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congratulations, it's a boy wonder!
[ A boy of almost eleven lays on the floor of a drafty, creaking shack. He is small for his age, and very skinny, which is only exaggerated by the oversized castoffs that make up his wardrobe; he is pale and dark haired, with brilliant green eyes that peer out above a prominent nose. To those who don't know him, he appears exactly as normal as his aunt and uncle would insist he is.
In fact, the only thing that appears odd about Harry Potter is the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It aches a little tonight. He runs his fingers through his own messy fringe, rubbing over the raised mark idly as he waits.
His cousin Dudley's watch face is bright in the lightless room. While Harry isn’t exactly eager for the time to tick over to midnight, he has nothing better to do than to count down the minutes until his birthday.
He shivers as another strong gust from the storm outside creeps in through the gaps in the boarded walls.
11:54. 11:55.
If only he had one of those letters to read. Perhaps they were filled with birthday wishes. It seems unlikely, but it was nice to imagine.
11:56. 11:57.
Across the room, the cold, empty rectangle of the fireplace begins to glow. Harry, unsure if it’s simply a trick of his tired eyes, squints from where he is huddled at the foot of Dudley’s sagging couch.
11:58. 11:59.
The light, steadily growing, becomes a hearth filled with flickering flames. Harry knows this is impossible; he knows this is weird. Experience tells him that such strangeness can only be his fault. Logically, that means to call for help from his aunt or uncle would be to call down his own punishment, so he bites down harshly on his own tongue.
Watching, waiting. Hoping the strangeness will just end on its own, as it so rarely did.
Harry actually isn’t scared until the fire abruptly flares emerald, the same shade as his wide eyes.
Scrambling on all fours, he skitters away as a very tall figure takes shape through the flames. His back hits the wall the same moment it steps into the room.
On the couch, Dudley’s snoring stutters, but does not stop. Harry cannot find his voice to shout a warning. He croaks instead. ]
W-who – ?
In fact, the only thing that appears odd about Harry Potter is the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. It aches a little tonight. He runs his fingers through his own messy fringe, rubbing over the raised mark idly as he waits.
His cousin Dudley's watch face is bright in the lightless room. While Harry isn’t exactly eager for the time to tick over to midnight, he has nothing better to do than to count down the minutes until his birthday.
He shivers as another strong gust from the storm outside creeps in through the gaps in the boarded walls.
11:54. 11:55.
If only he had one of those letters to read. Perhaps they were filled with birthday wishes. It seems unlikely, but it was nice to imagine.
11:56. 11:57.
Across the room, the cold, empty rectangle of the fireplace begins to glow. Harry, unsure if it’s simply a trick of his tired eyes, squints from where he is huddled at the foot of Dudley’s sagging couch.
11:58. 11:59.
The light, steadily growing, becomes a hearth filled with flickering flames. Harry knows this is impossible; he knows this is weird. Experience tells him that such strangeness can only be his fault. Logically, that means to call for help from his aunt or uncle would be to call down his own punishment, so he bites down harshly on his own tongue.
Watching, waiting. Hoping the strangeness will just end on its own, as it so rarely did.
Harry actually isn’t scared until the fire abruptly flares emerald, the same shade as his wide eyes.
Scrambling on all fours, he skitters away as a very tall figure takes shape through the flames. His back hits the wall the same moment it steps into the room.
On the couch, Dudley’s snoring stutters, but does not stop. Harry cannot find his voice to shout a warning. He croaks instead. ]
W-who – ?
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Correct, Mister Potter.
( Though whether his quickness to amend himself stems from the desire to be a know-it-all or the desire to not look incompetent - there is a subtle distinction between the two - Severus isn't yet sure. Something to keep an eye out for. )
You may also want to consider being wary about who you tell your full name, though I anticipate at least a few people will manage to put it together during our trip. I thought it best to prepare you for the amount of attention you may find yourself receiving. Do you have any further questions on the subject?
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[ Hard to believe his curiosity is satisfied.
