Chapter Text
Of course, Harry thought as he walked out of the castle. Of course this was how it was always going to end. ‘One cannot survive while the other lives.’ He had to die. He’d been living on borrowed time anyway, his loved ones sacrificing themselves so that he could carry on.
His parents. Cedric. Dumbledore. Dobby. Snape. Moony. Tonks. Fred.
It was his turn. It’d been his turn for a long time. His life was the last thing he could give, Harry had nothing left. He’d given it all in this pursuit. His childhood, his friendships, his love. All of it twisted to point him here.
For the greater good. Harry thought bitterly, as the burst of green hit his chest.
~.~
Harry woke to darkness, a pit in his stomach that was more tangible than despair. More than the fear of breathing out for the final time, of losing control, of blackness, of nothingness. Instead, he put those feelings aside for a more persistent one; hunger.
Did the dead feel hunger?
Harry was surprised when he breathed in and his lungs filled with air. His lungs. He ran his hands down the fabric of his shirt, confused. Then he put a hand to his forehead, he was still himself, he still had his scar.
He was forgetting something.
The last pull of life before Voldemort expelled it from his body…and then this?
No. That wasn’t right.
Harry wandered around in his memories, hunting for clues, but could feel his past slipping away from him. Buried beneath the sluggish nature of his mind, underneath the exhaustion, the hunger.
Breathing in again he fought to get his bearings, and this time the smell hit him. Sweat and dust and wood. His hands found each other in the dark. Small and boney. So small and boney he couldn’t tell what age he was. He could have been anywhere from eight to eleven.
So, this was it then? Purgatory. Hell. He wasn’t even sure that wizards had hell. They’d seemed far less focused on the afterlife then muggles. He’d given up everything to spend eternity locked in his cupboard? All that…for this?
Harry felt like shit. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Had he felt this weak when he was young? Later in his life he’d come to understand that he was malnourished. That the Dursleys had given him enough food to keep him alive but not to thrive; and what they did give him he’d had to battle Dudley to keep.
Maybe that’s why he’d been angry all the time, all he’d had to fuel him was spite.
Harry wondered briefly why he hadnt come back as a ghost, as far as unfinished business went, he had that in spades. Why did Mr. Binns get to come back? Or nearly headless Nick? Or any of them, but not him?
Had Hermione and Ron been able to kill Voldemort? With Harry’s own Horcrux taken care of all that was left was the snake and the once-man himself.
Harry was startled out of his thoughts by a sharp knock. “Up. Now.” Came the shrill voice he recognized in an instant. Petunia. Harry sat up, his body reacting with an urgency his mind did not feel, but he didn’t fight it. Too tired for anything other than autopilot.
It smelled terrible in the kitchen. Chemicals stung his eyes when he looked into the sink. He saw what was meant to be his school uniform. Gray and wet clothes that swirled in a muck so disgusting it almost made him sick. The fumes and hunger pangs making an odd combo.
This was like a dream he’d had before. Was his life flashing before his eyes? Was he going to be made to watch all of it? Was that why he felt so dizzy? Why his eyes couldn’t really focus on anything?
Well, it had felt like a dream anyway until Aunt Petunia pulled his ear, called him lazy, and told him to start cooking breakfast. Again, he did as he was told. Harry remembered this. Remembered where the pans were kept and that the back burner was always a little faulty. He remembered it like it was yesterday and not seven years ago.
Harry remembered the song and dance, the push and pull, from when he’d lived in this house. Sometimes he’d been brave enough or stupid enough not to play. Though today he’d do whatever the Dursley’s asked of him if it meant he got to eat.
Oh yeah. Vernon had locked him in the cupboard after the zoo incident.
The memory rose to the surface more readily than all the other, more important ones. The snake, the glass, the fury in uncle Vernons face when he learned Harry had been speaking with it.
That’s why he was so hungry, he’d not had a proper meal in days.
While Harry served breakfast the mail slot opened and shut. His letter arrived today.
“Dudley get the mail.”
“Make Harry get it!”
“Harry get the mail.”
Harry nodded, drawn away from the table and his own meager portion to get the mail. And there it was, his letter. ‘The cupboard under the stairs’ in emerald, green cursive. Anger flared up in him. Sharp. He wasn’t doing this again.
He wasn’t fucking doing this again.
The powers that be had out him back in his eleven-year-old body and expected him to go on a silent tour of his worst memories? If that was the case, why was it so easy to shove his letter under the door of his cupboard on the way back to the living room?
