A New Place to Stay Chapter 52 - Harry Potter

In the aftermath of the Horcrux ritual, Severus Snape is the one who comes apart. Shaking, sick and sleepless, he spends the night watching Harry breathe on the couch with Zar wrapped protectively around him, replaying every second where his son almost did not come back. At breakfast he forces himself to play the role of acerbic professor, even as Neville corners him to ask where Harry is. Back in the dungeons, Harry finally wakes, realises in horror that he can no longer understand Zar, and breaks down at the thought that he has lost Parseltongue for good. Then, one hiss at a time, the language returns. Gifted by blood rather than a soul fragment, it slowly snaps back into place. Severus checks Harry’s chest, heals the bruise left by CPR, and dives into his magic to confirm what they both risked everything for: the Horcrux is gone and Harry’s core is brighter than ever. Harry calls him brilliant, Severus quietly basks in a kind of praise he has never had before, and Harry heads up to the Great Hall knowing he is truly free for the first time in his life - and that Neville covered for him without hesitation.

Transcript

**Chapter 52: Waiting**

Severus sat down in the chair, staring blankly at the floor as a shudder ran through his thin frame. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

He had seen and done many things in his life, most of them far from pleasant. Yet this… this was undoubtedly the most difficult moment he had ever faced.

It had reached right to the core of his being. Curling his fingers into fists, he cursed himself for showing weakness.

His mind offered no solace; the incident replayed over and over in his thoughts. Merlin, Harry had almost died.

If he hadn’t started breathing when he did… 

Suddenly, he jumped from the couch and ran toward the bathroom, just in time to be sick into the toilet. He gripped the bowl tightly, still shaking as his stomach rebelled against having anything inside it.

Groaning weakly, he pressed his pounding head against the cold porcelain. It had been a long time since he felt like this—almost as if he had drunk too much and was now suffering the consequences.

Fifteen years, to be exact, since that Halloween night when he had seen Lily… dead and never to return. He had drowned his sorrows in alcohol for weeks, trying to block the image of her lifeless body from his mind.

Back then, he hadn’t cared. But now, he couldn’t shake the memory of Harry sobbing in the background, his life irrevocably changed.

His own godfather had handed him over to Hagrid just to chase after Pettigrew, leaving Harry in a family that would continue to abuse him for years. Severus dreaded to think what might have happened if he hadn’t intervened.

Yet deep down, he knew Dumbledore would have expected Harry to sacrifice himself for every single ungrateful, cowardly fool that made up the magical population of the British wizarding world. He sat there for what felt like days, his knees stiffening and aching as his stomach continued to heave.

Unfortunately, nothing but acid came up since Severus hadn’t been eating properly, too immersed in his potions to notice anything else. He flushed the toilet to rid himself of the evidence.

Overwhelmed by the lingering smell of sickness, Severus shakily rose to his feet, gripping the sink for support. He hadn’t anticipated how challenging this would be.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, he saw his own haunted black eyes, and he closed them, focusing on taking even breaths. The churning in his stomach persisted as he opened the cabinet and retrieved three potions.

He swallowed them with great difficulty, but gradually, his stomach began to settle. Blindly, he grabbed his toothbrush from its holder and started brushing his teeth, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of sickness, acid, and potion residue.

A wave of worry washed over him as an image of Harry’s still form flashed through his mind. He quickly returned to the living area, where he stood watching Harry sleep, just taking in the rhythm of his breathing.

It might seem foolish, but after everything he had just endured, anyone would have done the same. “How’s my human?” hissed Zar, who was draped over Harry, his tongue flicking out to taste the air as if seeking an answer.

The basilisk’s large body was half off the couch, the rest comfortably settled across Harry’s legs. “He’s sleeping.

He will be fine, Zar,” Severus replied in English. Sometimes, he was still surprised by how accustomed he had become to understanding Parseltongue.

Having a basilisk was certainly an unusual twist, and he couldn’t help but think how different things would have been if Voldemort had had one. The world would have been in even greater danger.

