The first thing Andrei saw through the settling dust and brick fragments was a Snape of indecently young age, crumpled like a broken doll on the floor of a dark and cheerless room. Why is it so dark? Surely it wasn't evening already? He cast Tempus and stared. It was well past midnight. Andrei cursed himself inwardly: he should have been running to save the boy, not pottering around cleaning a house. He'd gotten carried away. The house wasn't going anywhere—but this one… Damn, damn, damn. Still, he wasn't about to give up. Snape was alive, at least—not hanging from anything, wrists intact. There was still hope. The main thing was that he'd gotten here before Dumbledore did—before the man could enlist him as a teacher and loyal instrument. Or had he already?
Snape did have a fireplace, as it turned out—or rather, he'd had one until approximately a minute ago. It was the fireplace, in fact, that had roused him from unconsciousness: the thing had exploded into fragments, large and small, because there was simply no other way for Hagrid to climb through. The effect was not unlike a small detonation, and ignoring it was not an option.
It was so far outside anything Severus could have anticipated that he simply blinked. He had been feeling more or less dead a moment ago—had been quite seriously preparing to correct the more or less—mentally debating the most appropriately painful method. And now here was Hagrid. What on earth did Hagrid want here? The thought that Dumbledore had sent him came quickly, but—had the Headmaster wanted to cut him off from the world by having Hagrid blow up his fireplace? It didn't make any sense.
Then the gamekeeper finished checking himself for bruises, cheerfully cleaned himself up with a spell delivered via the absurd pink umbrella, and walked over to him.
"Severus. Good evening. Has the Headmaster been by yet?"
All Severus could manage was to open his mouth slightly and shake his head. Hagrid thought he'd find Dumbledore here? In his home? But the absurdity continued—the gamekeeper extended his hand:
"Good. Then come with me."
Severus was past caring, so he didn't take the hand—just kept staring. Hagrid reacted, again, in a manner that made no sense: he took hold of him under the arms, lifted him from the floor, brushed him off, sniffed him for some reason, gave an approving nod, and then, keeping a firm grip on his hand, began attempting to fold himself back into what remained of the fireplace. Then he swore in a strangely unfamiliar way, climbed out again without releasing Severus—who was still somewhere in the vicinity of a stupor—searched the miraculously intact mantelpiece, found some Floo Powder, and then they were in the gamekeeper's cottage.
What was happening? Severus felt as though he were inside a bad dream. Perhaps Lily's death was also a dream? No. He had held her cooling body. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Nothing changed—he was still sitting on an enormous bunk, evidently Hagrid's bed, while the man paced the room in agitation, back and forth, then suddenly stopped, crouched beside him, and looked him in the eye.
"What am I going to do with you, lad?" he asked, with such unexpected warmth that Severus opened his eyes wide. "How do I bring you back to yourself? A slap—" Hagrid looked at his own hand, then at Severus and his face contorted with inner pain, and sighed with what seemed like genuine grief. "I can't slap you—your head might come off. Can't exactly pinch you either, there's nothing to grab. But you need to be in one piece, with that famous brain of yours."
"Why?" Severus asked, barely moving his lips.
"Because who else is going to carry on Lily's work? I can only help so much." Hagrid frowned with businesslike purpose and stood up, ignoring how Snape flinched and went white. "Right—the toilet's outside on the right, if you need it. There's hot tea. Drink it fast and then we're going to save the little one. We can't let it all have been for nothing."
And he pushed toward Severus the smallest mug available. A one-litre one.
"Let what be for nothing? Save whom?"
"I'll explain later—drink up, we need to move before dawn! Can you Apparate to an address?"
"I've… managed it a couple of times."
"If you're still in one piece, that's good enough." Hagrid slid the enormous steaming mug toward him. "Listen carefully: Little Whinging, Privet Drive, number four. Drink."
"With a compliance potion?" Snape asked, sniffing suspiciously.
"With mint and valerian, you idiot!" Hagrid barked, sounding genuinely offended—and the hot liquid scorched Severus's throat, but did bring him to something closer to a functional state. It didn't last long, thanks to Hagrid's next remark.
"We'll make them all regret it—every last one! We'll have our revenge!" The gamekeeper extended one enormous palm toward Severus. "Rubeus."
Snape's jaw dropped. His eyes began to slowly glaze over.
"Oh for—drink more!"
