Escape to Spinner's End
Harry James Potter had never been in quite this sort of trouble before. Sure, he had been locked in his cupboard with only one meal a day for months on end for turning his teacher’s hair blue. He had burned Professor Quirrell to death at the end of his first year at Hogwarts. He had defeated a basilisk and the shade of Tom Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort, at the end of his second and most recent year of school. But he had never done anything quite like blowing up Aunt Marge like an inflatable balloon at the American Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
Harry packed his bags before Vernon – not Uncle Vernon, because that pig of a man had never been family) had the chance to throw him back into his cupboard.
“You’ll stay back if you know what’s good for you,” Harry had snarled, pointing his wand at Vernon’s puce face, before sprinting out the door, trunk in hand. Somehow, he’d managed to call the Knight Bus and escape to The Leaky Cauldron.
But as Harry got off the Knight Bus, he was faced with Cornelius Fudge and Albus Dumbledore. The duo had just shaken hands, and Fudge headed back into the pub. Dumbledore twinkled down at Harry.
“Harry, my boy, how are you?” He scanned Harry as if looking for injuries. Upon seeing none, he looked almost angry, brows furrowing and face reddening slightly, though it could have just been a trick of the light.
Harry blinked, befuddled. “Aren’t you all mad at me? Have I been expelled? What’s going on?”
Dumbledore chuckled. “Not to worry, Harry, I’ve got it all settled with Cornelius. While your relatives are willing to take you back next summer, they refused to let you back in the house when the Obliviators were there to reverse your accident.” He paused, and sighed. “For now, I’ve arranged for Professor Snape to take you in for the rest of the summer—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Harry interrupted, face flushing. “Snape hates me! He’ll be worse than the Dursleys! Can’t I just stay here and rent a room? Or go to Hogwarts? I promise I won’t take up much space, you’ll barely even know I’m there…”
“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore chided. “And I’m afraid not, my boy. Severus has already graciously agreed to take you in, and I trust him with my life. In fact, I expect he’ll be arriving any moment now.”
Harry’s face flushed redder. “You can’t make me stay with Snape! He’ll murder me! Please, can’t I–”
Dumbledore’s eyes grew cold, light glinting off his half-moon glasses. “You will do as I say, Harry. And you will do as Professor Snape says. He is going to a lot of trouble to take care of you, and—”
“I will not tolerate your insolent behavior, Potter.”
Harry jumped, then turned around slowly, hands shaking.
Snape was standing behind him, arms folded, black robes buttoned up, his mane of hair falling past his crooked nose. “Come, Potter. I have places to be in the morning that don’t involve the melodramatics of a teenager.” He extended his arm. Harry made no move to take it. “Well? What are you waiting for, an invitation? I must be in physical contact with you to apparate you to my home,” Snape sneered.
Harry turned to plead with Dumbledore again, but the man had disappeared. He reluctantly took hold of Snape’s arm. It was surprisingly warm beneath his fingers. “What do you mean, apparate?” He asked.
“I’m surprised that one with your spoiled upbringing has never apparated before. Has Ms. Granger never explained the muggle idea of teleportation to you before? Now hold tight, we don’t want you to splinch yourself, do we?” Snape smirked.
Before Harry could respond with a pithy retort about his supposedly “spoiled” upbringing, or ask what splinching was, or ask why Hermione should have been the one to explain teleportation when he had been raised by muggles, he felt as though he was being squeezed through a thin tube, turned inside out and back again, and then stumbled upon a sidewalk. Harry fell to his knees and dry-heaved.
Snape sneered down at him. “Clearly your constitution leaves much to be desired, Potter. Get. Up.” he spat.
Harry glared up defiantly. “Well you could have warned me how it would feel! If I’d been prepared maybe–”
“Inside, Potter,” Snape interrupted. “I have no wish to engage in this menial conversation.” He prodded Harry forwards. Harry looked up at the house. It was a small, but cozy looking cottage, with a large, flourishing garden in front of it. Harry gaped at it.
“This is your house? You garden? Er–” He shut his mouth, remembering who he was talking to.
Snape peered down at Harry, black eyes glinting with a hint of what looked like malice. “In you go, Potter. Your room will be upstairs. Put your trunk there and then join me in the kitchen for dinner.” His eyes flashed darkly as he hissed, “And yes, I garden. Potions ingredients are not cheap, and you and your schoolmates insist on destroying them in your abysmal excuse for work in my class.”
Harry wanted to linger outside in the garden and breathe in the fresh air. But he put his head down, listened to Snape, and walked up a small wooden staircase to put his trunk in the room Snape mentioned. It was surprisingly spacious, with clean white walls, a gorgeous mahogany desk, and a neatly made bed with blue sheets. He then went back downstairs, past what looked like a cozy living room filled with groaning bookshelves and plush blankets, to the kitchen to prepare dinner, mumbling to himself. “Sure, Harry. Run away from the
Dursleys only to become Snape’s glorified house elf. This is so much better.” Harry pulled out a cutting board from a cupboard and placed it on the granite countertop. Then, he started looking for a knife. He opened different cabinets, picking up miscellaneous items in his search. Then, he turned around and jumped, nearly dropping the glass he was holding.
Snape stared at him. “What. Are. You. Doing, Potter?” His voice grew lower and more dangerous with each word.
Harry stared at him blankly. “Er-making you dinner, sir?”
“Your imbecilic performance in potions class suggests that you might wish to poison me, and thus, have a death wish. I will make dinner, just as I will make all the meals you eat while here.” Snape snarled.
Harry just shrugged. No adult had ever gotten mad at him for doing chores before. Snape was just looking for something to disapprove of. Snape’s eyes grew cold. “You will answer me verbally when I ask you a question, Potter. Understand?”
Harry gulped. “Yes.”
“Furthermore, Potter, I would like to lay down some ground rules for your stay at my humble abode. Breakfast will be served at 8:00 am sharp. Lunch will be at 1:00 pm. Dinner will be at 6:30 pm. If you are late, you will not eat that meal, but there are snacks in the cupboard that you can consume should you find yourself hungry in between meals. I expect you to complete all of your summer homework with your free time. I will be checking it and correcting it when you are done to make sure you have done it to your professors’ specifications. If you wish to read, you may borrow books from the library. If you cannot remove it from the shelf, you may not read it, as it is stuck there intentionally. Should you find yourself needing anything else, I expect you to come to me and ask. If you are impertinent about it, you will not receive the help you seek. Understood?”
Harry nodded. This…this might be the best summer ever, if that was all Snape wanted. Here’s hoping he wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells the same way he had to around the Dursleys.
“Do you understand, Potter? I require your verbal agreement.”
“Yes, Professor Snape. I understand.”