The Bittersweet Departure
Harry had wanted nothing more than to be with everyone at Grimmauld Place, but he awoke on the day of his departure feeling quite of two minds. Sitting up in bed, he reached for his glasses and set them on his face. The room he had made into his own the past several weeks came into sharper focus - the open trunk on the floor, the firebolt leaned up against the dresser, the parcels of school books and new clothes piled on the desk - and he was forced to admit that he was reluctant to leave.
He dressed slowly and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before descending the creaky staircase. Sirius, Ron, and Hermione had been sending him letters of sympathy and encouragement all summer and if they found the lack of complaints in his responses suspicious, they hadn’t commented. Harry had written them regular updates about his progress in Occlumency and assurances that he was being treated fairly, but there was so much he couldn’t say in case his letters were intercepted and he wasn’t sure they’d have believed him anyway.
“Why did you tell your godfather to expect you first thing in the morning if you weren’t planning to wake up until now?” Snape asked coolly, the moment Harry arrived in the kitchen and took the seat at the table opposite him.
“What?” said Harry blankly.
Snape slid a piece of parchment across the table towards him and Harry quickly read the short note from Sirius rudely demanding that Snape delay no longer in delivering him to headquarters, lest he be forced to involve Dumbledore. An apology began to form on his lips, but he realized that Snape was paying no attention to his reaction. He had pointed his wand in the direction of the stove and in an instant the eggs, bacon, and toast in the frying pan were reheated and loaded onto a plate for Harry.
“Hurry up and eat,” Snape ordered curtly, his eyes glued to the book on the Wolfsbane Potion that he had been working through last night. “Then I’ll take you directly to Grimmauld Place before your dear godfather has the opportunity for more dramatics. Are you packed?”
“No,” Harry admitted, using his knife to spread butter on his toast from the dish in the center of the table.
Snape looked up at him and their eyes briefly met. Harry could tell that Snape was trying to get a read on him, but of course he had lost his most convenient tool. Even if it were not for the potion’s protection, Harry was confident that he would have been able to successfully block the professor from seeing into his mind when he was this well rested and relaxed. Of course, there were other obvious signs that Harry wasn’t as desperate to be leaving as everyone would have expected.
“I shouldn’t have told Sirius I’d be there first thing in the morning, but I wasn’t planning to sleep in so late,” Harry said apologetically.
Snape shrugged. “I’ve noticed that’s become a common occurrence for you, but I wouldn’t fight it. Occlumency is extremely draining when done properly and don’t ignore that you arrived here at the start of the summer extremely sleep deprived and are still recovering.”
Harry nodded and turned his attention to his plate. While he still thought about Cedric’s murder nearly everyday, Professor Snape had taught him how to guard himself against bad dreams. He’d persistently woken Harry from every nightmare and guided him in closing his mind before returning to sleep no matter what the hour until Harry hadn’t needed him anymore. He’d never mocked him for this trauma or called it a show of weakness. Snape had said it was understandable, though inconvenient and crippling. He’d taught Harry to overcome it, he’d helped him begin to heal.
“I like it here,” Harry confessed quietly, once he had finished his breakfast and carried his dishes over to the sink.
There was a long pause, during which Harry wasn’t sure if Snape had even heard him. “Petunia and her husband must have screwed you up worse than I thought,” he said finally, turning a page in his book.
Harry poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge and leaning against the counter began to sip at it slowly. He knew he was stalling but thought it natural that he would be reluctant to close this chapter when he’d surely never experience the likes of it again. It was obvious that Snape had gone well above and beyond his orders from Dumbledore. He might have been reluctant to house Harry at the start, but he had chosen to remove him from the Dursleys anyway. While under the same roof he had given Harry the best sleeping space, allowed him free use of the books and television, permitted him to fly, and had even inquired as to his food preferences and then provided them. He’d made this a home for Harry - even temporarily - and whatever happened once they returned to Hogwarts, Harry would never forget knowing this side of Professor Snape.
“Come on, Potter,” Snape said suddenly. “I’ll help you pack.”
