Whelp

*Chapter 4*: Chapter 4

Whelp -- Chapter 4

By jharad17

A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! You guys are so cool I wrote really quickly so you could have another chapter! And a fairly long one, too.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no money from this. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I only borrow them for a brief while.

--HPHPHPHPHPHPHP--

What with one thing and another -- settling into his new rooms, setting up his potions lab and working out the details of duties he was to split with other professors and Heads of House -- Severus didn't get a chance to go to Surrey to check on Harry Potter until Saturday afternoon. Which was, he reflected as he prepared for the trip into a Muggle neighborhood, technically the end of the week in which Dumbledore had first laid the chore upon him. So he was keeping to the letter of the promise, if not the spirit; it wasn't the first time he'd done so, and was unlikely to be the last.

If he was going to be completely truthful with himself -- and why shouldn't he? Especially if he wouldn't be, with anyone else -- he was not looking forward to this trip for a number of reasons. First of all, he was annoyed simply to have to do it. He'd much rather be straightening shelves of mugwort and gillyweed and putting cauldrons in order than parading all over some suburban sprawl, in Muggle clothes no less! He brushed his long fingered hands down the front of the light oxford cloth shirt, gray vest, and gray trousers he kept for just such occasions, pulling non-existent bits of lint from the material with a scowl. And then there was Lily's family. He'd only met Petunia once since they were children, which was far more than enough. She was the worst sort of Muggle: brutish, dull-witted and patronizing. How he hated that.

Foremost on his list of distasteful items on this assignment, however, was the boy himself. Even if his aunt's stifling posture had prevented her from pampering the brat for six years and making a spoilt pimple out of him, he was still James Potter's son, and thus worthy of a bit of reviling all on his own.

Severus sighed and took up a walking stick to hide his wand-- Primped like Lucius bloody Malfoy, now! -- and made his way out of Hogwarts far enough that he could Apparate directly to the Muggle neighborhood where Potter lived.

The late afternoon sun was low in the sky when he arrived at Number 4 Privet Drive and rapped smartly on the front door. While he waited to be admitted, he took in the rest of the development, the identical hedges and drives, and even window dressings, for Merlin's sake. The automobiles, too, seemed to exist in only one or two models.

Few people were about in the still rather oppressive heat. On the other side of the road, however, three children peddled identical bicycles down the sidewalk. He wondered briefly if any of them were Potter. But no, two were blond and larger than seven years warranted, at least to his unpracticed eye. The third was a red head.

The boys closed in on him, having pedaled across the narrow street, and bellowed at him when he rapped on the door again. "Not home!" the biggest of the three boys shouted as he pulled to a stop on the front lawn, dragging the tops of his shoes rather than applying brakes. His fat face was sweaty and bright red with exertion. "They've gone to the shops."

Severus drew himself up, the better to look down his nose at this sorry excuse for a boy. Rolls of pale pink skin fell over the top of the boy's short-pants, which clung tightly to huge, flabby thighs. He couldn't make out knuckles on the meaty hands that clutched at the handlebars of the bicycle. "Indeed? You seem to know so much about them. Perhaps you might advise me on when they will return."

The whale of a boy scrunched his face up. Obviously, the process of thinking caused him pain. "They're meant to bring home ice cream, aren't they?" he said, and his two hulking compatriots nodded eagerly. "And that new cartridge for my Gameboy."

Severus sighed. "Are they your parents then?"

The boy nodded. "I'm Dudley," he said, importantly. "Dudley Dursley."

"And what of your cousin? Is he out with them as well?"

One of the other boys sniggered. "You mean the dog?" Dudley punched him on the arm, and the boy subsided.

"I beg your pardon?" Severus was tired and had not wanted to be here in the first place. The sooner he got his answers, the sooner he could leave.

The redhead, a rat faced boy, was smirking. "Dudders, you hear him? He said--"

"Shut it, Piers," Dudley growled. "He's not my cousin."

"Be quiet!" Severus snapped. All three heads swiveled toward him, mouths moving like fish. "Dudley, is it? Is Harry Potter at your home right now?"

Dudley's face twisted into something sly and ugly. "No. My Dad says he's not allowed."

Not allowed? What in the nine circles of hells did that mean? The boy was seven years old. Gathering all of his admittedly short supply of patience, Severus lowered his voice to its softest, silkiest tones, the one he reserved for those upon whom he wanted to perform the most excruciating of curses. "Tell me where the boy is."

Though he was obviously taken aback, Dudley glared his friends into silence when one of them appeared about to answer, and the two of them shrugged and looked at their shoes. Dudley looked at the sky.

Severus' knuckles grew white from gripping his walking stick; he dearly wanted to clout this child. He settled for stepping closer, and using his best loom-over look. "Well?"

The boy jumped, eyes wide. "Not s'posed to say."

"I suggest you rethink that position." The threat was clear in his voice, and in case it was not, Severus slapped the head of the cane into the palm of his hand loudly. Twice. The boy in front of him quivered. "Now! Where is he?"

With a trembling hand, the Dursley boy pointed toward the fence that cut off the front yard from the back.

"Outside? In the back?"

The boy jerked a nod, and Severus strode for the fence and the small gate nestled in its center. If Potter wasn't there, after all this, he would not be responsible for his actions.

--HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP--

The boy had been outside, chained to the shed, for four days now. Maybe five. Maybe more. He'd lost count, really. After the first two days, his ankle was so bad he couldn't stand on it anymore, so he lay against the shed, trying to stay out of the worst of the sun during the day, and the worst of the wind at night.

Every morning, his aunt hosed him down, and filled his water bowl, and every evening after work, Uncle Vernon came to check if he'd eaten the blob of dog food in the other bowl. He hadn't, and he wouldn't. Not ever. No matter how hungry he got. But Uncle Vernon just sneered, every time, and said, "Perfectly good food going to waste, whelp. Perfectly good food."

