to the door he had invited Harry through earlier.

Harry paused, something about the way the Headmaster had spoken making him uneasy. “Who?” he asked as the Headmaster pulled the door open.

“Right on time, Severus,” Dumbledore said, seemingly ignoring Harry’s question. “Do come in.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Potter’s outburst made Severus smirk as he strode into the room. It appeared that the boy was capable of basic addition after all, as he had scarcely laid eyes on Severus’s tall, dark form before blurting out his instinctual denial.

“I’m afraid not,” Albus countered, voice mild and pitying. “Out of everyone I asked, Severus was the only one who was willing.”

“He hates me!” Potter objected loudly, furiously. “And I bet he’ll kill me, too!”

“That would defeat the point entirely, Potter,” Severus sneered, seating himself on the least objectionable piece of furniture in the room. “I am sure, however, that you will soon wish I had.” He blithely ignored the sharp look Albus gave him; if Albus expected him to be kind to Potter, then he was surely delusional. He rarely was to anyone, and Potter deserved kindness far less than many.

“Bastard,” the brat hissed, fists clenched angrily. “I won’t do it!” Potter told Albus. “I refuse to belong to Snape.” The sneer the boy gave his name was almost passable. Almost.

“Your opinion and willingness do not matter a whit, boy,” Severus informed Potter starkly. “I imagine that they rarely do - for a slave.”

“Enough,” Albus said abruptly, cutting off whatever Potter had opened his mouth to reply with. The elderly man moved over to Potter, beckoning Severus over as well. “Let us get this over with.”

“Headmaster-” Potter started, but was interrupted.

“I apologise, but Severus is correct: what you want does not matter at the moment.” Albus put his hands on the brat’s shoulders. “Now, you must kneel.”

Potter looked between them, fury making him tremble, then slowly, mutinously, he knelt.

Albus patted the boy’s shoulder, then retrieved a small silver knife, and used it to make a shallow cut around Potter’s neck. Potter went still and wide-eyed; it seemed that Albus hadn’t explained the mechanics of the situation. When Albus finished, he stepped back and nodded to Severus. The dark-haired man smirked at the boy at his feet as he pulled a collar out of some hidden pocket: it was made of steel, perhaps an inch tall, and the only adornment on it was a ring for attaching either a chain or leash; and it appeared altogether unforgiving. He clasped it around Potter’s neck, directly over the sluggishly bleeding cut, then held out both hands to the Headmaster, who cut both palms.

He placed both hands on the collar, making sure the cuts were pressed against steel; then Albus took a length of chain and attached it to the ring on the collar, then wound it around both of Severus’s arms. The elderly wizard then took wand in hand and waved it with a short mutter. Short, searing heat was all he felt, and that only along the cuts to his palms. Potter apparently felt similar, if his blurted curse was any indication. The chain unwound itself, the end falling to the floor with a dull thud.

“It is done,” Albus said wearily. In his hand he held a parchment scroll that hadn’t been there before, which he carried over to one of the tables. “Except for this,” he added, unrolling the scroll. “You need to sign it, Severus.”

“I hardly carry quill and ink with me, Albus,” Severus replied, pulling his hands away from Potter with a sneer.

“Which is why there is both on the mantle,” the Headmaster agreed.

“Stay as you are,“ Severus told Potter, and moved towards the fireplace. He took both quill and ink-bottle to the table where Albus waited, briefly read over the scroll (the contents of which amounted to “I acknowledge ownership of Potter”), then signed it with an uncharacteristic flourish. He turned back to the boy as the scroll separated itself into several copies, and narrowed his eyes.

Potter was standing, arms folded over his chest as he glared defiantly at Severus. Severus smirked at him and strode over to grasp the dangling chain. The lack of open anger seemed to unnerve the brat, a fact that he filed away for future use.

Still smirking, he left the over-plush room without even saying goodbye to the Headmaster, pulling Potter none too gently behind him. In Albus’s office, he paused long enough to shrink Potter’s trunk and owl cage and put them into a pocket.

He heard Potter stumbling and cursing behind him as he strode through the castle and out onto the grounds, not checking his stride at all for the shorter-legged boy. Outside the gate, he stopped abruptly, and half-turned; predictably, Potter crashed into him. Before the boy could do more than swear at him, Severus wrapped an arm around him and Apparated them both to his house.

They had barely appeared in the sparsely decorated living room before he shoved Potter away and backhanded him.

Potter crashed to the floor, and pressed a hand to his cheek in shock. “What the hell was that for, Snape?” he cried angrily.

“Disobeying me,” Severus replied. “That is the first thing you will learn: You will obey me at all times, and disobedience will be punished. And Potter?” He hauled the boy up by his hair and slapped him across the other cheek. “You will address me at all times as ‘sir’.”

“What if I don’t?” Potter asked defiantly, grimacing at the tight grip on his hair.

“You will become quite familiar with the back of my hand, among other things,” he answered. He suddenly let go of Potter’s hair, and the boy landed on the floor for the second time, having not expected to be released. “If you think I am cruel as your most hated teacher, then you will find I defy description as your owner. Remember that.”

Harry Potter Sentenced to Laughlin's Law!

Early June saw the Ministry briefly descend into chaos as Harry Potter and a group of Death Eaters, including You-Know-Who himself, did battle deep in its bowels. According to our resources, the battle began in a part of the Ministry known as the Department of Mysteries, which is, as the name implies, a mystery indeed to anyone not authorized to work there, although we are told that a great many things both precious and dangerous are kept there.

Although You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters were driven off, the Department of Mysteries sustained a great deal of damage. As they are unable to effectively do anything against You-Know-Who, it seems they have pinned Harry Potter with the entirety of the blame, and brought him to court over this. After several days of fierce debate between Colleen O’Bannon, representing the Department, and Albus Dumbledore, representing Mr. Potter, the judge and jury returned their verdict: a fine of five thousand Galleons and subjection to Laughlin’s Law.

Laughlin’s Law is… (continued on page 4)

Harry woke after his second night at Snape’s to find that all of his clothes, wizarding or Muggle in origin, had disappeared. Even the ones he had fallen asleep in were gone. He sat on the small, frameless mattress he had been given (in an equally small and bare room that he suspected had once been a walk-in clothes closet), clutching the lone blanket to himself as he wondered what he was supposed to do now. No way was he walking around in Snape’s house buck naked!

There was a sudden pounding on the door. “Potter! Up!”

Harry ignored it, deciding then and there that if he hadn’t any clothing then he wasn’t going to leave the room. The door was pounded on again, and then, after he had also ignored the second summons, it was roughly pulled open.

“Get up,” Snape ordered, scowling as he loomed in the doorway.

“No,” Harry replied, pulling the blanket to himself tightly. “I don’t have any clothes to put on.”

“I’m aware,” Snape returned coldly. “One more time: Get. Up.”

“No. I’m not going to wear nothing around you.”

“No?” Snape sneered, then flicked his wand twice, dumping Harry off of the mattress and stripping the blanket from his form. He tried to grab it up again, as it had simply landed on the floor to one side, but he was roughly pulled from the small room with a yelp before his fingers could close on the fabric. Outside the room, he was roughly pulled to his feet, then bent over and held in place for Snape to smack his arse with a wooden paddle. Five hard blows in quick succession reduced Harry to strangled gasps as he tried not to cry out, eyes welling up from the pain.

He wasn’t given a chance to recover before he was half released, half shoved away, falling to the floor. The jolt of the landing sent further agony through his body, though he managed to land on his hip and one hand rather than his posterior.

“If you haven’t any clothing, then naked you will indeed walk around,” the dark-haired man told him, banishing the paddle back to a cabinet across the room. “I really couldn’t care less whether you are comfortable doing so.”

“What did you do with my clothes, you bastard?” Harry asked, voice slightly strained, and pushed himself to his knees.

The expected backhand came, knocking him to one side where he caught himself with one hand, as Snape replied, “Burned them, of course.”

“You... What?” Harry asked incredulously, turning his head to stare at the man. “Why?”

“Nearly none of them fit you properly, and many were also absolutely disgusting.” Snape smirked. “You’ll have new clothing soon enough.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Snape, somehow highly distrustful of that statement. Finally, he muttered grudging thanks.

“Breakfast, boy,” Snape told him. “Then work on your school assignments for a time.”

Harry stood, wincing, and limped from the room, studiously ignoring Snape‘s eyes on his backside.

The next afternoon, he was pulled from the tedious but exacting task of reorganizing the man’s private potions stores (Harry’d had no idea of the sheer variety of stuff that could go into potions; the stores at Hogwarts were paltry compared to Snape’s at-home stores) and led to the upstairs loo.

