The three of them landed with a muted crack just outside the looming silhouette of Prince Manor. The night sky stretched overhead, cloaking the grounds in velvet darkness, broken only by the faint glow of the iron-wrought lanterns hanging along the gravel path. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and ivy—a stark contrast to the suffocating reek of Privet Drive.
Harry stumbled slightly from the Apparition, still unused to the sensation of being yanked through space. Dobby steadied him with surprisingly firm hands for such a small creature, his enormous eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight.
"Welcome," Snape intoned, his deep voice reverberating across the courtyard. The manor itself loomed—a tall, gothic structure of stone, with high windows and twisting ivy that seemed intent on strangling the walls. "Prince Manor. Do try not to get lost."
He led them inside, the heavy oak doors creaking open of their own accord. Shadows danced across the hallway, lit by sconces that flared to life as they passed. Snape moved with his usual precision, black robes whispering against the flagstones, while Harry trailed behind, taking in the strange blend of grandeur and gloom.
Snape stopped before a tall, carved door and pushed it open. The room beyond was surprisingly warm—dark wood furniture, a canopy bed, shelves lined with dusty tomes, and a large bay window that looked out into the gardens. A rug with curling serpentine patterns sprawled across the floor.
"This will be your room," Snape said coolly. "Try not to destroy it. Mimsy—the manor's elf—keeps the place maintained. Dobby, go to the kitchens, introduce yourself, and bring the boy something to eat before he collapses. Food, not sugar."
"Yes, Professor Snape, sir," Dobby said eagerly, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the floor before vanishing with a snap.
Harry set his trunk down, running a hand across the bedspread. It was far more comfortable than anything he had known at Privet Drive, but the weight of the day pressed heavily on his chest.
Snape lingered in the doorway, eyes narrowing. He looked at Harry for a long moment—at the boy's tired posture, the scars on his face not yet healed, the hollowness behind his eyes—and something unfamiliar twisted in his chest. With a sharp swirl of robes, he turned and disappeared into the manor's shadows.
In the silence of his study, Snape poured himself a goblet of firewhisky, though his hands itched for venom instead. He stared into the hearth where flames hissed against the logs, thoughts churning dark and violent.
Dumbledore's manipulation, the Goblins' revelations, the sight of Dobby collapsing under a stolen bond—each wound had torn through Snape's carefully built detachment. But above all, the truth of Harry's suffering at the hands of Muggles—his blood relatives—gnawed at him.
He had believed Potter's arrogance came from pampering. Instead, the boy had been starved, beaten, and left broken in silence. Dumbledore had known. He must have known.
Snape's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. The Dursleys would pay. Not merely in blood, but in terror. Every moment of Harry's anguish would be repaid tenfold. Tonight, justice would be exacted in ways the Ministry would never fathom.
Severus closed his eyes briefly. A storm brewed inside him, far more dangerous than anything Voldemort had ever summoned. This was not the fury of a spy, nor the calculated coldness of a Death Eater. This was something older, more personal, and infinitely darker.
He turned abruptly. His robes whispered against the stone floor as he left the chamber. The wards of Prince Manor flexed around him, but did not hinder his stride. He had a destination fixed in mind, one he had avoided until now because his rage had been too raw to trust. But tonight… tonight, he would embrace it.
The hearth flared green as he tossed Floo powder in with a deliberate flick. He did not announce his destination aloud—he did not need to. The magic bent around his intent, shadows swallowing him whole.
Left alone, Harry sat by the window, his fingers gripping the sill so hard his knuckles whitened. The revelations at Gringotts replayed in his mind like cursed echoes—his vaults plundered, his magic shackled, his very life twisted into someone else's plan.
He clenched his jaw. Dumbledore knew. All those years, being told what was best for him, being led like a lamb to slaughter—it had all been about control, never care.
A quiet pop pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. Dobby appeared, balancing a tray piled with roasted chicken, warm bread, and pumpkin juice.
"Harry Potter must eat," Dobby said firmly, setting the tray on the desk. His large eyes were wet with worry. "You is looking like a ghost."
