Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Lost Phoenix	By : sshp4ever Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 21769 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or its Characters. I make no money (unfortunately) from this.

Chapter List
- 1-Animals
- 2-Waiting
- 3-Dirty
- 4-Alone
- 5-Umbrellas
- 6-Dreaming
- 7-Retribution
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Two: Waiting

Harry didn’t have long to orient himself after the shock of waking to the sight of his dead and brutalized familiar. He hadn’t been awake a mere ten seconds before he was hit with a frigid blast of water. Choking from the shock and the initial lack of air, Harry stumbled into a crouch. Holding his hands up to shield his face from the torrents of chilly liquid, he was just able to peer through the spray and spot the madman responsible for his unexpected wake-up call.

“Stop your sniveling, boy!” Vernon jeered, seeming wide awake despite the sun having yet to rise. “You’ve chores to do. And if you’re anything like your good-for-nothing father, you’ll need a head start.”

If Harry hadn’t been so dazed from recent events, he might have made an attempt to defend his parentage. As it was, he barely had the consciousness to take offense; not only was he numb from being drenched with freezing water, but he was emotionally drained as well. This wasn’t even taking into consideration his ever increasing hunger—choosing that moment to make itself known with an indignant rumble from his stomach—or the lack of restful sleep.

Even as Harry appraised all his body’s complaints, Vernon was thrusting a rather long piece of paper in front of Harry’s nose.

“Look here. You had better have all these chores completed by tonight—pay attention, dog!” Vernon roared unnecessarily, spittle landing on Harry’s face and mixing with remnants of his icy wake up call. “If you don’t finish”—his voice lowered threateningly—“I’ll have Petunia scrape your dinner into the rubbish bin. How would you like that?” His Uncle’s lip curled back with such spiteful glee that Harry noticed an uncanny resemblance to Snape after the Potions Master had asked a particularly difficult question of which no one would have any chance of answering correctly. Harry had come to associate the expression with suffering.

Seeing no alternative action, Harry—mumbling a “yes, sir”—simply took the list and glanced down to see what his relatives had in store for him. He wasn’t surprised to see a long, tedious list of tasks that would likely take him all day to complete. In request to Vernon, Harry took hold of the chain around his neck and raised an inquiring brow. His uncle, for the first time since Harry had arrived in Privet Drive, looked rather irritated. Harry wondered if the man hadn’t realized that he would have to be unleashed in order to do the many chores assigned him. But with a jangle of keys and a few disgruntled mumbles about Harry’s terrible uselessness, Vernon released him.

Once free of the bulky chains, Harry slowly pushed himself up and upon righting himself, spotted the smoking ashes of all his former belongings. Instead of inciting a normal reaction—anger—all he felt was sorrow for that he had lost.

After Uncle Vernon had reentered the house—undoubtedly to go back to bed—Harry set to work. He took a good look at the list: weeding the garden; mowing the lawn; dusting; cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner; vacuuming, sweeping, and mopping; doing the laundry; making the beds; taking out the trash; doing the dishes; repainting the fence; were only half of the things he’d have to complete before he was given supper. He sighed with exasperation, and decided that accomplishing all the outdoor tasks early would be most prudent.

So, with a long sigh, Harry set about weeding the Dursley’s overgrown garden.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

By evening, he could hardly move. After a muggy morning full of strenuous weeding and trimming, every move sent currents of pain spiking through Harry’s exhausted body. His muscles were sore from the intense manual labor. Sweat beaded up on his fringe and dripped down into his eyes as it had while he had labored during the day. It had taken him until noon to finish clearing out the back garden and mow the lawn, since he had to stop multiple times to prepare food for his walrus of a cousin. Petunia had squawked at him several times throughout the afternoon to hurry up, as he had cooked, cleaned, and washed the laundry, savoring the time he had indoors.

Now he was currently lugging out the garbage. He wondered how the air could still be so stifling even after the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. He deposited the heap of rubbish in the bin at the end of the alley and began to trudge back towards Number Four. He dreaded making dinner; it was torture enough to be made to do copious amounts of manual labor during one’s summer holidays, but Harry thought it was simply criminal to taunt a ravenous teenage boy with the sweet smell of sustenance. He had yet to be given food that day, and honestly didn’t look forward to being taunted by whatever meal Petunia expected him to prepare.

Sighing heavily, Harry made his way through the front door and into the kitchen, already rolling up the sleeves of his filthy jersey. Harry groaned despondently. As if Petunia and Vernon had united to make Harry’s day a living hell, pork chops with peas and mashed potatoes—his favorites—were waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Undoubtedly, he would not be allowed any of it. Even worse was dessert: Petunia had laid out a recipe for fudge. His mouth watered while his stomach gurgled obnoxiously. Steeling himself with a self-deprecating grimace, Harry got to work.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Harry wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. Well, he knew how, but he still wondered at the absurdity that was his life. All he had done was try to eat his dinner, but apparently he couldn’t even do something that simple correctly.