“Drink,” Snape ordered, shoving a grey-green potion at him. “Then bathe yourself; you’re filthy.”

“Your storage room is filthy,” Harry replied nastily. “When did you last clean it?”

Snape shrugged dismissively. “Last year. Once you’re done reorganizing, you may scrub the room clean.”

Harry swore. Shouldn’t’ve asked, he told himself, uncorking the potion and drinking it down after a last, wary glance at Snape. He turned to start the water, ignoring the slow, almost buzzy tingle in his scalp.

When the tub was about a quarter of the way full, he took his glasses off and left them on the counter, and stepped into the tub. “Are you gonna watch me or something?” Harry asked pithily, standing in the ankle-deep water.

“Yes,” Snape replied, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. “Get on with it.”

Harry flushed, angry and embarrassed, but sat carefully and started washing himself. It was a distinctly weird experience: so far as he could recall, he’d never had anyone watching him while he bathed. Sure, there were the Gryffindor showers, but even the ones in the Quidditch locker room were screened from prying eyes. The weirdness was compounded by the growing feeling that his scalp was stretching and trying to leave his head altogether.

He washed quickly, enough so that he could stick his head under the faucet to wash his hair. He was shocked when he did so, though: his hair had suddenly become long enough to draggle a good five inches of it in the water - and that was with his head nearer to the faucet than the water…and the faucet was a good half-foot above the rim of the tub.

“What the hell?” he yelped, staring at the strands floating in the water.

“Hair growth potion,” Snape informed him, sounding distinctly amused at his reaction. “I suggest you let it finish growing before you wash your hair, Potter.”

Suddenly the weird feeling in his scalp was explained, which didn’t comfort him at all, as he was literally watching his hair grow. The water continued to tumble into the tub over his head as his hair grew longer and longer. Finally, the tingling faded to a buzz, and then disappeared altogether, leaving Harry with over two feet of new hair. Noticing that it was no longer growing, he slowly reached up and made sure it was all wet, then grabbed the shampoo. After some trial and error, his hair was washed - and the water was shut off.

“Out,” Snape ordered, making Harry jump at the nearness. He tugged the plug out of the drain as he stood and stepped out, and was handed a towel. He dried himself off, then tackled his hair. He was soon frustrated with it, as after rubbing it for several minutes, it was still quite damp, and had also become tangled. Suddenly, Snape pushed his hands away and started combing the newly long, thick mass. Within minutes, Snape had it untangled and, with judicious use of a drying spell, no longer damp.

He grabbed his glasses and stared at himself in the mirror until Snape abruptly grabbed the chain appended to his collar and led him into the bedroom. Snape’s, not his own.

“I believe you were lamenting your loss of clothing?” the man queried with a smirk, then gestured to the bed. “The replacements have arrived.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. On the bed was a dress, stockings, panties, a shift, and something that he didn’t know the name of. On the floor next to it was a pair of slippers that matched the dress exactly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m not wearing a dress!” he objected, backing away as far as he could while Snape was still holding onto the chain. “I’m not a bloody girl!”

“I am…more than aware,” Snape sneered in reply, eyeing him meaningfully, gaze lingering at his crotch for a moment. “However, your choices are simple: the dress, or nothing.” He paused and pulled Harry closer with a rough yank of the chain. “And I did not spend hundreds of Galleons on your new wardrobe for you to not wear it.”

“I’m not wearing it, Snape! I won’t!” Harry struggled away, almost managing to pull the chain out of Snape’s hand. And then Snape’s grip tightened, and he was pulled close again, only to be smacked to the floor by an open-palmed slap. Snape’s foot suddenly pinned him there, and the man leaned over slightly to look at him.

“Won’t you?” he asked, a brow arched. “I think you will.” Snape proceeded to magic the panties and shift onto him, then hauled him to his feet and tied his wrists to a bedpost. Then the thing he hadn’t recognized was around his middle, over the shift, and Snape was behind him doing something to it. “Deep breath and hold it,” Snape ordered, and Harry complied, although not without contemplating not doing it...

Then he felt like he was being squeezed, first from the waist up over his ribs, then from the waist down over his hips, and left that way. “What is that thing?” he asked a bit breathlessly as the stockings were effortlessly magicked onto his legs.

“A corset, Potter. Surely you’ve heard of them?” was the mocking reply.

Harry didn’t bother replying; he was too busy testing the bounds of the corset, and discovering that he couldn’t breathe near as deeply as he could without it. Grudgingly, he found himself glad he’d listened to Snape.

Then the dress, which actually seemed to be in layers: several white skirt-like things, then the pale green under-dress, and finally the dress itself. Snape then did something with his hair, then untied his wrists and pulled him away from the bedpost. He turned to face Snape, ready to yell, but he found himself struck dumb by the almost admiring look on the man’s face.

“You do clean up nicely,” Snape commented. “I’m surprised.” He waved his wand a last time, almost as an afterthought, making the slippers appear on Harry’s feet.

“I feel stupid,” he replied flatly. “I bet I look stupid, too.”

“Only when you open your mouth.”

Harry flushed angrily. No matter what he said or did, Snape always seemed to have a comeback, verbal or otherwise, and he was getting tired of it.

Snape was looking thoughtful, then suddenly he pulled Harry’s glasses off.

“Hey! I can’t see without those!” Harry objected, trying to grab them back.

“You‘ll manage,” Snape replied, making a motion that Harry couldn’t make out clearly. The crash and then light tinkle of glass hitting the floor told him what had happened, though: the man had thrown his glasses against a wall, most likely.

“I wasn’t kidding!” Harry said, feeling suddenly helpless with everything being a large blur if they were more than a foot away. “What’d you break them for?”

“They’re hideous. How you can stand to wear them, I’ll never know.” Snape took hold of the chain again, and tugged him from the room. “However, I daresay you’ll be fairly worthless until I get someone over to examine your eyes and tell me how strong the potion needs to be, so you get a fairly simply task: learning how to kneel properly.”

Severus accepted the letters from the Hogwarts owl, then shooed the bird out of the dining room. One letter, he knew, was Albus's annual reminder that he should be back in the castle two weeks before term started, which undoubtedly made the other Potter's school list.

"Potter!"

"What?" came the yelled reply.

"Come here."

"I'm kinda busy!" Potter yelled, sounding a bit strained and breathless.

He scowled. Though Potter still hated everything about the situation, he now usually came when called for. Letters in hand, Severus stalked towards the library, which was where the boy was now working as he'd finished with the Potions store room.

It took a bit of looking to find the boy - the Prince library was rather large in proportion with the rest of the house - but when he found him, the reason he hadn't come was obvious. One of the shelves had tipped over, dumping a number of books to the floor, and the only thing keeping it from crashing into its neighbour was Potter's slight form, straining to hold it up. Severus's brows shot up, but he flicked his wand and set the shelf back upright - or tried to. It wobbled alarmingly before he caught it in the spell again, then levitated it towards the open center of the room, where he set it down on its side.

"Thank you," Potter said, with feeling. He had fallen down the moment the shelf's weight had lifted, and was on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath.

"What happened?" Severus asked.

"I tried to move one of the books and the whole bloody shelf tipped over," he explained. "I figured you'd rather I didn't come when you called than have the shelves behave like dominoes."

"Hm." He smirked. "Perhaps."

The brat got to his feet and shoved his hair out of his face with a grumble. "Anyway," he said, tugging the ribbon out and running his fingers through his hair, "what did you need me for?"

"Your Hogwarts letter arrived," Severus said, holding it out. "Which I suppose means we're going shopping."

That made Potter stop cursing his hair. "We are? Like this?" he asked, gesturing to his messy appearance.

"Certainly not." He sneered. "You'll wash and change your clothes first."

"But- But-" he sputtered. "I don't want people to see me dressed like a girl!"

"Too bad," he replied. He glanced at his watch and added, "You have twenty minutes to be ready and waiting by the front door."

Potter grumbled, but hurried from the room. One thing he had apparently learned was that Severus was not sparing of punishments for slights large or small, and disobeying this would be on a similar scale to ripping up one of his new outfits (which he'd done, once, and had likely quickly regretted it).

Severus looked at the mess the books had made for a minute, then turned and headed back to the dining room, reading Albus's letter on the way. It was about the same as it had been every year since he'd been hired, except at the end, where the old man maundered on about how he hoped that Severus wasn't being too hard on Potter, and that they were strolling hand in hand through candy meadows. To paraphrase, of course. He snorted and tossed it into the fire when he got to the dining room - Albus was a font of never-ending hopefulness, and hardly seemed to realize that some things were, indeed, worth holding a grudge for.