Like someone who has been given an unspoken cue, Harry reaches across the table to drag Snape’s plate over to himself, then picks his own up, making moves to clear the table as he always does. ]
But you should call me Harry, otherwise everyone really will work out who I am.
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( He says after a few quiet, slightly surprised seconds - it's the combination of his manners and of the fact that he hadn't even thought that far ahead yet.
He could not, for the life of him, explain what exactly the difference is in the two names. Only that there is one, and seeing as he is the boy's father it's probably appropriate to begin making the transition.
Something to note.
Once the dishes are in the sink, a flick of his wand has them beginning to wash themselves - water, soap, brush and all hovering in the basin and going through the motions without Snape giving it a second look. )
Come here. Let me take a look at your scar, and then if you're quite ready we can be off.
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Pulling his eyes away from the sink, Harry plants himself before the professor, looking at the man with a friendly, trusting smile. ]
Thanks for breakfast.
[ Without needing to be asked he reaches up to brush his messy hair out of the way, though he does a haphazard job of it; his eyes and attention drifting back to the dishes, now being dried by two independently floating dishtowels. ]
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Maybe.
Difficult to prove as much, as his expression doesn't look all that affected unless you know what you're looking for. )
You're welcome.
( A courteous and absent response, an afterthought to the attention he's giving to the task at hand. Quite literally, as it were. His left gently catches the lingering strands the child's hasty movements missed, and he holds them back out of the way so he can barely press the tip of his wand against Harry's forehead beneath the scar.
This is the closest he's been to the child's face since meeting him.
He feels as though he can pinpoint each trait and which of the two of them it came from.
Swallowing down any particular feeling he might have over the concept, he murmurs a simple glamour charm to conceal the scar not terribly unlike a band-aid. Simple, flesh-tone, it'll wear off within a half a day or so.
When his hands finally fall away, he finds himself briefly rooted. After a moment of biting the inside of one cheek, he finally says; )
You have your mother's eyes.
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A sensation of something almost tacky spreads outward from the wandpoint; when Snape’s arm loweres away and leaves Harry free to reach up and touch, his fingers find that the skin there feels perfectly flesh-like.
Again, rapid-fire, his focus shifts. His eyes recenter on the professor’s gaze and, sensing that something in the subdued man has changed, Harry studies him back. ]
Do you miss her?
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But the words don't match. )
Very much so.
( Which is the last he intends to say on the matter, and instead stands. He slips his wand away, and holds a hand out instead.
Crisply, but not unkindly: )
Come along then, Harry. You've a lot to see.
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Reminding himself not to be disappointed - he still has two more weeks to learn all he can, after all - the offered hand becomes a very good consolation prize. With a better understanding of what will happen when he takes it now, he prepares himself more thoroughly than he had last night in the shack before grabbing hold.
The disorientation of apparition is just as strong the second time. He leans into the much taller man’s arm as his eyes and ears readjust, blinking rapidly. ]
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They land on one of the less harried side streets of Diagon Alley. A dozen or so yards ahead, it's relatively easy to see around the corner. Through the passing bodies, owls in cages ruffle their feathers and occasionally hoot indignantly out of sheer boredom. In the shop window next to it, books are on display - a few with illustrated covers that move and interact based on their contents. A knight slaying a watercolor dragon. A dancing couple, with the man leading the woman into a low dip. The attire will be like nothing he's ever seen before. Magic is in abundance in unnamable small ways.
His eyes flicker down to gauge Harry's reaction, which he imagines will be interesting given his utter wonderment thus far. Petunia can never be forgiven for withholding Harry's entire heritage from him, but...
All the same, there's something to be said about being able to introduce him to the wizarding world from scratch. He isn't quite ready to admit it, but it feels like he's there for something in a way he'd been deprived for every other facet of the boy's life leading up to this moment. Albus is right in some ways; those first few years after the war ended and Lily died, he was not in the right place to be responsible for a child.
Still. There are milestones already passed that he'll never have the opportunity to witness.
Joining this world is a little like being reborn, in some ways. It's significant that he's the one to do it. )
Your wand, I think, should come first.
