Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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)
- 19
- 20
- 21
   Severus sat in his study, resenting that he would be spending yet another sleepless, sober night in here. The glass went in his hand went ignored. He thought angrily, vindictively, about giving Potter to LeStrange. Their libidos would match each other. And then LeStrange would owe him a favour. That was never the worst thing. At the very least LeStrange had access to one of the finest wine stores, enchanted and mundane, that currently existed in the world.
   And aside from passing the bond on to another, there was nothing else Severus could do about it, it seemed. He'd spent most of the day pouring over texts, looking for a way out. He was even willing to pass it on to Longbottom, but the thought of him having control of him was too much to risk. Potter was a weapon.
   Indeed.
   That finally knocked some things loose in his head. Dumbledore had confided in that unworthy brat. As much as the man could be said to do so. Those tutoring sessions, where he told Potter perhaps everything. Perhaps something useful. And Severus had access to all that, finally. Although, he'd figured out quite a bit on his own. After all, what was he supposed to think when told Harry housed the Dark Lord's soul? Especially considering he'd devoted much of his life to the Dark Arts.
   Severus would have many times over given anything to know what that man knew. And he had some chance at it now. It changed his demeanor, his very position in the chair as he straightened up with this. And he had half a mind to go to his basement to gloat about it, but felt like a small minded fool. That wasn't Dumbledore. It was a shadow. An infuriatingly inadequate imitation of one of the greatest minds.
   Every bit as infuriating as the man himself had been, but that wasn't what Severus wanted from him. He just wanted the information. The very thing that had always been held back.
   He looked down at his glass, and grew angrier. At the very least, he should be able to get wasted. It was the smallest and most easily attainable of life's retreats, but not for him. He rose, and pulled out one of the potions he'd given to McNair.
   He'd never named it, but McNair had once greedily called it Heaven Sauce. McNair was no wordsmith. Not very strong minded, either, so Severus never gave him enough to do himself any harm. But Severus was made of sterner stuff, and could withhold addictions as easily as he stirred a catalyst into a cauldron.
   He downed a bottle and sank back in the lovely fuzz. Finally. Safe in his own home. Bloody Potter coming on to him, like he was god's gift to the world, like Severus was waiting for the go ahead from him. Like he wanted him. He sneered freely in the privacy of his study, for no one but himself, and went back for the whiskey. It might do some damage now. The things a man had to do to get somewhere nice in his own head.
   He worked his way through the bottle and felt like it might be doing some small damage to the much larger he was doing to it, but it was really the drug doing the heavy lifting. And somewhere in all that he began to feel like perhaps he might want to go downstairs after all for that gloating that didn't seem so attractive earlier. And so what if he looked small? Who cared what a portrait thought? It was a bloody portrait, wasn't it? Not like it was the man himself.
   Severus abandoned the glass and grabbed the bottle, then left for the basement, touching his wand to the doorframe at the top, and opening the door, then descended, to where he kept most of his potions, his wine, and in the back, the cold room, where potatoes should have been, would have served more purpose, a sheet draped over Albus Dumbledore's portrait.
   He whipped the covering off, and the old man woke. "Severus?" He looked around dimly, like he had been hoping for a change of scenery, and shrugged. "Lemon drop?"
   "From where?" It was like having the man himself but with a mental illness. The painted man looked about for the candy bowl that never existed, no matter how many times these words were said. "I have Potter."
   "You do?" He frowned, as though thinking. "That wasn't the plan."
   He laughed bitterly. "No. Not part of the plan. And yet. Here we are."
   "Where, again?"
   "My home, in Spinner's End." He had said these things before, but this portrait had been programmed, in a way, to be as daft as possible, it seemed. "The Dark Lord won. The world is crumbling for him, and Harry Potter is my property." He sneered the last word out. The first three facts he'd spewed at this thing before, in similar states of being fucked up, but the last was new, of course. And he spoke it like a weapon.
   "Oh. That's dreadful. Not what we'd planned at all."
   "And what did 'we' plan, then?"