He took his time drinking a cup of tea while reading the paper: more speculation on who owned Potter, and how it was such an outrage. Nothing worth the paper it was printed on. He tossed it aside with a sneer, banished the cup to the sink, and strode out of the room.

Potter was waiting, as he'd been told to be. He knelt, and the pose would have been properly subservient if he hadn't had his arms folded and wasn't glaring at Severus.

"Good," Severus said, and told him to stand. He made the boy turn so he could fix his hair - Potter had proven to be hopeless with it, and Severus thought it just as well that he didn't mind having to fix it up. He tied off the braid with a ribbon, then forcibly turned the brat back around to take in the over-all effect.

Potter had obviously chosen the least girly clothes he could find: a denim skort, unruffled blouse, ankle socks, and white converses. He decided not to tell the brat that he still looked quite feminine.

"It will do," he said at last, exchanging the chain on the collar for a leather leash, then summoned a cloak for the boy. "Come along. Time to show you off to your, hm, adoring public."

Harry almost refused to leave the Potions Professor's room to go up to the feast, remembering all too well the way he'd felt in Diagon Alley once people had actually recognized him. Stares and whispers had followed them from store to store, and while it hadn't seemed to bother Snape - not that much ever did - Harry was sure he had never been more embarrassed. He hadn't even tried acting up or anything, as he had soon wanted nothing more than to get out of the Alley as quickly as possible.

He had a feeling that the feast would be more of the same, and was looking forward to it about as much as he looked forward to meeting Voldemort.

"Potter, you had better be dressed," Snape said suddenly from outside the loo, which was where Harry was hiding.

"I am," he replied.

"Get out here then."

"I don't want to go to the feast," he muttered as he opened the door.

"I'm sure your friends want to see you," Snape replied. It almost would have been magnanimous, except the smirk he wore was not at all kind. "Don't they?"

Harry grumbled. "I still don't want to go."

"Too bad." Snape led him out of the rooms, and Harry was sure the man's smirk had grown bigger.

In the Hall, he was released, and by the time he reached the Gryffindor table, it was so quiet that he could've heard a pin drop. He could feel people staring at him, and it made him want to find somewhere to hide even more than being stared at in Diagon Alley had.

"Hi, guys," he muttered as he sat between Ron and Hermione, who were staring just as much as anyone else in the hall. "Can you please stop staring at me?" he asked after a few moments.

"Sorry," Hermione replied, blushing.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, though he kept staring at Harry. "Mate, why're you wearing a dress?"

"Not because I want to," he answered, flushing.

"Then why didn't you wear something else? Ginny asked suddenly, frowning at him.

"I'm not allowed," he answered, not about to admit that he didn't really own anything but girly clothes.

"That's stupid," was Ron's succinct summation. "Why listen to Snape anyway?"

Hermione reached around Harry and thwapped him. "Don't be stupid, Ronald," she said tersely before Harry could say anything.

"I'm not!" the red-head retorted. "Seriously, you could just ignore him or something," he added to Harry, who scoffed.

"Is the professor nicer when he's not being a teacher?" Lavender asked, leaning around Seamus.

"No," Harry replied flatly.

Before anyone else could ask anything, Professor McGonagall led the first years into the Hall. Harry paid just enough attention to it to clap whenever one became a Gryffindor, but other than that, he was wondering what all else his classmates would ask him.

Once the first years were sorted, Dumbledore stood. "Welcome, students both old and new, to another year at Hogwarts! Though I have a lot to say, right now I think you would rather eat, so tuck in!" With a wave of his hands, the feast appeared.

For a while, people were too busy eating to remember any prying questions to ask him. It didn't last, though.

"'Ey mate," Seamus called, "has Snape buggered you yet?"

Harry flushed, though whether he was more embarrassed or angry, not even he knew at that moment. "No!" he replied forcefully, even as others made noises of disgust or pelted Seamus with bits of food.

"Ugh," Ron groaned, pushing his plate away. "I think I feel sick just thinking about Snape buggering anyone, let alone my best mate."

"It is a bit off-putting," Hermione agreed.

"Tell me about it," Harry added. "How about you lot stop asking me questions and we don't hurt Seamus for ever bringing that up?"

"The catch being that if we keep asking you about life as Snape's thrall, Seamus will end up in the infirmary?" Ginny asked.

"Yup."

"I dunno," she mused, twirling her fork in her potatoes. "It might break a school record, putting him in the infirmary on the first day."

"The record is actually straight off the train," Hermione informed her.

Ginny wasn't the only one who seemed disappointed by that, but Seamus seemed relieved. "Well that's good. I didn't want to break the record anyway," he said cheerfully. "Anyway, what'd everyone but Harry do this summer?"

The change of subject wasn't subtle, but it at least got the attention off of Harry and his new circumstances for the rest of supper.

Harry listened to the Headmaster's welcoming speech closely, afraid that the elderly wizard was going to say something about him, but the announcements were perfectly normal and didn't involve him at all. Relieved, he stood up.

"Harry, aren't you coming back to the dorms with us?" Ron asked, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him towards the doors.

"No," he replied, resisting the dragging. "Or at least, I don't think so. I'd have to ask sir."

"Well, well, Potter, reduced to a pet dog. How fitting."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Ron growled, glowering at the blond Slytherin.

Malfoy ignored Ron, and, smirking, moved around behind Harry and grabbed his braid. "All gussied up, to boot," he added, sounding deeply amused. "Trying to catch the Professor's eye?"

"Not at all," Harry replied, glaring over his shoulder at the other teen. "I wouldn't want to. But I bet you would, wouldn't you?" The Slytherin pulled on the braid, but Harry ignored it, adding, "What would your father say if he found out?"

The Gryffindors snickered as Malfoy flushed and released Harry's hair after a last hard yank. "There's nothing for him to find out, Potter."

"Does that mean you like that with him?" Ginny asked, mock-sweetly. "I wouldn't be surprised, you know."

"Shut up, Weaslette," the blond said, pointing his wand at her. "Or I'll make you."

"What is going on here?" The sneering question made the group break up hurriedly, and Malfoy put his wand away.

"Nothing, Professor," he said, smirking. "Just saying hello, that's all."

"That's a lie!" Ron cried.

"Quiet, Weasley. Wands are not generally involved in greetings, Mr. Malfoy," Snape told the blond, arching an eyebrow.

"I was going to show them an interesting spell I learned, sir," Malfoy replied calmly.

"Of course," Snape agreed, turning away. The Gryffindors objected, furious, but were ignored. "Potter."

Harry shook Ron's grip off and moved over to the professor, shrugging apologetically when his house-mates gave him betrayed looks. Snape casually gripped the leash and added, almost as an afterthought, "Mr. Malfoy, keep your hands off of my property."

Harry could feel the incredulous stares following him as he was led away, and sighed. There went any hope of trying to keep them un-talked about. Who knew Snape was a possessive bastard? Bastard, sure, but possessive?

From the moment she had seen the article in the Daily Prophet, Hermione had been worried about Harry. That worry hadn't abated any as the weeks went by and September became October and Halloween grew nearer. She had started making note of how he had changed from the moment she saw him at the welcoming feast: it was clear to see that he was uncomfortable in the dress, but she thought that she was the only one who had looked closer and seen the last remnants of a bruise on Harry's cheek.

Over the following weeks, she hadn't once seen him in anything other than skirts, bearing out his statement that he "wasn't allowed" to wear gender-appropriate clothing anymore. And also over the following weeks, she'd seen him with more bruises on his cheeks - and arms, and legs, and probably other places she couldn't see. She had even seen him moving like he'd been given a full-out beating, once. (It was, she remembered, after he had grown tired of Malfoy's never-ending taunting and hexed him right in front of Professor Snape, though Harry obviously hadn't known the professor was there. She also remembered that he'd had to explain to their teachers the next day that Professor Snape had confiscated his wand.)

She'd confronted Harry about it, one day, and all he'd said was, "Don't bother yourself about it, Hermione." Not about to let it lie, she'd taken her concerns about Harry's treatment to the Headmaster.

"Your concern for your friend is touching, and I'm sure he appreciates your caring," Professor Dumbledore had said quietly, gently. "But I cannot do anything about this. I'm sorry."

"He's a student, and he's obviously being abused!" she objected angrily.

"By law he is Professor Snape's property," he corrected her. "Which means, Miss Granger, that he can do whatever he wants to Harry, and no one has the right to interfere. Not even me."

Hermione had stormed out of his office in high temper, and decided to look into Laughlin's Law. Surely there was a loophole somewhere.

