![]() All the hairs stood up on Harry’s arms, and it took everything in him not to step backwards. “The Order is compromised, and you are not safe here.” The man’s expression was blanker than ever, his voice a quiet monotone. Snape stepped forward abruptly, looming, and Harry realized that while the man looked composed, he radiated an urgent desperation, a wildness lurking just beneath the surface. I am here on the Headmaster’s orders-he isn’t able to escort you, so I am. “The wards would not have permitted me entry if I meant you harm. “How do I know he didn’t send you to collect me?” “Should you cast any magic while under the Trace, you’re as good as giving the Dark Lord permission to collect you.” ![]() “Death Eaters have infiltrated the Ministry,” Snape continued in a low, harsh voice. Harry refused to be impressed, but made a note of the spell. “Muffliato,” the man muttered, then said before Harry could ask, “Our conversation will now be unintelligible to others.” It was a strange sight, less because of the muggle wear, and more so because it was worn comfortably. Distantly, Harry registered that the man wore muggle clothing-an olive sport coat and pleated trousers-and had a large bag slung over one shoulder. Snape’s gaze sharpened, eyes darting to Harry’s wand, then back to his face. “What are you doing here?” Harry said, making no effort to hide the hostility in his voice. Harry descended the last steps as Snape pushed past his aunt at once, they met each other in the hall. Now that numbness was abruptly pierced, and through it spilled a memory: Snape sneering at him to clear his mind, Snape goading Sirius for being stuck at Grimmauld, Snape’s callous dismissal as Harry pleaded with him in Umbridge’s office, pleaded with him to save Padfoot-Ī dull roaring filled his ears. An emptiness had planted itself within his chest, and there it had resided for weeks, a seeming constant. He did not scrounge for news, or pore over letters. He felt indifferent to the presence of his relatives, and as if sensing some change in him, they steered clear of him in return. That summer, Harry had maintained a shell of numbness, a boundary between himself and the world. There, looming in the doorway over his aunt, was Professor Snape. “I’m here to collect Potter,” a cold baritone spoke below, and Harry froze. Grabbing his wand, he left his room to peer over the banister. Harry quickly tucked the will into one of his textbooks, pocketed the glass shard, and tugged his sleeve down to conceal his cut. If that was Dumbledore, he was a day early. Petunia’s voice soon followed, her whispers shrill in a way that only “freakiness” could draw from her. Harry would intend to go to the loo, or head down to the kitchen to assuage hunger pains, and an hour later, he would realize he was still sitting where he started, his eyes following a crack in the wall.Ī rap at the front door sounded through the window, rousing him. He needed to pack it all away again, but it was hard to focus these days. The entirety of his life set out in an assortment of objects, now divided between those he loved. His floor was strewn with belongings-old textbooks, remnants of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, robes he had outgrown but hadn’t the heart to throw away, forgotten sweets that would be stale had they not been enchanted, an assortment of past birthday gifts and Hogsmeade purchases, creased chocolate frog cards and broken quills. The Last Will and Testament of Harry Potter. An end to Voldemort, and once the obligation of prophecy was lifted…Ī breeze from the window disturbed a sheet of parchment pinned beneath his elbow, which had been written upon with self-conscious neatness: ![]() No more games, the old man seemed to say. The coming year will be different-this I promise you. We shall talk, and then I will escort you to the Burrow. Next to her cage, a stack of letters regarded him with silent reproach only the topmost envelope had been opened.īe prepared for me to retrieve you on Sunday evening, Dumbledore had written him. His owl hooted softly, but he ignored her. In his right hand rested a shard of glass, while on the underside of his left forearm was a shallow scrape, a spider’s strand of red pinpricks beading in a row. On a July night three weeks after his godfather’s death, the boy who lived sat motionless amidst the scattered contents of his trunk. Post-Battle of the Department of Mysteries (Harry Potter).chapter specific content warnings will be posted in author's notes.Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings.
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