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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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“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. ]
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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. )
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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.
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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. )
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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. )
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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?
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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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As soon as it happens, it is over. He releases without looking at the man, suddenly shy when he moves to gather the things he has been made responsible for. Though he would love to stay and explore until all his youthful exuberance has been spent, he is as faultlessly agreeable as ever. ]
Ready, sir.
[ Harry spares the crowded street one last look, setting the sight of it to memory, his chest feeling very full of something that he doesn’t fully understand – and then pop.
Compared to the wild circus of Diagon Alley, the professor’s home is like a warm blanket. ]
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Something seizes him by the lungs. Some sharp spike of something that's almost painful, but isn't quite. He says nothing because he can't, his throat's gone thick and he couldn't let the words out without them sounding compromised.
He takes the child's hand firmly in his own, and takes them home.
Harry's given some time to explore and put away his belongings. Severus finds a contentedness he can't explain in having another person in his home, despite - or maybe because of - the fact that they aren't even in the room. Just existing, comfortable in the knowledge that they're there. At some point, he'll make them both dinner. Aside from that, he has no plans for them that evening. Tomorrow, he'll begin teaching the child about their world. )
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Still, he feels far from lonely. The owl, yet unnamed, is an attentive listener as he chatters quietly to him. The chess set does their best to convince him to abandon his chores for a game, and soon he is a little glad to leave the pieces behind for dinner. The arguing and advice of two opposing sides as they try to coach him at the same time makes his head spin.
He fantasizes about inviting Snape for a game as they share dinner, but he finds he hasn’t yet the confidence. Instead, he carefully pesters the man with more questions about what they had seen today, talking more than chewing.
Hogwarts: A History absorbs the few hours before bed. Harry feels daring as he carries it down the stairs, but he stays quiet as he settles by the fireplace to read. During a lull in the professor’s evening activity, Harry breaks the quiet. ]
Were you in Ravenclaw?
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He also finds he doesn't mind it when the boy quietly joins him in the room, where Severus has his own book open - something written in another language entirely, and even if it weren't, far too boring for Harry to enjoy most likely. Highly advanced technicalities about obscure potions ingredients and their uses is beyond even some of the more studious types.
Which means it makes a little sense, that guess at his house. )
Slytherin.
( He answers, a gentle correction. And, because he knows what's coming: )
Your mother was in Gryffindor. The rivalry among the houses contributed to our eventual distance.
( Which is a very... mild... way to put it... Also, entirely too charitable to himself. )
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The concept of school rivalry is as yet hard for him to grasp. He squints at Snape with bemusement. This man had been his mother’s friend, and then not his mother’s friend. He misses her very much, and yet there is not a flicker of fondness in his face. The pieces he has to work with are so small and oddly shaped that he cannot begin to form any picture at all. ]
Why should that matter?
[ This is the boy the Dursleys hated: defiant, defensive of a woman he has never met.
Harry looks back to his book without apologizing, yet the sudden tension in his jaw and shoulders says how dearly he wishes to pluck the question back from the air. ]
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A more instinctively paternal person might notice the trembling jaw and demonstrate softer empathy. A Weasley might reach out here physically. Indecision flickers through him, and ultimately he chooses the path of cowardice instead: outright answering the question. )
It shouldn't, but there are a great many things in life that shouldn't be, and yet for exceedingly stupid reasons, are.
( He pauses there to gauge whether or not that made sense — it's a complicated sentence with a complicated sentiment, but at this juncture he feels like the boy is sharp enough to understand. )
The house you're placed in at Hogwarts is going to decide a lot about your future. There are prejudices on any side about the other houses. Some... admittedly valid. There are expectations that come from one's peers and, quite often, one's family. These things are frequently in direct odds with the expectations of other houses. An idealistic person might think about pretending none of that matters, but reality has a way of ruthlessly correcting them.
( It's admittedly a lot for a child to metabolize. Too much, perhaps, at least in one sitting, so he'll stop there. Someone could write — and likely has written — an entire book on the different aspects that have been at play since practically the very founding. )
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This describes most of the rules he has lived by so far, and so with a strong understanding of the sentiment behind the words, he listens. He has been quietly excited by the prospect of other students so far, as his dramatic change in wardrobe and the absence of Dudley seem like they might help even the odds of making friends, but this new information complicates that, and he feels the first real stirring of nerves over the change to come.
Reluctant to be too outspoken in his rather low opinion of the whole thing, Harry tries to mask his disapproval. ]
And all of this, it’s decided by a hat?
[ He double checks the page in front of him, but when it indeed says just that, he gives Snape a doubtful sort of look. Quietly, as if the volume of his comment might be what makes it unacceptably disparaging of ancient Hogwarts tradition, ]
I think I’ll decide who’s worth knowing for myself, thanks. But I think Slytherin would be alright. Or Gryffindor.
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He parts his lips to say your parents, except that with a pang in his chest that feels at once both happy and sad, he realizes half of that constitutes him. Suddenly the former seems far less unlikely. He pauses, and then presses on more carefully. )
I expect most people will assume you'll wind up in Gryffindor. Any other house would probably shock everyone in the room.
( Most of all, Slytherin. Could you imagine? The boy who lived in the dungeons, challenging the very idea of what he's meant to represent.
Snape isn't holding his breath, but the thought's beyond amusing. )
Regardless, it isn't quite so simple as that. It's an incredibly old artifact that can see through all the corridors of your mind. It finds the traits that are the strongest in you. Really, it's you that decides, the hat just obnoxiously announces it to the general public.
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He had obviously selected his preferences based on the only bias he has, and though he feels a little twinge of something when Snape discounts his own house as an option for Harry, Gryffindor really doesn’t sound bad at all. ]
Like my mum.
[ Courage and cunning, smarts and loyalty. None of these four traits strike him as a personal strength, but especially not the last: he would sell out any of the Dursleys for another ten minutes in Diagon Alley.
A sudden and deeply arresting concern interrupts Harry’s daydreamy smile. ]
You’ll be teaching me no matter what house I’m in?
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Severus settles back into his seat again, assuming the more serious aspects of the conversation have passed. )
Correct. Every student takes potions for their first few years.
( And then, under his breath: )
Even the ones likely to burn down the castle.
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He doesn’t yet realize that isn’t quite how talent works, but for now the certainty is absolute.
The professor’s book is still shut, and he hasn’t chased Harry off. Screwing up his courage, he closes Hogwarts: A History and quickly asks, ]
Do you want to play a game of chess?
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After a beat, Severus moves to set his book on the end table, then nods at the stairway. )
Go and fetch it, then.
( Chess he can do. Enthusiasm, empathy, natural physical affection, not so much, but he can do chess. )
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The game is both long and short, with a lot of time spent between each move. Harry loses, of course, but he learns significantly more from fifteen minutes with Snape than he had in an hour with only the set to instruct, and he’s very gracious about being completely thrashed.
When it is finally time for bed, he leaves the board in the sitting room. He has his books and owl upstairs to keep him company, and it seems much more likely that he will be able to cajole a game out of the man later if it is already at hand.
Harry doesn’t realize he’s exhausted until his head hits the pillow, and he sleeps very, very deeply that night.
He wakes to rain and the smell of breakfast again. When he approaches Snape in the kitchen, he doesn’t ask. Harry walks to the counter as though he’s done it a hundred times instead of just the once, and he waits expectantly for his task. ]
Good morning.
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jumpcut baybee;
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