Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Le Danseur	By : Escritora80 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 15205 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
A/N: Sadly, there is no dancing or Snape (or dancing Snape) in this chapter. For that, I profusely apologize. I also took liberties with Mrs. Granger's profession. On an unrelated note, for those who like my stories but don't want to bother messing with my website to read them, I am in the process of posting everything (including Evernight!) on AO3 under the same pen name. (The link is in my AFF profile.)

Trigger Warning: rampant homophobia from the Dursleys

Chapter Four

The ride to the Dursleys house was a blur to Harry. He half-listened to Hermione and her parents as they sorted out the details of moving Harry into their home – that is, he heard phrases like 'spare room' and 'guardianship', but they didn't mean much to him at the time, his brain occupied with the image of his father at the piano and the startling revelation of his ballerina mother. It felt like he was living some fantastic dream, and he feared that if he lost focus of that dream in favour of the real world, he risked waking up to the old version of reality. He didn't even realize the discussion had ended until he heard Mrs. Granger, who worked as a successful solicitor, arguing into her mobile phone.

“No, no, no … that will take too long. I want action, Jerome, not excuses. Have the paperwork ready in case we need to file it. I'm not above calling in some favours if necessary, but it's best to go by the book in these situations.”

“She's in work mode now,” Hermione whispered in Harry's ear, explaining away her mother's clipped, business-like tone. “Congratulations, you're her new client.”

Harry sat up a little straighter. “That's brill, as long as she knows I can only pay her in free dance lessons.”

“She'd only hurt herself. My mum's great, but graceful she is not.”

“I can hear you, Hermione Jean,” Mrs. Granger said as she covered the mobile with one hand, giving her daughter a stern but affectionate glance over her shoulder before smoothly returning to her conversation.

Harry and Hermione laughed, falling into their own discussion of Hermione's audition now that she wasn't distracted by the secret she'd discovered. They were about to move on to Harry's audition when Mr. Granger announced that they were on Harry's street. They all fell silent as Mr. Granger pulled the car up to the kerb outside the Dursley home. Dudley's bicycle wasn't in its usual spot, giving Harry hope that he wouldn't have to deal with his cousin on top of the other stresses of the day.

Mr. Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Should I leave the engine running?”

“We're fetching Harry's things, Dad, not robbing a bank.”

“That said, perhaps you should stay close to the car,” Mrs. Granger said to her husband as she tucked her mobile phone into her handbag. “I'm not ruling out the need for a quick getaway should negotiations turn sour.”

“Can't we just kidnap Harry and skip the negotiations altogether?”

“We are kidnapping him, dear, but we don't want it to look like we're kidnapping him.”

“Ahh, subterfuge. You always were a sly one, sweetheart.”

Hermione groaned in embarrassment as her parents bantered back and forth, but Harry listened to it all with a huge grin. He couldn't imagine having to walk back into the Dursley home by himself after everything he'd learned, but knowing he would have the Grangers by his side did a lot to ease his dread of the confrontation to come.

They left Mr. Granger to keep watch from the car. The plan was for Mrs. Granger to explain everything to Vernon and Petunia while Harry and Hermione went on ahead to pack up his things. It wouldn't be as satisfying for Harry as it would be to rant and rail at his aunt and uncle for all the lies and the abuse, but it would be the quickest way to get him out of the house with the least potential for an ugly fight to break out.

As soon as Harry opened the door, Vernon was there to bark in his face, “Where the devil have you been? We rang those dodgy Grangers five times today and no one – ” he broke off when he saw Mrs. Granger and Hermione, and it only took him a few seconds of clearing his throat and wringing his hands before he'd recovered enough to grumble, “Well, then, you've finally brought him back. He has chores to do, you know.”

“I would like to have a chat with you and your wife, if that isn't too much trouble,” Mrs. Granger said with what Harry believed must have been superhuman politeness. She gave the two teenagers a nod and a smile. “Run along, you two.”

They quickly obeyed, fleeing up the stairs to escape the awkward atmosphere downstairs. Once they were in Harry's room, Hermione immediately walked over to the window and opened it, giving the sill an affectionate pat. She turned away with a sigh, only to stop short as she caught the strange look Harry was giving her. She shrugged a shoulder, explaining sheepishly, “Emergency exit … just in case.”

