The Postal Mission

The only indication that anything out of the ordinary had occurred was a-- CRACK--, shattering momentarily the normal neighborhood noises of children's voices, lawn mowers, and the muted sounds of traffic three blocks over on the main street. Some mother or deliveryman may have paused briefly to look around and consider, but then assumed it to be nothing when no other disturbance was forthcoming.

The cause of the disturbance was now scanning his environs to see what kind of attention his arrival may have attracted. Registering no shrieks of fear or screaming brakes, he set off at a leisurely pace, not concerned at the moment with his direction, having successfully achieved the riskiest part of the mission--Apparating without detection. As he slowly walked to the park he had spotted at the far end of the lane, he pursed his lips in vexation, recalling the scene of the evening before. He had been called to the Headmaster's office just as he was sitting down to savor a well-deserved, he thought, two inches of fine vintage. Damn that man! He, more than anyone, should appreciate his reluctance in this matter.

. . . . . . . .

"There is absolutely no one else for it?" he had queried dryly, making no attempt to hide his distaste in being sent out on such a matter, something that any of the junior staff could manage. Then, of course, there was the ONE who was the reason for this...outing.

Albus Dumbledore paused and studied Snape's face intently before answering.

"No, Severus, no one. Quirrell, Minerva, and Poppy are on holiday, as you know. Madame Hooch is off on a quest to refurbish the Quidditch locker."

He lowered his head to make eye contact as he delivered his next list of unlikely candidates. His eyes twinkled.

"You can certainly appreciate why neither Flitwick, Hagrid, nor myself, alas, are suitable for this, well, delicate foray into the Muggle world." He chuckled. "Perhaps if it were nearer the feast of Halloween we could chance such and adventure, but not now. You are the only one for it, I'm afraid." He sighed, but kept his eyes on his subject.

Snape glared back. "Of course I'll do whatever you request," he gritted through his teeth. "I'm not entirely sure what you hope me to accomplish. Are we sure that he hasn't just decided not to reply? Heaven knows what kind of nonsense those Muggles have put into his head. In all likelihood, given his upbringing, an antipathy to...our world...would be understandable." He hesitated, then added, "I'm not sure I'm the one to do this, sir, given my history with the boy."

Dumbledore walked around his large desk, littered with scrolls, student biographies, and of course, the large, luminous jar of sherbet lemons. He sat, removed the lid, and popped one into his mouth. He gestured questioningly at the jar...

When Snape frowned and waved in refusal, he continued.

"Severus, we know as fact that the boy has not personally received the letters. The elves place recipient charms on each letter, so we are immediately aware when a letter is opened by someone other than the intended recipient. It also alerts us as to who the unauthorized opener was. In Harry's case, the initial letter was opened by Vernon Dursley. The subsequent letters were destroyed without being opened. Before we move to the next level of," he paused, "notification, we must have more information on the state of things in his life."

He placed both hands on the desktop and leaned forward, his voice lowered, and the cadence slowed slightly. "We MUST reenter his life, Severus. We've had a right long lull, but that must change now. I know you sense it." His eyes cut away to Snape's shirt-covered arm. "And besides, he is of the normal age to come here. We must ensure his freedom to choose...and choose this world he must."

Snape self-consciously smoothed the shirt covering his left forearm. He seemed troubled, and suddenly, felt a prickle of shame. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet those of his Headmaster.

"I would never deign to question your judgment, Headmaster, and yes, you are ever correct as usual. I have had more frequent--ah--occurrences of the...the Mark...alerting me to," here he lowered his voice and drawled slightly, "an 'ill-wind blowing'." He stopped, focusing his eyes on some unseen point below Dumbledore's gaze. The moment lengthened, as if he had been transported elsewhere. The room was silent as neither spoke. Snape sighed an audible breath and took up the thread. "I KNOW that soon he may not be safe. But are you SURE he is not better left where he is for now? The Blood bond? Might it not be best to let the situation continue, at least for awhile longer?"

Dumbledore mulled over this, walking back to the chair opposite his Potions Master and sat down, folding his hands in his lap. He seemed to be arranging his thoughts, rested back in the chintz-covered chair, and began.

"Firstly, I have reasons for believing that the boy belongs here, his parentage and ominous beginnings aside. I cannot go into this with you now. Considering the 'ill wind' you spoke of, it would be foolish to postpone his education and, as you know, Hogwarts will offer a measure of protection, even as we begin educating him about who he is."