The second swallow pulled Severus back from the edge again.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
"None of your business! You'll find out later—everything later. Get focused—there's a child out there getting cold. It's almost dark already!"
Snape gave a strange shudder, drew his wand, and pointed it at Hagrid while muttering something under his breath. Hagrid just smiled.
"Go ahead, see what happens. You were a good student, Severus—weren't you? Surely you remember who I am. What blood I carry. Now repeat the address and let's go."
"Privet Drive, four, Little Whinging."
"Good lad—I'll bake you a biscuit when we get back. Up you get—Apparate us! Quickly!" he barked with enough force that Snape jumped to his feet, raised his wand—
"Privet Drive, four, Little Whinging—Apparate!"
Hagrid barely managed to grab him before they both vanished into the Apparition current.
* * *
The pre-dawn hour in Little Whinging was quiet and quite cold. Poor Harry Potter had cried himself so thoroughly dry and frozen that he couldn't even whimper properly, but the cold wouldn't let him sleep either. He kept drifting off and surfacing again, hovering in something close to unconsciousness.
There was one thing Andrei hadn't accounted for: Apparating with a half-giant in tow—a being who had a rather complicated relationship with magic at the best of times—was not something every wizard could manage. Snape was out cold the moment he touched the pavement. He was breathing, thankfully, and the pulse at his thin neck was steady. So now the gamekeeper had two casualties on his hands at once, and little Harry had instinctively latched onto the warm Snape and pressed himself closer.
"I'm an idiot," Andrei muttered to himself, rearranging his load into a more manageable position. "And now what? Where do I go, and more to the point, how?"
He couldn't afford to be seen around Hogwarts and the surrounding area—but for now, the priority was getting away from here.
So he set off at a brisk walk. The town had to end somewhere—it was small, he'd read as much. He smiled at the parallel with Hermione Granger and picked up the pace, and sure enough—Rowling hadn't lied about that, bless her—within about ten minutes he was at the edge of town. A stroke of luck, too: adjoining the last houses was either a generous park or a modest forest. He walked further in, found a sizeable fallen trunk, and sat down to think.
Get back to Snape's in Cokeworth? he reasoned. Dumbledore will turn up there, if he hasn't already. My place? Same problem. Snape won't stay quiet once he's conscious—and Harry, once he recovers, probably won't either. Staying here isn't ideal, though I could build a shelter if needed. But we'd be found. And the boy needs proper conditions. Snape and I could probably tough it out…
The fur coat kept him warm enough, and his two rescued passengers had settled against him—one at his shoulder, the other against his chest—both snuffling away in their sleep, but something more was called for. Andrei gauged the distance to the road, noted the wind direction, and stood up to walk another half-kilometre until he found a genuinely pleasant and secluded spot, complete with a stream. On its bank he set down his cargo, shrugged off the coat, wrapped both unfortunate wizards in it, and went to collect firewood.
Half an hour later he was stretched out comfortably beside a small cheerful fire.
A pot would be nice, he thought. Tea right now would be perfect. And the herbs—look at that, St John's wort, and there's oregano, just like at the dacha back home—help yourself. He snorted and reached for the pink umbrella.
"Charming design for a wand, I must say. Excellent disguise—truly excellent. No one around, even if I cause an explosion, nobody's coming. Let's experiment."
He aimed the umbrella at a piece of firewood and concentrated carefully, picturing his old camping pot—the one he'd taken on dozens of trips, three-litre aluminium, slightly dented on one side. The stick blurred and darkened before his eyes, and a minute later he was holding an exact replica: three litres, aluminium, same dent and all.
"Good grief," he murmured. "And no incantations required—no Transfiguration formulae, none of the nonsense McGonagall used to terrify students with."
He couldn't be bothered with Aguamenti, and besides, he vaguely remembered reading about someone accidentally producing an uncontrolled waterfall. And there was a perfectly good stream right there. So within a few minutes the pot was hanging over the fire where it belonged, and Hagrid was strolling along the tree line nearby.
This was a good move, he thought, stripping dried St John's wort and oregano flowers from their stems. Ha—I wonder how long the pot will hold. A month, even, and life is good. Could I conjure a small house, do you think? Or a tent with an Extension Charm? Though Extension Charms probably won't work—otherwise they wouldn't cost so much. But why not try conjuring things fresh each time? Good practice.