“First your parents, now you – tell me, do you come from a long line of escape artists, or is this just a recent obsession of the Granger family?”

“Be grateful we're so upstanding,” she said as she gathered up Harry's meager collection of books and magazines, all of them pertaining to dance. “We'd be a top-notch crime family, don't you think?”

Harry paused and tilted his head as he imagined that scenario, then he shuddered and went back to shoving tights and shorts and leotards into a green canvas bag. “England wouldn't be safe from you.”

“The world wouldn't be safe from us,” Hermione corrected him with a grin.

An outraged shout from below was quickly followed by stomping footsteps on the stairs – their only warning that Mrs. Granger had fully explained the situation – and Harry started shoving ballet shoes and dance belts into the bag as fast as he could. He managed to cram it all in to the bag and zip it shut just as Vernon burst into the room, his face so red it bordered on purple.

“Just what do you think you're doing? Are you trying to steal what you can before you leave? Everything in this room belongs to us, not you. If you want out of this house, you'll go with the clothes on your back.”

“These are my dance clothes. They are mine – Mrs. Figg gave them to me, so you didn't pay for anything in this bag. You can keep the ratty hand-me-downs you forced on me all these years. I don't want them.”

“They don't even fit you,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes! Exactly! Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said, championing his best friend's insight as if she'd just struck a blow for justice against Vernon's evil tyranny instead of merely stating the obvious fact that Dudley's clothes had always been several sizes too big for Harry's slim frame. “They don't even fucking fit, Vernon. Why the hell would I want them?”

“You ungrateful little shit, how dare you speak to me like this!”

“What do I have to be grateful for? That you've lied to me about my parents? That you constantly tell me how worthless I am? Or maybe I should be happy about the fact that you've done everything you can to stop me from doing the one thing in my life that makes me happy? Well? Which one is it? I'm dying to know why you think I owe you even the tiniest sliver of gratitude.”

He didn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to go after his poster of Eileen, balancing on his mattress precariously as he reached up to peel the corners off the wall. Vernon grabbed his arm just as he was pulling the upper half of the post away, and the motion caused his hand to jerk to the side, tearing the entire right-hand corner off of the poster.

Hermione's gasp of dismay and Vernon's laboured breathing were the only sounds in the room.

Harry took a deep breath, determined not to let Vernon show him how much the poster meant to him. He tossed both pieces onto the floor. Even if he mended it now, it would always remind him of this moment, and he never wanted to associate Eileen Prince with the Dursleys. He couldn't bear to have his idol tainted like that ...

“I will never be grateful to you,” Harry said between clenched teeth, glaring down at Vernon more fiercely than he'd ever dared before – now that he didn't have to live with the bastard, he wasn't going to hold back. “You and your family are poison. Leaving this house today is the best decision I will ever make.”

Vernon backed up a step, his jaw dropping open in surprise at this menacing new side of his nephew, but all his spite resurfaced once the shock had worn off, and he turned his gaze to the green bag that Harry had left at the end of the bed.

Thankfully, Hermione snatched up the bag before Vernon could grab it. Dodging the swipe of his arm, she ran over to the window and threw the bag outside, shading her eyes as she leaned over the sill to see where it landed. She waved her hand at someone down below, shouting, “Dad! Up here! Will you put that green bag in the boot for me, please? Harry and I will be down soon.”

She moved away from the window with a pleased smile only to find herself confronted by a purple-faced Vernon. Her eyes flashed as she stared him down, silently daring him to say whatever nasty comment was festering on his lips, but he never took up the challenge. Instead, he scoffed and turned away, grinding his heel into the torn pieces of poster on the floor before walking out of the room.

“You've got a spine of steel,” Harry said, his green eyes bright with admiration for his plucky friend.

“Most bullies are just cowards deep down,” Hermione said, but there was a faint tremble in her hand as she smoothed her hair away from her face. “Anyway, he doesn't have the right to treat you the way he does, and I wasn't about to let him get his hands on that bag.”

Harry reached for her hand and pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “You're amazing. Thank you.”

