you raise me up || harry potter

chapter 30

»»————-　song:　————-««

kids aren't alright

★ by fall out boy ★

❝ empty your sadness, 
like you're dumping your purse
on my bedroom floor,

we put your curse in reverse. ❞

♢ ♢ ♢

 When Snape walked into the kitchen as bleary-eyed as Harry several hours later at eleven, not ten, he simply turned to the coffee machine and pulled out two mugs from the cupboard. 

It was as though a quiet, unspoken understanding had crossed between them sometime earlier in the morning. Harry was positive Snape in any other circumstance would have taken delight in the fact that his least favorite student had nightmares. But this was not any other circumstance—they had been dealt their cards, and they would have to play. It appeared as though peace, or a rickety one at least, was the card they had both chosen.

It was later during the day when Snape walked into the parlor where Harry sat reading his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook for lack of entertainment, holding an envelope. It wasn't the thick, rich parchment paper that wizards used. It was the thin, blindingly white kind, and so distinctly Muggle. 

Harry took it questioningly, then glanced down. It was not the ink from a quill, but from a ballpoint pen. The return address was Number 4 Privet Drive. Addressed to simply: "Potter."

"Petunia knows the headmaster. He forwarded it to me," was the only explanation Snape offered before walking away, leaving Harry with the letter. 

It felt like a bomb in his hand. He didn't want to open it. He had long-since decided that a Snape-filled summer was better than a Dursley-free summer, and had no desire to see them until this term ended next June. So what was this? Surely the Dursleys were not writing to get him back. They despised him too much. They preferred him out of their lives entirely over gleaning pleasure out of tormenting him. 

Better to get it over with, Harry thought, and ripped the envelope open.

There was no preamble, no greeting. Just some hastily jotted lines, short and direct.

You need to come back. Dudley's had an accident. If you try anything like you did with Marge, Vernon won't hesitate to try and kick you out. 

You need the blood wards. 

Petunia

Harry read it once, twice, three times. Each time, it got more and more confusing. 

So Petunia did know about the blood wards. Harry hesitated to admit to himself that he didn't feel much sadness over whatever state Dudley may be in—how many times had Harry had his head shoved down the toilet? It depended on what sort of accident they were talking about. He snorted to himself at the thought of Dudley wetting his pants, but quickly sobered. What in the world did they want from him?

Then it clicked. They wanted Harry's magic. 

Harry slowly got up from the armchair, DADA textbook forgotten, and he stiffly walked into the kitchen where Snape was evidently feeling a little lazy today—idle? The man was anything but lazy— and was making a sandwich. He glanced over at Harry, then did a double take at how distressed he looked. He said nothing, though, and merely waited for an explanation.

"They... want me to come back," Harry muttered.

Snape set down his bread knife. "What did the letter say?" he asked.