She discovered that whoever had created the law had phrased it simply, but thoroughly: "This Law is made so that Persons who hath committed Crimes unsuiting to prison shall be made into Slaves, and in this manner repent. Whosoever doth become under this Law is to be remanded unto a Possessor, from which time they shall belong wholly unto said person, and no interference between Possessor and Slave shall be brooked from that time."

Further reading up on it had revealed past cases, and while some had ended up all right for the slave, most had not. And she was amazed by what could be interpreted as "interference", and sickened by the treatment some of the slaves had gotten. Though she liked Harry's situation no better than before her research, she could at least concede that he was fed and allowed schooling and socializing, even if otherwise it seemed he wasn't treated very humanely. At least, she didn't consider being hurt frequently to be "humane".

During her reading, something had occurred to her: the people at the Department of Mysteries had to have known that Harry hadn't been alone when he went there, so why was he the only one that had been brought up on charges?

As she worriedly watched Harry work on his homework, she wondered if maybe the whole thing hadn't been a plot of Voldemort's.

"Hey, Potter!"

"Bugger off, Boot," Harry answered, ducking around the tall Ravenclaw on his way to the dungeons. Whenever the professors were around, the other students were polite, or at least treated him no worse than they had the previous year, but when the teachers were nowhere to be seen, some of them took it upon themselves to tease and bully him. After classes was the prime time for it: ever since he'd hexed Malfoy, he'd been required to turn his wand over to whoever taught his last class of the day, and that professor would return it to Snape. If he needed it for his homework, he was to ask for it politely and explain exactly what he was supposed to be doing. The bullies delighted in this fact, taking advantage of it shamelessly.

"No, seriously, Potter," Boot said, snagging him by the braid. "I was wondering if you'd like to help me study? Word has it you're pretty good at it, if you know what I mean."

"You're a Ravenclaw; I'm sure you're good enough at it without my help. Or would be," he added acidly, yanking his braid out of the other boy's grasp, "if you'd stop thinking with your dick."

"I bet you don't give Snape that kind of mouth," the boy leered. "Or do you?"

"None of your bloody business. Now if you'll excuse me, sir is no doubt wondering if I've managed to get lost." Harry was moving before he'd even finished speaking, hurrying towards the stairs. The Ravenclaw tended not to bother him after a short tiff, for which Harry was thankful. Malfoy and his cronies weren't nearly so nice.

He sighed. It was Halloween, and though he'd been invited to stay in the common room for a party before the feast, he hadn't felt like it. He didn't even know if he was to go to the feast, and he actually would be glad to stay in Snape's rooms. At least there it was quiet, unless he'd done something to displease the man.

He reached the door without further incident, and went inside. The lamps on the walls were dimmed, which meant that Snape wasn't in, so he went straight through to the small room where he and his things were kept. He tossed his bag onto the mattress, then flopped down after it. Schoolwork finished under Hermione's watchful gaze, no Snape in evidence, and the bullies couldn't get to him-- He sighed, and drifted off into an unintentional nap.

The town was small, bigger than Hogsmeade but not by much, and it was also burning. In the eerie red glow of the fire could be seen people running and screaming, being caught and killed, or tortured, or raped. But the focus was on a lithe, black-haired girl no older than fourteen or fifteen as she was violated by a masked Death Eater with long, pale blond hair that gleamed red-gold in the light.

"Happy Halloween, Potter," a high, cold voice suddenly hissed. "I felt I should commemorate it in style for you."

As he watched, the girl's throat was violently slit, blood literally fountaining over her rapist. "Are you enjoying the little party I made, Potter?" the voice - Voldemort - asked. "That was just the first thing I've arranged for you..." Voldemort laughed coldly as Harry struggled to free himself from the vision-dream.

He woke to hands shaking him, and Snape saying sharply, "Potter!"

He sat up suddenly, took several deep breaths, then leaned over the side of the mattress and retched, sobbing.

Severus left the staff meeting muttering darkly under his breath. He had absolutely no intention of either attending or chaperoning the feast that year, something he'd made more than clear from the moment Albus called the meeting to order, but he'd still had to stay and listen to everything else that was discussed. He could have been grading papers, or brewing potions, or even patrolling the halls, any one of which was more useful than staying on at a meeting where his presence wasn't strictly required. But no.

Students jumped out of his way as he stormed down to the dungeons, and for once he ignored them. They weren't his problem for the rest of the day, after all - but he still took points. He did have a reputation to maintain.

In his rooms, he waved the lamps up almost absently, throwing his over robes onto a chair in the sitting room. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, feeling he deserved it after having to deal with his colleagues for several uninterrupted hours, and called for the brat.

There was no reply, but he knew Potter had come in: when he had adjusted his wards to accept the boy, he'd made sure to set it up so he would know when Potter was in the rooms.

In no mood to deal with one of the boy's moods, he set the shot glass down and went into the bedroom, straight to the cabinet for a crop. He paused halfway across the room, though: low sounds of distress and cries of pain were coming from Potter's cubby-hole. He strode over and threw open the door, ready to start yelling at the boy.

Potter was lying on the bed, asleep, but it was obviously not peaceful sleep. He was writhing, whimpering, with tears and blood glistening on his face, and even as Severus watched, the boy arched off the bed with a scream.

"Potter! Wake up!" Severus snapped.

"No- no, no, stop it!" Potter half-sobbed, half-moaned. "I don't want to see any more!"

Severus knelt and grabbed the boy's shoulders, shaking him, and called his name. The third time he said "Potter!", the boy woke with a gasp and suddenly sat up.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask what that was all about, Potter leaned over and retched. He moved back with a curse, though he didn't entirely avoid being splattered. He vanished the mess with a furious scowl, and turned his attention back to the boy.

He had curled himself up and was sobbing into his skirts, no doubt smearing blood and snot into the fabric.

"Potter," Severus hissed, "explain."

"N-nightmare," Potter replied, then immediately negated himself. "No. Vision. Vol-" he paused and corrected himself, "-the Dark Lord s-sent it. Said it was a Halloween p-party. For me. It was h-horrible!"

Severus frowned. "Tell me."

Slowly, the brat described everything he'd seen, starting with the burning and rape that had greeted him and ending with the village in ashes, every one of the inhabitants cruelly killed except for a little girl that the Dark Lord had apparently been enjoying when he'd been woken up. "Why did he- I thought he just used Crucio and the Killing Curse," Potter said plaintively, looking very small and haunted.

"Have you had any other visions since June?" he asked, not knowing how to explain the mind of a madman - if man he could still be called - to the boy.

"No." Potter hugged his legs closer to himself. "You probably would've noticed if I had."

"Have you been Occluding, then?"

"I don't know how. You never actually explained anything, just told me to clear my mind and casted Legilimens at me." Severus had a feeling that Potter would have sounded a great deal more indignant if he hadn't been so shaken. "And then everything went from bad to worse and..." The boy shrugged and looked up, and he was surprised to see that tears were still sliding slowly down his cheeks. "I don't know how," he repeated quietly.

The boy had a point, Severus conceded to himself. "Up," he ordered instead of saying so, and stood. "You're filthy."

Potter rose to his feet slowly, and stood subdued as Severus stripped his clothes off and told him to bathe. The boy retreated to the bathroom, and Severus went back to the sitting room to Floo Albus. It was obvious that the brat needed to learn Occlumency, but his own method had already proven unsuccessful, therefore there was only one other thing he could do.

He was sitting in his favourite chair and drinking a second shot of whiskey when Potter stepped out of the bedroom, brush in hand. He waved the boy over and accepted the brush, then Potter knelt without prompting.

"Sir?"

"Yes?" he replied, starting on the damp hair.

"Will you... teach me Occlumency, please?" Severus arched his eyebrow at the back of the boy's head as he went on, hurriedly, uncharacteristically demure, "I promise I'll really try this time. I don't want to see anything like that again."

"I will not," he answered finally. "My style is not suited to you. However," he added as Potter sagged visibly, "I have arranged lessons for you with Albus, and I will make sure you understand the books he will be loaning you."

"Oh." A pause. "Thank you." Potter turned his head just enough to give him a small, but thankful and wholly genuine, smile.

His only reply was to smooth his hand over damp hair almost gently.

Ron wasn't stupid, despite what others said. Sure, he was sometimes slow about things, but he wasn't so slow that he didn't notice that something had changed between Harry and Snape after Halloween. Whatever it was, it was so slight that he hadn't actually noticed the change until mid-November - and he was pretty sure no one else had noticed it yet. Harry still sported bruises, after all, and he knew Hermione and Ginny, at least, couldn't look past that.

