Leaving the bank, Harry barely held back a victorious Native American war cry. Freedom... sunshine... warmth! And no goblins, damn them to hell! He wanted either to whoop, or break something, or fly up in front of everyone from incredible relief. The several hours spent in the bank playing the role of a serious, knowledgeable, pompous turkey had required considerable willpower from him. But it was so worth it... How they scurried around, what a sight to behold! And that threat to throw him off the cart?! Even now it sent chills down his spine. Those bastards... He'd had to bluff, and whether they believed him or not, who cares—he was already here, he'd made it out, he was free! True, he'd had to give an oath of non-disclosure, but that one was mutual.
What mischief should he do? Or not so much mischief? His head refused to even think about it. The teenager was slowly but surely being overtaken by withdrawal symptoms.
And he paid no attention whatsoever to the light shadow hiding behind a column, which, sighing, quietly whispered: "How little he needs to be happy..."—and, carefully circumventing the wizards ascending to the bank, followed him.
Harry was flying, seemingly not touching the ground with his feet, feeling like a raging torrent that had finally broken through a dam. There's a little girl looking at Florean Fortescue's shop window... Yee-hah!—he seemed to have understood long ago that magic was tied to will and desire... especially wandless magic.
The glass dissolves... the most beautiful ice cream flies off the counter through the entire café straight into the child's hands, but on the way it slams into something... invisible. The treat hissed suspiciously familiar curses, spreading through empty air in the shape of someone's head, the girl sobbed, deprived at the last moment of a miracle that had been so close, a painfully familiar velvety voice uttered "Scourgify"—and in Harry's stomach a fairly large butterfly fainted. Definitely, he wanted to meet Snape no more than Snape wanted to meet Harry: after the goblins, this was definitely overkill.
How he ended up in the familiar quiet park behind his primary school, Harry himself didn't understand.
"Wow, looks like I saved big on travel," flashed through his mind, and he slowly slid down the trunk of his favorite oak tree, in whose branches he had repeatedly hidden from his cousin and company, and passed out.
***
In the glorious town of Stratford-upon-Avon, Filius Flitwick, double agent of goblins and wizards, had barely managed to enjoy his portion of strawberry trifle on the veranda of the cozy apartment provided to him and his colleague by the director of the "Leaky Cauldron" museum for timely, significant, and by no means free assistance... He pulled a notebook from his inner pocket, read something, and cursed so thoroughly that Severus Snape, his student and closest friend, accustomed to everything after ten years of teaching at Hogwarts and double espionage, nearly choked on his coffee.
"Who?" he asked, eliminating the fragrant brown droplets from the table with one movement.
"Gringotts," the half-goblin answered just as briefly, putting the notebook away in his pocket. "Let's go together."
A black eyebrow arched questioningly.
"Potter," Flitwick added, and that was enough. They had long learned to understand each other without unnecessary words.
Hearing the familiar surname, Snape jumped up, but Filius calmed him:
"Nothing terrible. The boy came to the bank alone," he placed special emphasis on the last word, "opened an account, demanded documents about his guardian's activities, and resumed the work of the family solicitor."
Snape spilled the remaining coffee on his knees...
Within a few minutes, both in full battle readiness apparated almost to the bank itself. Flitwick settled right behind the column, throwing Disillusionment charms on himself, while Snape went further down the street: just in case... in twelve years they had managed not to expose their friendship either to the goblins or to the headmaster, and they weren't planning to change the state of affairs.
Their ward appeared quite quickly—Snape had barely managed to settle at a convenient table in Fortescue's café, where he intended to wait for the teacher and their target. He had long been disappointed in Potter: bitterly, deeply, and hopelessly. The child's level of development was not even zero, but negative, yet Severus, like a fool, had hoped for almost a whole year... for what, one might ask? That he would finally become interested in the world he'd entered, its magic, or at least his own family? Get angry and find at least something that the potioneer had been hinting at all year? Ugh. No matter how much he compared him to his father, the oaf of a son hadn't even tried to find at least some scrap of information about him. Even if only to refute it. And he didn't even want to talk about Lily with him.
