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I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space	By : SparklySprinkles Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Dudley/Harry Views: 10089 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Fictional story based on fictional characters. I own nothing of Harry Potter, and make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-chapter one
- 2-Chapter Two
- 3-Chapter Three
- 4-four
- 5-five
- 6-six
- 7-seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-nine
- 10-ten
- 11-eleven
- 12-twelve
- 13-thirteen
- 14-fourteen
- 15-fifteen
- 16-sixteen
- 17-seventeen
- 18-eighteen
- 19-nineteen
- 20-twenty
- 21-twenny one
- 22-twenny two
- 23-twenty three
- 24-twenty four
- 25-one more to go!
- 26-the end (26)
- 17
- 18
- 19
   Severus was having what passed for him as a pleasant evening - uneventful. And uneventful was as good as life got. In his most tormented moments in the last twenty years, this level of nothing happening, the kind of evening that would bore a weaker minded, less grateful person to tears, was just what he'd salivated after.
   Aside from Dursley bothering him two weeks prior, the major bumps in his road these days were Longbottom's stammers. And they happened rarely enough; the boy held a thought for days before he was ever able to work up what he needed to say it aloud, which was fine. Silence. That was how their lives went, in silence. At either end of the table, for those moments where they spent time together, and Neville would eat what he'd cooked for them, and they wouldn't speak. He could even eat in silence, in that his utensils never made sounds against the plate, and if he chewed, he kept it a secret. A match made in heaven.
   Severus just so happened to be admiring such a talent (to himself, of course) when Longbottom gripped the table, as though fighting something. Severus set down his fork and watched, but knew this was wrong. All wrong in the way the boy let go of the table, held himself completely differently, looked Severus right in the eye. A first. "Severus. He's dying. You need to go and claim him."
   "My Lord?" For that was who his dinner companion was, now.
   "Potter. His uncle's being killed and he will die of it. Quick."
   Lovely. Just lovely.
   He went to the floo and said the words, and was through, into the Dursleys' home. He was aware of the wards first. Stifling. His wand was nearly useless here. He'd been in this house twelve days prior and they hadn't been there then. Puzzling, to say the least. To say more, it was very like what the Dark Lord had done to the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts. What had he been up to here? Just general paranoia?
   Then he heard screaming and crying, and a bump from behind let him know the Dark Lord had followed him here. He followed the noise and his master who had walked past him towards the mess. He spared a glance for the exploded wall, the bits of wood and metal bars that magic had fused, and noted how the Dark Lord passed it all without a glance. And he said nothing of the wards, either.
   Blood assaulted his nose, and he would have cast a charm for that, but he was practically a muggle in this home. Unsettling.
   He looked down at the form of Potter's uncle on the floor, blood flow slowing. Was there something to salvage there? But he would have to carry it back home, to where he could access magic, and that was work. Heavy lifting. Then he looked at the younger Dursley, on the bed huddled about something and crying messily. Beside him was a gun, answering the obvious. And Petunia, hovering over it all, screaming. But she stilled when she saw Severus and Longbottom, and grabbed Dudley's shoulder. He turned, and Severus could see he'd been curled about Potter, though he'd already suspected that.
   "He's dying! You have to help him!"
   "Yes, I'll take that into consideration. Hand him over."
   "Just give him to me! This wouldn't have happened if you'd done that in the first place."
   "Hand the boy over, Dursley."
   "What's wrong with him? I should just inherit him, right? He should be mine, now!"
   "He's dying. Hand him over, and he won't die." He had no time for reasoning, but bare basics would do it. And they did. Dursley handed him over, sobbing and uncontrolled.
   Snape didn't bother to refrain from curling a lip at this little shit throwing his tantrums again. What would Potter have gone through under that kind of master? But what had he gone through with his father? He was even thinner than the last time Severus had seen him, light as air, really. He curled his arms around him and felt bones everywhere jutting out and poking into him. He didn't stop to inspect further, though. There wasn't much he could have done in that closed vault of a house for Potter or anyone.