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Snape does not immediately set to towing him along by his arm, as is always the case with his aunt when he spends too long dawdling. It is up to Harry to begin their approach, which is initially quite slow. His shoes scuff over uneven cobblestones as he forgets how to walk; a task made much more difficult when his head insists on rotating around a nearly 360 degree axis, straining to catch every detail.
They come up to the main street before the professor speaks, startling him from his trance. His eyes snap to the man, and around Snape’s hand his own flexes – he hasn’t yet realized that he’s holding on for dear life. ]
A wand.
[ He repeats it back, wanting it known that he is paying attention. Something about Snape’s manner leans more one way than the other, so he points his feet in that direction and starts off. The street is filled with people, all in clothing very different from his own, but the dense crowd parts easily for a tall, imposing man in all black. Harry doesn’t notice their privilege nor how much he sticks out, absolutely absorbed with the shop windows they pass. When they near a cafe, he comes to a sudden stop to watch with an open mouth as an entire table begins to neatly clean itself up, porcelain cups and sandwich plates stacking themselves in midair beside a group of plump, happily chattering old witches in the most bizarre hats he has ever seen.
One catches Harry’s eye and smiles back at him, winking a wrinkled eye; Harry immediately faces forward, rushing Snape along with a tug.
Compared to the rest, Ollivanders’ display is quite bland. He stops at the door, suddenly nervous. Should he not move to usher Harry in, the boy will, after a courage-instilling deep breath, release the professor’s hand to do it himself. ]
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Compared to the hustle and bustle of the street, Ollivanders' shop is abruptly hushed. It carries a different kind of magical feeling, the more quiet and more mystifying kind. The hundreds of wands around them cast out their own feeling, their own ambiance, and to Severus it's always felt a little akin to a church.
The owner himself joins them in the front after only a handful of seconds, settling into place and eyeing the patrons of his shop. Snape gets only a brief look and a courteous, "Professor," by way of acknowledgement. His attention quickly moves on, though, as he's well aware which of the two of them they're actually here for.
"And who have we here?" He asks, his curiosity somehow both muted and all-encompassing.
Severus does finally release the boy's hand, and wordlessly nods at him. Go ahead. The process of finding the right wand - or vice versa - is something Harry can only do for himself. )
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I’m Harry, sir. I’m here for a wand.
[ Silently yet somehow firmly, he refuses to elaborate.
“Of course you are,” says the wandmaker after a heavy pause. “I have just the one.”
And it begins. The selection of each long, narrow box the man pulls from the shelves seems to be at random to Harry’s inexperienced eye. From their looks, the wands have minor variation – length and knobbiness, color and heft – but Mr. Ollivander does not share his methods with the customers as options are selected and eliminated.
His own job is simpler. A dozen wands make it into his hand, some snatched away as soon as they hit his palm, some allowed a cursory wave. He can feel the thread of magic in each of them, though differently each time. The current wand is strongest yet, and at Ollivander’s encouraging nod, he flicks it.
The sound of glass exploding in the room over has Harry shoving the wand back into its box, but the old man seems more excited than ever. Each failure seems to take years off of him, and he is all but spinning when he turns and strides away, tutting. “I wonder…”
Harry has a few seconds to send a panicked look over his shoulder to Snape, but as he had disappeared, so does Mr. Ollivander manifest again, appearing from the shelves with another box that appears exactly the same as the rest.
Harry can feel it across the room. Straightening sharply, he picks this wand from the box and just knows. When he waves it, smiling, a silvery ribbon in the same shade as the wandmaker’s eyes is spun from the very air, trailing the tip in an arc. It floats for a moment after his arm drops, heavy with shock, and the wandmaker snatches the length of it out of the air with a sound of victory.
“Wonderful! Wonderful, Mr. Potter, just wonderful.”
Harry is too excited to notice, turning at once to show Snape, relief heavy in his voice. ]
I’ve found one!
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He doesn't get to keep the expression long.
"I wonder," Ollivander says. "I do indeed wonder. What a very curious thing."
