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Bonded in Blood	By : AikawaAkihiko Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 37017 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER AND MAKE NO PROFIT FROM THIS STORY

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Chapter 6- Reaction

Theodore Nott woke up early the day after the attack. He had only had time for a quick nap, as he had been up until the early hours of the morning. After displaying Potter’s body in the Entrance Hall, which he had thought was an inspired idea, he had skipped back down to the Slytherin common room. He had paced the darkened room, lit only by dimmed torches and the crackling flames of the fireplace, too excited to lie in bed. He had been virtually trembling with adrenalin.

He had done it! He had done what even the Dark Lord had not been able to do. He had killed Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One! The Nott name would be restored to its former and rightful prestige. Where his father had failed, he had succeeded.

Though he would never presume to think he was greater than the Dark Lord, by the time he left Hogwarts, he would be lauded as a great dark wizard. He would make sure of it.

He cackled manically out loud in the empty common room. He could not wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces when they saw their hero strung up, beaten and bloodied, as they made their way to breakfast. He imagined lethargic Gryffindors stumbling down the Grand Staircase, lazily rubbing sleep from their eyes, only to stop, their eyes widening in horror when they finally caught sight of what used to be the boy they had labelled the Great Defender.

Despite the small amount of sleep, the anticipation of the pandemonium it would cause was enough to get him out of bed and ready for breakfast before most of his housemates. As casually and inconspicuously as he could muster in his enthusiasm, he sauntered up the stairs to the Entrance Hall. He froze in his tracks at what he saw.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

Quickly he snapped out of his shock and joined the couple of students that were up that early and trickling into the Great Hall, so as not to look suspicious.

That’s ok, he thought, of course the staff would have been up, far before the students. They will probably announce the death of the “Mighty” Harry Potter during breakfast, or it could even already have made it to the front page of the Daily Prophet. Oh! Maybe we’ll get the day off from classes, too…

Confidence restored, he continued over to the Slytherin table, sat down, and helped himself to some kippers and black pudding. He ate slowly, drawing out his breakfast so that he would have a reason to be there when McGonagall made the awaited announcement.

He was pouring himself his third cup of the strong Irish tea he favoured –his excitement having waned with the lack of expected activity, and with it, his wakefulness – when the Headmistress entered the Hall looking stern in her emerald green tartan robes. He frowned to himself as she simply sat and began to serve herself, speaking quietly to Professor Sprout beside her. His anxiety only increased when there was no mention of the incident in the morning paper.

What had gone wrong? He was sure Potter had been dead when he had left him, so it was not like the wanker had gotten up and walked away. He wearily pushed himself off of the bench and prepared to head up to Transfiguration class, and cursed himself when he realised he had forgotten all of his books and his bag in the dorm in his eagerness to get to breakfast. As he stalked briskly back down to the dungeons he tried to calm his growing apprehension by telling himself, that Potter was dead and there was no way he could be caught.

HPSSHPSS

Minerva pursed her thin lips primly as she thought over the information she had just received from Severus, as the whipping of his black robes and the roaring flare of the Floo signaled his departure. Harry had finally been able to inform him of the identity of his attacker.

She shook her head in rueful dismay. Theodore Nott. She should have known. She should have been more aware of the Death Eater children. It was her duty as Headmistress and as a figurehead of the Order of the Phoenix.

And now, young Harry’s life had been made quite difficult by circumstances out of his control once again.

Severus had looked positively enraged when he had sat before the Headmistress and informed her of the perpetrator. His obsidian eyes had glittered with his malevolence, scenarios of retribution nearly visible within them.

It concerned her slightly. During the week since she had seen the man in her office, she had tried to read up on vampirism. There was astonishingly little of the information that Severus had shared with her to be found in any of the more modern books, but had little time to search for the ancient texts that could shed a better light, with all that was going on at the moment. One thing that she had been able to discern from almost all of the books was that to kill or injure a vampire was to incur the wrath of its coven upon you. She hoped that Severus could control his more beastly nature and would refrain from tearing the child apart.

Despite her concerns, she had given in to his request to retrieve the boy himself. He was, after all, a Slytherin, and it was Severus’ job as the boy’s Head of House to deal with him. Quite frankly, after what Minerva had seen of the poor Potter boy in the hospital ward, she would not withhold from Severus the satisfaction of a little ruffing up of the young Death Eater, as long as Nott was turned into Aurors in one piece.