But there were fewer bruises - at least that he could see - and he'd come to notice that when Snape was sort of in a good mood about Harry, the heavy metal chain was replaced by a supple black leather leash. That leash had been making more appearances recently, if only by a small increase.

And Ron wondered, as he watched Harry over the edges of his cards, whether it meant that his best mate was slipping even further away.

Harry was suddenly grabbed and dragged into a shadowy alcove, barely having time to recognize Malfoy's smirking face before he was being kissed, and hands were shoved up his skirts.

Of course, he supposed Malfoy hadn't expected to be kneed in the crotch in return.

As soon as the blond's grip loosened, Harry shoved him away and spat on him, then left the little alcove hurriedly, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. Malfoy should have been in the entrance hall, waiting to leave for the holidays, but apparently there was some sort of "kiss Potter" bug going around. First Seamus, right after breakfast (and it had been the devil's own luck that the Irish boy hadn't been caught by Snape), then Boot (who had been caught by Professor McGonagall, so he had no doubt that Snape knew of it), followed by Zabini (who had been unlucky enough to have not surprised Harry so much that he could avoid retaliation) and now Malfoy (whose limp would be matching Zabini's, he was sure). It should've been more than obvious by now that he was off-limits, but either they liked playing with fire, or liked trying to get him in trouble with Snape. He was pretty sure they'd succeeded with the latter, at least.

"Stupid bastards," Harry muttered as he slipped into Snape’s rooms.

"Of whom might you be speaking?"

He froze, then sighed. It figured that Snape would be here instead of supervising the exodus with most of the rest of the teachers. "Boot," he replied.

"Mr. Boot is not multiple persons, Potter," Snape pointed out, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor at his feet.

Harry padded over and knelt. "And Seamus, Zabini, and Malfoy," he added.

"Ah. Quite popular, aren't you?" He fisted his hand in Harry's hair and pulled his head back roughly. "Would you mind explaining this?"

"I figure they're either stupid or want to get me in trouble, or both," he replied. "I didn't ask them to kiss me. Didn't want them to, either."

"I'm to understand you didn't enjoy it?" Snape asked, sounding sceptical.

"Ugh, no." Harry made a face. "Seamus slobbered, Boot was entirely too free with his tongue, Zabini barely touched me before I kneed him, and Malfoy groped me. Then I kneed him, too," he added, sounding satisfied. "I imagine they have matching limps now."

Snape's hand tightened momentarily, before relaxing. "Vicious," he commented, smirking.

Harry smiled, able now to read the glint of approval in Snape's dark eyes. "I thought it was fitting. Plus it was quicker than hexing them."

After a short silence, Snape said, "I believe all four gentlemen signed up to leave for the holidays. I'll deal with them when they return. In the meantime, boy, is there anything you desire for Christmas?"

"Freedom," Harry answered immediately. Though he had slowly become used to having to answer to Snape about everything, if the man wanted it like that, it would still be nice not to. "Other than that... I dunno. Anything is fine, I guess. Oh, except... May I have a pair of trousers? Or denims? Please?"

"What would you do with them?"

"Make a shrine to my lost masculinity," he answered. "I might wear them a bit, too, just for the novelty of it."

Snape looked amused, and pulled on his hair until Harry was on his feet. He squeaked as he was suddenly pulled into the man's lap. "Adjusted to skirts finally, have you?"

"More like realized you won't ever let me wear anything else, sir," Harry replied. "So it's more resignation than full-out adjustment. Next Christmas, I might say I've adjusted."

"Ah." Snape fell silent, so Harry just sat there. It wasn't the first time he'd sat in Snape's lap: since Halloween, it had happened a few times. Mostly only when Snape was doing his hair, though.

"You seem to be in a good mood," Harry ventured after a while.

"I'm pleased with your behaviour," Snape replied. "That's all. You will still be punished, of course," he added. Then he gave Harry a speculative look, and smirked. "I confess to curiosity: if you didn't enjoy your year mates' attentions, will you enjoy this?"

Before Harry could reply, he found himself being kissed for the fifth time that day. "Mmph!" he blurted, trying to pull away. Snape, however, wasn't as easily deterred as any of the boys, and so Harry found himself relaxing into it almost without realizing it. It probably helped that the man didn't slobber, nor was he overly free with his tongue. Most importantly, it felt somehow right to be kissed by Snape.

"Oh," he breathed when he was released.

"I do believe, Potter, that the answer is 'yes'," Snape prompted with a smirk.

Harry promptly blushed and hid his face in his hands.

Contrary to what his colleagues no doubt believed, the Christmas holidays were actually his second favourite time of year (the first being summer holidays). The students were by and large gone, which left him with more time to devote to his potions. And, it seemed, to thoroughly embarrassing Potter.

After that first kiss, Potter had avoided him for the rest of the day, retreating to his room. When he'd looked in, the boy had appeared to be in deep thought - a rare sight - so, as Severus hadn't really had anything for him to do, and for once he'd rather hit someone other than Potter, he'd left the boy alone. Since then, he'd taken the opportunity to kiss the boy several more times, and was greatly amused to see that he blushed each time, and pleased that the boy didn’t pull away.

Being as that day was Christmas, he had decided to let Potter sleep in. Of course, it would work out that the one day he actually tried to be magnanimous, the boy would wake up within minutes of his own rising. Severus had barely sat down to a cup of tea before Potter had wandered out after him, rubbing his bleary eyes.

The boy knelt at his feet without, it seemed, a second thought, yawning. “G’mornin’, sir,” he murmured sleepily.

“Is it?” he answered mildly, setting aside the Prophet (which was rubbish anyway) and looking at Potter.

“Sure,” Potter answered, and yawned again. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it? And I’m up before you could even think of yelling at me. So, it’s good.”

“I was intending to allow you to sleep,” Severus informed him with a smirk.

“Oh.” He paused, then shrugged. “Bugger. Would you like breakfast, sir?”

“Not going for the gifts right away? How surprising.” He sipped his tea. “Yes, I would. If, that is, you’re awake enough to manage not to burn the food.”

Potter gave him a dirty look as he rose to his feet and padded over to the stove. “I could probably manage to cook in my sleep,” he muttered in reply.

Severus didn’t dignify that with a response, choosing instead to keep a careful eye on Potter as he cooked. He could admit that the boy had a deft touch with cooking, which made his abysmal Potions abilities rather puzzling, but had also made his breakfasts better. In fairly short order, Potter had finished and set a laden plate in front of him, then returned to take care of the dishes he’d dirtied.

As soon as the boy returned to his spot at Severus’s feet, Severus started feeding him bites every now and again. He had started doing that after Halloween, and though Potter had balked a bit at first, he seemed to have taken to it well enough. Finally, he pushed the plate away and stood, saying, “Come along, Potter, or you shan’t get any gifts at all.”

In the sitting room, Severus made the boy transport all of the gifts for himself over to his favourite chair, where he sat with a second cuppa. He made Potter kneel with his hands behind his back while he opened his gifts - simple, but effective, if the boy’s faint pout was any judge. His pile was never large, as the only people who regularly gave him gifts were Albus and Minerva, but he had a few extra that year. Filius, Lupin, the Weasleys - though Merlin only knew about the last two, as those people didn’t even like him much - and one from Potter.

He arched an eyebrow and opened it, the other brow joining the first when he saw the contents: a set of black cashmere robes with only hints of shiny black embroidery at the hems and collar. It must have cost the brat quite the pretty Knut.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you,” Potter said suddenly, biting his lip. “So I got you some dress robes. I-- Do you like them?”

“How did you manage to get them without me finding out?” he asked, folding them back into the box and setting it aside.

“Hermione. I told her I’d pay her back after the Hols.”

“I see. They’re fine, boy.” He summoned one of the remaining gifts from under the tree, and offered it to the boy. “Open it.”

Potter complied, then started laughing and held up the contents. “Trousers!” he exclaimed. “Muggle ones, even!” He grinned up at Severus. “Thanks, Sir.”

Severus waved the thanks off, and told the boy to go open the rest of the packages.

To Ginny, Harry being Snape’s slave was a hard blow to her childhood dreams. Especially when Harry actually seemed to start accepting it.

Anyone with eyes to see could have seen, at the welcoming feast, that Harry had resented the situation deeply, and it had stayed that way for a rather long while. Or so she’d thought. Returning after the Christmas holidays to see Harry sitting calmly at the Gryffindor table in a brand new dress of dark blue velvet, idly toying with earrings she knew he hadn’t had before the hols - in fact, she was willing to bet money his ears hadn’t even been pierced - and reading some thick book, she knew that somewhere, somewhen, the resentment and hatred had faded.