When Petunia had snapped at him to “hurry up and eat your supper” he had all but scurried to obey, hoping to avoid both her and Vernon's wrath. Quickly snatching up a plate Harry had made his way over to the stove where leftovers from dinner, that he had prepared earlier, remained. After scraping the remnants of mashed potatoes and peas—the mouthwatering pork chops and fudge had been, as expected, devoured—onto his plate, Harry tiredly plopped down at the kitchen table.

But before he could even get a bite in, Dudley was shouting about how Harry was “stealing” their food and, in the blink of an eye, he was being torn away from his rations and into the back yard. That had been over five minutes ago.

Shoes were rather hard, Harry realized; the firsthand experience he was suffering through at least convincing him of that. Vicious kicks to his arms, legs, and back rattled him so cruelly that it became hard to stay alert. His vision began to cloud, from blood dripping into his eyes, and he could hear a faint ringing as the blows reigned down. Finally, Harry could no longer maintain his stoic silence—having run out of lip to bite through—and started to whimper, eventually bawling out apologies. The beating had been going on so long now that Harry’s body no longer throbbed, but was mercifully numb. Despite this, Harry couldn’t help the humiliating pleas for mercy that tumbled from his lips through the tears, snot, and blood. Nonetheless, Vernon and his spawn refused to cease their ministrations for quite a while.

Suddenly, the blows halted, but instead of relief, Harry felt himself being dragged to his feet and shaken rather violently.

“Look, Dad, the pansy’s crying,” Dudley guffawed. Harry vaguely wondered what his cousin had been expecting after beating him so badly.

“He always was a wimpy little runt, just like his father,” Vernon sneered into Harry’s face, as if not quite understanding the concept of personal space. Jerking him around, the large man hauled Harry over to the doghouse and reattached the cumbersome chain. And taking a step back, Vernon and his spawn began to admire their handiwork.

“Boy, next time you steal from my house you will lose the privilege of staying here,” Vernon hissed down at a nearly comatose Harry. Lips curling into a heinous sneer and manic eyes gleaming menacingly, Vernon added, “But only after receiving a punishment a million times worse than this.” His uncle grinned as he lumbered back to the house, casting one more malevolent glance back at his damaged nephew.

As he slowly slipped into the wonderful detachment of unconsciousness, Harry pondered Vernon's parting words. What could possibly be worse than being beaten into a pulp? Harry wondered. Not overly enthusiastic to find out, he resolved that going by unnoticed for the remainder of the summer holiday would be his best course of action. But now it was time to sleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Far away from 4 Privet Drive…

Fuck, thought an annoyed Severus Snape. He was already having a shit day, and this temper tantrum wasn’t improving it any. Why do I have to put up with this shit? Albus could have just insisted I stay at the castle all summer. But NO! The old coot always thinks he knows best. He’s never had to live through one of the Dark Lord’s rages.

He’d just apparated into their current lair: an old abandoned castle along the eastern coast, far north of London. After the Dark Lord had grown tired of the décor at Malfoy Manor, Antonin Dolohov had been assigned the task of scouting out a new haunt for the Death Eaters. Unfortunately, Dolohov, like Voldemort, had a bizarre penchant for shabby dilapidated hideouts. And so, for the past month, Severus had been forced to report to the madman in what must have, at one time, been a grand ballroom. Now, however, the slick marble floors had been dulled by scattered sand, which collected at the bottom of the moth eaten burgundy velvet drapes. It had entered through the many crevices that lined the walls, which welcomed all the elements. The vaulted ceiling, while once magnificent, was obscured by what the Potion Master hoped was just cobwebs. But the most dreary feature of the entire room was an ostentatious gold chandelier. Where it had once hung in splendor it now resembled a dangling mangled and tarnished metal framework. The dust that rested upon the dilapidated light fixture was thick enough to be noticed from across the hall and cobwebs adorned the ancient relic as well.

All of this was lost on Severus, however, because at the moment of a barrage of spells were flying in all directions, not to mention the hoard of panicking Death Eaters. The decrepit chamber was overrun by scampering and dodging dark wizards, trying to escape the rage of their master.

Dodging another Confringo, Snape attempted to approach the curse-flinging fool before any major damage was inflicted to his person. Unfortunately, he had been absent to the beginning of this particular meeting, and hadn’t a clue to what the catalyst of this particular explosion had been. But if anyone knew what could calm the Dark Lord, it was Severus. Ever since the fiasco at the Ministry, Voldemort had been desperate to get a hold of Potter. He hoped that if he threw the madman a small bone all the sinister curses might cease and they could move on to just mild hexes. One could only hope.