And if this was real, and in some bizarre-o Harry Potter luck he had time traveled. Why now? Why here? Why did he have to go through this shit again?
The best part, the comforting part, about dying was that Harry didn’t have to want anymore. He’d always wanted too much. Far more than he’d been given, then he’d be overtaken by guilt for not appreciating his life more. For not wanting to be the chosen one…for wanting…love. To be loved.
Harry handed over the mail, complicated feelings competing for top spot in his small body and too tired brain. So many memories and emotions he couldn’t hold onto them all.
Harry took slow bites of his breakfast, remembering that Petunia would send him away from the table if he ate ‘like an animal.’
Dudley pointed a fat finger in his face. “Your scar!” He said stupidly and Harry wanted to sneer at him, ‘what about my scar?’
But when Vernon and Petunia shared and concerned and confused look Harry knew something was wrong.
“It’s spreading. How could it be spreading?” His aunt asked, attempting to wipe away the edges of his scar with her thumb. Harry battered her hands away before she could get a hold on him and ran to the bathroom.
This was all so odd. Looking into the mirror and seeing his eleven-year-old self looking back. What other child had he ever seen with bags under their eyes like his? Harry was struck with the desire to save this child, to bundle him up and take him far away from here.
Spreading was the right word for it. The funny little lightning shaped scar that cut into his eyebrow had an offshoot. The original scar was also longer, its end just above his eyelid. He traced it with his fingertips, worried it would be painful, but nothing happened. It felt like it always had only bigger.
Harry had maybe a moment with his reflection before Uncle Vernon ripped him out of the bathroom by his arm and threw him back into his cupboard; quite like a ragdoll.
“We’ll figure out what you’ve done!” Uncle Vernon yelled, afraid. “Once we do you’re in big trouble!”
“Do you think its because of the snake?” Aunt Petunia asked and Vernon shushed her.
Harry felt more fear than he would have liked being back in the cupboard, even though he’d only been out an hour. It was the knowing that frightened him; that this was his cupboard and that he was locked in it. Trapped. Once he’d felt a certain comfort in this space but after so many years the dark room had his heart racing. He never thought that he would have to do this again.
Why was he having to do this again?
Thankfully, in his anger and fear Uncle Vernon hadn’t noticed the crumpled letter trapped halfway under the door. Harry took hold of it, desperate for his hands to stop shaking, to distract from the oncoming panic attack. The letter opened with no fanfare, it was only Minerva McGonagall’s signature at the bottom that felt out of place.
Harry was sure that it had been there last time, was sure it was McGonagall who addressed all the letters, but if in his last life she knew where he’d been kept she never said.
If he was on the same timeline Hagrid would come for him for him on his birthday.
It was all he could hope for, a few more days of whatever this was and he’d be gone. Harry lied down and tried to pick apart what was happening but all he could do was mourn his half eaten breakfast, probably already stolen by his cousin.
~.~
Harry was being so well behaved his uncle searched his cupboard, twice. He’d hidden the letter in a crack just above his pillow, too small for Vernons sausage fingers. Of course, the man didn’t find anything either time, there was nothing to find. Harry almost wished that there was. Some item explaining why this was happening to him.
They hadn’t moved him from the cupboard to the small bedroom, it was still Dudley’s second bedroom. It was depressing how deeply Harry missed the room. He’d move in there now even if it already had the bars and the cat flap. Anything over the small, dark, spider infested space under the stairs.
But he was good, there was no reason for the Dursley’s to lock him in.
The family still stared at his scar. Aunt Petunia had even taken to measuring it to make sure it hadn’t grown further. It hadn’t. Still, she fastidiously checked, always trying to get his wild hair to lie down flat.
Harry couldn’t begrudge them their concern; he was also concerned. However, their worry didn’t extend to the boy beyond the bit of marred flesh, too caught up in what the neighbors would think.
He hated them so much he seethed with it.
He tried not to. Tried not to care about them at all because even if he had to be on the run all summer, he was never, ever coming back here.
Unless he got hit with another killing curse and woke back up, helpless and tiny, his mind unhelpfully reminded him. The thought made him seethe again, an anger too big for his tiny body, a rage so deep it exhausted him.
When his birthday came Harry stayed up all night monitoring signs of the house. No paranoid relatives. No extra mail. No moving from place to place.