“For what?” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder as she squeezed him tight. “Throwing your clothes out of the window?”

He laughed, ruffling her hair. “Yes … and for everything else. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“You're my best friend. I'm always going to be there for you,” she said, giving him another squeeze before pulling away. She took a look around the room, her hands balled at her hips. “Not much else to pack, I see.”

“I've never needed much anyway.” Harry grabbed a cardboard box full of Dudley's old clothes from the cupboard and dumped the contents onto the floor. He put all the books and magazines in the box as well as a few odds and ends, mostly presents given to him by Mrs. Figg or Hermione from birthdays and Christmases past. He patted the sides of the box once he was done filling it, a little depressed that all his worldly possessions could fit into one box, despite his earlier insistence that it didn't bother him. He forced a smile. “It's a good thing, really. This way it all fits in the car, and we won't have to come back later.”

“That's a lovely silver lining you've found,” Hermione said as she moved to the door. “Shall we?”

Harry lifted the box into his arms and walked over to her side, only giving the room a cursory last glance before stepping over the threshold. He didn't want to remember this place, so what was the use of lingering?

They started down the stairs, each step bringing them closer and closer to the sound of the adults arguing – long stretches of Vernon's dull roar or Petunia's shrill whine would be broken now and then by the clear, dulcet tones of Mrs. Granger. As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Vernon's last complaint froze Harry in place.

“... and didn't I say he'd be nothing but trouble? We should have let that beastly godfather of his take him off our hands all those years ago.”

Harry blinked in surprise, almost losing his grip on the box in his arms. “Godfather? What godfather?”

The three adults turned to stare at Harry, though only Mrs. Granger looked happy to see him. He repeated the question firmly, fully expecting an answer. “What godfather?”

“He was a no-good friend of your father's,” Vernon said reluctantly, “from that silly school. He and the other two were at the funeral and I knew straight away that none of them were decent chaps, but your godfather was the worst of the lot.”

“Lily should have known better than to try to leave you in the care of a … a degenerate like that,” Petunia said with a shudder. “Oh, there was nothing we could do about him being in charge of the trust – the financial side of it couldn't be challenged – but he knew as well as we did that the courts would never side with him when it came to custody ...”

“And why would they?” Vernon snorted. “You think you've been mistreated here? Just imagine what you might have gone through if we'd let that pervert have his way --”

“I imagine that I would have grown up feeling loved and wanted,” Harry said, taking another jerky step down the staircase before Hermione caught his arm, holding him back. “Are you telling me my parents had someone else picked out to raise me? Why the hell didn't you just give me to him and be done with it?”

“Common decency, that's why,” Vernon said, though his gaze shifted uneasily. He stewed for a few seconds under Harry's sceptical glare before he snapped, puffing out his chest and shaking a clenched fist in Harry's direction. “We didn't know then that you'd … that you'd be ...”

“Gay?” Harry said helpfully, bracing himself for the abuse that was sure to follow.

“... a freak,” Vernon sneered, putting his arms around Petunia when she made a strangled, plaintive sound in her throat. “What good did it do to keep you away from that filthy queer when you turned out just like him?”

Mrs. Granger slammed her hand against the door-frame, startling Vernon into silence.

“That's quite enough,” she said in a calm, sweet voice that belied the fury in her dark brown eyes. “I'm not wasting another second of my day listening to the hateful babble that spews out of your mouth. We are taking Harry with us. This is not up for discussion, and I certainly don't care to hear your commentary on the subject.”

Vernon's face once again turned a fascinating shade of reddish-purple as he struggled to think of a retort, but Mrs. Granger had reached the limits of her patience. Peaceful negotiations were over. Now she was out for blood ...

“Let me warn you, my husband and I are prepared to go to any lengths to keep Harry under our care should you choose to fight us legally, and make no mistake, we will win that fight. Oh yes, Mr. Dursley,” she said when Vernon sputtered his disbelief, her chin tilting at a haughty angle as she smiled coldly at him, “we will win. You are outmatched in every possible way. I will call on all of my connections to make sure that Harry never has to see you again, and the costly legal battle that would ensue will be nothing compared to the utter humiliation you will face when the story of how you've treated this boy hits every newspaper in the country. His father seems to have had famous friends – I'm sure the tabloids would simply devour a juicy tale like this one, especially with so many witness to corroborate it.”