   "To get Potter the Sword,"
   "Yes, we did that," prompting him on even as he interrupted.
   "And let him do what he needs to do."
   "Yes, and what was that again?"
   "He knows, Severus."
   "Yes, you've said that before. He knows. And now, so will I. I'm going to pick his brain, and everything you ever told him will be there." He gloated, stupidly, to a painting, relishing the look on the old man's face.
   And it changed, from alarm, to pity. "I was never trying to anger or hurt you, Severus. But you would have thought you know better. Potter's instincts are impeccable. I was never trying to hurt you, either."
   Severus ground his teeth. The very idea. "Hurt?" Like this was a school yard playground. "Well your golden boy is a whore now." He leaned back to watch that soak in.
   "What? Why would you say that?" Indeed. His eyes weren't twinkling now.
   "Because he is. That is his sole purpose in life. All he can ever aspire to is satisfying his master." And good luck there.
   "Severus." The voice was sharp finally. Not vague at all. Not playful. Not omniscient. "What do you mean?"
   "I own him. Through no designs of mine, he exists to please me."
   Silence.
   "And it pleases me to pick through everything you ever told him."
   "Of course. I understand."
   "You understand nothing. You're a bloody painting."
   "Of course, Severus." Such a condescending, placating tone. "You will try to be good to him, won't you?"
   "Good to him?" The sneer was coaxed out by this man's tone. "Better than he had." Better than he'd had, too. He took a deep swallow to press his point, just to himself. Dumbledore watched, eyes keener than they should have been.
   "Does he know I'm here?"
   "You? What are you? Professor Dumbledore? You want me to go and let him know Professor Dumbledore is in my cellar, waiting for him? See how he lights up at that, and then the look on his face when he finds out it's just you?" He thought about it. Perhaps he would. Just for the look on both their dumb faces. Defeat didn't become these lions he kept.
   "Severus. He has never done anything to you."
   "Hasn't he?" He spat it out. But Dumbledore had left out that perhaps he himself may have done some damage. Generous of him.
   "No. He hasn't."
   "You weren't there tonight, though. Were you?" It was an accusation the old man couldn't fight. Dumbledore nodded sadly, accepting his defeat. His crime of immobility. Convicted. Sentenced. "He came on to me. Touched me, like he had some right to." Dumbledore blinked slowly, still nodding. Like he was looking for more. Like there needed to be more. Severus took another long haul, looking away finally.
   "Perhaps he does."
   "What?"
   "From what you said, it would seem he has some claim on you."
   "On me?" Still? What, just forever, then?
   "Harry has never been anything but kind to everyone that crossed his path. And he tried to save the world, because he was told to. And here you are, angry he's trying to be kind to you. Is that right?"
   "Kind? Albus, are you listening? He touched me."
   "Some day, Severus, you will have to let go of this hatred. He's not James. He's just a boy, carrying too much. And now whatever you're putting him through." Severus scoffed. "What is he supposed to think? I know nothing, down here in the dark, but I know Harry would never do anything but what he felt was right. And he has some claims on you, if you own him."
   Garbage. "I bought the turpentine we talked about. It's upstairs, where everything else is." Just putting that out there.
   Old blue eyes flickered down to the bottle in his hand, and Severus smiled. Yes, that would do some damage as well. Bleed his lines, at the very least. "Severus, why are you here?" The tone was far too caring for a painting, far too caring for Severus to hope the old man was worried about the bottle being used against him.
   He had to think about that. Why the hell was he down here again? "I know about the horcruxes."
   "I should hope so. You were always a clever enough young man."
   That was too much. He turned and walked away. "Clever enough, Albus."
   "Severus! Don't be harsh with him, please!"
   Harsh indeed. Like heal him? Keep him safe? Not use him? Not beat him? What more could the world demand of him? Apparently just a little more. Blind old man. Severus really hadn't bought the turpentine, but he always said he did.
   "Severus!" The tone was wonderful to hear, angry, severe, clear, ringing, commanding and he couldn't help but turn, almost blinded enough to hope the man had come back to life. "You know what it means to serve an unworthy master."