Would Hagrid come if it was normal? He’d gotten his letter this time and they hadn’t sent any more, he’d checked.
At midnight he rose, the clothes on his back were all he was taking and waited outside on the driveway. No matter what happened he was leaving tonight.
Hagrid was more than a little started to see Harry watching him from the drive. Harry had to quickly mask his relief into curiosity and fear.
He’d never seen Hagrid ride a broom before, it was almost comical, the too small broom, the heft when Hagrid’s gravity returned to him.
“Harry?” Hagrid exclaimed under his breath, even the man's whisper was booming. “Wha’ are you out here for?”
“Who are you?” Harry asked, taking a step back.
“Righ’, we met when you was only a baby, after all.” Hagrid paused, and when he drew his eyebrows down his eyes all but disappeared into the hair. “I’m Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts.” The man faltered. “Why’re you out here this late, ‘arry?”
“Im going to Hogwarts. Im eleven now.” Harry said as if it was obvious. “My aunt and uncle don’t want me to go, but Im going.”
“The term don’t start until September first, you can't go now.”
This was making Harrys head spin; he couldn’t quite remember what he wasn’t already supposed to know. He knew the term didn’t start until the first, but he’d figure out a way to the Leaky Cauldron and stay there. He’d get there. Eventually.
Harry’s eyes narrowed at Hagrid as if he’d forgotten something important. “What’re you doing here? My aunt and uncle don’t like strangers. They’ll call the police if they catch you out here.”
“Let's get ‘em up, eyy? Have a nice chat about all this. Im sure they’re worried about you, is all. You can't just be running off.” And Hagrid made to grab Harry's arm, but Harry dodged him. He was never going back in that house. He ran. Took off down the street leaving Hagrid to stumble after him, cursing under his breath.
There shouldn’t have been any way for the large man to catch him, Harry was fast, except of course, with magic. Harry felt himself trip over nothing, and Hagrid caught him by the scruff of his neck as if he were a disobedient pup and not a boy at all.
Harry saw red, throwing elbows and punches. “Im not going back!” He screamed over and over again. Fighting just to fight. He’d rather die then step foot back in that house.
It would make the boy-who-lived moniker rather ironic if he jumped off of a bridge.
“Slow down, little one.” Hagrid huffed after trapping Harry’s much small frame under one arm. “Harder to get ahold of then an enraged Hippogriff you are.”
Defeated, Harry hung his head. “Please, please, don’t make me go back.”
“Alrigh’, Harry, we don’t have to go back.”
~.~
Hagrid treated him like a wild animal after that, as if too many sudden movements would have Harry go feral. He was probably right about that.
Harry’s screaming had woken up most of Privat Drive, and Hagrid had hurriedly pulled out his umbrella and placed notice-me-nots over them both. ‘Best be on our way then,’ and taken Harry first by bus and then by train into London. He’d never seen a bus run so late, but he didn’t question it.
They had more or less the same conversation as before. About Voldemort, about his parents, his scar, and the fact that it was supposed to be all brand-new information. Harry hadn’t even known what Hogwarts was the first time, only that he was going, no matter what.
Hagrid, this time, was heartbroken more then outraged. His pity annoyed Harry more then endeared him. He didn’t look any less pitiful. Harry knew Hagrid had a compassionate spirit, why had that included Harry this time and not last time?
When they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron Hagrid paid for a room for the night, and because it was mostly empty, nobody bothered them.
They made their way up to the second landing that hadn’t been visible from the muggle side of things and went into a bare room with two beds. Two sizes too small for Hagrid. Two sizes too big for Harry.
They sat on their respective beds and stared at one another in silence. Hagrid hadn’t been prepared to wrangle a practically feral preteen with a massive chip on his shoulder. In the back of his mind Harry knew he shouldn’t be feeling this way. Hagrid had always been kind to him. His hut had been a sort of safe space for Harry.
“Reckin’ yer gonna need a whole new wardrobe, what with you bein’ so eager to run away and all. You didn’t pack nothin’?” Hagrid eyed him. “You sure you don’t want to go back and get some of yer things?”
“I don’t have any ‘things’” Harry pointed down at himself and his comically oversized outfit. “Dudley’s hand-me-downs. If you want to go back, you can return them once I get new ones.” He bit out.
“Feisty one, aren’t ya?” Hagrid said with an attempt at a smile. Everything about this was so grating.
Harry crossed his arms. “Yeah. Well. Apparently, Im famous, but everyone who could have taken care of me left me to rot.”