Petunia gasped and clutched at Vernon's arm, her panicked reaction a drastic change from the mild annoyance she'd shown up until now.

“It's plain to see what her priorities are,” Hermione muttered.

“Being shunned by all of her gossipy friends would kill her,” Harry whispered back, more grim than angry at this point. His aunt and uncle held nothing more sacred than giving the 'proper' impression.

“Everyone loves a scandal, as I'm sure you know,” Mrs. Granger carried on with a glacial smile. “That seems to be the main reason why you're so hard on Harry – you hate to imagine what sort of gossip he'll stir up simply by being himself, not realizing that it's your own boorish behaviour that brings shame on your family – but nothing you could ever dream up in your worst nightmares will compare to what I would have in store for you if you cross me. I will make your downfall my personal mission in life.”

Harry wasn't sure if Mrs. Granger could realistically follow through on any of her threats, but he had to give her points for presentation, all her menace carefully contained beneath a thin veneer of civility. She kept that polite smile stretched tight across her lips as she beckoned to Harry and Hermione with one hand.

“Come along, darlings,” she said in that misleadingly soft voice, though the warmth had crept back into her tone. “Time to go.”

Hermione gave Harry a gentle nudge and they both started down the stairs, Hermione sticking close to his side and using her body as a buffer between him and the Dursleys. They were halfway out the door when Vernon shouted after them:

“Go on then, we never wanted you anyway – and don't even think of coming back here when that fancy school of yours tells you they don't want you either!”

Harry started to turn around, a sharp retort on his lips, but Mrs. Granger put her arm around his shoulder and steered him down the front steps.

“Don't give them another thought, Harry,” she said, hugging him against her side. “As they say, the best revenge is living well, and you are going to do greater things in your life than Vernon Dursley could ever even dream of doing.”

They trooped over to the car where Mr. Granger stood waiting, keys in hand. He looked a little disappointed that there had been no need for a speedy retreat. Just beyond him, across the street, Harry could see a woman standing in the shade of a tree, her hands clutched against her chest as she watched them gather around the car. She raised a trembling hand to wave at him when she realized he was looking at her.

“Mrs. Figg ...” He hesitated, wanting to go to her, but he didn't want to make the Grangers wait for him.

Mr. Granger guessed his dilemma and took the box from him with a good-natured grin. “Go on, then. We'll be in the car.”

Harry nodded and jogged across the street to where Mrs. Figg stood, her eyes swimming with tears.

“You're leaving that house, aren't you. I knew this day would come,” she said softly. There was a brief pause as she pressed her lips together tightly, as if her feelings were too strong and she couldn't bear to give them a voice. When she did open her mouth, it was only to brokenly say his name. “Harry – ”

“You knew all this time,” Harry said, his voice strained but not unkind as he cut her off. “You knew about my parents.”

“It wasn't an easy secret to keep,” Mrs. Figg said, wiping at her eyes with a wrinkled yellow handkerchief before she tucked it back into her sleeve, a deep sadness etched into her careworn face. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but I knew that they wouldn't allow me to see you if I did. They made that very clear from the start.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, stomping down all the rage and frustration that Mrs. Figg's confession brought out in him. This woman had been uncommonly kind to him, treating him like a cherished member of her own family, and the Dursleys had repaid her by forcing her to lie to Harry, threatening to banish her from his life in order to secure her silence. How much had that secret tortured her? How many times had Harry failed to see the hidden sadness in her smile?

“You don't have to worry about that now,” he said, his expression softening as he smiled down at her. “Hermione's house isn't far away, so I can come visit you all the time, and there's always the studio – ” He closed his eyes with a groan. “The studio … I forgot the spare key to the studio at Hermione's house. I can bring it over to you tomorrow.”

Mrs. Figg patted his arms comfortingly, a sunny smile banishing all the rain-clouds from her expression. “Keep the key to the studio. I always meant for you to inherit it after I'm gone, but I think there are greater things in store for you than to run a small, run-down dance studio.”