A brainless boy, interested in nothing but Quidditch and adventures, an eternal thorn that he was obliged to protect... Sleepless nights when the boy wandered after him around the school, through the Forbidden Forest, negotiations with centaurs, brewing anti-rheumatism ointment for Filch and feeding Mrs. Norris sausages with valerian... What for, one might ask? For Lily's memory? Except for those notorious eyes, which Albus had already pecked his brains out about, there was nothing of her in the boy. And seeing only anger and meaninglessness in those eyes sometimes became simply beyond his strength.
At first, the appearance was a bit annoying: the boy was a copy of James, but soon Snape realized that from his father the son had taken almost only the worst: stubbornness, narrow-mindedness, aggressiveness, and a craving for cheap popularity. So when comparing Potter Jr. to his father, Snape was actually flattering him—no matter what a little shit James had been, he had never been either lazy or such a... blockhead. And he was a wizard above average level, as, indeed, was Lily herself. Who did their son take after to turn out to be such an obvious weakling?
The stupid child hadn't even sought proof of his parents' successes in the trophy room (and he had specifically arranged that detention with Filch!), satisfied with the Quidditch cup. But there were awards for academics, both of them had them! Oh, Lily, it's good you don't see this... Maybe you would have raised something decent from this, but... How bitter.
Mordred, he was even ready to sympathize with this child's father, though he would never, ever tell anyone about it. After double espionage, after pulling Slytherin literally out of the cesspool of universal bullying, after eternally walking the edge—between Malfoy and Dumbledore, between the Department of Mysteries and everyone else—after life under constant Auror surveillance, after personal acquaintance with Dementors (praise Merlin, not particularly close), all this seemed so... childish. Well, he had sworn an oath, and now he would do everything in his power. Or die, yes. Such is the oath.
The news that the boy was alone in the goblin bank was concerning, but Filius quickly calmed him, though of course interest remained. The Potter that Severus knew had absolutely nothing to do at Gringotts, let alone opening accounts or being interested in documents. Therefore, he watched the street attentively, turned sideways to the most exquisite and delicious desserts and paying them no attention, to the great displeasure of the vendor. And now the boy appeared nearby. It was easy to make him out: there weren't many people on Diagon Alley at this time.
And this was some other Potter... new, alive... The boy was shining so brightly that Severus barely suppressed a treacherously spreading smile and quickly rose from his seat, throwing on Disillusionment charms to follow him. Since he was here alone, it was worth keeping an eye on him and taking a closer look, and he needed to back up the teacher... He had managed to take a couple of steps toward the exit when... a dessert flew into him. Right in his left ear. And since the dessert was large, it plastered half his head.
When the icy sweet stream flowed down his collar, he involuntarily hissed and cursed before cleaning himself, doing all this on the move: the little rascal had somehow destroyed all the glass and, by rights, should already be lying unconscious from weakness... But Potter suddenly stared at him, changed dramatically in the face, and... disappeared.
***
Snape clutched his head. This is the end. Most likely, the boy was splinched so badly that bones couldn't be collected. And he hadn't managed to do anything. But for some reason... he himself was still alive. So Potter was alive too, which meant he most likely urgently needed help! Snape mentally thanked the Dark Lord for the difficult science of unraveling an Apparition trail and a minute later also disappeared from the street. This went unnoticed: he hadn't dropped the invisibility charms, of course.
Finding himself in some small grove, he managed to see the thrice-cursed boy slowly sliding onto the grass, leaning his back against the trunk of Quercus robur, a typical representative of English flo... —and now he was already dropping to his knees next to the unconscious body, applying diagnostic spells one after another.
"No, Potter is still a lucky one," Severus thought. "Not a single injury, only exhaustion. And this after such... Unreal. He simply cannot be this strong! But... he really didn't take out his wand, I saw it with my own eyes!"
The Charms professor crouched nearby and in a quick whisper began to relay to him a chain of completely incredible events that had occurred at Gringotts this morning after Harry Potter's appearance there. And had barely managed to say that he was told to take a closer look at the boy as a future student when the latter's eyelids trembled.
***
The first thing Harry saw when he opened his eyes was Snape's worried face. And to the seemingly simple question of how he felt and whether anything hurt, he simply couldn't answer. Yeah, "joy took his breath away." More precisely, not from joy, but from complete and unconditional, down to the bone marrow, stupefaction. And then they handed him some vial and told him to drink.