Finally, he was close enough to catch the old crackpot’s attention over the bellowed curses and screams of terror. “My Lord!” Severus barked, more than a little irritated, “I have promising news about the Potter boy.” Snape’s words had immediately achieved their desired effect: Voldemort’s booming voice cut off mid-Crucio. And, thankfully, once a few moments had passed, so did the obnoxious shrieks of his peers. The Dark Lord's wrath had finally been tempered.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord simpered in his nasally tenor while lowering his wand, “What news do you bring me?”

After a respectful bow, Severus replied, “My Lord, I have discovered that the boy is not being kept at Order headquarters this summer. Black’s death undoubtedly makes staying there unpleasant for anyone who had been too…attached to the man.” Upon saying this, the Dark Lord’s eyes lit up with a fanatical blaze. In truth, Snape had known for some time that Harry Potter would not return to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but, as a spy, he was careful to withhold all valuable information until its allotted time. Severus knew the boy would never willingly return to the house which held so many fond memories of his recently deceased godfather. Voldemort might have recognized this if he retained the ability to empathize. But of course the madman could never understand an emotion as potent as grief.

“And where is he instead, Severus?” Voldemort eagerly entreated him. His eyes gleaming an eerie crimson and slit-like nostrils flaring with his excitement.

“I was not directly informed, but I do know they believe Hogwarts to be impenetrable,” Severus expertly suggested. It was true that Snape was unaware of Potter’s exact location, but knew very well that he was not at Hogwarts. However, after an enlightening and, to be honest, frightening conversation with Albus, Severus knew that Harry must be kept safe at all costs, even at the expense of his beloved school. And technically, he hadn’t lied.

“Excellent!” the Dark Lord proclaimed, snapping his fingers for the adjournment of his already scattered court. The lucky few uninjured Death Eaters scampered out of the chamber in a stampede of bodies, while the unfortunate casualties were left to limp or drag themselves to safety. “Lucius, Severus, why don’t you two stay?” It wasn’t a question.

As the last straggler exited hall, the eldest Malfoy and his dark haired companion approached the dais, upon which their master awaited them. Once composed, Lucius and a forever irate Severus approached the Dark Lord’s throne and after bowing, commenced their scheming.

“Lucius, you have a son…and you owe me a favor,” the madman said. Voldemort loved maintaining the illusion that his servants didn’t serve him out of fear alone. Severus—much to his own satisfaction—had never allowed the viper this small victory. Regrettably, Lucius really did owe his master for so promptly breaking him out of Azkaban. “Perhaps your son can prove his worth by assisting us into Hogwarts. Maybe….”

Snape shuddered anxiously for his godson. Despite doing his best to warn the boy of the dangers of following the lunatic, Draco had been adamant about his intentions. Lucius, Severus knew, was most likely responsible for his son’s recklessness, always emphasizing that proper behavior for a Malfoy was Muggle-hating and being the servant of the Dark Lord. If he had been given more say in his godson’s upbringing, Severus would have done his absolute best to stress how prudent it was to be your own master. Furthermore, if the aforementioned Dark Lord was so far off his rocker, Snape would have insured that Draco was far out of Voldemort’s poisonous grasp. Draco’s obsession with following in his father’s footsteps would now undoubtedly bring about the fall of Hogwarts and many unnecessary deaths.

Turning his attention back to the repellent conversation, Snape heard Lucius promise to question his son about any secret passages in and out of Hogwarts that he had managed to uncover during the last five years.

“Wonderful, Lucius, wonderful! Once the Lestranges have finished rounding up the werewolves we can attack. I expect the first week of August to be a realistic date for our conquest!” the Dark Lord declared triumphantly. The Potions Master rolled his eyes, more than ready to leave.

Finally losing what little patience he had left, Snape snapped out a leading excuse, “I have quite a few restorative potions to prepare.” He was barely able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Oh, yes. You must have them all completed by the date of our attack,” the Dark Lord commanded, as if he believed Severus actually hadn’t realized this necessity yet. Regardless of his presumption, Snape was relieved to be permitted to leave. He could only tolerate the other Death Eaters and Voldemort for so long before his composure was stretched to the breaking point. And his company was not required for the inane plotting he left in his wake. So having now attained permission he swiftly departed the room, with his characteristic billow of robes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Back to the Dursley’s…

Harry was exhausted. Everything either ached, burned, or stung. His skin felt strangely tight, stretched across his face and limbs, despite having lost quite a bit of weight over the past four weeks. He had always been smaller then all his friends at Hogwarts, even Hermione, but now he seemed even tinier—something his uncle had neither failed to notice nor exploit as often as possible.