He had already caused the demise of one basilisk, something Harry clearly regretted; it was evident in the way he spoke about it. It was ironic, really—more regret for a snake than for the human he had killed during his first year.

But everyone could agree that Quirrell had brought that upon himself. “He better be,” Zar hissed in warning.

If anything happened to his human, he wouldn’t be happy in the slightest. Severus just...

He shook his head, knowing that Zar wouldn’t hurt him. But after giving him another glance, a sense of apprehension crept in; he was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to put that to the test.

It was Harry he loved the most, and the bond they shared ran deep. There was little doubt in his mind that Zar had sensed Harry’s distress and had arrived in record time.

It would never be said that Basilisks were slow just because of their size. He had seen that firsthand during the whole Chamber incident.

If he had the ability, he would have cast a spell to lighten Zar’s weight; having the Basilisk on Harry made him feel unnecessarily anxious. Shaking his head, he settled into the chair right next to Harry so he could keep a watchful eye on him.

It was a relief that he could maintain his composure, no matter the circumstances. If he had let himself panic, things could have gone horribly wrong.

He had come perilously close to it, much closer than he was comfortable admitting. He prayed that his last solution had worked; there was no other alternative.

The future was uncertain, and he wouldn’t even entertain Dumbledore’s likely suggestion on how to handle the situation. If Dumbledore dared to bring it up, he would make sure the old fool experienced a taste of his true powers.

Suddenly, Severus jerked awake, acutely aware of the throbbing aches throughout his body. As he grimaced in pain, he took in the scene before him, barely believing he had fallen asleep on the couch.

Flicking his wand, he cast a spell to check the time. Inhaling sharply in disbelief, he jolted out of the chair and quickly drank a muscle relaxant potion before straightening his clothes with another spell.

He had no time to waste; he needed to get to the Great Hall for breakfast. He was never late for anything, and being tardy would only raise suspicions.

Sliding into the... In the Great Hall, a hush fell over the students as he entered, a reaction that had become all too familiar, even among his own Slytherins.

He settled himself between Minerva and Sprout, noting that the Heads of Houses always seemed to have a seat next to the Headmaster for some inexplicable reason. This left Flitwick wedged beside Hagrid, who had, on more than one occasion, accidentally jabbed Flitwick with a fork.

Hagrid was often too engrossed in conversation to pay attention to where he was aiming, missing the food trays entirely. None of the teachers engaged him in conversation, which was probably for the best.

He had been fortunate to get three hours of sleep the previous night, having kept vigil by Harry’s side. Severus mostly picked at his food, moodily observing everyone around him, his lip curling in distaste.

He couldn’t fathom how anyone could be so cheerful all the time; it grated on his nerves. It was part of the reason he had never excelled as a teacher.

It was Sunday morning, and the room was filled with boisterous chatter. Only a few students appeared tired.

“Did you even sleep last night, Severus? You look exhausted,” Minerva remarked, setting her coffee down.

She was one of the few who never took offense at his tone or words—except when Harry was the topic of conversation. Severus merely grunted, not bothering to respond.

“That bad?” Minerva asked when he didn’t counter with a sarcastic reply. Severus rolled his eyes at her.

Just then, Albus Dumbledore stood up, prompting Minerva to tap her goblet to gain everyone's attention. Gradually, the hall quieted until all eyes were on him, curious about the interruption.

It wasn’t often that breakfast was interrupted by the staff, at least not after the initial feast. “As you all know, Hogsmeade trips are just around the corner.

If you wish to attend, please submit your permission slips to your Head of House before the twelfth of October.”

“It's less than a week away. No signed permission means you won’t be attending,” he said solemnly, his eyes scanning the room in search of Harry, who didn’t seem to be awake yet.

“That is all. Thank you, and have a good weekend!” He beamed before sitting down, though his usual twinkle was slightly dimmed as he stared at the Gryffindor table.

He had noticed it for some time now, but there was something unsettling about Harry. He seemed different—quiet, somber, and behaving strangely, not at all like the boy he knew.