“Hi, Harry,” she greeted cheerfully, sitting down next to him.

He looked up. “Hi, Ginny,” he replied with a smile.

“I see you survived the hols,” she joked. “So they must not’ve been too bad.”

“They were fine,” Harry agreed, marking his place in the book and closing it. “How were yours?”

“Awesome!” Ginny answered. “Bill even came for a visit, and he brought the most awesome gifts - he gave me a dress that he said looks just like what ancient Egyptians wore. Mum and Dad were scandalized, though; Ancient Egyptians apparently liked thin, sheer cloths!”

He snickered, and she went on, “Nice earrings - Christmas gifts?” The question was casual, but the aim behind them wasn’t so much so.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and tugged lightly on one of them. “Feels kinda weird, but I’ll live, you know?” She nodded. “Sir got me a bunch of jewellery - said he was tired of not seeing any on me. But my favourite gift was a pair of trousers.” He laughed like it was a private joke, and for all she knew, it was.

“Why aren’t you wearing them, then?” she asked, curious.

“Are you kidding?” he asked with a quick little grin. “They’re the only pair I own, now. They’re in my room, laid out in style, as proof that Sir sometimes does listen to requests.”

“In other words, you made them into the centrepiece of a shrine,” Hermione commented wryly, suddenly sitting down on Harry’s other side.

“How’d you guess?”

“It seemed like something you would do,” Hermione answered, shaking her head. “Nice earrings, by the way. Oh, what’s that you’re reading?”

“Oshwand’s Guide to the Mental Arts. It was the Headmaster’s Christmas gift to me.”

“Harry, are those earrings?” Ron asked, plopping down across from them.

As she watched Harry answer her brother’s question, looking both amused and annoyed that everyone seemed to be focusing on his new adornments, Ginny heard her last hopes of ever becoming Mrs. Harry Potter fall to the ground and smash noisily.

The rest of the year went peacefully enough, if one ignored the fact that Harry was still being teased and bullied a bit - though not so much after Severus had dealt quite harsh punishments to Seamus Finnegan, Terry Boot, Blaise Zabini, and Draco Malfoy. Harry’s only comment, after Seamus had glared and accused him of tattling, was “Sir wasn’t half as hard on you as he was on me, so get over yourself.”

Harry and Severus grew closer, by slow increments. February saw Harry initiating a kiss for the first time, and though Severus spanked him for his impertinence, Harry didn’t miss the fact that his forwardness had also pleased his owner. Late March marked the first time Harry slept in Severus’s bed; not for anything sexual, though - he’d woken screaming from a nightmare that had probably been inspired by Voldemort’s attack on Hogsmeade, and combined the sights and sounds and smells of that fast but devastating strike with memories of the vision on Halloween. He had held tightly onto Severus, and after several minutes of trying to get the boy to let go, Severus had simply gone back to bed, taking Harry with him.

April brought Easter, and with it came their first major clash in a while: Harry had been invited to the Burrow for a few days, and had wanted to go, whereas Severus said he couldn’t. It had devolved into a screaming row, followed by a thorough beating. Harry had been left chained in his room without even the mattress to rest on afterwards, and had also had to go through the following few days with wrists and ankles chained together. Finally, Harry had apologised quietly and sincerely, and the shackles had been removed. But the incident, to Severus’s mind, brought some good out of it: it was the first time the boy actually apologised for going or attempting to go against his owner’s wishes.

May was a quiet month as students noticed the rapidly approaching exams, and buckled down to study seriously. Harry was no exemption: he had been swamped with work, which was just as well, as it kept him mostly out of trouble so Severus didn’t need to tend to him as well as the sudden demand for Calming Draughts, his House becoming unruly, and Voldemort’s summons that came several times a week.

June brought exams, nightmares, and Harry crawling into Severus’s bed more often than not, as he had discovered that something about the dark man chased his nightmares away - or at least made them more bearable. It also brought several attacks on London, including one on the Ministry on the anniversary of Sirius’s death, much to Harry’s distress. The upper few levels of the Ministry were nearly wholly destroyed by explosions, and the few survivors reported that Voldemort had been cackling about “celebrating a special day for Potter!”

School let out, and it was a subdued Harry that returned to the Prince manor house with Severus. The fallen shelf had apparently been replaced over the school year, so Harry returned to working on the library and his summer assignments by day, along with whatever else he was told to do, and curling quietly against Severus at night, sometimes shackled, sometimes not, but it didn’t seem to bother him either way.

The weeks leading up to his birthday saw a blossoming of their relationship: kisses and caresses became as common as orders and slaps, and perhaps Harry’s brain had become a bit addled, but the one began to seem as good as the other. Something that puzzled Harry, though, was why his owner never took advantage of him. Severus could have, he knew, and he also knew that the man found him attractive on some level - not even he could mistake an erect penis for a wand, after all.

Curiosity overwhelmed him one night after he had been stroked to completion, and had his head pillowed on Severus’s chest, slim fingers idly toying with the hair there. “Sir? Why haven’t you, well, buggered me yet? I mean, haven’t you wanted to?”

“To put you on your back, or knees, and fuck you until you scream?” Severus replied, smoothing a hand down Harry’s side to firmly squeeze his arse. “Oh yes. However, I don’t rape, not even little slave boys with entirely too much curiosity for their own good. I happen to prefer my bed partners to be wholly willing.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and fell silent. He hadn’t expected that sort of answer.

Harry’s birthday came and was greeted with little fanfare: gifts from his friends, and verbal acknowledgement from Sir. He was also given the day off from working in the library, and told to go get some sun and think on whether there was anything he particularly wanted to celebrate his seventeenth birthday.

Behind the house were some gardens, and in the middle of the gardens was a fountain with a wide, deep bottom tier and an almost bench-like rim. Harry was laying there, shoes and socks off and one foot draggling in the cool water, squinting against the sun and thinking.

He’d been a slave for over a year now, and he knew that if he could’ve looked into the future and seen the way he had become pliant to Sir’s will, he would’ve been horrified, and possibly suicidal. His friends probably wouldn’t understand the way he had adjusted to it, to orders and the physical violence, and the clothing - which he no longer even thought twice about, unless he was debating between outfits - and especially they wouldn’t understand why Sir’s kisses made his toes curl, or the way his touch made it feel like his insides were melting.

Actually, he didn’t understand the last part either. All he knew for sure was that it happened, and he didn’t think he wanted it to stop happening.

He sighed. It had been over a week since he’d asked why there hadn’t been any sex, and he kept turning Sir’s response over in his head: “I don’t rape.” It was a peculiar contrast to the way the man was free with his fists, but he had come to learn that the man was just strange like that. He had also come to learn, recently, that he’d very much like to experience sex with Sir.

And what would Ron and Hermione say to that, I wonder? he thought, letting one hand fall into the water with a splash. Probably think I’ve gone mental.

And maybe he had. But at least it would be his choice. He abruptly sat up and smiled. He liked the sound of those words: his choice.

And he decided that he wanted sex as his birthday gift.

Potter didn’t come back inside until late afternoon, and when he did, he looked like he’d tried to drown himself.

“Took a swim in the fountain,” the boy explained with a sheepish smile. “It was, um, deeper than I expected it to be.”

Severus hmmed and summoned a towel. “You look like a drowned rat,” he said, tossing it to the boy.

“Feel like one, too,” Potter agreed, rubbing his hair vigorously. “May I go change?”

“Have you thought of a gift?” he countered.

“Yes. I’ll tell you later, if that’s okay,” the boy said, peering anxiously at him from under the towel.

“Very well. Go, before you ruin the carpeting.”

Potter dashed off, tossing a hurried, “Thank you, Sir!” over his shoulder. Severus shook his head and returned to his laboratory.

It was late when he finally joined Potter in bed. The boy mumbled and stretched, then rolled over and pressed against him. To his surprise, the petite form wasn’t covered by so much as a stitch. As Severus trailed a hand down over his back to his arse, he felt Potter’s cheek grow warm against his chest.

“May I tell you what I’d like now?” Potter asked quietly.

“You may,” he answered.

“I’d like you to bugger me, please.”

Severus waved the lamps back up so he could see the boy, then pushed him away and gave him a hard look. “If this is your idea of a joke, boy-”

“No, Sir,” Potter said hurriedly, biting his lip. “I mean it. I mean,” he added, and dropped his gaze, “if you want to.”

Severus gave him a narrow look, unable to help the way his gaze followed the spill of hair over the boy’s slender shoulders then down the chest towards the crotch. He tipped the boy’s chin up until those bright green eyes met his, and searched them for several long moments. Seeing no lie, he smirked and let go of Potter’s chin. Then he pulled Potter close and kissed him roughly. “You had better not regret it in the morning, boy.”