“It's not run-down,” Harry said, full of pride for the studio he'd grown up dancing in, “and if I don't get into Hogwarts, I'll be just as happy to keep dancing here.”

“Just as happy?” Mrs. Figg raised a single brow.

Harry grinned back at her, shrugging his shoulders. “Very, very close to the same level of happiness.”

“You're a sweet boy,” she said, chuckling as she gave him a hug, “but an awful liar.”

They parted on the promise that Harry would be back at the studio the next day, where they would make time for a longer talk. He trotted back to the Grangers' car, turning to give Mrs. Figg a short wave before he ducked into the back seat next to Hermione and shut the door.

“Ready?” Mrs. Granger asked.

Harry took a deep breath, sparing one last look at the house he'd grown up in, then he smiled and nodded. “More than ready. Let's go.”

* * * * * * *

“I wonder what this godfather of yours is like,” Hermione wondered aloud as she brushed the tangles out of her long, brown hair.

She and Harry were in her bedroom, sitting together on her bed as they talked over the ups and downs of the day. The blankets and pillow of Harry's makeshift bed were still laid out on the floor beside the bed, left there from the night before when he and Hermione had spent a mostly sleepless night worrying over their auditions. Tomorrow they would tackle the clutter of the spare room to give Harry a place of his own in which to sleep, but tonight they'd decided on one last 'sleepover' for nostalgia's sake.

“I think it's safe to assume he's gay,” Harry said drily, referring to Vernon's bigoted outburst.

“They didn't give us much else to go on. The only descriptive words I can remember are degenerate, pervert, and … well, the other one.” Hermione screwed her mouth up in distaste at the memory.

“I'm fluent in Dursley, so here's a secret to understanding their special way of speaking: if they insult someone, odds are that the person they're insulting is actually a smashing human being.”

“So an insult from a Dursley is a compliment?”

“You're a fast learner,” Harry said with a grin. “Come to think of it, I've been 'complimented' thousands of times over the past seventeen years. My ego must be enormous by now.”

“I wouldn't say enormous …” Hermione's voice trailed off, a teasing smile curving her lips. She tossed the hairbrush onto her dressing table. “At least it sounds like he wanted to keep you. He didn't have much of a chance to get custody back then, not if your aunt and uncle were going to fight it.”

“Yes, the Dursleys were the far better choice,” Harry grumbled. He doubted he would ever stop resenting society's prejudices for depriving him of a happier childhood. “If my gay godfather had raised me, the consequences would have been horrible – I might have had a healthy self-esteem or, you know, some idea of who my parents really were.”

“You should find him,” Hermione said, reaching for the glass of water on her night stand. “Ask Mum to help you – or we could get in touch with Mr. Lupin. You wanted to talk to him about your parents, didn't you? I'm sure he'd know how to contact your godfather too.”

“Hmm, maybe ...” Harry didn't want to get his hopes up.

Hermione didn't press further. Instead, she turned the topic to Harry's audition since their original discussion in the car had been cut short. “Tell me all about it. How do you think you did compared to the other dancers?”

Harry described everything he could remember, but he kept glossing over the parts that involved Snape. They didn't keep secrets from each other, so the guilt from holding back was killing Harry, but every time he came close to mentioning his attraction to Snape, he veered off on a different topic. He wanted to spill the whole story to her, even the part where he'd come close to skipping the audition just so he could be free to see Snape, but he knew his best friend would put the brakes on all of Harry's fanciful romantic notions once she heard about how he was lusting after his would-be teacher.

In the end, the need to confess everything proved too hard to resist. He gave in to the urge to tell her just as Hermione took a drink of water. “Oh … and I chatted up this sexy bloke who turned out to be Hogwarts' Head of Boys in the ballet department.”

Hermione choked and spat the water back into her glass, gasping for breath before screeching, “You what?!”

“Sorry, bad timing,” Harry said, taking the glass of water from her and putting it back on the night stand. He waited for her to calm down before he told her the story of meeting Snape, from their first hello in the rain to Harry's cheeky parting shot after his audition.