She heaved a deep sigh, and shook herself out of her spiteful thoughts. Smoothing back her grey streaked black hair, as had become a sort of self-comforting habit during the more stressful periods of the war, she made to stand and prepare to go to the Great Hall for dinner when one of her chimes went off. It was a light, tinkling sound, left over from the time of her predecessor Dumbledore, which sounded when someone had crossed the threshold that was guarded by the stone gargoyle.

Resigning herself to a late supper, she settled herself back in her chair behind the broad and well used desk, calling out a greeting when the knock came to the door.

The door opened to a determined looking Ronald Weasley. Minerva bit back an impatient sigh. The boy had, as predicted, been harassing her daily about the whereabouts of his friend the entire week. She was glad that she had something to tell him today. Hopefully it would make the conversation shorter than it usually ended up being, because she was really quite peckish at the moment.

The tall and lanky boy stomped to stand in front of her desk with a mulish look on his face.

“Professor,” he grated out between gritted teeth, “have you heard anything about Harry?”

Minerva ignored the boy’s rude tone. She understood his worry. One day his friend, a friend who often found himself in trouble of the life-threatening sort, had up and disappeared with no explanation, and the very people who were supposed to watch out for him, seemed far less than concerned.

She waited until the boy stopped trying to bore a hole in her favourite rug with his eyes and met her serious green gaze.

“I have, Mr. Weasley,” she said with a commiserating nod.

The boy’s hostile expression dissolved into one of hopeful anxiety. He hastily flopped into one of the chairs behind him and leaned forward as if to show his professor she had his undivided attention.

“Where is he? What’s happened? Is he alright? When’s he-” his nervous, rambling questions were halted by his professor’s raised hand, calling for quite.

“Calm down, Mr. Weasley. He is fine,” she paused to consider if she should tell this boy the story they had come up with. Minerva knew her Lions and Ronald Weasley would certainly find it a hard story to stomach. But perhaps, she thought, it was no harder to handle than the truth. Her face hardened into her familiar no nonsense look, her lips pressed in a grim line. “The night Mr. Potter disappeared, he had been attacked, quite severely and has been in recovering in a secure place since then.”

“WHAT?!” the boy squawked.

“Do let me finish, Mr. Weasley,” she reprimanded with narrowed eyes. Once the boy seemed to contain himself, she continued. “Due to the severity and the breadth of his injuries,” the Weasley boy paled dramatically, “Mr. Potter had been unable to inform us of the identity of his attacker. As he had been left for dead, we wanted to keep his survival a secret until the guilty parties were apprehended. Last night, he was finally able to do so.”

“He’s going to be alright?” Weasley asked shakily.

Minerva gave a curt nod.

“Yes, he will recover, but...” she searched the face of the young man in front of her. She wondered if he would be able to handle Potter’s condition. She decided that would be left to Harry to deal with. For now, she had to make sure the youngest Weasley boy would know the basics and be able to keep to the story they would live by in public. “but he will not be completely the same.”

She watched as the boy’s face contorted into fear for his friend, and quickly continued.

“The nature of his change will be left for Mr. Potter to explain if he chooses to, however, it is important that you know that his life will be changed from now on. First of all, he will no longer be able to room in the dorms,” Minerva forestalled the argument that she saw the boy was about to make, “It is unavoidable, Mr. Weasley. Secondly, we must stick to the story that it has been decided we will now give to anyone who raises any concerns about Mr. Potter’s whereabouts. We are to tell anyone asking that Mr. Potter has chosen to enter in marriage with Professor Snape and is currently honeymooning in Wales, as that is who he will be staying with for the foreseeable future.”

“ARE YOU INSANE, PROFESSOR?!” the boy yelled furiously, jumping up from the chair and nearly tipping it in his hasty exclamation.

By the time she got the youngest Weasley boy to calm down and leave her office, the evening meal was long over and she had a headache she suspected would have rivaled any You-Know-Who ever gave Potter.

HPSSHPSS

Ron staggered back toward the Gryffindor tower in a daze. He could not believe what Professor McGonagall had told him. Yet he could not help but accept it in some part of himself. Insane things like that always happened to Harry.

He agonised for his friend. He was stuck with the greasy git, supposed to be his husband, and apparently would never be the same again after his attack, and he had not even been able to be there for him. This mysterious change worried him, to no end. Would he still be Harry? Was he the same mentally? Was he physically impaired in some way? He had heard of spells that left their victims crippled, their bodies twisted or left in chronic pain. The Headmistress had been awfully vague about his ailment.

A spike of panic cramped in his gut. He could not handle loosing Harry. He had been alone for a week and it had not done him well at all. With Hermione gone to Australia in search of her parents to restore their memories, aside from the weekly letter from his girlfriend chronicling her journey, it was just him and Harry.