   He left him there. Sat back down in his study, bottle still in hand, but he felt like perhaps he was sobering now. Bloody occlumency. And what had that gotten him? Actually, quite a lot, he admitted. Peace of mind. And what was that worth? Nearly anything.
   And. he'd rattled the old man's cage. That was also worth something. Perhaps not as much as it had seemed an hour ago, but it was still sweet enough. He wasn't about to go back to bed, where he was in danger of being molested; he would sit here and think it all over, and in the morning, he would take what he wanted.
   And he wouldn't be giving this little gift to LeStrange to do the same with. It may have taken the man months to go flaccid with exhaustion, but eventually he would have thought about it. Eventually he would have. Just as Severus finally had. It had only taken a couple days, after all.
   To think Potter had some claim on him. That wasn't how this worked.

   Harry woke to Snape opening the door, and was hit with the pit of shame he'd fallen asleep in, only slightly dimmed for being a day later. He was such a knob, thinking Snape wanted any of this. He was probably just following orders.
   "Potter."
   "Master. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make you angry."
   "I have to believe that, only because I gave you a specific order to not try to anger me." As though it was the least he could hope for. But he was right. "I know very well what you were trying." He let it hang, heavy and disgusting. Then his voice changed. "However. I've finally seen how this is useful." Harry stayed still, waiting for his instructions. The bed dipped slightly behind him. "Look at me." Oh. So it was more of that, then.
   "Yes, Master." He twisted back, and looked at the coldest black eyes, surrounded in bloodshot red that registered none of his stupidity from the night before, none of anything.
   "Legilimens." And he was back in his head, skimming past anything recent, back to when there was hope. And Dumbledore. He'd gone right to the night on the astronomy tower. But he flipped past that, to the nearest thing attached, the night in the cave, getting the horcrux that had cost Dumbledore everything.
   And further back, to the nights Harry had spent with the old man, learning about Riddle through the pensieve. There was a feeling of something other than anger finally. Triumph. It was a shock to feel something else from him, but Harry knew he needed to stop this. And he'd never been any good. But he knew how. He'd even seen what it felt like from the inside, now. An ice wall that pushed everything out.
   He breathed slowly, deeply. And he couldn't do it, couldn't put the wall about himself. He, his self was far too vast to build a wall about. So he tried to put it around the emotions instead, pushed them away from him, fenced them in, and amazingly, that worked. Shut it down, every emotion, breathing deep, stopping all thoughts, and all feelings connected, lost in the deadness of the black eyes and using that. He was the pupils, somewhere in all that black, undetectable and a part of something else, not himself.
   "That's ... good, Potter." His voice was even louder in this manner, vibrating against all bones, rumbling in his brain, or his soul, he didn't know. "The only attempt you've ever really made, to my knowledge. Perhaps the only time you've succeeded at something useful, and it happens to be against me. Stop it."
   "Yes, Master." He eased, and emotions came crashing back with a vengeance. The memories continued, as Snape picked through them, until he found the prophesy, and stopped there. He gave it a second listen before he passed it on, it seemed, to see the exact spell Wormtail had used to revive the Dark Lord. He left the graveyard the moment it was over, flew back to Harry opening the door to the chamber in the washroom, and came back to closer things, like Ron destroying the locket with the sword. It seemed more and more random to Harry. What was he looking for? Or maybe it was all the prophesy, and he was just making it look like it hadn't been. But he knew about the horcruxes now.
   Harry tried to figure out if it mattered anymore. He didn't think so. It wasn't like Snape could give this to Riddle; he already knew.
   He pulled out, and Harry fell back in the bed, drained. That had spanned years. Snape was quiet for a time, staring out the window, or just at it. Harry watched, not knowing how much of that was worth anything. Not knowing anything, as usual.
   "I've half a mind to obliviate you and send you off to LeStrange to help you work out your energy. Breakfast should be ready soon." And he left. Harry got up, a little woozy, and made his way to the washroom.
