AN: Yep, another Severitus fic (eventually…). If everything comes out as planned, this should be as original as a Severitus can be.
This is post-OotP and the ships will be canon (HG, RHr). There is no: abuse, slash, angst, loveable-father!Snape, character bashing, or evil/dark!Harry. I'm trying to keep this canon as possible.
I give thanks to E. M. Pink who helped organize my ideas—read her work, she's awesome!
Standard disclaimers apply.
Harry stared bleakly into the storm sweeping over Privet Drive in unrelenting torrents, creating an eerie silver haze over the black road. It had been two weeks of boredom and misery staying with the Dursleys—his relatives were too scared to say anything to him, let alone do anything entertaining.
Unfortunately, Harry's days were spent performing various chores while the rest of them sat on their rumps watching the television. If he wasn't cleaning, mowing, trimming the garden or whatever else Petunia could think of, Harry tried to get his summer homework done. This, of course, was nearly impossible, because he hardly had a minute to himself at a time.
If he had ever had time to do homework, it would be in the dead of the night, when he was already too exhausted to do much of anything other than get some shut eye--which, of course, never amounted to much. His dreams were of Sirius and Cedric falling to their demise, and of a cold, high-pitched voice telling him there would be so many more deaths to come, and Harry would wake up as though he had never gone to sleep in the first place.
Harry tried his best to completely forget about anything concerning Sirius, but no matter how far away he tucked the memory of his godfather, he could always feel that nagging guilt tugging at his every action, his every thought.
Rubbing his face with his hands, Harry returned to his bed thinking of Ron and Hermione. They were together at the Headquarters with Mrs. Weasley and Professor Lupin, having loads of fun together no doubt. He sent the letters to the Order every three days as he was told, though they were usually very short and to the point. Occasionally, Harry would ask about Voldemort's plans, but that about did as much good as Lockhart's teaching methods.
Suddenly, the doorbell echoed piercingly throughout the quiet house, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Dudley! It's Princess!" Vernon bellowed up the stairs.
Harry snorted and leaned back into his bed; Princess was the girl Vernon had paid, because he was worried ickle-Dinkydums didn't have enough female attention.
Dudley had been much quieter than the year before and shut himself in his room almost as often as Harry did; Harry heard him mumbling about his former victims in his sleep more than once. Petunia had talked Vernon into letting Dudley start visiting a shrink, but they might as well have paid a stranger to stare at the boy, because Dudley never said a word.
Then, Vernon had watched some show on the telly about how most men Dudley's age had already had several relationships. Vernon, of course, became worried as there hadn't been a single woman who'd even thought of dating Dudders. To give his son a hint, Vernon showed him a few videos and magazines he'd kept hidden from Petunia. Finally, frustrated, Vernon had decided to call Princess and bribe her into dating his son.
Harry found himself wondering exactly how much Vernon had paid Princess, because she was actually quite pretty, despite her revolting name. Harry doubted she would touch someone like Dudley, who not only had a lousy personality, but still had to use two chairs in the kitchen to satisfy his bulk and his four chins jiggled with every move.
Harry, of course, had wondered out of his room to watch, but still kept out of sight.
Princess strutted in with a smirk towards Dudley, whose eyes were wide and hungry, following her bum as she walked past him and into the kitchen. Petunia had made a huge dinner—if Dudley's eating habits didn't scare the girl off, Harry didn't know what would.
The dinner was surprisingly uneventful, Harry thought. Petunia would politely inquire of her life at home—what her parents did for a living, who her parents were, the usual. Vernon made several crude connotations that had Harry gagging at the foot of the stairs.
As Petunia headed up for bed (Harry had quickly ducked behind a recliner), Vernon offered the couple a 'spot of whiskey', which apparently meant a large cup to Harry's uncle. Princess politely declined, but Dudley, nervous about looking like a wimp, downed the cup in one large gulp, and proceeded to toss back another cup as well.
"That's m'boy!" Vernon declared cheerily, slapping Dudley on the back.
