Certain Dark Things || Book Two

v. penance for petunia

When his arm started to burn, Severus wasn't surprised.

No, Severus was a man of routine and absolutes; the sun rose in the east, set in the west, fire was hot, ice was cold, and Harriet Potter would somehow, some way, wind up in imminent danger.

Before he'd known about the Vow chaining his life to the brat's, Severus had already come to expect the ever-present burning in the summertime. The searing and prickling always increased during the holidays, and for the longest time, Severus hadn't had a single idea why that was. Now, however, he knew why even if he wished he didn't, because Albus Dumbledore would never forgive him for killing Petunia Evans, even if the bitch was abusing her only niece.

Severus sat up from his slouched position in his armchair and the Potions journal he'd been reading when he dozed off slid to the rug. Air hissed through his clenched teeth as he tightened his hand around his wrist and lurched upright, sleep's muddled haze already disappearing, his body and mind trained to wake swiftly—though his heart raced and his footing was less than steady. He grabbed his cloak from the hook by his mantel and hesitated by the Floo.

He knew where he must go. Severus had made sure of that before term even ended; finding Potter's home address had been too easy for Severus' taste. What if Slytherin had gone looking for it? He'd waited all summer for the opportunity to catch Tuney or her fucking husband putting the girl in danger—in flagrante, as it were. Perhaps it was wrong for Severus to have waited at all, for him to gamble with Potter's safety, but he was a Slytherin, not a bleeding-heart Gryffindor; he needed to bring evidence before Albus. The Headmaster could be incredibly thick-headed in these matters.

Abuse, be it against a child or a partner, wasn't common in the Wizarding world, not like it could be among Muggles. Oh, wizards had their own fair share of emotional neglect going on, but pure-bloods had trouble conceiving. When the whole weight of your family legacy rested on a hard-won child's shoulders, you didn't beat that child, and you didn't beat your spouse when they were trained in curses and poisons and knew exactly where you kept your bloody tea. Without evidence, Severus doubted Dumbledore could even conceive of the idea that Petunia might hurt her niece.

Still, Severus hesitated. He hesitated because he feared he might not hold back if he witnessed Petunia hurting Lily's daughter.

"Fuck," he cursed when pain flared again. Severus took a pinch of Floo Powder and threw into the grate, snapping, "Number Eight, Wisteria Walk, Surrey!"

The fire blazed green and he braced himself for the dizzying, spiraling pressure of long-distance Floo travel. When he stepped out of the grate, he did so with a soft gasp, bringing in the smell cabbage and cats, the taste of soot heavy on his tongue and in his throat. A Kneazle perched on the back of a tatty couch growled at Severus, and he slipped his wand into his shaking hand.

The light flicked on, and he managed to not whirl about—though Severus did slowly raise his hands when confronted with an older woman wielding a Muggle handgun.

"Who're you then?" the old Squib demanded, dressed in a fluffy bathrobe with two cats at her feet. She squinted. "...Snape?"

"Madam Figg," he drawled, hoping the crazy bat didn't shoot him on accident. He knew Arabella Figg more by chance than anything else, a distant memory from a decade ago of passing in the Order headquarters, and she probably recognized him by notoriety. He'd been told by Albus years ago that the Headmaster had an agent in play near Privet Drive to watch over the girl, but Severus would've never guessed it was Arabella Figg until he searched the records for the nearest Floo contact to Potter's home. "I've received...intel that the Potter girl might be in danger and have come to verify her safety for myself."