   He carried him through the fireplace as the Dark Lord said the words for Spinner's End over the Dursley boy's shouts, and Severus laid him down right there. Magic returned to him, relieving his uneasiness, and he pulled out his wand, suddenly useful again. He delved the slight frame on the floor, searching for life. It was there, but weak and flickering. And Potter had so very little to fight with as it was.
   It was a wound in the boy's soul, a severing, and there was one way to mend it, but Severus didn't want that. He thought about horcruxes and botching the spell right there, but the Dark Lord was standing over him, watching everything. He couldn't.
   "You need to bond him, Severus. Quickly." Yes, he knew that. There may have been some stalling, some hope the boy would expire before he could do it. He spoke the words, very close to the same thing he had with Dursley, hating this more than anything. He left out the end of the spell, the one that would drag either one of them to death to follow slave or master. They both had shaky expiry dates, to say the least; they both lived at the Dark Lord's pleasure, and it was the nature of this situation that required him to separate them in such a way. Potter's death would mean it was time to strike, or it could mean that, and Severus' death could mean the same thing. It was the very heart of the terrible game they were playing.
   "Faster, Severus. I can feel his death."
   He said nothing to his master, but continued his incantation. He could feel it too. Not like the Dark Lord could - however that was - but the pulse of the boy's magical core, fading. He knew the feeling too well.
   And then as his own soul was used to patch the wound, he could feel Potter in a different way. Could feel his weak heartbeat, more of a faint, tired squish, and a gnawing hunger that was maddening if dwelt on. He ignored that, and felt only the heartbeat, until he felt it strengthen just a hair. That would be enough.
   He had to get something into him. Potter was emaciated. Truly. His skeletal frame was obvious here, half naked on the floor. His trousers had not made the move apparently, and his face was a hollowed out sculpture. How he had survived such severe starvation was beyond Severus, until he thought of horcruxes again.
   "He'll live."
   "Good. Well done. I know you didn't want him."
   "Indeed."
   "If you would like, if you would be willing." His blood chilled at the thought of this man asking a boon so meaningful to him that he would try to disguise it as a favour. "Severus. I could come in once a week to invade your body and you would never have to touch him."
   Well. That was news. "My occlumency shields would never allow it, My Lord. But I am, of course, grateful for the offer." He knew how to play this game.
   "Of course." He should have known that much, and Severus squashed, not for the first time, the idea that he knew more than the Dark Lord on the subject. That was a dangerous line of thought; complacency and the arrogance it bore were the leading causes of death among Death Eaters.
   So. The Dark Lord wanted Potter for himself, then? "Forgive me, My Lord, but why wouldn't you have taken him for yourself?"
   "I need some impregnable den in which to keep him. I'm not ready, Severus."
   "Of course" Lucky him, then. But really, lucky Potter. And then, on the day when the Dark Lord did want him? But they would cross that bridge when they got to it, and Severus would do what he could against it until then, like everything else. But it was dangerous to think around this man, so he cleared these thoughts for later.
   He delved Potter again, this time combing over everything. He needed so much, Severus didn't even know where to start. Cracked ribs, but they had been healing for a small time. There was an ugly mass of bruising about one hip, covering most of the skin, darkest where the bones stood out. "Dursley was a fool." Some ear damage that hopefully the right potion would address. Otherwise the boy would need a healer for such delicate work.
   "He was. It's just as well he died before he could kill him. And he's in the most capable of hands, now."
   Indeed. Severus would rather have lost said hands. The boy whimpered pathetically, moved his head, looked right at Snape, and frowned as though this was all wrong - which it was. He'd forgotten to bring the boy's glasses. Potter moaned and twisted his face, like he was in pain, and looked at the Dark Lord in horror. "Neville?" The Dark Lord was more than close enough for him to make out.
   "Harry. Good news. You will live."
   He winced some more, and said, "what?" But it hurt him. The words, or the sound of them. Or just everything else, Snape didn't know. The bond and how to interpret it was all new, and this was more and more unsettling, every bit as much as the Dark Lord using the boy's given name in that tone. And looking at him like that with Longbottom's face. "Dudley?" He looked around, but his eyes couldn't make out more until they found Severus, then they widened again.
