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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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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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( He returns, and this time it's with only a little wonderment squirreled away in there. It's the sheer domesticity of it all. It's that it feels already like a comfortable pattern, wholly sustainable. Lily Potter hasn't descended from the afterlife to smite him, no aurors have kicked in his door demanding what exactly he thinks he's doing here.
It's normal, and in that way it's completely bizarre.
But he gives the boy some fruit to peel and chop, and they eat breakfast, and that sense of normalcy stays. Once that's finished, he's got something else on the itinerary. Something other than chess they can focus on while the boy asks whatever questions come next in his long line. )
Would you like to learn how to make a sleeping potion?
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He gapes, then beams, then stands so enthusiastically he knocks his knee against the table. ]
Yes.
[ By the sound of it, Harry has never wanted to do anything more in his life.
The professor had explained that he wasn’t to use his wand until he was at Hogwarts, and to hear that there is some aspect of magic that he will be allowed to participate in is the best news since Snape’s arrival. ]
Right now?
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But he is grateful. Gods, he'd built up such an insurmountable mountain of incompatibility he'd have to climb to relate to the boy, and yet...
He nods. )
No better time than the present.
( And with that, he'll lead them toward the hidden door behind the bookcase, through to an old dusty sitting room. Another smaller door leads to a flight of stairs, which descend into what must have once been a basement.
What sort of potions master would he be if he didn't have a place like this in his home?
It isn't very large, but the set-up is neatly organized and the ingredients are stored on display. A single long table is the main focus of the room, with three empty cauldrons lined up waiting to be used.
He pulls out a stool before one of them for Harry to take, indicates toward it with a nod. )
Before we begin, I need to make sure you understand how important it is to follow instructions to the letter. We'll be doing something simple today, but for more complex potions, the wrong ingredient in the wrong amount or added at the wrong time can be devastating. You could melt your cauldron at best, or suffer the very real, very unfortunate possibility you melt your lungs instead. Your peers are extraordinarily unlikely to wrap their heads around this fact, and you'll be a step ahead of them already if you learn nothing else but caution.
( On the far wall is not so much a chalkboard as it is blank black wallpaper, but a flick of his wand writes out their steps as if it were. )
Laziness and inattentiveness do not belong around volatile substances. You'll be sharing a classroom with thirty other students, don't be the irresponsible one that causes them all to have to leave the room by blowing something up.
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For a second, the words sketching themselves out on the wall threaten to split his focus, but Snape commands his attention more completely with the mention of lung melting. Harry listens attentively, nodding as he is cautioned, an appropriate amount of seriousness to his expression. Though he has never once in his life desired to be something as universally loathed as a teacher’s pet, there is a significant piece of him that is desperate for the professor’s approval.
There’s no hiding the eagerness. ]
I haven’t blown anything up by accident in years, sir.
[ With that confidence instilling statement made, Harry gives the instructions his attention. He reads through them twice, and finds that it seems remarkably straight forward, if a little more fiddly than a recipe from his aunt’s cookbooks, so he reads it a third time just to be sure he hasn’t missed a trick.
Like baking, he says under his breath, looking at the scales on the table. Yes, he can do this. ]
Ready when you are.
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Something to ask about later. Dryly: )
You have a track record exceeding most seventh year students. Well done.
( One thing is for certain -- whether Harry's a natural or utterly abysmal at it to begin with, he'll be at least as good as the average NEWT student before he finishes school. There isn't much good Severus thinks he has in him to teach the child, but if he can't manage this then surely he's an utter failure of a father, no question.
They go through the steps together. Harry on one side of the table, Severus on the other, matching ingredients before them. He slows down to match the boy's pace, his attention to everything he does rapt and wildly curious.
What else did you get from me?
Something he's been wondering every other hour since he picked the child up. )
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The intensity of Harry’s concentration and the way it sets his jaw, demanding silence from an otherwise talkative boy; how his dark eyes squint through the steam that builds above his cauldron, the heat and humidity of it sticking his hair to his forehead; the satisfaction he shows watching his bubbling potion turn the same shade of purple as the professor’s.
True to his promise, he explodes nothing. Waiting for his cauldron to heat a final time, he feels safe enough to break the focused silence. ]
Was this the first potion you ever made?
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It's staggering and nearly overwhelming.
It's not as if he hadn't known or felt it up to this point, but it strikes especially hard and especially real right now: the fierce thought this is my son. All of a sudden he can feel it in his bones, and he imagines this is probably what most fathers feel way, way back at the start when they actually hold the child for the first time. He'll never not be angry of having that robbed from him.
That feeling always seemed like such an exaggerated concept to him. Always privately thought these people were upselling something not especially remarkable.
Now, he's aware of the difference, and that he would absolutely unquestionably bloody murder somebody for this child if he had to.
The question startles him back to reality, and he has to clear his throat before he can manage to steadily speak. )
No. As clear as the memory is... ironically, it was a forgetfulness potion. I thought perhaps you might like to test your own work tonight before bed, and I'd rather not undo everything you've just learned in the process.
( More accurately, he hopes this is a memory Harry might like to keep. )
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Yes, the irony is funny, but the real source behind his smile is much deeper. If he gets to test his potion, that surely means he’s done it right. His hands grip the edge of the dirty worktable as he contains his reaction to this excellent news. ]
Yeah, absolutely.
[ It would take only a perfectly brewed forgetfulness potion to steal this memory. After several hours of steady work that felt much shorter, it’s finally done. He fetches bottles for them both from the waiting shelf and ladles his sleeping draught into one carefully, then stoppers it, labels it. It sits on the workbench looking quite unremarkable, but he is aglow with pride all the same.
A bottle of magic. His magic. ]
Forgetfulness potions next?
[ Though perhaps maybe not today. Harry’s nose is running quite a lot, and there’s more than a few marks of stray ingredients on his new clothes. Realizing this, Harry grabs a rag and worriedly wipes at a streak of flobberworm innards on his sleeve. ]
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jumpcut baybee;
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