   The man had said 'half a mind'. That meant he wouldn't do it, right? If he was going to, he wouldn't be telling Harry about it. It seemed Snape was begrudgingly willing to allow last night's sins be forgotten. Or fade, anyways. He would never forget, nor forgive. Harry knew that like he knew anything else about this man.
   And Harry wondered if perhaps he knew more about this bond than Snape. Snape had to know that the bond would take away his choices, right? Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been here, because he could have been unconscious in that bed for any length of time, but they couldn't have many days left. How much angrier would he be over being forced into it? Harry really didn't want to be foisted onto some other death eater, most especially the one mentioned, like a monster under the bed, waiting. He would rather the devil he knew. The cold black eyes that didn't heat up when looking at him.
   He washed himself, being sure to never need to be told to wash himself again, and also never taking for granted the ability to do so. The last few weeks had been rather disgusting, and he counted himself lucky that so much of it was a blur.
   Neville gave him the same greeting, and Harry nodded, just as cautiously. And he found himself wondering why the Dark Lord was waiting so long before returning. Could he have run out of the 'free time' he'd mentioned? That was too much to hope for, but Harry wouldn't be stupid enough to look in his head ever again. He wasn't about to go asking for it.
   The same thing happened with the paper, where Snape passed half to Neville without a word spoken, and again Neville shared what he had with Harry, who shook his head once more. He kept his eyes on his plate and ate as much as he could.
   He was given the same potions afterwards, and wondered how long that would happen for, but they had to be doing good. He felt better everyday.

   And again after dinner, and he was sent to bed to sleep it all off.
   Severus stayed in his study again that night. He was starting to feel desperate about the bond and how to circumvent what he would have to do. And Albus - or the pale imitation of Albus, saying that Potter had rights to him, just made it chafe all the more. That man had never hesitated to parcel out Severus in bits and pieces, had always just made himself at home where that was concerned. But this was too far.
   And what he'd taken from the boy's memories only distracted. But it was good to have more information, always. Like armour. Better than armour, in this particular war.
   Seven horcruxes: the boy, the snake, the cup, and the Ravenclaw diadem, for that was obviously what Potter was missing. And down were the ring, the diary, and the locket. Nearly unkillable.
   But perhaps the remaining ones could be left as they were if Severus could go to the Riddle graveyard he'd avoided that night, and dig up the bones, grind them to dust and let them fly in the wind. It was tempting. But there could always be resurrection spells he didn't know about. The things he didn't know were what always got him in the end. Like that prophesy. That had been his ultimate undoing. And its uselessness was a bitter draught.
    That was all working with the idea that it would be possible to kill the Dark Lord. He had surrounded his lair with wards layered over wards, like at the Dursley's, but worse. Heavier. One couldn't achieve so much as a lumos spell there. The only person not brought to a nervous sweat over that was Bella. But she was insane.
   He mulled this all over, trying to organize a working plan that wasn't just hunting them down then the Dark Lord, as Potter had been doing, and he slept in his chair, still not trusting the boy enough to sleep in his own bed.
   He woke in the morning and went to wake him for breakfast. He was already up and dressed. It probably meant he was recovering well, but Severus looked at him then to find improvements to make sure. Stubble was overtaking the boy's face. Did he need to be told to shave as well? It was hard to see if he'd put any weight on, and it was pretty early to be looking for it, either way. He was still squinting everywhere, but Severus found him much easier to take without glasses than with.
   Potter hunched his shoulders under the scrutiny, and stared at the floor, waiting for Severus to lead the way, so he did. The boy was very unsure now that Severus had properly informed him of how strongly unwanted he was, and it suited him just fine. If it kept that mouth shut more, than it had all served some purpose.
   The potions took longer as well, to have the drowsing effect on the boy. Two minutes longer, Severus noted. All improvements. Although. To complete anything here of use to anyone, to kill the Dark Lord, the boy wouldn't need his health, but the opposite.
   He ordered the boy to bed, and wiped the awful grimace off his face. And told himself yet again that many people died in wars. Who was supposed to be immune to the butcher's bill? Was there a formula? There was not.