Together they walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Harry went into the bedroom and started loading all of his various items back into the trunk while Snape briefly disappeared into his lab and then returned with a small wooden box containing a dozen vials of carefully measured potion. He gently placed it in the trunk, amongst all Harry’s other possessions.
“Drink one vial in its entirety at the same time every night,” Snape explained. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry, “and I’ll let you know if my scar hurts.”
Not a day had gone by since he’d come to stay here that Snape hadn’t inquired about his scar or reminded him not to keep symptoms to himself. He knew anything out of the ordinary would change the amount of potion he had to take, but what Snape said next surprised him. “Tell Professor Dumbledore. Who knows where I’ll be?”
Harry frowned slightly, though he couldn’t deny that it made sense. He’d seen how suddenly and unexpectedly Voldemort could summon Professor Snape. Sometimes for just a few minutes but often longer. Though Snape did not appear to have been tortured again and had confessed to Harry that he was pleased with the progress he’d been making in earning the Dark Lord’s faith and trust as a devoted Death Eater, it had not stopped Harry from waiting up for him anxiously each time he had to go.
“Reducio,” Snape pointed his wand at Harry’s trunk and it shrank. He then did the same with Hedwig’s cage and stuffed both items into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
They walked outside into the early afternoon sunlight and Snape placed a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder once they passed the magical wards and prepared to apparate. Harry shut his eyes tightly in expectation and then felt the ground disappear beneath his feet as his ears popped painfully. In half a second they had arrived and Snape was handing him the letter he’d received from Dumbledore last night giving him permission to bring Harry to Grimmauld Place. At the very bottom of the short message, there was a postscript written just for him.
“Harry, the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.”
Harry read it twice and then looked back up at Snape, who was staring straight ahead at eleven and thirteen, apparently seeing what Harry could not. “What--”
“Concentrate,” Snape said sternly.
Harry sighed and read the note one more time. Then started repeating the mantra over and over in his head. “The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, The Headquarters--”
The townhouses of eleven and thirteen were moving apart from one another. Further and further they slowly stretched until number twelve was fully formed in between them. It looked nearly identical to all the other dwellings on this strip, but more unkempt. If Harry had noticed the air of neglect around Snape’s house, it was nothing compared to this one. It didn’t look like it would suit Sirius at all.
“Inside quickly,” Snape said briskly, “and whatever you do, keep your voice down. If I have to listen to that wretched woman scream one more time…”
Snape quietly opened the door and he and Harry tiptoed inside. It was extremely dark with heavy black curtains drawn over the windows and over the many portraits that hung down the long narrow hallway. Snape walked ahead of Harry, guiding him through the house that looked like a home for the very darkest of wizards. They went down a flight of stairs and passed a wrinkled, hunchbacked, and very old house elf who scowled at them with a look of deepest loathing. He didn’t remind Harry at all of Dobby and this was not at all how Harry had imagined the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix to be…
But then there was Sirius. They had finally arrived in a large cavernous kitchen with an enormous fireplace at the far end. There was a long table taking up an entire wall, and sitting on the side closest to the door was Sirius, teetering on the back legs of his chair with his feet resting on the one in front of him, throwing what looked to be Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans into the air and catching them in his mouth. He gave out a barking laugh and clapped his hands together joyfully at the sight of Harry, his chair slamming back onto all four legs on the floor with a loud clang. Not a trace of the fury he’d expressed in his earlier letter to Snape was on display as he pulled Harry tightly into his arms.
“I expected you hours ago,” he exclaimed, ruffling Harry’s hair to make it possibly stick up even more than it already did.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly. “I went flying and got to bed late, so I overslept.”
Sirius looked surprised by his words but refrained from commenting. And Snape, Harry discovered, was already sweeping out of the room without even a goodbye. Perhaps for the best, Harry preferred not to be caught in the middle of a heated exchange and suddenly felt guilty that he’d kept Sirius waiting. He truly had missed him and there was so much to discuss. The Weasleys and Hermione would be back in a few hours, Sirius told him, and then this gloomy house would be bursting with noise and activity from all the people Harry had longed to be with since the end of term. Just like the way it should be. Like his time at Spinner’s End hadn’t happened.