Serving Penance • Snarry •

Chapter 1

Eleven days until the full moon

Leaping back after stepping into the road, Harry's heart hurdled out of his chest.

The cars drove on the wrong side of the road back in Spain.

Staring at the scrap of parchment in his hand, Harry frowned. Oldust Hill was a street of red brick buildings. Flat 17B sat above a boarded-up Chinese takeaway. A depressed pigeon perched atop a wheelie bin, eyeing a skinny sleeping cat. Rubbish was strewn across a neighbouring garden. A stereo thudded nearby. A car alarm wailed in the distance.

The midday sun struggled to glimpse through the clouds, and Harry shivered in his coat. For the first time in history, he felt a twinge of worry for Snape. It had been two weeks since his first letter had gone unanswered, and now he found himself loitering outside his private home. He hoped Snape wouldn't hex him on sight. All the same, he wasn't convinced Kreacher had given him the correct address. Harry just couldn't imagine Snape living here.

He rang the doorbell. Paint peeled off the door. There was no peephole.

He was too tired to feel nervous at the thump of approaching footsteps. He was too dead inside to work up any anxiety over facing his former Potions professor for the first time since he had left him dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack almost three years ago.

Snape answered the door. They observed each other tiredly. Snape looked awful.

"Potter...? What...?" Snape squinted at him through bloodshot eyes.

Snape wore an overlarge dressing gown that drowned his gaunt frame. His cheekbones jutted out, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He seemed paler than Harry remembered. His hair was, if possible, even greasier than it had been before, and hung around his face in long curtains. Harry felt certain he'd never seen him with stubble before. He looked as though he could do with a long holiday in the sun, and months of Hogwarts cooking.

"I need your help. I—er—wrote you a letter. Can I come in?"

Harry, desperation fuelling his boldness, nudged the door open wider and Snape permitted him to enter. Perhaps it was shock at finding another wizard in Handsworth.

Walking up the stairs, they entered a cramped room. More library than living space, it had a bundle of blankets on the sofa that hinted that it doubled as a sleeping area.

Harry perched on the end of the sofa and pretended not to notice the empty bottle of wine by his foot. "Did you get my letter?"

An electric fireplace stood where he would expect a wizarding one, and a wireless sat on the mantelpiece. Many unopened Muggle envelopes lay atop it. The stuffy room would clearly benefit from some fresh air. He wondered if Snape kept an owl.

Snape jerked his head as if dislodging a fly. "I might have done. What do you want?" He looked both flummoxed and dazed—it dawned on Harry that perhaps he'd woken him up.

He went to fill up a kettle in the tiny kitchenette. Harry performed a discreet Warming Charm and spotted him massaging his temples and frowning at the kitchen cupboard. Harry grew more alarmed by the minute.

He cleared his throat. "Someone I know needs your help." Judging by Snape's living situation, he inflated the price. "I've been quoted eighty Galleons for the Wolfsbane Potion, and I was wondering if you would match it. I trust your brewing and discretion. It's for a friend. They're very private about their condition and want the highest quality potion they can get."

Snape spoke into a jar of instant coffee. "Do I look as though I have a private laboratory at my disposal? Get out."

This conversation was not going the way Harry had hoped.

"I—what? Wait. Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I can get you access to a fully stocked and equipped lab, all the things you need."

"All the things I need," Snape muttered. He watched the kettle on the hob and said nothing. Harry hoped he wasn't making coffee for both of them—it would be almost as awkward as sitting with Cho in Madam Puddifoot's.

To his relief, Snape got out a solitary chipped mug and sugar bowl as the kettle whistled.

"Lycanthropy is rare. They must be a good friend of yours indeed, for you to aid them in such a manner."

Harry was too tired to be patient. "I can't talk about who they are. Can you do it?"

"I need to know when they were turned. The intensity of the...transformations increase for the initial seven to twelve lunar cycles. I am not a nosy man," he sneered, stirring a considerable heap of sugar into his coffee.

"I—yes—they were changed near the end of the war. They've been...affected...for a few years."

Snape scrubbed his face with his palm. "Eighty Galleons is more than fair; I need neither your pity nor philanthropy, Potter."

"It's not pity. I just need your help," he replied. "I think you're the only one that wouldn't pry and who I can trust to make it."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

Harry doubted that anyone had tried to flatter him before, perhaps not since he joined the Death Eaters all those years ago as a schoolboy. Harry was extraordinarily wealthy, more so after he inherited the Black estate, and thought if anybody deserved charity right now it was Snape.

"The payment will also include your discretion and reflects that it's hard to brew. I've moved back to London and can set up a laboratory at the house."

He waved a careless hand. "I could not care less where you live. I merely require the address, ingredients and a suitable space. When is the full moon?"

"The 7th of May," he answered at once.

"What is today's date?"

Harry hid the alarm in his voice. "It's Thursday, the 26th of April, sir."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "The werewolf drinks one dose each day before sundown for the seven days prior to the full moon. I have not brewed this draught for seven years—send me the ingredients and instructions and address. I don't remember—I think it took three weeks to brew." He sipped his coffee and turned around to face Harry, having finally come to his decision. "Providing the laboratory and ingredients are satisfactory, I will begin the first week after the full moon."

"There's a new Fidelius Charm in place. My current residence is number twelve, Grimmauld Place, sir. I'll set the wards to let you in."

"Leave me."

"Thank you, sir," he said softly. He was only too happy to leave Snape to the cradling of his coffee.

"The things I do for love," he sneered. "Oh, and Potter?" He turned back around, hand on the doorknob. "Don't show up here again."

****

He felt a sense of relief at his tentative alliance with Professor Snape. Though the next transformation would once again be awful, he allowed a glint of optimism to light up the hopelessness within him. He hadn't dared let himself have any faith since he first began this descent into Hell. There were no other brewers he could bear to ask, and Hermione and Ron were under an oath from discussing his problem.

Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, not yet able to consider this horrid house 'home,' he gently closed the door and tiptoed past the dark hangings covering the life-size portrait of Mrs Black.

Digging out the scrap of paper from his pocket, he went over the notes he'd started during his counselling session.

'There is much more to me than my condition. My condition is not a reflection of my self-worth. Shame and fear won't last forever. My condition does not have to be a wall to emotional intimacy. There are many people I can trust.'

Although penned in his own handwriting, the words were not true. He vanished the serpent-shaped candelabra on the rickety table in the hallway with a swish of his wand.