purenerve | congratulations, it's a boy wonder!

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 – ?

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Cool. [ Harry doesn’t look at all disappointed to hear that they will be keeping each other company. One corner of his mouth lifts as he chews and nods.

Now that he has spent his questions, the room becomes much more interesting again. His eyes bounce from wall to wall, finding everything mundane and enthralling all at once. He politely turns his gaze back to Snape when the man surprises Harry by asking something, too.

The idea that this whole situation – the letters and this man's magical arrival and everything else – that it could all be for his benefit alone seems fanciful. ]

Beause… because if I get something, or go somewhere, Dudley does, too.

[ The opposite is far less true, but he doesn’t bring it up – the last thing Harry wants is for Snape to think him ungrateful, or selfish. With a shrug, he tries to change the subject. ]

You can ask another question. I had two, so it seems fair that you should as well.

Edited 2021-09-01 20:12 (UTC)

( He bites his tongue so as not to say, I'd imagine he does twice at the very least. Better to keep himself focused on the one at his dining table for now, and not allow his temper to flair.

He considers the offer, unexpected as it is, and thinks initially to say no. Decline, and usher him to bed. Something stops him.

Absurdly, and he cannot explain why, it seems like the only right thing to do in this situation is humor it.

He takes a surprising handful of seconds to think, churning through questions that seem too impersonal and then too personal, unable to decide on what seems to appropriately hit the middle ground.

He ultimately settles on something mild, fueled by his own curiosity about who this child is, exactly. )

How often do you read?

[ He gives the question serious consideration. ]

I do at school. The librarian used to let me read and eat my lunch but –

[ His cousin had put a stop to that one afternoon, showing up just to make trouble and getting Harry, Dudley, and Dudley’s whole group of friends banned; but of course none of that gang had any use for books, so it had really only been Harry to suffer the consequences.

This story is not impressive in the least, so he does not share it. He has half a cookie left, and he gives it a disappointed look, wishing very much it would somehow become a full plate again. Harry finds himself not tired at all. ]

But I read before bed, too. It helps me sleep. [ Bright green eyes look up again, no longer glaring but instead… studying. Measuring. Trying to decide just how much push Snape might allow before he shuts Harry down. ] Can I borrow one of your books?

[ It’s not a question, after all: it’s a request. ]

( But-

Curious.

Something in him is deeply satisfied with the answer, ridiculous since it should hardly matter one way or another. Perhaps it's because it can officially be said he has at least one point of commonality with this boy he might find himself raising, which is precisely one more than he had with his own father.

If nothing else, he's already an improvement compared to that. )

You'll find a collection has already been assembled for you in your room.

( Because he'd hoped, and because some were necessary, and because he spent perhaps far too much time thinking about what in the bloody hell to stock an eleven-year-old's room with. The bed was a given, as was the dresser - though in hindsight, perhaps he should have considered the child wouldn't have come with clothes. In addition, he's added a small bookshelf. First and second year texts. Some basics. Hogwarts: A History. The second shelf is all fiction, and only half of it written by wizards. The rest are classics he remembers from his own childhood, hunted down and purchased while insulting himself the entire time.

A few other things have been added, just to satisfy his own overthinking. A set of Wizard's Chess, already set up on a small side table beside the writing desk, the pieces occasionally reaching out to shove each other. Quills and parchment, pens and paper. A set of self-shuffling cards. Small tokens he'd haphazardly guessed might occupy a child of his age.

Who knows how far off the mark he is? Suppose he'll find out in the long run. )

[ Your room: meaning his room. Harry’s room.

It’s not something he’s ever considered, and it’s significantly more than a borrowed book. ]

Oh. [ A small noise made in a small voice; he looks a little shocked, because he’s had a lot of really bizarre but exciting news so far tonight, yet that he might have a proper, private place to sleep in seems to fall out of the realm of easy believably.

Still. He’s been told that there is something new to see, something more to this magical place, so Harry finishes his snack without any additional delay. He requires no coaxing to stand up and clear away the crumbs, or to walk over to the sink to rinse his glass and plate, where he leaves both to drain on the sideboard before he readily turns to Snape.

When he’s shown the door and narrow staircase that lead up to the place Harry will be staying for the next two weeks, he finally remembers his manners. ]

Thanks, Mr. Snape. [ Harry offers a slightly awkward but entirely genuine smile to the man before he gamely heads up. In an afterthought, he looks back over his shoulder. ] Goodnight!

[ Should Severus linger at the foot of the stairs and listen, he’ll be able to hear Harry’s awed “wicked!”, then the telltale sound of excited footsteps – which predictably last for at least another half hour as he explores.

He does settle eventually, two books on his bedside and one cracked open on his pillow, but before he can absorb a single word, Harry falls asleep listening to the sounds of his chess set arguing with itself. ]

( His lips part immediately at Mr. Snape, but he finds he has nothing to say. No correction he can think to make, because professor doesn't yet apply - and a voice in his head asks him if it should, given the context at play. Severus would be incredibly bizarre to hear coming from someone his age, such a thing might be unexpected and jarring. His mouth closes again, and he leaves it be.