Snape conceded the point, inclining his head slightly. He had known the day of Potter's advent would arrive eventually, ever since the last time he had seen the child. He had thought of him often over the past ten years--at first with a mixture of anger and regret, but then, over the past several years, a new element had crept into his emotion about the boy--dread. He felt a repulsion for, and at the same time, an attraction to the boy. He pondered, lost in his thoughts, his inattention obvious to Dumbledore, who sagely waited for him to mentally return. Snape, suddenly startled by the silence, muttered guiltily, "Sorry--go on."

"Severus, we have, from time to time, on a regular basis, actually, looked in on the boy and his...ah, well, arrangements. He has not had a happy childhood. The Dursleys have kept him sheltered and fed, although I dare say, even in that respect, he shall do better here at Hogwarts. But he is almost eleven now, and for some years has felt the burden of being an orphan. No, Severus, it is time for him to come of age, learn of his past, and know that he does have, at least, a larger family who will accept and nurture him." He stopped for a moment, as if choosing the phrasing for the next. "And if an 'ill wind' DOES blow, he is better off here, for both protection AND preparation."

Snape stood abruptly and spoke as he reached behind him for his waistcoat.

"I will do, of course, whatever is required of me, as you see fit. I presume I am not to be noticed in this--endeavor?"

"Quite so--just a verification of the facts that we presume, that the letters are arriving at Four Privet Drive and, of course, anything out of the ordinary, the comings and goings of the family, how Harry appears to be doing."

"Very well," Snape said, rather snappishly. "The sooner I get this done, the better. I have better things to be about, now, than...student surveillance."

Dumbledore allowed him this, frowning slightly, and escorted his professor to the door.

"Your feelings about the boy aside, this NEEDS to be done. It will determine our next course of action. You will, of course, need to be--ah--suitably attired. A visit to the Muggle Studies room, perhaps, for some more suitable attire?"

Snape stood and turned to face Dumbledore, wincing with distaste.

"Oh really, Headmaster-you can trust me on that score-I HAVE had some experience in their world before-I know how the oafs dress."

This said, he whirled out the door, his footsteps belying his unspoken displeasure. Dumbledore sighed, then brightened. He WAS looking forward to seeing how the boy had turned out. And his Potions Master needed to begin to deal with some unresolved, albeit painful, issues. Rather like nicking two birds with one stone, he thought to himself.

. . . . . . .

Snape arrived at the opening to the park, continued on through the open metal gates into an oval-shaped flower garden bordered by benches, with sundry children's amusements beyond them. He chose a bench on the far side of the oval in the shade of a huge elm; a discarded Muggle newspaper was tossed on one end. Glancing around to make sure he had distanced himself well away from the park's other occupants, he picked up the paper and sat down, then let out a pent-up breath. This was hellish, and a bloody waste of his time. A house-elf could have carried this out easily, though they were usually skittish away from their normal confines. Well, on with it then, the sooner he addressed the task at hand, the sooner he'd be done with it. He KNEW the boy was going to be a thorn in his side, a portent of things to come. After all, he IS a Potter. He sneered to himself--we'll see how far the apple falls from the tree.

Opening the paper, he crossed his long, slender legs, grimacing as he caught sight of his trousers--blue jeans, they called them. He'd groaned in disgust as he'd donned them this morning, along with this flimsy thing they called a T-shirt. The final insult had been that damnable Muggle Studies teacher insisting that his straight, black hair just would not do, hanging as it was. She had insisted on pulling it back behind his neck and fastening it there with some sort of Muggle gathering device. She'd seemed quite pleased with herself at the transformation. He'd fled the castle quickly, to the edge of the grounds, to disapparate before any remaining staff might happen upon him--he could imagine their reaction. He prided himself on his rather signature attire.

Well, he'd avoided that unpleasantness, so on to the next one. He slid his eyes up over the paper to check his surroundings, opened his hand, palm up and mouthed softly, "Cartes Appearo." A tiny map appeared on his palm, with his current location, and that of Four Privet Drive, winking at him softly. He studied it closely for a moment, then closed his hand.

He arose, and his departure from the park merited hardly a glance from any of its occupants, engaged as they were with their Muggle amusements. He dourly noted one star-struck couple on the bench near the exit, gazing into each other's eyes and laughing softly. They didn't even notice him as he passed by. Revolting... He exited the park and turned right, walked two streets down to Privet Drive, turning left onto the street. As he did, he felt a strange sensation come over him---the hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck bristled. He shuddered--he'd felt this same manifestation one time before, one horrible night--the last time, in truth, that he'd been near the boy.

He took a ragged breath, and stopped to lean against a tree in front of Ten Privet Drive. What WAS this? The other occasion, he'd attributed it to his heightened and terrified senses, certain that he was about to be found out and dispensed with. But now? Could it be? Just the proximity to the boy? Gads, this could prove to be an ominous development, considering that they would be co-habitants of the same castle for the next seven years.