Though they, of course, had been best friends before, Ron had latched onto Harry in his mind with a fierceness that bordered on obsession. He had built up a wall around his friendship with the dark haired boy, a wall he used to block out all of the more difficult emotions that had been assaulting him for months now.

He was mourning his immediate older brother, Fred, deeply. He had never noticed before how much the twins, as a unit, contributed to the cohesion and atmosphere of his family. Now that Fred was gone, taken from them so suddenly, everything was different, everything was dark.

He was doing his best to hide his grief, however. George had nearly fallen apart with the death of his twin, and refused to talk to anyone for an entire month after the Battle. It had taken a heavy toll on the rest of them. His older brothers, all living in their own homes, visited their parents often, but their subdued moods reflected those of the elder Weasleys. His father grieved quietly, withdrawing to his shed out back or patting a comforting hand on his mother’s heaving shoulders as she keened her sorrow. His mother cried nearly every day. Even towards the end of summer, almost three months later, she had still been seen tearing up, holding some remnant of a prank or an old sock that used to belong to her fifth son.

Ginny was nearly just as bad. Her state of mind had reverted to about how she had been during her first year, when she had been in possession of Tom Riddle’s diary. She was depressed and cried a lot. In the aftermath of the Battle, she and Harry had decided to take a break from each other. Both needed to sort themselves out; Harry needed to deal with the fallout of the war, and she with her growing melancholy.

Ron stopped mid-stride at the thought. Anytime his sister got into that kind of mood, she would seek him out for comfort as someone who was going through the same thing. He cringed at the thought, turning on his heel, and sending out a mental plea that she would forgive him for avoiding her when she so obviously needed him to be there. He could not handle having to hear his sister’s mournful cries, hear her talk out her grief with stories and memories of their brother. With the added information he received from Professor McGonagall, he knew he would not be able to maintain the shaky wall built to hold back his emotions.

He headed down to the kitchens, hoping to talk one of the elves into fixing him a few sandwiches to take up to the Astronomy Tower.

No, he could not lose control. He would not give in to his emotion. He was not some baby, some child, and he definitely was not a girl, so he knew he had to suck it up and get over it as men do. He had never seen his father cry. The only man that did was George, but he was allowed his grief. It was his twin after all. The thing was he had thought he would have been able to put it behind him by now. It was the second week in November and the emotion was still there working away at his emotional fortifications like crushing waves against craggy cliff walls.

Instead of focusing on his grief, he had focused on Harry, but even there, there were so many conflicting emotions. Jealousy curled over his defenses every so often, jealousy over the amount of attention and adulation Harry had received since the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Yet Ron knew he must be strong for him in this time of loss and confusion.

He was determined that he would not be like he was before. He knew Harry never asked for this. He remembered his pitiful display during the Triwizard Tournament. He had seen the critical looks from Bill and Fleur when he had turned up on the stoop of Shell Cottage the night he had left Harry and Hermione while on the hunt for Horcruxes. It was the night when he had given in to his fears and jealousies, and revealed how truly weak he was. It was clear in their eyes; the disappointment that was never voiced but was there none the less.

Still, Ron fought with himself. He had so much rage. Unwanted thoughts crept up in his mind that he did his best to push down. Harry had died but been able to come back. You-Know-Who had killed him directly with Avada Kedavra, and still he walked away unharmed… for a second time! Why not Fred? He also felt unaccountably angry that Harry had not noticed how upset he really was about his brother. Some confused part of Ron’s brain felt that Harry somehow had never seemed to be sad enough about Fred’s death, though he understood that Harry had a lot of people to mourn and things to deal with.

He knew that he loved Harry like a brother, so he pushed those feelings back deep in his mind anytime they tried to sneak up on him. Because Harry did not need that. He had gone through so much in this past year. It was finally time for Harry to be able to have an uneventful year. He should not have to take care of an emotional Ron too.

He wished Hermione was there. She would understand and know where he was coming from and he would not be just another burden of her shoulders, like he would be with Harry. Now without Harry there, he was lost, having no one to focus his attentions on and nothing to distract him from his more distressing thoughts. He was so very lonely without his two best friends.

Now, apparently it would stay that way. Harry was not going to be coming back to the dorms. He wondered if he would even see him anymore outside of classes. Would he still eat in the Great Hall with the rest of the students? Was he even still a Gryffindor?

He had to clamp down on those thoughts. The spike of panic was increasing in his stomach again. He could not think of losing his best friend too.

