Bonds of Affection

Six days after the conversation in Dumbledore's office, Severus Snape was ready. His will was updated, his affairs were in order, and his students' assignments had been graded and returned.



He had bequeathed everything he had owned, to the last piece of parchment, to the last knut – all of it, to Albus Dumbledore. Let him figure out what to do with it, Snape thought, with a wry grin. He was immensely relieved that Albus hadn't contacted him in the last five days. He had almost expected some half-baked plan to whisk him away to “safety” (as if one could hide from his own Dark Mark) – or some other ridiculous attempt to assure his survival. Nothing was done – perhaps Albus regained his common sense and finally just decided to let Severus Snape die in peace. He could only hope.



Snape couldn't be bothered to write any personal letters to anyone. Who would he write to? His godson? The blond-haired boy used to be his little darling for quite a while – but he was beginning to change, and follow in his father's footsteps. Draco's gleeful and enthusiastic participation in Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad was enough to make Snape's stomach rebel at the very sight of his godson now. The fact that, in order to keep up appearances, Snape had to praise him and encourage him, did not make any of it better.



He could write to Potter, Snape thought, amused. Tell him just how much he was like his father, and nothing like his mother. And just how much Snape loathed him. Yes, that would do... but he could not be bothered to pick up a quill.



The knocking on the door to his private quarters startled him. Nobody visited him. Nobody knocked on his door. Especially not... that way. Not like a student would. Most students knew better than to knock on Snape's door.



“Enter,” Snape said. He was not surprised to see Harry Potter, standing in the doorway.



“May I come in?” he asked quietly.



“I do believe that what the word enter means,” Snape said humorlessly. “At least to most people. Now, how can I be of service?”



The boy regarded him cautiously, and Snape began to lose his patience. “Potter, either speak, or get out. Either way, it doesn't make much of a difference to me.”



“I think we should do it,” Harry said quietly. “I think it's the best way.”



“Oh?” Snape said sourly. The boy apparently was even more dim-witted than he realized. “I do believe that the Headmaster had vetoed that plan.”



Harry shrugged. “I didn't say we should tell him. At least, not until I've drank the potion.”



Snape closed his eyes, and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Potter, let me explain to you, once again, what this potion does. It, simply and plainly, slowly molds the person to become a perfect slave to his Master – attuned to his wishes, obedient, compliant, affectionate, pining for his touch, his presence, even his cruelty... And unlike with other enslavement potions, or spells – this particular one is irreversible. Only my death will end the enslavement.”



“I understand,” Harry said calmly. “That's ... fine.”



Snape looked at the boy with surprise. He was about to ask him why on earth he was so eager to martyr himself in such an undignified manner – but then, Harry's response was all the answer Snape needed. Simply put, the boy wasn't expecting him to live all that long. And the boy had a point there – spies rarely did. The boy would “suffer” stoically through a few months, perhaps a year of servitude, but in relative safety (at least from Voldemort). And truly, the boy likely knew that Snape's disdain for him aside, he would not be abused. Then, once Snape was dead, Potter would be the pitied hero and the admired victim... reveling in the attention of all his friends, and milking the sympathy of his teachers for all it was worth. Not a bad deal, Snape thought sourly. Almost... Slytherin.



“Potter, let me explain this to you in the terms your pitiful pre-pubecent brain can actually understand. I have no attraction to your body, or your personality. I despise you, partially because you resemble your father so much, and partially, because you are a dimwit and a nuisance in your own right. Whatever feelings of affection or attraction the bond will force you to feel towards me, shall never be reciprocated. Is that clear enough for you?”



“Crystal clear, Sir,” Harry said serenely. “Don't worry. I don't expect you to change into prince charming. Just do whatever needs to be done to create a ... connection that will be satisfactory to Voldemort... and don't worry about the rest.”



Snape shook his head disdainfully. “And I suppose this is my cue to tell you what a brave little hero you are?”



“No, Sir,” Harry said calmly, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “This is your cue to tell me how we are going to break into Dumbledore's office and steal the motherfucking potion.”



“Language, Potter,” Snape said automatically. “And the answer is still no. I will be of no use to anyone as a spy, if I am marooned in Azkaban for exploiting a student.”



Harry's smile grew wider. “Well, no need to worry about that part. I got myself emancipated. I am a legal adult, as far as the law is concerned. I also just withdrew from school... although I am sure that after the relationship is established and accepted, I'll be able to re-enroll.”



Snape regarded the boy with distant curiosity, as if he were some sort of exotic magical creature. The brat had obviously thought things through quite carefully, this time, Snape mused. It was rather.. unusual. For the reckless, thoughtless, dim-witted Harry Potter.



“Just out of idle curiosity,” Snape intoned impassively. “Did you think of all that on your own?”



“Oh. No, Sir. Hermione helped,” the boy said with a smile.



Naturally, Snape thought. Hermione Granger. He made a mental note to take some points from Gryffindor in the beginning of the following year – just for her sake.



Snape looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Let me ask you a very direct question, Potter. Are you doing it for me, for the Order, or for yourself?”



Harry lowered his eyes and studied his feet.



“Mostly myself, Sir,” he said quietly. “Personal safety considerations... although helping the Order this way is a perk, as well.”



“Just as I thought,” Snape muttered. “Well, perhaps there is a single shred of intelligence in your puny teenage brain.”



“Perhaps, Sir,” Harry agreed indifferently. “You have a way to get into Dumbledore's office after hours?”



“Of course,” Snape said coolly. “Let's go.”



They walked to the Headmaster's office in absolute silence. The boy next to him was annoying him with every move he made – shuffling his feet, staring into the ground, walking with his hands in his pockets. The boy had no manners, no grace. Snape sighed deeply, resigned to the months, if not years of hell, if they had to share the same household.



Once in the office, it took them a good hour to find the flask with the potion. Dumbledore had stashed it away securely in one of his numerous cabinets. Snape took the flask and opened it, inhaling the smell. It smelled of tree bark, soil and herbs. Harry smiled uncertainly.



“Well, Potter – open up.”



Harry opened his lips and threw his head back. With one move of his hand, Snape poured the contents of the flask into his mouth. Harry winced slightly and swallowed every drop.



“Congratulations, Potter,” Snape said coldly. “You can go home and write a diary entry about your saga as a self-sacrificial war hero.”



To his surprise, Harry did not offer a resentful retort – he just smiled bitterly.



“Yeah,” he whispered tiredly. “Thanks. I just might.” He walked away quickly, without saying another word.