   "Dormus," Severus said, and Potter closed his eyes and slept, and he didn't have to deal with that anymore. Didn't have to deal with the boy's eyes. They disturbed Severus more without the glasses to remind him. "My Lord, Longbottom would serve me well now. He knows where all my necessary potions are."
   "Yes, of course, Severus. You've done well for me again. I will not forget your many services to me."
   "Yes, My Lord." Severus bowed his head and waited, then softened the landing for Longbottom's body as it was emptied. The air lightened, and Severus was allowed to think in peace again. His master had an oppressive presence at best. Then he spared a glance for Longbottom, just to ensure there was no visible damage after that, though why there would be was beyond him, then went for his potion stores himself. He needed to address the kidneys first. They were on the verge of shutting down. Again, how he'd survived could only be attributed to the horcrux, giving him magical strength to withstand it.
   Nutritional potions would need to be brewed, but Severus was among the best. And that wasn't false confidence, just a fact. Longbottom had gotten fairly good at potions himself in the last few months. He was gifted at taking and following orders, and surprisingly useful. Severus had performed the impossible, again, and had made something of him. His grandmother should be grateful, but she wasn't, of course, and Severus had warded his home specifically against her. He needed no duels with little old ladies.
   He set the bases to the necessary potions brewing, and labelled each cauldron carefully. Then he returned to his charges with some light brews he had on hand that would help Potter stabilize some organs. His heart and kidneys first, and Severus would go from there and make what else was needed.
   Longbottom came to, and stared at the room, frowning about it. Then he saw Severus, and his eyes followed to Potter, on the floor.
   "Harry?" He sat up, and rushed to him, crowding Severus. "What's happened to him? He's dying!?"
   "He is not." Strange to hear the boy's voice. He was almost a mute normally. "And I'll need you to see to the next stages of some potions downstairs." He nodded, eyes still glued to the unconscious boy. "They're for him."
   "Right. Of course. Yes, Sir." He jumped up and swayed a moment, then was alright, and disappeared for the steps that would lead down. Severus uncorked a potion and made a trickle flow out with magic, and through Potter's mouth to his stomach, painstakingly slow, but effective. It would take a long time to get the few he had in him, but it would be worth it. And at the moment it was the only way to go about it.
   That done, he regretted he'd been so quick about it. He now had to move on. He looked about the room, missing the other boy suddenly. But what was he supposed to do? Be delicate about this? Dainty and shrinking? He'd never been so in his life to anything other than regret afterwards.
   He picked the boy up, still marveling at how thin and light he was. But he was still a dead weight; this was no easy task. He carried him up the narrow steps, struggling with the form, and got him into the bathroom, where he placed him in the tub, and suspended him with air, and swirled water about him, doing his best to not touch him. He sneered at his own hesitation; he would have to do more than touch him in time. And how unfortunate was that? Incredibly, he nodded to himself. How much of his life would be a punchline to older, more indifferent men's jokes?
   He blew warm air about the boy to dry him, then walked him on, and had known the whole time, but now he was facing it, right in the proverbial eye. He brought him to his own bedroom. And looked about it, wondering if there was anything Potter shouldn't be seeing, but he was struck by how empty it was, nearly sterile. But, it had been his. Had been.
   With a heavy sigh he set him down in his bed, and uncurled his lip. It was beyond distasteful. He hadn't even thought yet if any of this was useful. But staring down at him, nearly snarling again, he was starting to wonder. He knew where Minerva was, thanks to Dursley's boy. Or, Dursley, now, Severus supposed, though how long he would enjoy that was an easy guess. This world would not suffer useless muggles for long. It was of course with some regret to know that Lily's sister would be culled, but she was a horrible woman. No redeeming qualities other than who her sister had been, years ago.
   Baffling, to think Lily and young Dursley shared blood.