“Excuse me,” Severus said, rising from the table and heading toward his quarters, intending to check on Harry. “Sir!

Sir!” called a voice, stopping Severus in his tracks. He recognized that voice and could hardly believe the boy was approaching him willingly, without his usual stutter.

There would be time for that later; unfortunately, the desire to be harsh with the boy had faded. Harry didn’t have many friends; he had always preferred a small circle of loyal companions over a larger, superficial crowd.

Longbottom had never cared for Harry's title. “What is it, Longbottom?

I have better things to do than stand here watching you gape,” Severus snapped, turning to face the boy with an impassive expression. “Do you know where Harry is, Sir?” Neville asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

“Why would I, Longbottom?” Severus sneered, his eyes glinting dangerously. Had the boy gone to McGonagall?

No, probably not; otherwise, she would have mentioned something earlier. Why hadn’t Longbottom gone to her?

It wasn’t the first time he had failed to report Harry missing from the dorms while he stayed in his quarters. Merlin, the urge to read the boy’s thoughts was strong, but he would never violate someone in that way.

Sure, he could sense when people were being... Severus knew that dishonesty often revealed itself through body language rather than through the use of Legilimency.

“He had detention last night; nobody has seen him since,” Neville said, concern evident in his voice. There was something unsettling about the situation, and Severus’s mind was flooded with thoughts he wished he could push away.

The image of Snape and Harry together crept in, but he shook his head, dismissing it. Harry had never shown interest in anyone; he didn’t act like he was in love.

Severus resolved to figure it out, but he wouldn’t betray Harry by getting him into trouble. That would ruin their friendship, and he couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.

“Not my problem, Longbottom,” Severus snapped, turning away and striding back toward the dungeons without another word. He hoped Harry would wake up soon; he needed to make an appearance, or people would only grow more suspicious.

Harry was not the type to blend into the background—he was the Boy Who Lived, whether he liked it or not. As Severus entered Harry’s quarters, the wards let him pass, and he closed the door firmly behind him.

There was Harry, of course, still on the couch, with his ever-present shadow, Zar. Zar lifted his head, blinking sleepily, his eyes always shielded to prevent anyone from becoming petrified.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. The waiting was wearing on his last nerve.

He needed to know Harry was okay, recovering, and free of Horcruxes. Should he wake him, or let him rest and disregard what everyone at Hogwarts thought?

In truth, he had never cared much for their opinions. His decision was made for him when Harry began to stir.

Summoning potions, Severus took a seat, prepared to wait for Harry to return to the land of the living. There would be no training today; Harry needed time to recover from his ordeal.

His magic might be affected, so perhaps he should test it. “Who’s been dancing on my chest?” Harry murmured.

Harry's eyes shot open, and Severus couldn't help but chuckle softly. "That would be me," he said.

"Great," Harry replied, wincing as he struggled to breathe, pain flaring in all directions across his chest. Then he heard that hissing again.

His gaze met Zar's, and tears filled his eyes. "Zar," he choked out, his voice breaking as if he had just lost the most precious thing in his life.

Alarmed by the pain in Harry's voice, Severus sat up straighter. "Harry?" he asked, concern creeping into his tone.

"I can’t understand him anymore," Harry said, his throat tightening around the growing lump of despair. Severus felt his own chest tighten in sympathy for the anguish Harry was experiencing.

There was nothing he could say or do to ease the pain. The loss of such a gift could never truly be recovered.

He was grateful to still have some of Zar's eggs, allowing him to brew the potion again. It might not be the same, but at least Harry would understand Zar once more.

Severus couldn't comprehend why this was happening. Harry had spoken Parseltongue for years, conversing with Zar daily.

He should still be able to understand, even if he couldn’t speak it. But Parseltongue wasn’t a language open to interpretation; it was a gift—something you either had or you didn’t.

The likelihood that the Horcrux had caused this loss seemed more plausible now. It meant he had succeeded in his endeavor to remove it, though he wouldn’t get ahead of himself until he knew for certain.