Hagrid’s eyes grew wet. “It weren’t all that bad, were it?”
Harry softened. “Sorry.” He said. “If you want you can take both the beds, Im used to sleeping on the floor.” Harry offered and at his words Hagrid began to cry, heave really, these great big sobs. Harry hadn’t actually meant to make him feel bad that time. It made sense that Hagrid have both the beds, and he was used to sleeping on the floor.
Before he could over think it, Harry switched sides, putting himself beside Hagrid. He lightly patted the half-giant's arm, which was slightly difficult to do as he fell into the slope Hagrid created in the mattress.
“Sorry,” Harry repeated and now that his anger had burnt out of him, he realized it had been the only thing keeping him going. “Im going to sleep now, if you don’t mind?”
Hagrid crushed Harry to his chest briefly. “Get some rest, ‘arry. We’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He curled into himself on instinct, not used to having so much room, and almost instantly fell asleep.
~.~
Harry ate so much at breakfast Hagrid, not for the first time, looked a little afraid of him. “Slow down there, ‘arry. Its not goin’ anywhere.”
Sheepish Harry did slow down but it was too late, the sudden onslaught of food had his stomach rolling and he ran to the bathroom before he was sick all over the table. The half-digested bits of his breakfast floated to the top, mocking him.
Of course, his tiny stomach couldn’t take that much. Harry wiped the sick away from his mouth and washed his hands, returning to the table with a slight flush to his cheeks.
“Sorry, I don’t normally get to eat so much.”
“Its alrigh’, ‘arry.”
Harry hated this kind of attention almost as much as he hated being famous for something he had no control over. It was what he needed to stay out of his aunt and uncles. He needed other people to know how he’d been treated. Harry would have to endure the shame it brought him if it meant, maybe, Hagrid would argue with Dumbledore over his care.
He knew he needed it, but watching Hagrid carefully cut the rest of his breakfast into a more bite sized portion before sliding it over, filled him with both embarrassment and guilt.
The pit of guilt only grew as they made their way into Diagon Alley. Hagrid kept one eye on him at all times as if he’d disappear into the crowd and be gone forever.
Harry didn’t have to fake wonder at the Diagon Alley in front of him. Images of destruction and darkness and terror fought to make their way to the front of his mind. This was beautiful. For perhaps the first time Harry didn’t mind being surrounded by people. People taking their time. People safe. People happy.
No one rushing from place to place, looking over their shoulders for signs of death eaters.
Before he had woken up, many of these people had died. Some of them hadn’t even had the chance to fight; murdered or tortured for being in the way. All while Harry was on the run.
Hagrid was pointing out and explaining different buildings while Harry remained plastered to his side. He didn’t want to be a spectacle if he could help it.
With his spread scar he’d worried it’d be more obvious who he was. Though the majority of the wizarding world didn’t picture a scrawny barely eleven-year-old as the boy-who-lived.
Even Gringotts was full of more life then he remembered. The Goblins at ease, at least as at ease as they could be. Harry remembered the last time he was here, they’d stolen Helga Hufflepuffs cup, but he couldn’t remember why.
Hermione pollyjuiced as Bellatrix. Using the unforgivable. The vault. The cup. The Dragon. But why? They’d needed the objects to destroy them; the task had been dire.
Fear filled him, had he missed his window to remember? Once he was healthy would it come back to him? Was he destined to forget it all?
It was part of the reason he’d had to die…damn his tiny, tired, malnourished brain. Maybe he simply didn’t have room for this life and the last one.
By the time they reached the Potter vault Harry had given himself a headache.
It still amazed him how much gold had been left to him. This time he took as much as he could carry, unsure of what it would cost to live in the wizarding world. Then he took a handful and attempted to hand it to Hagrid.
“For the room, and breakfast this morning.”
Hagrid spluttered and refused. “No ‘arry. It was my treat.”
Harry shrugged and dumped the fistful of gold into one of Hagrid’s many pockets. He knew it was too much; he didn’t really care. The half giant stared at him unsure of what to make of him. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of himself either, but if he had to accept the generosity of others then Hagrid did too.
They rode silently on the way to the Philosophers stone, and Harry was annoyed that he remembered that just fine. Did Dumbledore have Hagrid retrieve this package with Harry on purpose? The first test of many.
It saddened him that he would have to question every intention his headmaster ever had. What move was he putting into place, and why?