   He made some robes for the boy, and put one on him, stewing comfortably in his anger at how many buttons he had to put on everything. Then he set up a side dresser for him. He was not about to share his. He was already sharing more than enough. He filled the drawers with the remaining robes then covered him with what were once his blankets.
    There was nothing more he could do for Potter. Ordinary organ repairing potions were in his system, and more were being brewed. Time would do more than anything else. So he left him, almost fleeing the room, and set up some mental shelves to hopefully store just how incredibly uncomfortable he was about this. The boy would never stop plaguing him, never stop requiring more than was reasonable.
   How quickly his life had been turned upside down, and how deeply he wished it wasn't the first time. He would just always be at the whims of other, more vicious and ignorant people. That would be his life forever.
   He sat in his study and drank, heavily. Would he just crumble to his temper one day and kill this boy? And then where would he be? Just another stain in what was once Dumbledore's, once his office, for just a very short time. It was his destiny; he could see that now.
   He brooded, and he knew it. He was a fine one for brooding, was almost proud of it, and dwelled for hours on this unfortunate turn of events. Any moment where his brain became hazy enough for some blessed peace, the bond, the imposition of it in his head reminded him of his brand new charge, and the whiskey would sour in his mouth, the fuzz retreat, and he would scowl until he realized he was doing it. Then he would banish the expression, but never the mood. Life was absurd. And that was without thinking about what he would have to do to him.
   Minerva could be called upon, very carefully, or he could somehow have it leaked to her where the boy was, and perhaps she would attempt to ... rescue the boy before anyone would have to do anything. But she would need to know how to counter the curse.
   Severus was so desperate he was thinking of ways he could incorporate young Dursley into getting Potter to her. He recognized it for worse than foolhardy, but worked with it. Yes, he was desperate. He waved that on and kept thinking this through until the sounds of Longbottom stirring through the house shook him. He looked at the clock. The sun was crossing its way over Libra; he'd sat here through the night, and sunrise had happened. He'd been chased out of his bedroom for a whole night.
   He rose when he smelled food, and ate with Longbottom, then left him for his study afterwards, appreciating again how the boy kept his mouth shut. And now, with Potter here, that silence would be a thing of the past.
   At the very least, he could expect that they would talk to each other. Clutter his home with inane chatter.
   He spent most of the day in there.
   He was interrupted by a call at the fireplace. LeStrange, asking to come. Severus jumped on it, happy, actually happy, to have someone there, to distract him from this. Pouncing on the promise of company like some bloody socialite.
   Perhaps LeStrange was in need of medical assistance? That would have been a full distraction. Perhaps Weasley had thrown himself down a flight of stairs in desperation? No, that was too much to hope for.
   He handed him a glass and sat once the other did, masking his rare pleasure at his company. He didn't need LeStrange getting ideas.
   "I just heard a rumour. I was hoping I might not be too late. But I must be if you're in here, and not up there, taking advantage of a fortunate turn of events."
   Well. That had all the markings of everything Severus had been hoping to not have to think about. He quirked an eyebrow, and LeStrange knew him well enough to know that would be all the invitation he would get to elaborate.
   "Am I too late then?"
   "What do you want?"
   "Him, of course. Bad luck, that is." He shook his head. Bad luck indeed. "They were going to come over today," Severus looked at his clock. He'd missed lunch. "And I came in to a messy situation, and had I been a little earlier ..."
   "They."
   "Harry and his uncle. I waited for hours, and then this. All very unfortunate. You don't want to er, I mean, I could take him off your hands, if you. If you wanted. It would be no trouble."
   "No trouble?" Filthy, wonderful, unquenchable slut. "He's not troubling me." But he really was. Even unconscious, he was a plague.
   "Of course he's not. Look, some things were promised to me, and I ..." That withered away as he looked up at Snape, and he tried a different angle. "I was out several hundred galleons over the portkeys alone here."
   "Portkeys?" What mess was this?
   "Yes, I had portkeys made for his uncle. Very costly, very troublesome, I can assure you." Well of course they were. There wasn't some factory that custom made these things.
   "Where did they lead?"
   "The cupboard where he kept him, and their living room."