Ever since the first dinner fiasco, Petunia always laid out a piece—only one, single, lousy piece—of questionable looking bread in his dog bowl. And she always seemed to bring out the nastiest moldy-green slice of the loaf. Harry wondered whether they bought an extra loaf just for him, letting it sit until it was moldy before allowing him any. This injustice forced Harry to become a competent scavenger. Every day while cooking, doing the dishes, or even taking out the trash he was constantly on the lookout for even the smallest morsel of food. Now that he was paying so close attention to their eating habits, he was even more disgusted with the Dursley’s for how much food they wasted…not that he was complaining. Those scraps were the only things sustaining him.

He was currently curled, quite ironically, like a cat in his favorite corner of his doghouse. The single set of clothing Harry had left was still damp from that morning’s wake-up call. From what he could remember there had never been a time since that first morning that he had been completely dry.

In fact, the past couple of nights there had even been rain. Nothing too heavy at first, but there was enough of it that Harry now knew exactly where the leaks in the roof were. And just yesterday it had poured continuously, leaving a half-inch of water on the bottom of his makeshift home. That night he had gotten no sleep at all.

Absentmindedly rubbing his chest, where a peculiar throbbing sensation was emanating, Harry imagined the reaction of the Weasley’s when they came to collect him for the remainder of the holiday. Their expected incredulity and subsequent vengeance was what had been sustaining his sanity this past month.

The list of chores Vernon had given him the first day of his holidays never seemed to end. His energy was waning and thoughts of the Burrow, warm meals, and scalding showers, danced through his mind as he brooded.

It had taken him several days to realize that not only was all his school work gone forever, but his wand, owl, and all the mementos that had remained of his parents, including his invisibility cloak and prized photo album, that had both been callously destroyed. This meant that he no longer had the company of Hedwig and the trusty Holly and Phoenix feather wand he had received five years ago would never perform magic again. Such realizations had left him utterly distraught for days until Vernon had punched him in the nose because he was being a “lazy little bastard.”

Now, as he reminisced over each individual memory, all he felt was a longing to leave Privet Drive and never return. He knew it was a hopeless endeavor of Dumbledore’s to force him and his relatives to get along and so he resolved that next summer he would insist upon staying at the Burrow with Ron. Everyone would be happier with that arrangement, not only he and the Dursley’s, but also Ron, Hermione, and the rest of his adopted red-haired and freckled family.

Harry suddenly sneezed, the force causing his temple to collide with the unforgiving wooden boards of his temporary home. After rearranging himself so as to relieve his newest bruise and other sore extremities, he let his mind relax, using the meditation techniques he’d learned in his failed attempt at Occlumency for sleep. Unfortunately, he was simply too tense to succeed in this undertaking. With a frustrated sigh, Harry gave up and began, once again, to contemplate the horrendous situation he found himself in.

He had been out of contact with the Wizarding World for some time now and found that he longed for a copy of the Daily Prophet. Or, even better, an owl from either Ron or Hermione. His birthday was in a few days and he could only guess as to what the Dursley’s would do with the contents of his friend’s congratulatory parcels.

It was not lost on Harry that this calamitous state of affairs was entirely his fault. All of it began with his attitude following Sirius’s death and the selfish, disagreeable manner in which he had treated his friends on the train ride home. If he had just been more receptive to his two best friends, he might have realized that being alone at the Dursley’s was not the best atmosphere for him in his present temperament. Ironically, he had insisted upon staying at his relative’s in his desperate attempt to be alone.

Unsuccessfully Harry squirmed, even in his exhaustion his body refused to relax; the stress and abuse from the past month’s activities left him perpetually tense. Harry yawned wearily; instead of falling immediately to sleep every night, he’d been cursed with terrible insomnia, most likely due to his constant anxiety and pain. He really did need to get some rest if he wanted any chance of completing his chores. Not that he was particularly concerned about the lawn or the gardens, but Vernon had been getting steadily more and more violent as the summer wore on. There were some nights where Harry was sure that had Vernon kicked or punched him one more time Harry would have died if he hadn’t been taken to a hospital. As it was, he could only suspect that his innate magic was keeping him alive, with his characteristically Gryffindor obstinacy. Despite this, he knew that it would take weeks for his body to completely heal after he had escaped to the Weasley's.

At long last, Harry felt his eyelids begin to droop and his next yawn was impossible to repress. He curled up tightly, in such a way that would maximize any heat his body managed to retain, although tonight his grasp at warmth was futile due to the steady downpour. And with those grim thoughts lingering in the forefront of his mind, Harry fell into a restless sleep.

A/N: I update every Tuesday at about 9pm EST.
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Lost Phoenix