Harry held Hagrid’s hand back to the lobby feeling guilty about all the blame he’d laid at his feet simply because he’d had no other target.
Apparently, Hagrid had decided Harry wasn’t a flight risk and left him to get his own robes because he ‘had something he had to take care of.’ That was fine with Harry, he needed some time on his own anyway.
The clerks greeted him warmly and when he stepped up to get fitted it was next to another boy. Harry could’ve cried looking at Malfoy’s face. So young. Not yet burdened by his father's mistakes, or Voldemorts desires.
The bathroom rose to his mind, there had been so much blood. Harry had nearly murdered him, foolishly casting a spell he didn’t know the specifics of. And then another memory in Malfoy Manor’s cellar. Draco could’ve ratted them out, could’ve ended it there, but he’d chosen not to.
Harry would never know why.
Then as young Draco began speaking Harry remembered why he had disliked him so much in the first place. First slandering Hufflepuff for no good reason and then proudly saying how some of ‘those wizards’ weren’t fit to be wizards at all.
Harry cut in, annoyed. “My mother was muggle born.”
“Oh,” Draco Malfoy sneered, his eleven-year-old self attempting to emulate his father. “So you’re…?”
“A half-blood.” Harry said, easily.
Malfoy made a face of disgust. “I’m a pureblood, myself.”
“Congratulations,” Harry said his voice dripping with sarcasm. Then Harry brushed his hair behind his ear as if it was a common habit, exposing his scar. He relished the face Draco made.
“You’re Harry Potter.” The blonde stammered, his silver-grey eyes going wide.
“Oh yeah,” and Harry held out his hand, “and you are?”
Malfoy took his hand and they shook, the other boy practically in awe. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. We should ride together on the train.” He said excitedly, a little boy who’d met someone new.
Harry made a face. “Are you sure? I might end up in Hufflepuff, you know.”
It was really silly how leaving an eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy speechless filled Harry with joy. With his fitting finished, he hopped down off the platform and away from Malfoy.
Hagrid hadn’t returned so Harry continued to do his shopping. He’d never been very good at shopping for himself. At first because anything nice he had Dudley stole, and then later in life because Ron acted like Harry having something was him boasting about having money.
In the end he bought a range of basics. Undergarments and plain everyday clothes. He wished they had anything slightly more muggle. Then he bought himself his first, ever, set of dedicated pajamas.
Harry also bought a plain leather messenger bag with an extension charm (thinking briefly of Hermione) and a trunk with the same.
After he paid and was assured that with his additional fee it all would be sent to Hogwarts ahead of him, the clerk nervously reached out her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Potter.”
Harry internally sighed but smiled and shook her hand. So, it begins.
He bolted from the store before anyone else could notice and expected to find Hagrid waiting for him, but there was no sign of him. Harry had always believed that Hagrid was loyal to a fault. Maybe. Like so many others in his life, he’d been wrong. Merlin knew he’d not been the best at judging someone’s character.
Harry continued on to Flourish and Blotts on his own.
After assembling his required reading, Harry scanned the shelves for anything interesting. There was a good section on memory spells and a select few auto biographies on time travel, but nothing stuck out to him as useful. The memory magic seemed, mostly, for use on other people, not a common practice to use on yourself.
Harry was also dismayed at the seriously lacking amount of reading material for muggleborns. There was hardly anything to bridge the gap between muggle and magic.
Pure bloods scorned muggleborns for not knowing anything, as if it was their fault they went in blind.
Harry was frustrated with how much he didn’t know. Had he always had a lack of knowledge? Or like everything else was it slipping out of his mind?
Journals were the only solution he could think of. Write down what he could remember of the before, so that way if it faded, he had some sort of reference. And if not, if it was a case of being too little then writing it all out would help him make a plan.
Harry had never been good at plans. Ideas sure, but Hermione had been the planner. She also, mostly, had been the one to think on the fly when the plan went to shit.
But this was too big and too weird to leave to chance.
Harry visibly sagged with relief when Hagrid was outside waiting for him. Then Harry put up his guard when the half giant shifted from foot to foot, nervous. He checked for exits, spotting several nearby alleyways. The most promising was a gap between buildings that Harry could slide through but would stop Hagrid short.
Hagrid held his hands up, recognizing a cagey animal when he saw one. “Theres somethin’ we need to talk about.” Hagrid shifted his eyes to the nosey wizards and witches hunting for good gossip. “Can we go back to the Leaky Cauldron?”