   "You -" But he didn't need to hear it again. LeStrange could be skinned alive for that. There was a reason the Potter house had been warded against apparition. Understatement was the chosen path forward, "that was ill advised."
   "Yes. Since I'm out six hundred galleons." Costly. But this man had money. What he didn't have was a spare epidermis for when the Dark Lord learned of this.
   "Why?"
   "Because they're personalized," like he was explaining the basics.
   "No. Why portkeys in that home?"
   "He was trying to keep his boy away from Potter. He was sure they were doing something." That was interesting. Almost. "And Vernon needed some way to keep them apart. It was the best thing I could think of."
   And the most interesting thing about that statement was the familiarity used. He couldn't help himself. "Did you sleep with Vernon Dursley? That would have been quite the achievement, even for you."
   "No. he made it very clear that he wasn't into men. Several times." He shrugged and looked away. "Not that I asked."
   "Of course not. He might have mentioned that a few times to me, as well." More than a few. Like any self respecting man would want him. Like he was pulling himself off a shelf that was less for losing him. "That's poor luck, LeStrange. Those would have been some heavy bragging rights."
   "I already have those," he said shyly, slyly, head down, looking up at Severus coyly through lashes, and Severus parted the waters of those words so they wouldn't touch him. The price he'd exacted for that experience was that it never be mentioned, never be sought out again. It had been a good time, all in all, though it did nothing towards the promises LeStrange had made about making him forget other things. He sat unmoving, not reacting, and LeStrange had to keep going, or sit in awkward silence. Silence was a weapon against such warm ... and incredibly horny people. "If. If you haven't finished the ritual, I'll be happy to take him. If you don't want him. That's all. Let me know. If it means anything to you, I won't be cruel. But I'm sure you know that."
   "I've already done so." And he hadn't. He had no idea how he would. Perhaps he would use the potions he'd offered Dursley so snidely back in the spring. More likely he would find a way out before that was necessary. But he wasn't about to offer the "chosen one" to an actual Death Eater. It had to be useful that he had Potter here, he was just so distracted at the moment by how horrible it was. "You were in that home today. Were the wards still up?"
   "Yes. What are those about?" His mind was easily turned by something that would disturb any wizard to have experienced. "Who would do that?"
   "Really?"
   "Well. I suppose not. But why?"
   "I don't know. I was hoping you would, since you've built up some familiarity with the home."
   "Not really. I was only there a couple times. Maybe three." He was suddenly uneasy about it all, like he'd put a couple of ugly pieces together. Perhaps dabbled with something he should not have. He really could think when his dick was soft. Those moments were just so fleeting that many people took him for a simpler man than he was. "Well, then." He knocked back what he had left, and set the glass down. "As long as you'll think about it." And he left.
   Severus chewed on it all until he was growling again. If he hadn't given the last twenty years to the art of occlumency he would have been thoroughly laced right then. And then perhaps he wouldn't be so hesitant with Potter. But that wasn't the case, and didn't deserve dwelling on. All he accomplished was another bottle down, and a hand still as steady as a rock. Tobias would have been proud of how well he could pack it away, but Severus would have chosen proper inebriation any day over the approval of a drunk.
   He stirred when Neville came downstairs to make dinner, and knew he'd messed this up from the beginning, and rose, stiff. But at least he hadn't had to wake up to Potter. Time enough for that in the future. Or the boy would find some way to kill him in his sleep, and he would be saved that little bit of ugliness. Potter's morning face.
   Potter's sex face. His stomach curdled all over again. He would rather have Neville. That gave him something to sneer about as he left the room, without a cold glance to his first charge, and up the steps to his, his room.
   He stood outside, hand on the knob, telling himself that it was his room. And he knew that. He didn't need to remind himself. In fact, he was the one in charge here. No. He wasn't. The Dark Lord was. He deflated, and walked into his room on false assurance.
   Potter was still sleeping. That was a relief.

A/N trigger warning for head hopping to come. I'll try to make it as smooth as possible, I just don't want dinky little chapters. idk. Whatever.
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I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space