“No, Sir,” Potter agreed with a gasp as Severus flipped them over. “I won’t.”

The past weeks had given him knowledge of how Potter liked to be touched, and Severus used that now to reduce the boy to a moaning mess underneath him, flushed and spent. He sat up and smirked at Potter, who gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes.

Severus was forced to admit that he was a pretty sight, thick hair spread across the pillows and slender, pale limbs splayed in blatant invitation; the sweaty flush and the splatter of semen over his thighs and stomach just made him all the more inviting. He bent and retrieved a short, fat vial from the bedside table, and spread some of the cool, slick substance over his fingers.

He lifted Potter’s legs and told him to hold them against his chest, then slowly pressed a finger into him.

“Hush and relax, boy,” he soothed when Potter grunted and clamped down hard. Slowly, as Severus’s finger worked into him, Potter complied. As soon as the first finger slid in easily, he introduced another - and then another, pleased to see the boy relaxing and arching into the feelings. “Good,” he murmured, watching his fingers slide in and out of his pet’s arse.

“Mmm, Sir,” Potter moaned as he pulled his fingers out.

“Greedy brat,” he scolded, slicking his prick. “You’ll be full again in a moment.”

He positioned himself, then pressed in.

Potter cried out, clenching against the invader as his arms and legs spasmed and tightened around him. Severus kissed the boy, smoothing back his hair until the limbs relaxed and he could slide the rest of the way in. There, he waited while Potter caught his breath and opened his eyes to give him a tremulous little smile.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sit properly again,” the boy breathed.

Severus chuckled and took that as his cue to move, drawing out and pressing back in, drawing a fluttery little moan from the boy’s lips. “Shockingly,” he murmured in Potter’s ear, “I don’t care.”

Then there was no time for talking as he fucked the boy into the mattress, enjoying the tight little arse wrapped around him as Potter clung to him, arms around his neck and legs tight around his waist. The boy’s eyes soon closed and his lips parted as he panted and moaned like a wanton whore, and Severus found himself dimly hoping that the boy was enjoying himself so much that he’d want repeat performances.

And then all thoughts fled as he found Potter’s prick and tugged, once, twice, and then Potter was crying out, coming. Severus had time only to press a hard kiss to the boy’s already bruised lips, and then he was emptying himself into Potter’s spasming arse.

When he came back to himself, he removed himself from Potter, and then groped for his wand, casting a quick cleaning charm.

“Enjoy your gift, Potter?” Severus asked, pulling the boy close.

Potter moaned softly, then settled against him, pillowing his head on Severus‘s shoulder. “Yes,” he answered, sounding still rather far away. “Thank you, Sir.”

He waited until Potter had fallen asleep before replying, “You’re welcome, boy.”

When Severus walked into her infirmary, Poppy’s eyebrow’s almost flew off of her head. The man’s reluctance to set foot in her domain was near legendary among the staff, so him coming willingly and without fuss told her that it was either for something serious or not for him. The sight of Mr. Potter following him and looking a bit out of sorts told her it was most likely the second option.

“Hello, Severus,” she greeted. “What can I do for you?”

Severus pulled the boy around in front of him. “The brat is ill.”

Suspicion confirmed, Poppy turned and gestured to the bed she had just made. “Up here, Mr. Potter,” she said briskly. As the young man complied, she asked, “Symptoms?”

“Nausea, tiredness and irritability, vomiting,” Severus listed succinctly.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Three days,” Severus replied.

“Almost two weeks,” Potter answered at the same time. He flinched as Severus gave him a sharp look.

“Hm,” Poppy said. “Any other symptoms, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m.. not sure it’s related, but, um, my nipples are really sensitive,” he finished in a rush, blushing.

Poppy arched an eyebrow. Just from the symptoms and durations, she could make an educated guess, but she cast several diagnostic spells anyway. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” she said with a smile. “You may expect a child in approximately eight months.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely,” she confirmed.

“What do you mean?” Potter asked slowly.

“You’re pregnant.”

He paled. “That can happen? Even though I’m a boy?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh.” He wobbled. “I think I need to lie down,” he whispered, and abruptly fainted. Backwards onto the bed, luckily.

Severus moved to put a hand on Potter’s forehead, even as Poppy cast a quick charm to make sure the shock hadn’t hurt the young man any. “Stupid brat,” the Potions Master murmured after Poppy had assured him that the boy was just a bit shocked.

Poppy was sure the man would be horrified to know that she’d seen his relief.

It took some convincing for Harry to be sure that not only was it possible for men to become pregnant, but he himself was. It also took Severus chaining his hands and ankles together and thence to the floor, and then making full use of his mouth before Harry accepted that the man didn’t mind it.

The trials of morning sickness and inrushing hormones were weathered with care on Severus’s part - while he was a cold, sadistic man, he wasn’t about to make the boy miscarry, and so he wore his temper out on the unsuspecting students and let Harry’s apologies and body sooth him until the next anger-inducing incident came along.

When Harry was four months pregnant, it became impossible to hide it any longer without him dressing in completely shapeless clothing, and Severus rejected that option out of hand. To at least some of the students, Harry’s slightly haggard looks as well as the Potions Professor’s high temper was suddenly explained. Others simply couldn’t get over the fact that Harry Potter was pregnant.

Hermione’s eyes had immediately widened, and then she’d asked, sympathetically, “Did he rape you?”

“No, Hermione,” Harry had answered, frowning at her. “I wanted it.”

“Harry-”

“Wait,” Ron had interrupted, waving his hands. “This means you- with Snape- and you were willing? Have you lost you mind? Please tell me it’s actually not Snape’s kid, because that would just be gross!”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Sir is the only one I’ve had sex with,” Harry replied tersely, then turned away, looking green. “And please don’t talk with food in your mouth; it’s disgusting and is liable to make me throw up on you.”

Ron swallowed and shoved his plate away. “I’m liable to throw up if I think about this anymore,” he muttered. “I can’t believe you actually let Snape bugger you - what happened to your disgust at the idea?”

“It changed.”

“That’s obvious,” the red-head retorted, scowling. “Changed as in belonging to the loony bin!”

“Ronald!” Hermione scolded as Harry threw down his napkin and stormed away. His friends watched in shock as, instead of leaving the room, Harry went up to the high table, then crawled under it and was hidden by the table cloth. The brunette could, at least, guess that he had probably gone to the professor.

“Problems, boy?” Severus asked as Harry’s back settled against his legs.

“My friends are pricks,” Harry replied with a scowl.

Harry gave his friends the cold shoulder for a few weeks, but the incident slowly faded in importance as Harry’s pregnancy progressed and others decided it would be grand fun to tease him about it. Of course, that was quickly put a stop to after Severus discovered Harry in tears after being called a “fatarse only good for spreading his legs like a whore.” The speaker soon regretted it a great deal, as Severus wasn’t the only teacher that had been severely displeased.

But despite everything, things went pretty smoothly for Harry as he grew bigger about the middle and discovered the varying joys of late pregnancy: mood swings, swelling ankles, aching back, cravings, a growing inability to either walk properly or get out of seated positions without help, and somehow any amount of clothing soon felt like too much, and he took to staying in the dungeons as much as possible, naked as the day he was born. One side effect at least made the whole thing easier on Severus: the boy, after the morning sickness had disappeared, was eager and willing any time Severus wanted sex.

Harry had also discovered, around the eight-month mark, that his bladder had apparently shrunken to the size of a thimble, so he was frequently visiting the loo. That was, in fact, exactly what he was doing when something was abruptly shoved down the back of his dress, and then the sickening sensation of a Portkey whirled everything into darkness.

Harry woke in darkness, damp and cold even for his recent tastes, and was confused. Then his eyes adjusted, and he saw bars and dim torchlight in the distance, and he suddenly remembered the whirling sensation, and his stomach dropped sickeningly as he realized he’d been kidnapped. Sir’s going to be furious, he thought, sitting up and scooting back against the wall. I wonder how long I’ve been out?

It was only minutes before he heard boots ringing on the flagstone floor, and a sudden flare of a bright torch heralded the arrival. He squinted against the light, trying to see who was standing on the other side of the bars.

“Well, well, Mr. Potter. It seems my son is useful for something after all.” The smooth, cold drawl could only belong to one person: Lucius Malfoy.

“I’m sure he’s useful as a slut, too,” Harry replied, masking his fear with bravado. “Though I bet you won’t get anyone to pay even a Knut to spend time with him.”