Every day, Dudley brought his friends by to taunt him, and they seemed to take the greatest pleasure in waiting until the boy had to relieve himself -- which he did at the back side of the shed, at the farthest the leash would allow -- before jumping out at him and laughing, or pelting him with stones or handfuls of mud. After the second day, when his ankle was bad, he scooted on his bottom as far as he could get from the shed before he peed, timing his needs as close as he could to when Aunt Petunia used the hose.

Late one afternoon, just after the first red blush of sunset appeared over the roof of the house, and the air started to cool, the boy was lying on his side, facing the back fence, when he caught movement under the azaleas. A green snake about a foot long slithered closer, tongue flicking in and out. They boy watched it with tired eyes, not moving.

"Dead yet?" the snake hissed.

Surprised, though maybe he was sleeping, and this was just a dream, the boy shook his head slightly. In dreams, he supposed, boys could talk to snakes. "Not yet."

The snake's head came up. "You ssspeak?"

"'Courssse. M'not a dog," the boy said fiercely, though it came out softer than he would have liked; he was just so tired.

"No," the snake agreed. "But there are not many men who ssspeak to ussss. Not for a long time."

"Sssorry," the boy said.

"Do not be," the snake told him. It sounded almost amused. Its tongue flickered against the boy's arm, tickling, and then the snake slid over him, its cool skin dry and faintly rough as it rubbed by his cheek. "I am pleassssed not all of you have passssed."

"Me, too."

The snake's head came up again, agitated this time, and it slithered back to the ground. "I musssst go."

"No. Pleassse sssstay," the boy whispered, and reached out to the snake, stretching his arm as far as he could.

"Cannot. A man issss here." The snake vanished once more into the grass under the shrubbery.

Uncle Vernon, the boy thought, and he closed his eyes against the sudden ache in his chest.

--HPHPHPHPHPHP--

The yard looked empty on first inspection. Severus glanced around at the perfectly trimmed lawn, the freshly whitewashed shed, and the well weeded herb garden and saw no sign of Potter. Anger rose in him again at the antics of the boys out front, and he had nearly turned on his heel to go confront them when he heard a low hissing sound from the far side of the yard.

He had taken two steps toward the sound before he recognized it, and froze. Dread such as he had not felt in six years wrapped its coils around his chest and squeezed tight enough to cause actual pain. Parseltongue. He would never forget that sound. The only Parselmouth he knew was gone, however, destroyed by a mere child, so after another moment's hesitation, wherein he berated himself for cowardice most unbecoming, he continued across the yard.

The sound of snake language stopped abruptly, but Severus kept moving towards its origin. The only person who could possibly have uttered the speech was the object of his search, after all.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, though the words and behavior of young Dursley and his cronies had unsettled him. Perhaps Potter was playing out here, or performing some chores, like weeding. Severus was positive that chores were good for building character, especially for the son of James Potter, who would need all the character he could get. Whatever he was expecting, however, the sight that met him when he rounded the corner of the shed took his breath away, and he had to fight to regain it.

The hero of the wizarding world lay in a crumpled ball of skin and bones, barely covered by a threadbare, ragged shirt crusted with filth. One of the boy's legs was so swollen from calf to toes, but around such stick-like bones, that it was simply obscene. His face was smeared with blood and dirt, and his mouth was parted around pitifully chapped lips as he drew each rattling, obviously painful breath.

And the smell! Merlin!

Severus brought a hand to his nose to cover the stench. As he did, he noticed what his gaze had skittered over before, a neck rubbed raw and bleeding from a length of chain latched to a black rope, which was, in turn, attached to the side of the shed.

You mean the dog.

The true horror of the little hooligan's words staggered the Potions Master, and he had to turn his face away.

When he looked again, rage bloomed inside him at the daring, the sheer nerve of these Muggles. How could they get away with this, this monstrous behavior?! And to Lily's son! A feral sound formed in his throat, and he knew he had only minutes before his much vaunted self-control snapped like a broomstick in a hurricane. In two great strides, he was crouched alongside the boy, snapping the leash off the collar and hurling it away from them. The damned collar itself would need to be removed with more care, as it had been fastened too tightly and had dug deep into the boy's skin. Wand out, he waved it over the child, who had not yet moved, and performed the first of the many healing charms he expected to need to before the day was out. A pain relief potion from his pocket was next, helped down the child's throat by gentle strokes with his long fingers along the abraded skin. Then, at last, a sleep charm, to make the boy easier to move.

Once done, he sat back on his heels.

Now what?

Dumbledore had left this to his discretion -- a neat way of being able to deny culpability, Severus realized -- which still allowed few options. St. Mungo's was out of the question, of course, for the Boy Who Lived. The publicity alone would stir an outcry against Muggles of all kinds. He could take the boy to Hogwarts and rely on the assistance -- and the discretion -- of Madam Pomfrey. But though Severus knew the medi-witch well enough from his own school days, he was not absolutely sure of her loyalties. Did Dumbledore trust her? Should he?

Or he could heal the boy himself. Severus was a fair medic, as one must to be more than a rank amateur with potions, and he was well versed in traumatic injuries, even those of the mind.

Decided at last, Severus eased the boy up as gently as he could, positioned what looked like a broken forearm against his chest to prevent jarring, and stood with Harry in his arms. Though side-along Apparition was often hard on the passenger, Harry would not be up for floo travel or portkey either. It had to be done. But he would be back here soon, there was no doubt in his mind. He would return with a vengeance.

Forming an image in his mind of the sitting room at the house on Spinner's End, he Disapparated with Lily's son, and the soft echo of a crack.

--HPHPHPHPHP--

TBC: next chapter-- Let the Healing Begin!