Vernon then chose to wait about ten minutes, telling various golf jokes and making the couple feel awkward, before heading up to bed with Petunia. That was when Dudley decided to make a complete arse of himself.
"Your brea—hair's so—so pretty," Dudley mumbled, staring directly at the girl's chest. A bit of a ditz, the girl giggled and thanked him. She commented on his large muscles and manly chest, to which Dudley smirked.
Harry, at a cross between finding the situation hilarious and finding it sickening, quickly retreated upstairs to his room and shut the door before he was caught. After passing Hedwig an owl treat, Harry went to bed, doing his best impression of Occlumency to simultaneously get his mind off of pig-like cousins and their girlfriends, as well as his friends and his deceased godfather. His efforts succeeded, luckily, and he was fast asleep within the hour.
Not much later, however, Harry was woken from his sleep by a loud thumping noise. The wall neighboring Dudley's was shaking, and a few books had been knocked to the floor.
"Is it impossible to get some sleep in this stupid house?" Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes, longing for the warm, four-poster beds back in his Hogwarts dormitory.
Thump. Thump—
"Oh, Dudley!"
Harry's mouth fell open in disgust, and he hastily tried to block out the sound with a pillow. However, when he heard a loud moan and a shrill voice crying "Harder!", that was when he called it quits.
"Urgh!" Harry said to himself, shoving the pillow away, his nose wrinkling as though he smelled something funny.
Didn't Vernon or Petunia hear it? Or were they pretending not to care?
Aggravated and revolted, Harry got dressed and snatched his wand, shoving it in his back pocket, and quickly left his room. He had half a mind to cast Silencio as he passed Dudley's door, where the noises were clearer and sounded much more disgusting…
Harry shook his head again, and stomped angrily down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him.
It had stopped raining, thankfully, and the street was eerily silent. Harry tucked his hands in his pockets as he crossed Magnolia Crescent towards the opposing sidewalk, more slowly now, having calmed considerably since he left the Dursleys.
Harry heard footsteps following him at a fast pace; he could hear the trainers thumping on the ground and slightly hitched breathing, as though the person hadn't noticed Harry had left until moments afterward and had to chase after him.
"Psst! Harry!" Said a voice, distinctly feminine; Harry guessed it was Tonks. He ignored her, and kept moving, swiftly turning into an alley he knew all too well, and then doubling back into a small, often overlooked crack between two buildings. The crack was partially hidden by a large, rancid dumpster that had partially decayed on one end, with trash spilling out its side. The stench had been intensified by the rain, and Harry covered his mouth to keep himself from choking.
It was where Harry usually disappeared when Dudley was 'Harry Hunting' when they were children; it would always effectively lose Dudley—and even if he were to find it, He would be too large to fit through.
If, thought Harry, his plan worked, he'd lose Tonks and be free the rest of the night—or at least until Dudley would surely be finished. Harry grimaced again at the thought of it. Surely Vernon wouldn't allow him at it all night…?
He didn't quite know why he didn't just let Tonks catch him—surely she wouldn't send him right back if Harry explained himself. But he felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to be free of everything: the Dursleys, the Order, the prophecy…at least for a little while.
Disregarding Tonks's pleas for him to 'come out before she got in trouble', Harry squeezed through the crack, his chest constricted by the close walls. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he made it out on the other side, feeling a vague sense of pride at succeeding.
His pride, however, was short-lived.
"Oh, fuck," Harry murmured, staring at the Dark Mark hovering in the sky, looming over him menacingly. Slowly, quietly, Harry tried backing away before he was spotted, but it was too late.
He abruptly saw a jet of red light speeding towards him before he passed out, his head making a loud crack against the sidewalk.
When Harry awoke, he gasped in pain. There were stars before his eyes, and his head throbbed painfully. He felt very much like the back of his head had been clobbered with a sledgehammer or something similar. Gingerly, Harry reached up to touch the throbbing wound and promptly pulling it back as a pleasantly warm, sticky substance met his fingers.