“Severus is falling down on the job if you’re still capable of mouthing off, Potter,” Malfoy Senior replied. “Of course, I realised that when he refused to bring you to our Lord a few months ago.”

Harry swallowed. He hadn’t realised that he was the reason Sir had stopped answering the summons; he’d just thought that the man’s status as a spy for the Light had been discovered.

“No matter,” Malfoy continued. “You’re here now. My Lord will be most pleased.” He unlocked the cell door and waved his hand at the two men that Harry could now see had accompanied him. “Bring him out; our Lord is waiting.”

Harry struggled and kicked as he was lifted with ease between the two large men that he realised could only be Crabbe and Goyle, both senior. “Sir’s going to kill you for touching me,” he told them.

Malfoy overheard, and laughed cruelly. “Severus doesn’t even know where you are, boy, and he won’t know until he sees your cold, dead body.”

“He’ll kill you anyway!” he raged, futilely struggling as he was carried from the dungeons. Malfoy’s mocking laughter was the only reply.

He was roughly dumped at Voldemort’s feet, and just managed to catch himself on his hands before his swollen stomach crashed into the floor.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Voldemort hissed, “one shouldn’t throw pregnant persons around.”

“Hypocrite,” Harry spat, getting to his feet slowly.

“What is that saying,” the Dark lord mused, tapping his wand against his chin. “Ah yes: Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Quoting Muggles now, Tom?” he sneered. “I thought you were above that.”

“Crucio!” Harry hit the floor with a scream, but the curse wasn’t held for long. “Don’t mock me, Potter. After all, I have the upper hand here - and I’m sure you don’t want anything to happen to your brat.”

Harry paled, wrapping his arms protectively about his middle. “You bastard,” he whispered. “What is it with you and going after defenceless babies?”

“An amusing hobby. Now, Potter, sit down.” A stool was suddenly shoved over to him, and he moved to sit on it, still holding his belly. “Let us have a chat.”

“A chat? Is that what they call torture and murder these days?”

“I see your tongue at least has not been curbed by slavery. Perhaps Severus tolerated it, but I will not.” He cast a cutting curse, just nicking Harry’s arm. “I will call it whatever I wish to. I am Lord Voldemort, after all, and my word is law.”

Harry clamped a hand over the cut, then asked, “How long was I in the dungeons?”

“Lucius?”

“Almost three days, my Lord,” the blond aristocrat replied with a slight bow. “Portkeys apparently do not agree with him.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “I see.”

“Scared of death, Potter?” Voldemort jeered as he stood. “Maybe I’ll be kind, cut the brat from you and then kill you - wouldn’t you like to know your child lived on even as you died?”

The building suddenly shook, raining plaster down on their heads. The Death Eaters looked up nervously, and Voldemort’s nostril’s flared. “Go find out what’s happening,” he ordered them.

“But my Lord, Potter-”

“Is pregnant and hasn’t his wand, your own son said so. I can handle him, Lucius,” the evil wizard hissed darkly. “Or do you doubt me?”

“No, my Lord,” the blond answered hurriedly. “Forgive me.”

“Then go!” The Death Eaters fled, leaving them alone in the room. “Now, Potter,” Voldemort said, sounding cruelly delighted, “where were we? Ah yes. You never answered my question: wouldn’t you like to know that?”

“No,” Harry replied, pulling his wand out of his sleeve and mentally thanking the younger Malfoy for not waiting until after his class had officially ended to Portkey him away from Hogwarts. “Because I have no intentions of dying today.”

Voldemort looked infuriated, and hurled a curse at him. Harry dived out of the way and sent one back. As he rolled, he realized that duelling while pregnant was really not a smart idea. He sent another curse and apologised to the baby under his breath, saying, “If I get out of this, we’ll go stay in bed and not move for a while, okay?”

Severus ducked under a curse, then shot one back at the attacker. He was sure that Albus was disapproving of his usage of Dark curses, but at that moment, he couldn’t really care less. He’d been first suspicious of Potter’s tardiness, and then furious once it was established that he’d been Portkeyed away. Poppy had been almost as livid: “There’s a reason people in the last trimester don’t Portkey - they are not safe for people that pregnant! There’s no telling if Potter arrived to wherever safely, or if he didn’t immediately go into labour!”

He sent a cutting curse at a Death Eater who’d run out of the door. The body collapsed, head rolling away, and was trampled by the thirty other Death Eaters that followed. With a growl, he threw a curse at someone sneaking up behind him, then threw himself into the fray, trying not to think of Potter being dead, because somehow that thought hurt when he didn’t want it to.

“Severus!” Albus said suddenly in his ear, after taking down someone he hadn‘t been able to get just yet. “Be careful! Harry won’t thank you if you get yourself killed.”

“Just like I won’t thank him for getting himself kidnapped,” he growled in reply, lopping someone’s wand arm off with another cutting curse, then Avada Kedavraing the stupid blighter.

“Severus,” Albus started, but he didn’t stick around to listen.

As battles go, it wasn’t all that long, but it was plenty bloody and came to an abrupt stop as the ground suddenly rocked and all the marked Death Eaters, Severus included, fell to the ground in pain. Severus was never quite able to describe it clearly, able only to say that it felt like a very powerful Crucio centred on his arm in exactly the place where he was marked. He was also not able to say how long he had felt it for, and only had other peoples’ word to judge by when they said it couldn’t have been longer than twenty seconds.

He stood to find that, however long it had been, it was long enough for the unmarked followers to have been mostly taken down. The marked followers were mostly either unconscious with pain, or in the process of having their wands taken and being tied up. Severus scowled, almost hoping someone would attack him. When no one did, he spat out a mouthful of blood and went in search of Lucius Malfoy.

It only took a few minutes to find the blond: he was leaning against the wall near the door, hood down and mask fallen to the porch besides him. As he drew closer, Severus was both darkly amused and disappointed to see that the man had been gutted and pinned to the wall by what looked like a sharp spire of rock - Minerva’s work, he guessed. He pushed the blond’s head back with the tip of his wand, and was surprised to see that the man was still alive, though only just. “Where’s Potter?”

Lucius gurgled a laugh, silver eyes dancing knowingly, and died.

“Son of a bitch!” Severus swore, and kicked him.

“Sir?” He looked up and stared. There in the door, clinging to the jamb with one hand and pressing the other to his belly, was Potter. He was a mess, covered in blood and ashes, with his hair singed half as short as it had been and the dress completely unsalvageable, and he was crying quietly, but right at that moment, he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Severus had ever seen. “I’m right here, Sir.”

Severus took two steps and swept the boy into his arms, pressing his lips against the top of Potter’s head as the hand that had clung to the jamb transferred itself to his shoulder. “I’m going to chain you to the wall for a month for this,” he snapped, pulling the boy’s head back by handful of hair.

“Good,” Potter replied just before Severus kissed him, hard. His hand suddenly gripped Severus’s shoulder tighter as he tore his mouth away and groaned, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut. “But can I have the baby first? It really wants out.”

Severus swore again and lifted Potter into his arms, then strode quickly down the steps and across the field, calling for Albus and Poppy.

Epilogue

Harry woke with a moan of protest, the rustle of bedclothes making Severus look up from the newborn he held in his arms. Seeing Harry’s eyes slightly open, Severus smirked and said, “Welcome back to the world of the living, boy.”

“Mm,” Harry muttered, slowly pushing himself upright. It hurt, but not so much that he couldn’t ignore it. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then blinked at Severus. “The baby?”

“A boy, and right here,” his owner replied, standing and moving closer so Harry could see. The baby’s hand waved, then rubbed across his face as he made a displeased expression and started fussing. “He is also hungry.”

Harry yawned and held out his arms in silent demand, smiling at Severus as the crying baby was placed in them. He drew the newborn close and then carefully guided his mouth to a nipple. “Oh god, that feels weird,” he muttered, making a face as the baby latched on and started sucking hungrily. He leaned into the hand that buried itself in his hair, delighting in the quiet chuckle the dark-haired man uttered. “What’d you name him, Sir?”

“Sebastian,” Severus replied, watching Harry wonderingly trace a finger over the side of the baby’s face. “Sebastian Harrison Snape.”

“Oh,” Harry gasped, looking up with wide, surprised eyes. “You- His middle name…?”

“For you, boy,” he confirmed. “After all, he is also your child, isn’t he?”

Harry bit his lip and looked down before Severus could see the tears that had suddenly welled up. “Sir, I-” he paused, then finished simply, “Thank you.”

Severus turned his face up again, and wiped away the tears with his thumbs. A small but genuine smile tilted the corners of his lips as he replied, “You’re welcome, Harry.”

Fin

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