   He went to his study and drank, out of habit, until he got a call from McNair.
   Who was quick to say that Petunia had been collared and sold, and he even kept the serial number for Severus, for tracking purposes. He was trying too hard, and Severus knew bad news was coming before the poor excuse for an executioner told him the boy had never been there, had disappeared before McNair had even arrived. And the mother had no idea where.
   Infuriating. And he didn't even try to offer the bottles back for his botched job. Severus spent some time thinking it over. How far could Dursley get in a world shrouded in dementors? Not very. It wasn't exactly like he was very intelligent. Or resourceful. He was his father, with all the immediacy of a child thrown in. It went against Severus' grain though, to assume the job would be taken care of. Not that he was about to go muggle hunting. Really, nature would resolve itself where that was concerned, and he had to shut the door. It was useless to dwell on it, and ridiculous to waste his resources to hunt him down. How much could he get up to?
   He had so much more to dwell on these days.
   Like the sword, at the Dark Lord's. Gone, then, really. Best to let it go. And perhaps he could speak the words Potter had to get into Salazar's Chamber. How difficult would it be for him to travel through the school these days? Especially unseen? That cloak of the boy's would be a useful thing here. Did the Malfoys have that? Did they even know?
   As Potter's owner, he had a claim to it, but it would be worse for him to say he wanted it. Risky to let people know what you want. Those people. Lucius would overthink it until he figured something out. And he would be watching.
   If there were any level of trust, or even the possibility, but there wasn't so it didn't deserve thinking about. But. If there was any level of trust between him and his charges, they could go to Malfoy's one evening, and have one of them ask Miss Lovegood about it. Mrs. Malfoy, but she wasn't, really. Snape had observed her closely, like an intricate puzzle. She was a clever girl. Even more clever to hide it. There were many times in his life Severus wished he could have just kept what he knew quiet, but hindsight was what it was.
   Fiendfyre was a better option. Not so unwieldy in the hands of someone as disciplined as himself. And a lot less messing about; it didn't bring anyone else into the equation.
   He heard the noise overhead of Potter rising, and checked the time. Still some time before dinner, but as long as they both left him alone, it was enough. Once the boy was better Severus would find some work for him. Perhaps the kitchen, and let Longbottom work just on his cultivations. He had discovered several strains when left on his own, and if Severus were to ever tell him what properties he wanted more than others, they might actually get somewhere with something one day.
   Quaint thoughts for a quainter life than no one would be living. He was not some retired potioneer in a forgotten corner of the world. He had an impossible task that he needed to unravel before he could do it. Kill the unkillable. And how much had Potter's information changed any of that?
   He stirred for the meal, dragged himself into the room, and enjoyed the quiet that his presence brought.
   Potter had eaten quite a bit of what was on his plate, although it was a little portion. Severus watched him a little, ready with something perfectly snarky to say about the boy's obvious self satisfaction over having eaten food, but as usual kept it to himself. He was the only one he needed to amuse here.
   Then Potter pitched forward, sending his chair back as he gripped his forehead. He groaned, then sent a baleful look under his clutching hand at Longbottom, who was watching with that same dumb look on his face. Snape smoothed his own, wrapped up Potter's pain in his head, tight and contained, and reached for his wand, not sure what it would do for anyone.
   Potter grabbed his too, and backed from the table. Or from Longbottom, it seemed. He hit the wall, and turned with hand upraised, for the brick that opened it, and shouted. Then he backed from that, too, and Snape could feel it then. Or him. His master, in his home, weighing the very air down with malice and insanity.
   He looked back at Longbottom then; the boy was up, coming around slowly, but he had a very Longbottom look on his face still. Concern.
   Potter stumbled his way to the kitchen, like he was looking for something, and picked up a knife. Severus rose and steeled himself for what he knew he would have to do in moments. And it would cost him. The boy dropped then, landing just an inch from the blade in his fist, nearly slicing his own face open.
   "Potter, drop the knife."