“Now that I look back on it, it was more him chatting me up … until he found out who I was. I didn't understand why he was so upset by my name, but maybe he knew my parents ...” He sighed wistfully, wondering why fate had suddenly decided to dump all this drama and intrigue into his lap after a rather uneventful, if sometimes miserable, childhood. “I can see how that would make it awkward for him, but – ”

Hermione emerged from her dazed stupor to laugh at him. “Awkward for him? That's what you're worried about? Harry, you can't date your teacher. You know that,” she squinted at him suspiciously, “don't you?”

“Of course,” Harry said quickly, but in the back of his mind he was constantly trying to figure out a way to make it possible. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. I think he hates me now.”

Hermione scoffed at that, playfully pinching his cheeks as she cooed at him, “Who could ever hate my adorable Harry? I dare someone to even try.”

“Try? The Dursleys made an art out of hating me.”

“They don't count,” Hermione said, waving away all thoughts of the Dursleys.

Harry flopped over on his back, clasping his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. “The worst of it is that he's my ideal – a male version of Eileen Prince who obviously loves dance as much as I do – so of course I go and muck it up by lying to him. I just didn't want to miss my chance ...”

“You don't think the age difference is a little … too wide?”

Harry shrugged. “He looked like he was in his thirties. That's not old.”

“Compared to seventeen? Yes, it is.”

“Hey, I'm old enough to consent!”

Hermione gave him her best 'schoolmarm' look of disapproval. “This is a man who will have a position of authority over you, Harry, and that changes everything. You can't shag your teacher when you're seventeen – it's against the law, and he could get into a lot of trouble.”

“So if I don't get into Hogwarts, I can have all the hot sex with him that I want? Sounds like the perfect consolation prize to me.”

“You're going to get in, so don't bother with the 'what ifs'. Look, when you're eighteen, you can do whatever you want – he could still get fired for sleeping with a student, but at least he won't go to prison – but until then you need to ignore this crush of yours and focus on dancing.”

There were times when Harry hated how sensible Hermione could be, if only because her rational outlook had led her to shoot down many of his more daring schemes during their childhood adventures together, but he'd never wished she was wrong more than he did now. How could he just ignore his attraction to Snape when one look from those dark eyes lit up his entire body?

“Oh, don't give me that puppy-dog expression that says I'm ruining your fun,” Hermione said with laugh, smacking him with her pillow. “You and I both know you'll end up doing whatever you want anyway.”

“It's called 'following your heart',” Harry said, retaliating with a swat of his own pillow. “That's a good thing, isn't it?”

“Following your heart can be a good thing … as long as you're aware of where it could lead you.”

“There you go again, sounding like you're so much older and wiser. Are you actually seventeen?”

“Until September.”

Harry propped himself up on one elbow. “Just think … we might be celebrating your birthday at Hogwarts this year.”

Hermione's eyes were bright with excitement, but she played it off with a placid expression and a nonchalant shrug. “It's just a birthday,” she said as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger, glancing over at him with a sly smile as she added, “but I fully expect my usual present, no matter where we are.”

Harry groaned. Despite whatever trinket or gift he gave Hermione for her birthday, she always insisted on her 'special present' – an embarrassing tradition that had started when they were nine and Harry hadn't been able to buy or make her anything. Instead, he'd struck on the then-brilliant, now-regrettable idea of giving her a 'birthday serenade,' and from that day on she had expected a repeat performance for every birthday, not matter what he tried to give her in its place.

“Aren't you sick of that by now?”

“I will never be sick of it – you'll be singing me show-tunes when we're eighty.”

“But will you be able to hear me when we're eighty?”

“Hush, or I'll make you dance with me too.”

“For the sake of my toes, I'll hush.”

Hermione gave him another smack with the pillow, then shooed him off her bed. “Time to sleep. We've got a busy day tomorrow.”

Harry crawled beneath the covers of his makeshift bed as she turned out the lights, answering her soft goodnight with one of his own, but he would spend a long time staring up at the ceiling and thinking of all the things he still didn't know – about his parents, about this mysterious godfather, about his future – until his exhaustion finally caught up with him, right in the middle of a stray thought about the ballet master he most definitely should be trying to forget ...
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Le Danseur