"I'm fine," Harry muttered, though his stomach growled at the smell.
Dobby hopped up onto the edge of the chair. "No, you is not fine. But you will be. You has friends now—real ones. Dobby promises Harry Potter will never be alone again." His ears flopped as he nodded fiercely. "Whatever Harry Potter decides—vengeance, justice, freedom—Dobby will be there. Always."
The sincerity in Dobby's voice cracked something inside Harry. He picked up the bread, chewing slowly, and the warmth of it spread through his chest. Perhaps Dobby was right. There would be time to act, to fight back. For now, he had to survive.
After eating, Harry slipped outside into the gardens. The air was cool, the grass damp beneath his shoes. Towering hedges created winding paths, and somewhere an owl hooted. He let the stillness wrap around him, though his thoughts still churned.
As he wandered, his foot struck something hard half-buried in the soil. He crouched, brushing dirt away. It wasn't a stone. Smooth, oval, faintly warm beneath his touch. His breath caught.
He didn't need anyone to tell him. Parseltongue thrummed at the back of his mind, whispering recognition. This was an egg—a serpent's egg.
Harry lifted it carefully, heart pounding. "Well," he murmured, "looks like I've found something or rather someone you might like, Hedwig."
____________________________
Privet Drive lay under the suffocating stillness of suburban night. Rows of identical houses, manicured lawns, and perfectly trimmed hedges—every detail screaming of urban City comforts. Severus emerged from the shadows at the end of the street, his black robes billowing in a faint wind that had not been there a moment before.
Number Four stood smug and ordinary among its clones. Lights out, curtains drawn tight, the illusion of domestic bliss locked away behind brick and mortar. Severus sneered.
He can feel that the wards Dumbledore had once placed around this place—wards meant to protect Harry—had been twisted, corrupted by the hatred festering within its walls.
He raised a hand, letting his wand slide elegantly into his palm, and whispered a series of spells under his breath. Every door and window slammed shut with a metallic clang, bolts sliding into place of their own accord. A web of black magic spread across the walls like cracks in glass. The Dursleys would not escape.
___________
Inside, the sound woke Vernon Dursley first. He grumbled, heaved himself out of bed, and stomped toward the landing. Petunia stirred after him, tightening her dressing gown, her thin face pinched with irritation. Dudley snored obliviously in his room until the reverberation of the locked windows rattled his trophies.
"Bloody kids," Vernon muttered. "Some prank—"
The front door rattled once. Then, with slow deliberation, came a knock. Three measured strikes, each echoing through the house like a judge's gavel.
Vernon puffed up his chest. "Who the devil is knocking at this hour?" he barked, stomping toward the stairs.
Another knock followed, louder. The air grew colder.
Petunia's eyes narrowed. Something inside her shrieked in recognition—an instinct honed in childhood, when she had begged to be part of a world just beyond her reach. She caught Vernon's arm. "Don't—don't open it."
Vernon snorted. "Load of nonsense, woman. I'll give them a piece of my mind."
But when he reached the front door, he found it unlocked not by his hand, but as if the house itself had submitted. It swung open with a groan, revealing Severus Snape framed in darkness, wand loose in his hand, eyes gleaming like chips of obsidian.
"Good evening," Severus said softly, almost politely. His voice cut like silk over steel. "I believe we have business to attend to."
Vernon's face turned a mottled purple. "Who the hell are you?"
"Severus Snape." He stepped across the threshold uninvited; the house itself seemed to recoil as shadows pooled at his feet. "Professor at Hogwarts. More importantly…" His gaze swept the room, lingering on Petunia's paling face. "Harry's Guardian, as of this night, to the boy you so generously tormented."
Petunia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Vernon blinked, then scowled. "The freak's teacher, eh? Where is he anyway?Ran off with his other freak little friends I guess. Good riddance!"
The word "freak" had scarcely left his mouth when Severus flicked his wand. Vernon's tongue froze mid-word, swelling grotesquely until he gagged. With another flick, the man crashed against the wall, pinned like an insect by invisible hooks.
Petunia screamed. Dudley stumbled from his room, eyes wide, rubbing sleep from them. "Mum? Dad? What's—what's going on?"