   His fingers opened and it clattered to the floor. "Yes, Master," he gritted out. He huddled against the cupboards just as the room seemed to dim, and the Dark Lord stepped in.
   "Your home is a puzzle, Severus. I hope that's not for me," he joked.
   Harry hunched over the floor and retched what he'd been so proud of eating moments before.
   "I hope I'm not disturbing anything." He didn't mean any of it. He was happy. "Harry. You're looking well. Better than the last I saw of you." And he approached him, stood over him, smiling like the madman he was. "I hope you won't mind my borrowing him for an evening, Severus."
   "No," Harry groaned, and his hand hovered over the knife, shaking. Severus could actually feel him fighting the bond, battering at the order. Could he overcome it if they hadn't completed the ritual?
   The Dark Lord lowered to Potter's level and stroked his head, making the boy groan louder, causing a shudder to ripple through the package in Severus' mind; he was still struggling for the blade. "You want that? Would you use it against me, Harry? Perhaps we could take it with us."
   "My Lord. May I speak with you in my study?"
   The madman had to tear his eyes away from the mess of a human being on the floor to look at Severus, like he hadn't heard him. Then he nodded, frowning impatiently.
   Severus turned to his charges, and thought it through, before saying, "neither of you move. Stay where you are until I get back."
   "Yes Sir" coupled with a hoarser "Yes, Master", and Severus felt that should cover any nonsense they could think up in his absence. It would have to. He fished the blade out of the sick, ignoring the sad moan, and set it in the sink out of Potter's reach, just to be sure.
   He led his master through his home to his study, knowing the Dark Lord would be safer without witnesses to a denial. He would have probably lost his gardener at the least, otherwise. Then he turned and put on his best face of contrition. "I'm sorry, My Lord. But I've done something to the bond that wouldn't allow it."
   "What?"
   "He's killed by it if he's with another." Untrue, but Severus could lie like breathing. And this kind of curse was a thing that existed. It was also just the sort of thing Severus would have used, had any of this been different.
   "What?" It was an angrier hiss than before. Water splashed onto a hot griddle.
   "I'm sorry, My Lord. I didn't know this was your intent. Otherwise I wouldn't have done it."
   The Dark Lord stared at Snape, measuring, looking for all the world like a man considering someone's death. He was struggling with his anger. Never a good sign for Severus' hide.
   He knew it was coming before it did, but it was still a shock, always a shock no matter how many times; the Dark Lord slashed his hand through the air between them, and it was like five lashes at once, not touching his robes, but carving through the flesh underneath. Severus held it apart from himself, as he'd done before, and knew the Dark Lord would just go on longer for not getting the desired reaction, but it was better than feeling it all, all at once. He would feel it later, when he was alone, and stood, silent, as stoic as he knew how, and accepted. It was a price he'd agreed to already, anyways. And the first one was always the worst. Like a plunge into ice water.
   Harry had stayed still, as he'd been ordered, and fought that as he'd fought to pick the knife back up. It had almost felt like he could, for a second, and he wished it was back, as a focal point. Just to have an option. That's what the knife would be. No matter what direction it pointed. But all he'd been left with was the remains of dinner.
   The rage the Dark Lord was feeling was a curious thing, and Harry was afraid to feel hope because of it, but he had to think that if Riddle was this angry, it had to mean something good for him, right? But it hurt. That anger, this close, hurt. Not as much as other things could hurt, but it was nearly blinding all the same.
   "He won't let him take you, Harry. Just wait and see." Harry said nothing to that. Snape would wrap him up in a bow, and send him off with orders to be good, is what Snape would do. Like a good death eater.
   Then the Dark Lord left the home entirely. He felt it, felt the tight grief in his head and body ease instantly with the distance, and he gasped as though it was the first breath taken, even though he and Snape had been gone for a long time.
   "Oh god, he's gone, isn't he?" Even Neville could feel it.
   Snape entered the room, and stared at them. "You may both move."
   Neville jumped up and ran past Snape to Harry, trying to help him up, but Harry was fine where he was for the moment. "It wasn't me, Harry."