"Oh no-o-o... I got away from the goblins alive, and from you... I'll manage somehow," Harry thought, breaking into a cold sweat. But Snape said it was a strengthening potion, which he absolutely needed at the moment. Said it calmly. Politely. And Flitwick turned out to be there too. And confirmed his colleague's words in every way, even offered to swear. Harry painfully pinched himself, but nothing changed.
"He won't poison me in front of Professor Flitwick, will he?" flashed through his mind. "Or maybe this isn't Flitwick? Oh, more likely this isn't Snape. Not Snape at all, but probably someone under Polyjuice."
Harry became completely convinced of the latter as soon as Snape took a sip from his own vial and immediately handed it to him. Can't be poison, right...
His head was still working poorly, so he didn't even think that if this was a villain, he could have taken the antidote in advance. This wasn't Snape in any case. He simply wasn't capable of calling him by his first name and worrying about his health! Harry drank the contents of the vial and tried to stand up. Snape—that is, whoever was inexplicably pretending to be Snape—helped him up, led him to a bench and seated him. What was actually happening?
Professor Flitwick began to enlighten him about this in goblin-like detail. And Harry kept thinking, what was the professor doing here? And where did they come from? And who was masquerading as Professor Snape, and most importantly, why? He tried to ask these important and utterly burning questions, but... Flitwick was behaving like a true pureblooded goblin. Neither yes nor no, no certainties. Was he also planning to get something from him? What if these were goblins from the bank under Polyjuice?! Seems like he'd had an overdose of goblin-ness today...
Harry stared in surprise at two bluish streams of smoke in front of his face, and his stomach twisted with wild heartburn. He wanted to say something, but only managed to burp strangely, and from his mouth, almost spitting in Flitwick's face, flew... flame. It burned, and it was painful, painful, painful...
***
At first, Snape didn't even know what to grab for... But in the next second, his Aguamenti soaked everyone present through and through, except himself, of course. Filius quickly came to his senses and cast a pain-relieving spell on Potter. The green eyes (good Lord, what was similar to Evans there?) looked at them through tears, but as soon as the boy tried to make a sound, Severus hit him with Silencio. And then unceremoniously opened his mouth, inserting fingers between his jaws, said something, jabbed with his wand, and the fire inside finally stopped. Harry blinked gratefully, deciding it was either Madam Pomfrey or... indeed the real Snape, and floated into merciful oblivion.
***
"Throat burn, burn of the oral mucosa, burn of the front part of the esophagus and top of the stomach..."
"The boy has a dragon animagus form! Severus, do you realize what this is?!"
"Of course. Vocal cords completely burned, tooth enamel singed. The tongue miraculously remained almost undamaged. Ah, no, alas, hold here..."
"This is incredible!.."
"Yes, I haven't patented this potion yet..."
"I'm talking about Potter!"
"I'm also surprised."
"Wait, it seems he's finally coming to."
"Naturally, the potion is calculated for no more than an hour. During this time, he'll at least stop experiencing acute pain."
Harry stirred and... experienced it. Not acute, but it was quite enough for him. And considering it was combined with Snape's concerned face... He didn't even think of refusing a new dose of potion.
"Good boy," Snape patted his shoulder. Harry really wanted to take a deeper breath and shake his head, but it hurt, and he stared at the potioneer in silent shock.
"Tomorrow morning you'll be fine, I guarantee it."
Snape. Comforting. Him? A-a-a... Ow.
"For vocal cord restoration you'll take this... At home, I hope. Will you?"
Harry carefully nodded. And again precipitated at the velvety:
"That's good, Harry."
Well now... He opened his mouth... and would have squeaked, but... had nothing to squeak with.
He winced from pain and immediately received a small, exquisitely poisonous rebuke in typical Snape style.
"So is he real or not, after all?" Harry thought and reached out with his hand to the professor sitting near him. There, he touched his slightly rough cheek with his fingers...
"No, I'm not a dream, though I could probably qualify as one of your nightmares, Potter..." Snape removed his hand from his face but continued to hold his fingers.
And then Harry was struck as if by water: they were waiting for him at home, on Privet Drive! What would Uncle Vernon do if he didn't return? And Aunt Petunia? What time was it? He'd probably been late for a long time... He bit his lip. Never mind who was real here, he had to let them know...
Snape felt the boy convulsively squeeze his hand and try to rise. His face showed he was very agitated. So-o. Time to play guessing games. Though it wasn't that difficult.