The moment passed, and he sized up the geographic situation. The house in question would be just around the bend, the third house. He'd cross to the other side to shelter under a large tree that must be almost opposite number Four. As he rounded the bend and glanced to the left, he gasped in shock. Perched on the roof of the house, on the fence railings, and covering the front stoop were---owls. There had to be at least a hundred of them--all shapes, sizes and colors, just sitting, almost motionless, as is the custom with owls. And all around, littering the roof, the door-stoop, and even the yard, were---letters. Stacks of them. HA! So Dumbledore had been right--there was definitely a problem with the post, not on the delivery side, obviously, but there was certainly a problem on the receiving end. The windows of the house had all the curtains drawn, and a black board had been un-neatly fastened over the post slot. Hmmmmm--well, this WAS intriguing...Muggle malfeasance was in evidence. First question answered then. Now on to the rest. He settled in to wait.

The sun was beginning to go down. Blasted Dumbledore! He hadn't foreseen this--standing for hours, waiting for--what? The only sign of life had been the appearance of lights in two of the upper windows, and shadows passing across them as someone moved inside the rooms. What to do now? He didn't relish standing here all bloody night--he might be noticed now that Muggles were arriving home, out in their little gardens and yards, doing whatever it is that Muggles do in them. But he didn't want to have to do this all over tomorrow, or to return to Dumbledore admitting defeat. He would wait, sinking more into the shadows. He'd endured physical discomfort before. He smiled ruefully. So much more. This was a pittance in comparison. The experience of pain or pleasure was, after all, relative. Not that he'd had much experience with the latter. But pain--that was another matter altogether. He pushed down the thoughts that threatened to come to the surface of his consciousness. In this he knew discipline-the discipline of emotional survival.

Just as he was considering a change of lookout post, the upstairs lights at number Four were extinguished. Moments later a large square door set in the left side of the house front rolled up, and a Muggle vehicle backed out slowly and stopped. The lights were out. He thought, don't they have lights on those contraptions, for night travel? What are they up to? As if in answer, a short, round man opened the door and squeezed himself out. As he hurried up the walkway, the front door opened and a woman and two boys hurried out, the smaller of the boys attempting to drag three suitcases on his own. This was obviously Potter, for the other boy bore a strong resemblance to the fat Muggle man.

"Liven it up there, Potter! We're on a timetable here, and DON'T you even think about picking up one of those letters! I'm warning you...Bring those bags here now--quickly, boy! We have to be at Benson-on-Sea by nine tonight or they won't hold our lodgings. No letters there, my boy. Be gone a few days till after the First, and they'll forget all about you. Now, GET IN THE CAR! Petunia, Dudley, NOW!"

The Potter boy whined in protest. "But Uncle Vernon, they're my letters--I should be able to..."

"Shut that hole in your face and GET IN!" With that, Mr. Dursley squeezed back into the front seat and slammed the door.

Snape stepped slightly away from the shadow to better see the boy, and suddenly, without warning, the boy dropped the remaining smaller suitcase and grabbed his forehead. At the same instant, Snape gasped, grabbing his left forearm, having enough presence of mind to step back out of sight. The boy remained next to his door, both hands at his forehead, while Snape was breathing deeply, his breaths matching the painful pulsation in his arm.

Then the boy was in the car, and they were gone. Snape straightened, and forced his breathing to slow. He walked, trancelike, across to the front of number Four, the burning almost a memory now, and stood looking at the letters lying everywhere. Waving his hand, he muttered a word, and they were gone. To the owls he simply said, "Back to Hogwarts." A--CRACK--, and he was gone too. He had not worried about witnesses this time.

. . . . . . . .

The next morning found him once again in Headmaster's office for report. He'd spent a restless and sleepless night, brooding over his encounter, actually, his non-encounter, with the boy. The only explanation was that there was some kind of connection between himself and the boy, forged when he had intervened those many years ago. Oh, joy. He worried over it, as he waited for Dumbledore. He relaxed and stretched out his legs, now re-attired in his buttoned black trousers, starched white shirt, and long black waistcoat. How Muggles tolerated those wretched, uncomfortable vestments he'd never understand.

Dumbledore appeared, suddenly and without sound, beside Snape and seated himself, pulling his chair over for a face-to-face. Teacups appeared magically in the air beside them, and Dumbledore took a sip. Snape ignored his.

"Well," he asked, "success?"

"Of a sorts, sir. No, he hasn't received his letters, and it looked like drastic measures had been taken to prevent him. I watched all day, and they did not let the boy out once. At night's fall, there was a rather disturbing leaving scene to...ah...Benson-on-Sea. I could accomplish nothing more there, other than clearing our postal evidence. I dare say the boy still has not been properly informed."