Instead, he focused on the problem –Snape. What the bloody hell did Professor McGonagall mean he would tell people he was married to the git? Was it just that? Were they just telling people they were married or were they actually romantically involved? If that was true, how could Harry not tell him something like that? Was that the real reason he and Ginny broke up? Was Harry checking out blokes while he was making sweet on his sister?

He was not sure he liked that idea.

HPSSHPSS

Severus sat nearly motionless in his padded leather office chair with his elbows braced on the desktop before him, his fingers rubbing across his lips as if in deep thought, and staring distantly at the wall. While outwardly he was calm, inside he was prowling like a caged panther, gathering its strength and fury for a chance to escape and maul its captors.

He had left Harry asleep in their quarters, assured that he would not wake up in a panic if he happened to be elsewhere. Now that the boy had at least one of his senses back and felt less vulnerable, he could be left alone for small periods of time. He was still slightly feverish so the Professor did not expect him to wake soon.

That was alright with Severus. He planned to enjoy this.

The Sire instincts within him urged him to get rid of the threat to his Childe. Severus wanted to tear the boy apart. He wanted to sink his teeth into the young Slytherin’s flesh and rend it from his bones, but he held himself in check. He was not a Slytherin for nothing. He would do this as well-thought out as he could manage.

He had sent a letter to the Nott boy with one of the house elves, calling for an immediate meeting with him. He had told him they needed to meet about his Potions work. It was an easy enough excuse. The boy had done exceedingly bad in the week’s classroom work, under the tutelage of the substitute teacher. Now Severus could guess that instead of slacking, the boy had probably been too disquieted with the lack of news about the Boy-Who-Lived’s demise.

Good.

Severus broke from his thoughts at the hesitant knock on his office door. Calling out a terse “Enter!” he watched with a baleful glare as the boy strode inside. Nott approached his desk with his chin held high and his back ramrod straight, as any pureblood child had been coached to carry themself. Though he presented a confident front, his body easily betrayed him under the observant glare of the Potions Master. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if he wanted to hide them in his pockets. His face looked gaunt and shadowed. His eyes were ringed with dark circles indicating he had had little sleep in the last week.

Before the boy could so much as open his mouth, Snape waved his wand and cast a Silencing Spell and locked the door.

“Sir?” the boy asked in a slightly panicked voice and swung his eyes from the locked door to his professor and back again.

“Mr. Nott, it appears that you have had a hard time concentrating in class this week. I realise I have been absent during that time. Surely you do not miss me that much, Mr. Nott?” Snape said in his usual low growl, staring intently at the boy. He squirmed under the scrutiny.

“Er… no sir. Just have something on my mind, sir,” Nott answered in a wavering tone, eyes flickering across the intricately patterned rug at his feet.

“Yes, I do find that murder has the unfortunate disadvantage to weigh on one’s conscience,” Severus sneered.

Nott bowed his head at the words, his straw-coloured hair falling into his eyes, as the weight of his stress seemed to overwhelm him. He seemed to have realised just who he had been talking to, however, when he suddenly straightened and sneered up at the man towering over him. He pasted a look that rivaled the vitriol contained in Snape’s face as he glowered at the Potions professor.

“I only did what any good servant of the Dark Lord would have done, something a loathsome traitor like you would never understand. The Dark Lord may be dead, but his greatness lives on in his loyal followers! Potter’s death will only inspire those who are pure of heart, mind, and blood into continuing to further the glorious vision of our lord!” Nott spoke vehemently, with manic furor, his face reddening and spittle gathering at his mouth.

Snape leaned back from the boy, as if considering his words, but subtly flicked his wand from beneath his crossed arms.

“Stupefy!”

Nott instantly fell unconscious to the ground. Severus turned his wand on himself and pointed it at his face, casting a quick Bubble-Head Charm, encasing his mouth and nose with a bubble of air. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a small glass vial with a clear light blue liquid inside.

Bending over the incapacitated boy, Snape smirked maliciously.

“Breathe deeply, Mr. Nott.”

The unconscious boy’s breath was even and deep as if in sleep. Snape held out the small vial and placed his wand tip on the rim of it.

“Ventaspera!” Severus whispered. A strong puff of air escaped the end of his wand as he poured a tiny amount of the potion. The liquid misted as if sprayed, diffusing into the air over Nott’s face, where he breathed it in.

His task done, Snape put away the vial in one of his desk drawers, locking it behind him. Dispelling the Bubble-Head Charm, he levitated the boy and walked through the Floo, calling out his destination as the Headmistress’ office.

Young Nott had an appointment with some Aurors.

A/N: “Ventaspera” is psudo-latin combining “Ventus” (wind) and “Aspera” (harsh)
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Bonded in Blood