"Are you afraid they'll lose you, Potter?"
A nod. Surprised-grateful eyes.
"Can your relatives accept mail from an owl?"
Harry blinked and hesitated. Now, probably, yes... Especially if he'd been gone long. Nodded.
"It's now half past five."
The boy looked at him gratefully, apparently feeling relief, and nodded twice.
Flitwick handed him paper and pencil, Snape transfigured a piece of blanket into a hard surface, and Harry began quickly writing a note to the Dursleys.
Severus watched and marveled. This Potter even had different handwriting. And the boy was behaving surprisingly adequately, and the way he stoically endured hellish pain was especially impressive. Burns of the mucous membranes, and what burns... the Cruciatus couldn't compare. Severus knew. He, being a crazy experimenter since childhood, knew a lot in general. It was after such a burn, though on a slightly smaller scale, otherwise he simply wouldn't have survived: he was alone in the laboratory—he had to relearn how to speak...
Harry gave him the unfolded sheet... Severus was amazed. The boy trusted him so much?! After everything he, mentally gritting his teeth, had done to him while under the headmaster's "gift"? He demonstratively didn't read it, sealed the message, glanced at the address once more, spoke it aloud, and passed it to the owl. A silent flap of wings, and... before Harry, examining the hardened piece of blanket with interest (just like his first "shell"!), a new sheet of paper appeared.
"Where am I?" the pencil scribbles.
"At my place as a guest."
"This is?..."
"Are you interested in my address? Are you planning to write me thank-you letters?"
Still Snape. The real one. Harry smiled, he was already managing a bit.
"Chat with Professor Flitwick, I need to prepare something else."
Harry followed the black silhouette with his eyes and turned to the Charms professor.
"Are you friends?" the pencil writes.
Flitwick nods affirmatively:
"For a long time."
"And here he's as taciturn as Snape," Harry thought.
"What happened to me?"
"You tried to use dragon fire-breathing without changing form. Your animagus form is a dragon, correct?"
Now it was Harry's turn to nod.
"You won't tell anyone? Please!!!" the pencil nearly tears through the paper with exclamation marks.
Flitwick makes a calming gesture.
"We have no reason to tell this to anyone, Harry. And we can swear if you want."
Harry sighed. Breathing was becoming less painful.
"Is this the real Sne Professor Snape?"
"Of course. Why do you doubt it?"
Harry smirked crookedly and scrawled:
"The professor never... —and suddenly thought, but continued: —The professor can't stand me. I thought it was someone under Polyjuice. I just couldn't understand why anyone would want to scare me?"
"Does Professor Snape scare you?"
"Well yes, and angers me too."
"That's his job... Are you tired?"
Harry listened to himself and worked the pencil again.
"A little. But I'd like to wait for the owl."
"Hoping to get a response from your relatives?"
He nodded.
"Want to drink?"
Another nod.
"Don't mind if I run some diagnostics on you?"
Harry carefully shook his head, after which Flitwick waved his wand over him for a long time and some strange pendant that sometimes changed the color of the stone—from pale yellow to dark gold. To his questioning look, they answered:
"Everything's good. Everything's even surprisingly good..."
And then the owl arrived with a note from the Dursleys, and Harry finally allowed himself to sleep...
***
"There are no curses on him, none at all," Flitwick reported to his friend while he meticulously measured some drops into a measuring cup. "I don't know what happened, but nothing is blocking his magic anymore, and his powers have increased significantly... I think at least threefold. But that still needs to be verified."
Severus grunted affirmatively, adding a pale crimson solution drop by drop to the resulting mixture.
"The boy has started thinking. How wonderful, and what an excellent result. It's unbearably sad to spoil such brains with Obliviate. I hope you'll brew another potion, it acts much more gently..."
"Already in process," Snape nodded toward a cauldron standing a bit further away. "Though it will need to steep until morning. Our patient will receive it right before being sent home. And... Filius, I wouldn't want to expose myself."
"Of course, I'll take him myself. We'll make up a cover story now."
"Is he asleep?"
"Not yet, I gave him a journal on potions."
Snape laughed:
"Do you think he'll read it?! Though..." he stopped short, "I don't even know what to expect from this Harry Potter anymore. But... Filius, I seem to like this version better. We need to think about protection..."