Snape lifts his eyes from his son to the man reverently boxing up his wand. )
Do you intend to continue to pause for dramatic effect, Garrick?
( He asks slowly, a gentle warning in his tone. Ollivander, for his part, doesn't look particularly phased. He's too old, been through too much, and distinctly remembers selling Severus his own wand as a child. Hard to feel intimidated after you've seen someone at eleven.
"It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand... gave another feather... just one other."
At which point Severus steps up, discretely hedging around the boy and blocking him from view as he pulls out his pouch. )
That will be all, Ollivander. The child ( he gently emphasizes the word; what absolute dithering moron would- ) has other purchases to make.
( It takes great effort to school down his flaring irritation as they pay, and as they leave. )
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“Good luck, my boy!”
The street outside is a crash of color and sound again, but somehow he finds it easier to breathe out here. He looks from the wand in his hand to the man towering beside him, and with wisdom well beyond his years, Harry says nothing of what had happened inside. He reverently tucks his brand new wand – his very first brand new anything – into a deep pocket. ]
So. Will I get to dress like you? Or is it going to be –
[ His dark eyebrows rise high as he inclines his head very unsubtly back to the man inside the shop, getting a last look at the wandmaker, who is still at his counter watching them. The puce tweed robe-and-suit ensemble the man wore isn’t the loudest Harry had seen today, but it is certainly one of the ugliest.
A cautious joke, designed to measure the temperature of Snape’s mood. ]
no subject
Truth be told, it's a bit more over the thought of anyone willingly dressing like him, but he understands the intent. )
I'd choose somewhere in the middle, if I were you.
( He responds dryly, a slow drawl. )
The general population as a whole tends to prefer some balance between frightening and absolutely mad.
( Though speaking of, it does make for a good way to choose their next destination. May as well get him fitted for his school robes, and... buy something that doesn't look like it came from a baby rhinoceros somebody draped over his shoulders. )
no subject
Just as the man beside had promised.
The street feels less overwhelming now. He has a wand, and he supposes that means he a bit less of a child, so he does not move to take the professor’s hand again. Harry does stick closely to his side, and by the time they reach Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, Harry’s become lost to the sights around them.
He walks right past the door where the man stops; he snaps back to Snape’s side like a rubber band when he realizes.
A mundane tin bell announces their entry. The small store is dense with robes in every shade. Harry almost touches the sleeve of one made in a material that looks like satin, then tucks his hands back stiffly to his side. A woman sweeps by busily, a bolt of black fabric toddling along behind.
“Be with you in a moment, Professor, just finishing up!” ]
You might have mentioned you were famous too.
no subject
Ours is a very different fame, I assure you.
( Infamy, if anything, better suits what little renowned Snape has. )
It's a small population, I think you'll find. Nearly everyone you'll meet here went to Hogwarts. We'll have another conversation later about some of the complexities that may come as a result of that in the near future.
( Madam Malkin manages to (somehow) squeeze through the claustrophobic thoroughfare, speaking with an enthusiasm Severus finds personally grating. His attitude takes a turn for the sardonic, speaking in a deadpan that she either doesn't notice or elects to ignore. )
A school robe fitting, if you will, but he'll also need a new wardrobe. Unforeseen circumstances have led to the unfortunate destruction of everything but what you see here. It'll need to be replaced.
( Madam Malkin is positively. unbelievably. appalled.
At first, until it hits that she'll get to go full-tilt overboard, at which point she beams like the sun so brightly it singlehandedly disproves the theory that Snape is secretly a vampire. She squeals some shrill sound, and Severus mutters something under his breath implying it's an outright war crime against the local dog population. )
no subject
Steered to a podium away from the floor displays, he endures both the fitting and the enthusiastic shopkeep with grace. He answers her questions promptly and politely: his name is Harry, and he’s from Surrey, and yes, he’s very excited to be going to Hogwarts.
She seems less impressed by his answer to what sort of clothing he likes, because all he can think to say is, awkwardly, ] Trousers?
[ Tutting again, she turns her chatter on Snape in the shop’s main room, leaving Harry alone to swat at the magical measuring tape as it tries to mark out the length of each of his individual fingers.