Harry closed his eyes and hugged the enormous basilisk tightly, tears streaming down his face as devastation wracked his body. His hands barely wrapped around Zar, gently stroking the smooth scales.

Zar continued to hiss at him, and then it happened—Harry understood one of the words before the hissing resumed. He arched back, his eyes wide, listening intently to Zar, praying it would happen again and that it wasn’t just his imagination.

Desperate to hold onto the hope that he could still communicate with snakes, Harry focused intently on Zar. The basilisk never stopped hissing, and even Severus had fallen silent.

In that moment, Zar was the only one who understood him. How ironic it was—just a while ago, the roles had been reversed.

As Zar continued to hiss, Harry began to decipher the sounds, his heartbeat quickening with each realization. Hope blossomed within him, vibrant and alive like a flower in spring.

The tears he had shed were now dried, and with every hiss, more of the language came rushing back. He could hardly believe it, but it was true!

Why? How?

It didn’t matter. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care about the hows and whys.

All that mattered was that he could speak to his familiar again. “I can understand him,” Harry breathed, astonishment washing over him.

“You just spoke in Parseltongue,” Severus said, relief flooding his voice. He was glad that Harry hadn’t lost such a remarkable gift, especially for the sake of his son’s happiness when it came to his familiar.

“Silly human, you know you got your gift from family,” Zar hissed, shaking his large head in apparent exasperation. The basilisk was elated to see his human awake and unharmed.

When he had sensed Harry’s pain through their bond, he had panicked, abandoning his hunt for food and rushing back as quickly as possible. Harry felt a wave of sheepishness wash over him.

Zar was right; he was indeed related to the founders through the Peverells, a connection that tied him to both Zar and Voldemort. Slumping against his familiar in relief, he was overjoyed that he hadn’t lost him.

Speaking Parseltongue made him feel special, a stark contrast to the shame he had felt at twelve. Back then, he had enjoyed speaking to the python at the zoo, but the shame had stemmed solely from being labeled a Dark Wizard.

“Look at me,” Severus said, crouching down next to Harry. Severus leaned in closer to Harry so they were eye to eye.

“Is your chest still sore?” he asked, inspecting Harry’s eyes, though Harry wasn’t sure what for. “Yes,” Harry replied, as if he believed the pain would vanish quickly.

Severus nodded, as if he had suspected as much, and handed over three potions for him to take. “Take your top off,” he then demanded.

Harry raised an eyebrow but complied; Severus had seen him in less clothing before, especially during training or while gardening at Prince Manor when the heat became unbearable. Looking down, Harry understood why Severus had asked—there was a large bruise on his sternum.

No wonder he was in agony. However, as soon as the salve was rubbed in, he felt the coolness and the potion starting to work, healing the damage.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly. Having someone care for him like this was still a new experience, and moments like this deeply touched him.

He began to see Severus more as a father figure, even though he knew it would complicate his relationship with Sirius once he found out. Sirius and Severus despised each other; he couldn't imagine having both of them in his life.

As angry as he sometimes felt towards Sirius, he still loved him in his own way, like one loves a well-meaning but foolish friend or relative. “I am sorry,” Severus said, feeling a surge of emotion as he looked at the bruise on Harry’s chest, knowing he was responsible for it.

“Can we check if the Horcrux is gone?” Harry asked, changing the subject, unaware of Severus's inner turmoil. “Of course,” Severus replied curtly.

“Don’t fight it.” Despite having done this dozens of times before to contain the Horcrux, each time surprisingly felt easier, even though it should have been the opposite, with Harry creating mental shields to guard against intrusion. Harry nodded, his green eyes meeting Severus's black ones.

Harry lowered his shields, granting Severus full access to his mind. There was no one else he trusted like Severus.

After all, Severus knew almost everything there was to know about him. The only thing he didn’t know was Harry’s desire to call him "dad" and, well, to be his son.

Harry had never known his biological father, except for a few facts: he liked Quidditch, was on the Gryffindor team, was good at Transfiguration, and had become an Auror. Until two years ago, he had known even less about his mother, who had sacrificed her life to save him.