Harry nodded, unsure, but they did have a lot to talk about. Hagrid put a large hand on his shoulder and Harry couldn’t decide if it was comfort he was bestowing, or insurance that if Harry wanted to run all Hagrid had to do was close his fist.
There were two men waiting for them when they entered their room.
He should have known this was coming. Harry plastered himself to Hagrid’s side and, unable to stop himself, cried. “You're making me go back, aren’t you?”
Harry hated the tears that fell, he already felt foolish enough.
Hagrid looked as though he could cry himself. “Its not up to me, ‘arry.”
Harry glared through his tears and pointedly shook Hagrid’s hand from his back.
“It’s as you say then?” Snape said, much to Harry’s surprise. “They mistreat the boy?”
“Severus, we are being rude.” Dumbledore said lightly. “Hello Harry. My name is Albus Dumbledore and this is my colleague and friend, Severus Snape.”
Harry didn’t acknowledge them, he screwed his mouth shut to keep from screaming and made himself stare at his feet. With his focus on the dirty shoelaces, he realized he’d forgotten to buy himself any shoes. If they sent him back now he’d only have his dragon hide boots, which he’d only gotten because it was part of the uniform.
To his surprise it was Snape who softened, if only by a fraction. “Hagrid?” Snape’s lip curled into a sneer. “They mistreat the boy?”
“Jus’ look at him!” Hagrid said, only slightly cowed. “Went to go check the house. Those muggles aren’t looking for him. Haven’t reported him missing or nothin’.”
“That is worrisome,” Dumbledore mumbled, but his voice gave nothing away. Not surprise. Not worry. “Would you step outside with me, Hagrid?”
When they left Snape withdrew his wand and Harry flinched on instinct, realizing he had no wand of his own. Was it wise to leave them alone together? Surely Snape’s animosity was well known.
The man sighed, huffed really, annoyed. “I’d like to run a few basic diagnostic charms to monitor your… health situation.”
Harry nodded, unsure of what else he could do, and Snape hurriedly got to work, as if he was running out of time. The magic tickled over Harry’s skin and then sunk deeper into his bones, presenting results that made Snape’s features twist even further inwards.
“Did they ever hit you?” Snape asked plainly.
Harry shrugged with one shoulder. “Uncle Vernon believed that sometimes the only cure for bad behavior was a good beating.” Snape clicked his mouth shut at that and sneered.
The door opened and Snape hid his wand, crossed his arms and glared at Harry. Had Dumbledore not asked him to look over Harry? What could Snape gain from the scans? Harry’s eyes slid from Snape’s unreadable expression to Hagrid’s miserable one.
Dumbledore had convinced him then. Harry had to go back, he really wished he had the foresight to already procure his wand. Giving him his wand now would only make him more of a risk.
Hagrid blubbered but guarded the door. Dumbledore sat and patted the space next to him. The old mans face was open, apologetic, and Harry desperately wanted to believe that he really did care. Harry really, really wanted to.
Dumbledore sighed when Harry remained standing. “I am sorry, my boy, but there are magics in place that ensure you are safe from Voldemort and his followers. I know it may not seem it, but it is the safest place for you when you are not at Hogwarts.”
Harry gritted his teeth and said nothing. It was not in his nature to say nothing. So many screaming truths rose to the back of his throat. So many he had to physically bite his tongue.
“No.” Harry was surprised it was not his voice that had spit that word out, but Snape’s. The man glared at Harry as if he were going to be ill, a flash of conflicting emotions before he schooled them back into bland inconvenience. “They starve him Albus, and worse.”
“It’s still where he would be safest.” Dumbledore said softly. “It’s unfair, I know.”
“Are you saying you don’t have faith in the ways we have to protect our people?” Snape snapped. “That muggles could protect him better than his own kind?”
“And would you take him, Severus?”
Snape glanced at Harry briefly and Harry stared back in open confusion. “You know why that would hardly be possible.” Albus only raised his eyebrows. “The Weasleys.” Snape spat. “They’d protect him.”
Dumbledore looked at shocked as Harry felt, as if he never imagined a world where Snape wouldn’t be thrilled to learn Harry Potter was mistreated. Beyond that, fight with the headmaster over his care.
“Very well. I will contact Arthur. It will not be a permanent solution, Severus.”
“No, I imagine not.
That is how, in Harry’s second life, it was Snape who earned the first bit of his trust.