“A full wardrobe, you say? And with such short notice. I’ll need a few hours, but surely you realize I can’t be having anyone walking out of here in that state. Poor dear.”
When she returns with a bundle, Harry wishes he had asked for something black, like Snape’s sweeping robes. He is too shy to do it now.
Emerging, he looks like a different boy entirely. Tent sized hand-me-downs are gone, and in something that fits him properly he does not look quite so pathetically small. A crisp, white shirt tucked into slate colored trousers, layered with an emerald green sweater. Both his socks and shoes are new.
Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself. He sticks his arms out slightly a gives a turn, like Dudley showing off a new Christmas outfit. Madam Malkin shrieks and claps, so he stops at once, wincing.
Harry does not speak again until they are outside. ]
I don’t think she recognized me.
no subject
I believe you're right.
( He answers, his natural walking pace slowed to the point that he's got to be cognizant in order to maintain it. Ambling speed is not his comfortable stride, to say the least. )
Unfortunately, that won't be the case for long. Today, at least, can belong to you.
( It isn't feasible to sustain the glamour. More than that, the first photo snapped and published will make his face plenty recognizable enough without the scar visible. Snape's just prolonging the inevitable, but if there were ever an appropriate time to do that it's on his first experience, his first day. )
You should prepare yourself to receive a lot of attention. Most of it good, but not all. Be especially wary of people who only seem interested in you once they learn your name.
no subject
He is still warm with the way hearing Snape say today can belong to you, and despite the ominous advice, he wonders if he has made his first friend.
After a good, long pause to really consider it, Harry echoes, ]
You’re an unusual man, Professor Snape.
[ He’s smiling as he says it, though. ]
Thank you for everything. No one has ever talked to me like you do, like I’m not stupid.
no subject
To have that echoed back at him is funny for more than one reason, though Harry won't know that. )
Knowing your parents, it's nearly impossible that you would be.
( Tragic, really, to be the only one in on an inside joke. Not that it'll last very long. )
But reserve your gratitude. There's still a lot for you to learn in the coming days.
no subject
You’re a good teacher, I’m sure I’ll be fine.
[ From within one of the fitted pockets of his pants, he pulls out the Hogwarts letter. It’s already creased and wrinkled, but he opens it with an air of respect and pulls the sheaf that lists the rest of the supplies he will need for the year. The books were on the shelf in the attic bedroom, he remembers seeing them – but the rest? ]
What’s next? Do I need any of this?
no subject
One last thing.
( He says, slowing them to a stop before Magical Menagerie, where owls and ravens ruffle their feathers and cats perch on top of cages watching the passersby lazily. )
Your choice.
( He says simply, standing before the display cages and the wide open door. )
This one is a gift.
( The wand chose him, the list chose the robes, Snape chose the cauldron. Thus far everything has been dictated for him. It seems right to give the child one choice of his own. )
no subject
Just looking is overwhelming. Racks of cages fill the floor, and above hang even more. Some animals come and go freely – a cat slinks around Harry’s ankles as soon as he is through the door, and above is the occasional breeze of an owl swooping from rafter to rafter.
It takes fifteen minutes for him to just look at half the shop. The thought of choosing something paralyzes Harry where he stands in front of a glass terrarium, his fingertip tracing over the front. Inside, the snake freezes too – it had been following his finger back and forth, up and down, but it returns to stillness when the boys turns, eyes seeking out the professor, suddenly alight with inspiration. ]
My uncle hates owls. I want one.
[ He picks with little more delay – a friendly barn owl with a freckled chest eats a dead mouse from his hand and they are instant friends. Harry insists on carrying the cage himself, and he struggles happily with the bulk.
In fact, Harry cannot ever remember being happier. ]
May I say thank you now?
no subject
You may, this once.
( He intones, before offering his hand out once more. )
You're welcome. Are you ready to go home?
( A rhetorical question, a kinder way to say it's time to go. The list exhausted and a few additional personal items not included on it, Severus has had his fill of the general public for the day. )
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