He didn’t know everything now, but thanks to the information he’d managed to extract from Severus when he was in a good mood, he had learned quite a bit. Severus delved deeper, navigating the strands of magic, and noted that there were a few more than last time.

As he continued, he reached Harry’s magical core. Just yesterday, it had been a glowing, pulsating sphere of green and black magic.

Now, there was nothing—no sign of another person's magic. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the gold color of Harry’s magical core had brightened.

Having gathered the information he needed, he carefully withdrew from Harry’s mind, making sure not to pull away too quickly and cause him any pain. “It’s gone,” Severus said, taking a deep breath.

Delving so deeply into someone’s magic was exhausting, though not as taxing as moving a leech, which he no longer had to do. “Thank Merlin,” Harry replied, relief flooding through him.

“You did it!” He couldn’t hide his pride; he was always amazed by how brilliant his dad was. Severus created spells and potions at the drop of a hat—something Harry could never do.

It felt like such a talent shouldn’t be wasted on teaching them how to brew potions or defend themselves. He couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like once Voldemort was gone.

Would Severus still want him? Would he still be welcome in Prince Manor?

Or would he be pushed aside once his purpose was complete? He swallowed hard, lost in thought.

Harry pushed aside his unwanted thoughts, determined not to dwell on them. He would face whatever challenges lay ahead when the time came, but for now, he wanted to embrace the present.

He had always been good at living in the moment. “I did,” Severus replied, a rare, small smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

“You are brilliant,” Harry said sincerely. “You really are.” He noticed Severus’s usual masks slipping, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation.

Compliments didn’t seem to sit well with him. “Go on, you need to make an appearance in the Great Hall.

I’m sure Neville is worried about you. He came to me earlier, wanting to know where you were,” Severus said, trying to nudge Harry out the door without addressing the compliment.

“Wait, Neville actually came up to you and asked about me?” Harry exclaimed, utterly astonished as he slipped out of Zar’s hold and sat up. He could hardly believe his ears; if he didn’t know Severus as well as he did, he might have thought he was joking.

“Without stuttering,” Severus added as an afterthought, tidying up the used potion bottles and banishing them to the sink in his lab. “Whoa!” Harry said, gripping the couch as the room spun around him.

“Easy,” Severus said, his eyes narrowing in concern as he stood in the kitchen, boiling water for coffee. Now that Harry seemed to be alright, he suddenly realized how hungry he was—no doubt a result of having shuffled his food around on his plate earlier.

Thankfully, the house-elves would be more than happy to help. “I’m fine,” Harry insisted, shaking his head as he tested his limbs, realizing he must have just gotten up too quickly.

“Before you go, I want you to test your magic. It may have decreased or increased now that the Horcrux is gone,” Severus said, rejoining him in the living room.

“Accio cloak,” Harry said, using the wand that once belonged to Slytherin’s son. The cloak flew to him effortlessly.

“Well?” Severus asked, watching intently. Harry glanced over curiously.

“It’s a little more powerful—nothing anyone will notice,” he said, a wave of relief washing over him. “Very good,” Severus replied.

“Now go on, get some breakfast. Eat it all; you need your strength.

Use this when you go to bed tonight.” He handed Harry a jar of the salve he had just applied to his chest a few minutes earlier. “Alright,” Harry said, shrugging on his cloak and pocketing the jar.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” Severus replied, watching Harry as he walked away. His thoughts lingered on Harry’s words: “You are brilliant, you are.” Deep down, he knew it was true, and he wasn’t being entirely smug about it.

Still, he felt something peculiar when Harry had said it—no one had ever spoken to him like that before. No one had ever acknowledged his contributions to the magical community.

Harry’s eyes had reminded him of a time long ago, transporting him back to when he was nine, to the way Lily used to look at him. Had she thought he was brilliant back then?

Their expressions had been identical, but he would never know for sure. Lily was gone, lost in part because of his own actions and Pettigrew’s betrayal.