   "No. It wasn't." That was a relief. Almost as big as the Dark Lord being gone.
   "Come on, let's get you out of that." He gripped Neville's arm, willing to touch him finally, to perhaps even look at him. "I would have fought it, too, Harry. I wouldn't have let him back in." That was all possible. And Neville had some strength to him, as well. He wasn't nearly as weak as Uncle Vernon.
   He nodded once, seeing how that was all possible, all hopeful, and gripped him tight as he was pulled out of the mess. Neville pulled out his wand and spelled everything clean, including Harry. "You, er, you said he attacked you. But you didn't say it was like that, Harry."
   And what was he supposed to say to that? Who would willingly admit to it being 'like that'? Not him.
   Neville sat them both against the cupboards, not far from where Harry had fallen, and pulled him in. Harry leaned against him, taking this for the reprieve it was. "I'm so glad it wasn't me, now. Like even more." Harry nodded weakly. It would have hurt, but he would also have known it wasn't Neville. And he would have told himself that so many times. But none of this meant it was over. Where had the Dark Lord gone? And when was he coming back? Neville tightened his hold on Harry, and he just let that soak in, happy to be held for a time, reaching for more and ignoring the anger tha bubbled in Snape. Until it boiled over.
   "Longbottom! Bed."
   "Yes, Sir." He ran.
   "Sorry, Master. I didn't know."
   "Didn't know what?"
   "That would anger you?"
   "It didn't." But it had. Snape's anger had come back in little waves after Riddle left, but crashed against shores when Harry had touched Neville. Maybe he'd been wrong. Again.
   "Yes, Master. Is. Is he coming back?"
   "He is not."
   Not tonight, then. Could Harry ask what Snape had said to him? Or would that anger him? The bond chose for him, and he couldn't say it, but he was driven with a need to know when. "Is he coming tomorrow?"
   "If he is, it won't be for you. I told him that it would kill you. That I have bonded you in such a way that any ... infidelity would kill you."
   Harry looked at him then, not meaning to, but doing it just the same. Riddle hadn't been happy with that. And that would be the rage that Harry had felt. But Snape's bond had never changed in all that.
   Kill him. So Riddle would be the last thing Harry would ever know. It shouldn't have been, but it was a comforting thought. Then he really would be free.
   "Thank you."
   "I don't share." But share what? He wasn't touching him. Didn't want him. Harry didn't understand. But that wasn't his purpose. Harry nodded like he did and stayed where he was, not trusting his legs yet, and Snape sat uneasy and angry. But that was who he was. He stewed in whatever it was for a time, then barked out over his shoulder at him, "get up. And go to bed, the potions will be there waiting for you."
   "Yes, Master."
   "And feel free to shave. When you're not so shaky, that is."
   "Shave?"
   "Yes, Potter. You remember how? Your change of residence hasn't erased some of your memory?"
   Harry nodded. "Yes, Master." In all the time with his family, he'd never shaved. Never needed to. What did that mean? And how was it that he'd never noticed? But, he supposed, those had been extenuating circumstances, and if he didn't notice every little thing, then perhaps he could be excused.
   "And do not use the razors for anything but shaving, Potter."
   "Yes, Master."
   He stroked his chin with his left hand, opening doorways with the wand in his right as he made his way, and felt the stubble. Or more like peach fuzz, working its way through for the first time. What was that about? Or the order? Whatever. Snape was an odd man. Perhaps he though Harry would do himself a damage with it, if given the chance. A grim thought.
   He went to the washroom and inspected himself, for the first time in a very, very long time. He wasn't pretty, that was for sure. His cheeks were sunken in, and his eyes. But he could make out the hairs covering his jaw and upper lip if he leaned in close enough. His eyesight was getting better, he was sure about it.
   He found the potions were there, by the bed, waiting. He drank them and laid down with some curious blend of fear and relief. He would never have to worry about Riddle. Or was it LeStrange Snape had worried about to include such a bind? And did it matter? When he was here, safe, and not being put through it?
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I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space