Severus turned slowly, eyes fixing on the boy. "Ah, the piglet. You've grown. Taller, but no less repulsive."
"I—I don't understand—" Dudley stammered.
"Oh, you understand enough." Severus's voice sharpened. "You understood well enough to mock and strike your cousin when he was weakest. You understood cruelty quite well."
Dudley flushed, opened his mouth, but words failed him.
"Please," Petunia whispered. "Severus… I know who you are. I remember you from Spinner's End. You—you were Lily's friend once."
At Lily's name, Severus froze. Then his eyes narrowed to slits. "Do not dare speak her name to me. You—" He whirled on her, wand tip inches from her nose. "You let her son rot in a cupboard. You starved him, beat him, allowed your oaf of a husband and this simpering child to torment him as though he were vermin. Do you think invoking Lily will save you?"
Tears welled in Petunia's eyes. "We—he didn't belong—he—"
"Silence!" Severus roared. The walls trembled. Petunia stumbled back against the banister, clutching at it like a lifeline.
Vernon, still pinned, managed to choke through swollen lips. "He—he deserved it! Ungrateful little—"
With a hiss of fury, Severus flicked his wand. Vernon's body twisted, contorting grotesquely. His arms snapped behind him, legs splaying at unnatural angles. A squeal of pain burst from him, choked and pitiful.
Dudley rushed forward. "Stop! You're killing him!"
Severus arched a brow. "Not yet." He twitched his wand, and Dudley's bulk lifted from the ground, suspended in midair. His legs kicked helplessly. "How does it feel, boy, to be powerless? To know that someone stronger has you in his grip, toying with you?"
"I'm sorry!" Dudley sobbed. "I—I won't do it again—I swear!"
Severus sneered. "Your tears mean nothing. You are but a pale reflection of your father—cruel, brutish, and cowardly."
What followed was not quick, nor merciful. Severus moved with the precision of a master tormentor, every curse and charm designed not for death, but for humiliation.
He conjured visions before Petunia's eyes—Lily crying, Lily begging, Harry broken and bleeding. Petunia shrieked, covering her face, but the images burned into her mind. "You envied her," Severus spat. "So you punished her son. Look at what you have wrought."
Vernon was dragged across the floor, stripped of dignity as boils and pustules erupted across his skin, his flesh twisting to reflect the ugliness inside. He screamed until his voice broke.
Dudley was forced to live, for one night, Harry's suffering. Severus shrank his body, made him shiver with cold, conjured bars around him like a cage. The boy whimpered, called for his mother, but Petunia could not move, bound by spectral chains.
Hour after hour, Severus kept them in a cycle of fear and agony. He did not kill. He made them remember. He etched into their bones the cost of their cruelty.
At dawn, the air stank of sweat and fear. The Dursleys lay broken on the floor—alive, but shattered. Their eyes rolled wildly, skin clammy, voices hoarse from screaming.
Severus stood over them, robes unruffled, wand steady. He spoke with cold finality.
"You will live. But you will never forget. You will never speak of Harry again. You will never utter his name. Should you try, your tongues will shrivel in your mouths, your throats burn with fire."
He raised his wand, inscribing invisible runes into the air. The magic settled over them like a shroud, sinking into their very marrow.
With a flick of his wand, they shrank, twisted, and squealed—three fat mice scampering helplessly on the carpet. Snape conjured a black iron cage, the bars humming with wards, and dropped them inside.
"Welcome to your new lives," he murmured, slipping the cage into his enchanted satchel. "I shall enjoy my experiments."
With a crack, he vanished, leaving the silent, cursed house behind.
Prince Manor welcomed him like a living thing, its wards wrapping around him as he stepped inside the Prince Manor once more. He ascended the stairs, pausing at Harry's door.
Inside, the boy still slept peacefully, face untroubled. Dobby stirred and blinked, sensing Snape's return, but said nothing. Severus lingered in the doorway, the scent of blood and fear still clinging to his robes. He whispered, almost inaudibly:
"You will never suffer again. I swear it."