And so the camp took shape: a herb tea quietly steeping in the pot, Snape and young Potter sleeping peacefully under the fur coat, a simple canvas lean-to overhead reflecting the warmth of a long low fire—snapping three dry trunks by hand for firewood had turned out to be embarrassingly easy. What a pleasure it was to be a half-giant.
Andrei smiled, watching little Harry crawl onto Snape's stomach in his sleep without ever opening his eyes. Perfectly sensible—warmer there. But the fact that Snape showed no reaction at all was worrying. Without him—without his specific skills—the whole plan fell apart. He'd have given anything for a modest prop conveniently left under a bush right now: a vial of Strengthening Solution, or a Restorative. Even ginseng would do. Ginseng, in the forests of Britain. Right.
He looked mournfully at the pink umbrella. Maybe he should try Apparating back to the cottage on his own—he knew it well enough now to picture it clearly. Just him, in case anything was wrong there or Dumbledore had stopped by looking for Snape. Let the two of them rest here; they weren't going anywhere. He did need to put something under them first, though—no sense in nursing them through pneumonia on top of everything else. And it was probably wise to take Snape's wand for safekeeping.
He looked again at the sharp, pale face and sighed. Someone had really done a number on this boy. How old was he? Twenty-one, if he was remembering right.
The camping mat came out slightly lopsided and looked a bit worn-in already, but Andrei didn't mind—he repeated the process and made a second one, then laid Snape down on the double layer. The young man had already curled around Harry in his sleep—reaching toward warmth instinctively, it seemed—so Andrei covered them both with the coat again and adjusted the canvas screen. He stuck a couple of short logs in front of them as a barrier. Just in case they rolled.
Then he picked up the by-now rather filthy pink umbrella—should he repaint it?—and vanished from the clearing. There was no one around to notice the Apparition current. He was wary of using Snape's wand—children's wands might be tracked, for all he knew, and he didn't want to draw that kind of attention.
He all but burst through the cottage door and conducted a thorough search. He found more biscuits—just the thing for teething. And for keeping small mouths busy. Though actually, look at this—oats, milk… strange milk, though, faintly bluish, in an oddly shaped container. No potions anywhere, unfortunately. But instead of more tea there was—a miracle—a small handful of coffee beans in a perfectly ordinary jar. Andrei smiled. A Hagrid-sized handful. Well—being a half-giant was all very well when it came to snapping trees, but it had its disadvantages too. Still, on balance—especially at the moment—it wasn't bad at all.
He packed everything into a small bag he'd hung by the door earlier, and Apparated back to where he'd left his rescued pair with considerably more confidence than before.
* * *
Harry woke in a strange and entirely unfamiliar place. It was warm, but deeply uncomfortable. He shifted, sat up, looked around, and felt afraid. Mummy didn't answer when he called out for her, and calling for Daddy wasn't something he'd ever really done. He wanted to cry, but the fear was stronger. What if someone came—like someone who had come not very long ago?
The man whose arm was around him was fast asleep. Harry patted his face with one small hand. He didn't fully understand the situation, but this was the only living person nearby, and it seemed to be this person who'd covered him with the warm thing. He was warm too, this man. But hard. Though here—here was better. Harry tucked himself against his stomach and gave a disgruntled little grunt: he couldn't cry properly—no voice left, his throat hurt, and he was very thirsty.
Drinks were always given by grown-ups, and usually by Mummy. So why was he sleeping? Harry patted the man's chest with his open palm. The man exhaled heavily. Harry tried to shake him awake—but the insensible person failed to respond further, so eventually the little boy gave up, settled quietly beside him, and when a breeze came through, burrowed under the heavy arm. He let out one small, bitter sob—calling for his mother one last time.
That was what Severus Snape, returning at last to consciousness, opened his eyes to.
Black eyes met bright green ones. Then there was another sob, something that sounded like mum, and Severus felt small arms close around him.
The tender moment was obliterated by Hagrid landing approximately in the campfire—which was only smouldering by now, but still had a respectable bed of coals.
"Oh!" he announced, beaming. "Made friends, have we, you poor orphans? Right then—Severus, can you grind these?" And he held out the coffee jar.
Watching Harry attach himself to a completely stupefied Snape like a barnacle was entertaining, but explanations were coming regardless—that was plain from Snape's expression, and Andrei knew it perfectly well himself. So before the questions could begin, he announced:
"Food first. Talk after."