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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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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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Perhaps later in the week.
( He agrees, putting away the last of his tools. )
For now, I'd say a shower is in order before we go into the general public. I've reached my quota on startling the locals for the week.
( Which is to say, he plans to take them out to eat. )
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Another outing. At some point the mundane will stop eliciting this sort of reaction, but Harry taps the tabletop animatedly with both hands before he pushes away from it. Watching Snape wave his wand and magic everything back into its proper place is as impressive as ever, too. ]
Where are we going?
[ The answer won’t change his attitude. Anywhere sounds like an adventure, so long as it is not back to the Dursleys. He takes his potion with him up both flights of stairs, leaving it to wait at his bedside for tonight as he rushes through cleaning up.
It’s warm out today, as it had been in Diagon Alley yesterday. There’s a late summer breeze coming in through his open window after Harry is done with his shower, and so he does not grab the extra layer of a cloak after dressing and combing his hair.
Still, he is pleased to note that the boy in his mirror doesn’t look much like the muggle children from his old neighborhood anymore.
It is much faster going without the chess set distracting him with chatter. He finds himself alone in the sitting room for the first time, the sound of water still rushing through pipes telling him it might yet be a while. Thinking that he would like to see more of the laboratory, he checks over his shoulder that the professor’s bedroom is still shut before he tries the hidden door. ]
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To dinner.
( The hidden door opens.
In hindsight, he realizes he never set any ground rules. A mistake he'll correct later, most likely with a clearly written list so there won't be any confusion. It doesn't occur to him until it happens that the boy might go wandering any farther than the boundaries Severus had defined for him solely in his mind. When he exits his bedroom and calls up the stairs to no response, he expects it's because the child's still getting dressed.
A minute or two after comes the unsettling feeling, and he ascends the stairs to find the room empty.
He does not panic, that hasn't been part of his repertoire in years. He does, however, manage to start cursing himself for having the child for less than a week before bloody losing him. It's only on the descent that he notices the bookcase parted two or three inches, a marked difference from closed. He sweeps through it, and of course there's only one logical place he'd have wandered off to.
It's concern that fuels his ire when he catches the boy downstairs, and while he doesn't raise his voice it... probably would've been better if he did. He overcorrects, speaks low and slow in a manner that might very well frighten any first or second year caught trespassing after curfew. )
Mr. Potter, I distinctly recall discussing the dangers that can be found in a potions laboratory? You will not invite yourself down here unattended, do I make myself clear?
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So absorbed, he spins and freezes in place as Snape seems to materialize from nothing. His eyes are wide again, because the professor is only slightly less terrifying now than he had been in the dark cabin. He shrinks slightly, but meets the gaze boring into him. ]
I didn’t touch anything.
[ Harry recognizes that this is the wrong thing to lead with as soon as he’s said it, and in nearly the same breath, he rushes to apologize properly. ]
Yes, sir. I’m sorry.
jumpcut baybee;
Things go back to normal the next day, as though the entire thing were forgotten. More days pass, establishing some semblance a routine, until finally... Finally, the first day of the second week is upon them, and Severus stops the boy from leaving the table after they finish breakfast.
He did not sleep much last night, knowing this was coming. He's opted to forgo coffee, under the assumption that he'll be riddled with more than enough anxiety and adrenaline on his own. When he's sure he has the boy's attention, he begins in the way he's rehearsed in his mind; )
Mister Potter, you'll recall when I first came to collect you... I told you, that you would be given the opportunity to make a choice about your living situation.
( A beat. )
You might... also recall that the subject of your father was one we'd discuss at a later time.
( He cannot imagine the boy will have forgotten either of these things, even knowing him only for a week. )
...as it so happens, the two subjects are actually related, and if you're ready, we're going to address both of them now.
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Harry takes to their routine almost immediately, and there is always something else to occupy him. He's never eaten or slept so well, so he has energy to spare for their day trips and projects together. His schoolbooks are fascinating, especially with someone close at hand to answer questions, and his owl and chess set are very good company when Snape is busy.
Harry has also finally stopped startling at anything even slightly magical, which means the dishes clear themselves from the table without any sign he intends to linger and watch. He lowers himself back onto his chair when invited to, initially curious about what sort of adventure they would be sharing today, though the pleasant expression fades.
When there had been a large bowl of porridge to work his way through he hadn't noticed, but now that he's looking, Harry can sense something is off. His living situation… his father… Harry has no idea how the two could relate, but that is the less immediate concern.
Even if he couldn't stay here, anywhere was better than Privet Drive. Anyone was better than the Dursleys. A spike of anxiety makes him ask: ] Did my aunt call? Are they saying I have to come back already?