"Ah, I had suspected as much. The Dursleys, although providing an essential service for young Harry, have no wish to admit to his abilities, nor to permit him to reenter our world. Drastic measures are required now, drastic indeed."

He clapped his hands loudly, and a house-elf appeared instantly at his side.

"Teppy, we require Hagrid here immediately."

Without a word, the elf disappeared. They waited in silence. Snape fiddled with a string on his coat, uncommunicative, while Dumbledore observed him. He seemed to make a decision, and said with a fatherly smile, "Well done, Severus--you have done me a great service, at a moment's asking, and I am hopeful for a good outcome."

Snape looked up at him, hesitated, and then said softly, "There is one other..."

A loud, booming knock at the door caused him to startle and stop his confession. Dumbledore arose, greeted Hagrid, and quickly gave instructions. Hagrid was soon on his way with a small bag of candies to sweeten his trip. Dumbledore reseated himself in front of Snape.

"Hagrid will collect Harry, sort things out, and get him on the Express day after tomorrow. So, in the end, all is well." He settled back in his chair, his eyes beaming with satisfaction. He stopped a beat, looking more closely at Snape. Changing to a more solemn tone, he resumed the interrupted conversation.

"Severus, you were about to tell me of a concern you have about a physical phenomenon that occurs when you are near Harry."

Had he really said that? Damn that man, Snape thought to himself before replying. "Well, I experienced a queer sensation when I neared the house--the same occurred when I carried him out of the house after Lily..." he stopped. "But that is not what concerns me. When he was just ten paces away, the Mark burned and pained me almost to distraction. I almost betrayed my position. But Albus..."

At this Dumbledore raised his eyebrows--Severus never used his given name unless unconsciously and under great stress.

"Albus, the moment it struck me, the boy stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed that scar. The scar!" he hissed. "Whatever will I do when he is here at school? We won't be able to be in the same room together. The boy will eventually notice the coincidence, no doubt."

Dumbledore sat back, perplexed. He wiggled his toes out in front of him, displaying his bright green socks, then reached down to rearrange his gown over them. When he straightened, his face was once again composed.

"That night at the Potter's, Severus, the use of Dark Magic, the killings, the Boy-Who-Lived, and you in the very thick of it... You are tied to him in two ways, I believe. All the elements swirling about that night and you saved his life--a powerful, yet unexpected connection, don't you think? Secondly, you are both tied to Voldemort by a marking on your skin. So when you are physically close, each mark is aware of the other. What it means, I cannot say, but I can appreciate your apprehensions. I daresay I can manage something that will make the sensations less--shocking--for the both of you. You will both have rather enough on your minds, let alone dealing with THAT distraction. Agreed?"

Snape seemed to consider this, then challenged, "Headmaster, are you sure trusting Hagrid with such a mission is wise? He'll scare the Muggles out of their wits, although that might not be an entirely unpleasant scene to witness.... Surely there must be a better way to bring..."

Dumbledore put up a restraining hand. "As I've said on occasion before--I'd trust Hagrid with my life. Now, you have earned a few days rest--two to be exact--and then we'll all have our hands full with pre-term preparations." He chuckled mischievously and sipped his tea again, waiting for a response.

Snape weighed how forthright to be with his Headmaster--damnation, there was no dissembling with this one--HE knew it all before you even opened your mouth.

"I'm having some doubts about my ability to deal with the boy. I am uneasy with him. I feel anger, and no small amount of responsibility for him. On the other hand, he IS a Potter, and I am wary of both the mystery of his survival and...how shall I say...his familial baggage. And there is something darker here, something that welled up in me, unexplainably, uncontrollably. I felt almost paralyzed when I first saw him. I just don't know how well I'll be able to deal with him day after day."

Dumbledore set down his cup, rose to his feet, and placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Listen to me, Severus. His is a First year. You are his Potions Master. Treat him as you treat any First year. No special consideration."

Snape raised an eyebrow, shot a questioning look. Did Dumbledore know what a fierce taskmaster he was?

"And, Severus, concerning the other...the connection...in due time it will sort itself out...why it is there, and what is to be done with it. I think that the two of you are not unlike, caught between two worlds, not feeling comfortable in either one, and trying to make your way. You may, in fact, be kindred spirits of a sort."

Snape stared at him for a long moment. "Yes, well, if there's nothing else...?"

"No, my boy, by all means go--I trust you have last minute preparations."

Striding down the hallway, cloaks flowing out behind him, Snape muttered to himself, "Kindred spirits, indeed!"