With trepidation, Harry summoned his strength and pulled himself into a sitting position. He was sitting in a small, cramped dungeon, complete with rusty chains and shackles on the ceiling and a rickety table to the side. Harry looked in the far corner, where a small hole had been dug into the ground, already full of excrement.
Typical, Harry thought to himself, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway, and Harry snapped his head towards the door.
"Good, the lil' blighter's awake," said a man cheerily, waving a ring of keys around on his finger on one hand and holding a worn, black briefcase in the other.
Harry eyed him warily; his hair was, if possible, greasier than Snape's and his mouth stretched over his large, horse-like teeth. His appearance, frankly, made him look a little off his rocker, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to get to know the man.
"The Mighty One," Harry assumed this was yet another pretentious-sounding nickname for Voldemort, "has given me permission to do what I like with you."
"Oh?" Replied Harry, feeling rather desperate to have the comfort of his wand back in his hand. "And who are you, exactly?"
The Death Eater puffed out his chest slightly, and said, "Barnaby Dougall—and I'll make sure you say my name while you scream."
"Er, that's really not necessary," Harry replied, backing away as the man went through the keys slowly, as though purposefully trying to build the Gryffindor's anxiety. Harry truly doubted whether the man was all that powerful simply due to his seemingly stupid manner, but without his wand or anywhere to run, the boy was powerless against him. Also, Voldemort had trusted him for some reason…
Dougall had found the key--it was a large, old-fashioned, silver one reminding Harry strangely of the key he'd captured from the ceiling in his first year--and entered the dungeon cell, locking the door behind him.
"Why didn't you just use Alohomora?" Harry asked, really wishing that Dougall wasn't in such close proximity.
Dougall glared at Harry as though he were brainless. "Because it doesn't work on those locks," he answered simply. He slammed his briefcase on the table, while Harry gritted his teeth, bringing forth all the anger he could muster in an attempt to release 'accidental' magic. Predictably, this didn't work one bit to Harry's annoyance.
Dougall pulled out several potions of various colors and textures. He tapped his chin, snatching the black potion with a thick, chunky consistency.
"I'm not drinking that," stated Harry, crossing his arms and leaning on the far wall. His head wound was beginning to be a problem again—Harry could feel the blood pooling slowly at the base of his neck—but he refused to show his weakness to the Death Eater before him.
Dougall grinned insidiously. "You'll take it or I'll make you—and trust me, the roundabout way is no fun...for you, anyhow."
"So is that what you do then?" Harry asked, attempting to buy time, "Make potions? Isn't that Snape's job?"
"Snape makes the potions," said Dougall and he grinned, "I torture the prisoners."
"Sounds… pathetic. What, you couldn't get a girlfriend?" Harry retorted, but he had wavered slightly and felt extremely light-headed. The blood was running down his back, now, and his shirt clung to it.
"Silencio," Dougall said lazily. "I hope you enjoy this one; it completely strips you of any magical properties, effectively making you a squib. The Mighty One didn't want me to use this potion—says he wanted to duel you properly—but I'm sure he'll come around…"
Harry hadn't heard a word he said—something about squibs—as he struggled to stay conscious. He focused his eyes on the Death Eater, however, and attempted to listen.
"A few drops should do it," Dougall murmured, walking over towards Harry with a glint in his dark eyes. "Will you participate?"
Harry refused to answer. If he said no, he'd have to take it anyway, as he was too weak and tired to fight off the Imperious…but his pride wouldn't let him consent to the Death Eater's wishes, anyway.
"Open wide," Dougall murmured, tipping Harry's head back (his fingers dangerously close to his thumping injury), and forcing Harry's mouth open. Too weak to resist and his mind feeling too numb to care, Harry allowed the Death Eater to pour the thick, black liquid into his mouth.
Harry certainly wasn't expecting the effects to be so immediate. His throat felt as though he'd just downed acid, and the agonizing burning feeling spread through his intestines, his stomach—and up to his skull, underneath his eyelids, through his brain.
Hecried out and bucked backwards, his already injured head contacting with the jagged, stony wall behind him—and everything went black.
Review, please! Constructive criticism and suggestions are especially lovely.