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He clears his throat softly. Grips his teacup a bit too tightly, in an effort to keep himself from fidgeting with it — then abandons it entirely to meticulously fold his hands together instead. )
No. Your aunt has no bearing over this decision. This lies solely between the two of us.
( Which is an exceptionally big choice to give to an eleven-year-old, but he couldn't possibly claim the right to make this choice himself.
He chews the inside of his cheek for a weighted moment. )
Eight and a half months ago, it was brought to my attention that despite what we'd been led to believe... That is to say, both of us- you and I... were... misinformed about the nature of your relation to James Potter.
( Ah yes, a perfectly clear and appropriately empathetic explanation for an eleven year old child. )
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His parents have always been a sensitive subject. The only thing Harry's ever been informed about James Potter was that he had been an unemployed lump, a bad influence that Harry ought to be glad is gone, and that he had crashed the car that had killed him and his wife; at least one of those things was confirmed to be a lie, but Snape had refused to elaborate.
He goes over the explanation again. It makes no more sense the second or third try. Green eyes narrow, and on the tabletop his knuckles go pale with how tightly he grips his own hands. ]
I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand what you mean. Misinformed how?
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He can practically hear Lily in the back of his mind; oh, for heaven's sake, Severus, you never used to be this much of a coward. Yes, well, he never used to be a father, either, so sod off, Evans.
He's surely worrying a sore into the flesh of his cheek, the way his teeth keep biting down on it. )
Misinformed in that he isn't your father. He did not contribute to your genetic makeup. You have no biological relation to James Potter.
( Not to any significant degree, anyway, though who knows where the Prince and Potter lines may have intermingled generations ago.
At any rate, he cannot possibly make it any more plain, so... there. He's said it. He's exactly halfway through delivering this revelation. )
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Aunt Marge squinting her tiny eyes at him across the living room, stage whispering to her brother. "You're sure there's no one else to take him? No, I know there's no one on Potter's side, but I'm not talking about him. Listen, Vern, it might be worth looking into. I'd never imply anything about Petunia, you know I adore her, but the things you've told me about her sister… Well, she strayed from home so young, and a girl like that, who's to say she didn't stray again?"
The television began to spark dangerously at that point, so his uncle had made up an excuse to banish Harry back to his cupboard before it could explode and shower the mean old bitch with shrapnel.
After the things Snape had to say about Lily – they'd been friends, he missed her too – Harry had thought maybe he would be spared ugly gossip and lies. Stunned and hurt, betrayed by someone he had been foolish enough to think a friend, his green eyes flash as his temper snaps. ]
How would you know?
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He'd been braced to say it on the next breath — the last half of this confession.
He hedges instead, cautious, as though treading on brittle ice. Slowly, and with deliberately muted inflection: )
I know because I was presented with the results of the paternity test.
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[ Harry blows a harsh breath out of his nose, sitting back in his chair to project his doubt – incidentally pulling himself out of easy reach, just in case this sort of attitude brings out the same temper in Snape as it did his uncle.
Furious green eyes scan the cautiously blank expression on the man across the table, reading nothing from it. He wants to dismiss the topic out of hand at the same time he wants to ask a hundred questions, and the impulses are dueling.
Aunt Petunia had begun putting regular checkups off when Dudley's weight ballooned up, so Harry can't remember the last time he'd seen a doctor. Where had they gotten the DNA for this test? What, had someone magicked a strand of hair off the cot in his cupboard in secret? Who? Why would they think to check?
What did any of it even matter? His parents were dead. Couldn't Harry just be allowed to miss them in peace? ]
I really don't see how this is any of your business.
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I really don't see how this is any of your business; agitation flares through him. He's tempted to snap back, some sharp retort about respect and watching his attitude. He doesn't. Yet. It won't make this go any more smoothly.
He chews the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tastes copper. )
As unpleasant as it may feel, Mister Potter, I think... ( He begins slowly, his voice low and deliberate. ) You may want to carefully consider the next logical questions following this uncomfortable revelation, rather than putting a stopper in the conversation.
( Why is he making it harder on himself, coaxing the child toward them rather than just outright declaring it? Perhaps it's just not his natural inclination to be so brash, or perhaps he's... stalling. A little. )
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He's eleven. He's hurt and offended. There's nothing logical about this, Severus, and the longer you stall, the worse it gets. Questions pile onto other questions.
Did wizard bastards even get last names? If he has to change it then Harry Evans might be alright, but his stomach goes cold at the thought of signing all his papers Harry Blank Space, Harry No One…
What does it have to do with where he'd be going next? Is this conversation to prepare him… to catch him up with something everyone else already knew, like the truth of his parents' deaths? ]
You said this had something to do with where I'd be going next.
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