He stands there for a while, listening to the sounds of exploration, casting his eyes over at the sink with the neatly placed dishes, feeling...

Something.

Decidedly something.

He stands there for perhaps a little too long, before finally breaking away and retiring himself.

The next morning comes, and he considers waking the boy up - but one flickering thought to the floor of that shack and how little sleep he's likely been getting, and Severus changes his mind. Allows him to wake up once his excitable brain has had what it needs, because he hardly suspects the child will dawdle alone upstairs after he wakes up.

Instead, he begins to cook breakfast. )

[ Muted sunlight streams in from the little window inside the attic room. He can feel it, a bright band creeping steadily up his jaw, his cheek, across his eyes. Eyebrows furrowing, his fingers gripping the edges of his soft blanket, Harry staunchly refuses to wake.

It might have been a dream. Should he open his eyes, the soft mattress beneath him could very well morph back into the hard dirt floor; the ticking of the bedside clock might reveal itself to be the steady drip of water through the leaking roof of the shack; the faint birdcall outside becoming the cawing of gulls.

Despite his best efforts, little by little Harry stirs. His eyes crack open narrowly, sneaking a quick look before they shut tight again.

He is still in his very own bed, in his very own room. Delighted, he sits up and stares around, excitement renewed. Everything looks even better in the daylight.

While the biscuits from a few hours ago had been satisfying in the moment, Harry finds that he is ravenous after a quick washing up. The smell of cooking meat wafts tantalizingly up the stairs from below, and Harry speeds through his dressing.

"Such a rush! Come now! No time for a quick game?" calls the black knight when Harry passes. Later, Harry promises.

Breakfast is only mostly finished when he shyly peeks out from the doorway. Barefoot, his messy hair still a little damp, he is overwhelmed with another burst of giddy relief to see Snape again. Harry shuts the door behind himself and pads closer.

Through a yawn: ] Can I help?

Edited (i do what i want) 2021-09-02 04:07 (UTC)

( He could - and one day might - use a simple charm to silence the sound of floorboards overhead. He doesn't yet, because the subtle shifts and quiet sounds allow him to track the stirring and movement of his home's newest inhabitant. It satisfies the itch in him to watch, as though staring at the boy long enough will reveal the answer to some great mystery he doesn't even know the question to yet.

At any rate, it's that nearly imperceptible noise behind the reason why Snape doesn't seem remotely surprised that Harry's in the room. He only casts a curious look over at the offer to help, turns his eyes to the stove that must be incredibly awkward for him to navigate at his height, and he pulls two oranges from a bowl of fruit on the counter. )

Peel these, if you like.

( It wouldn't take more than a second for him to do, even without his wand, but it's not about that. It's curiosity, and three or four related questions he'll receive answers to based on what comes next.

Followed by a carefully neutral, probing: )

Did you help your aunt cook?

[ Harry fits himself beside Snape at the counter. He picks up the saucer leftover from last night and pulls it close; as he peels, he piles spirals and chunks of rind neatly onto it, but his eyes are mostly on what the other man is doing.

His questions from last night have multiplied exponentially, but he patiently resigns himself to talking about his aunt. ]

Yeah, all the time. I finally got tall enough to reach the back burners without a stool last year.

[ He sounds proud.

Cooking isn’t a chore Harry dislikes. It’s inside, for one, and sometimes the opportunity presents itself to sneak a few extra bites before the food reaches Dudley at the table. Harry looks pleased when he sets both oranges, peeled, onto the clean countertop. ]

( There they stand, Snape at over six feet tall and dressed wholly in black like a walking omen, Harry at least a foot and a half shorter by his estimation, such a slight figure by comparison the contrast is almost comical. He looks down at the boy, the boy looks back up at him, and the entire exchange feels...

Strange.

Not bad, just something completely foreign to him. Something he has absolutely no frame of reference for. Even the time he spends with his godson lacks any such domesticity, all visits are deliberate and with a designated purpose propelling the momentum.

This is... slower.

Potter's-- Merlin, he needs to stop thinking of him by that-- Harry's hands aren't clumsy, they don't fumble despite his attention being directed elsewhere. He demonstrates a pride in his aptitude at a task Snape is hardly convinced was monitored with the appropriate amount of concern, and the chore is something that could potentially be translated into potion-making with the right kind of guidance. It's an experiment he decides he'll employ later in the week. )

Have a seat.

( He says, and makes a plate for either of them. It's perhaps a sense of annoyed overcompensation that drives the size of the portions he offers the child, but he's hazarding a guess Harry won't be the type to ask if the amount he's given isn't sufficient. It's better to overestimate. )

I suspect you're eager to begin your question assault, and so I'll lay down this rule first: you must eat a portion of your plate between each answer.

[ The professor appears many things to Harry as he smiles upwards: he was still a tall, imposing, severe, calm, neat man… but he doesn’t seem the least bit frightening anymore, rolling sausages in the pan as he speaks frankly but kindly.

Hardly requiring much urging, he takes the same seat he had last night. The portion sizes on the plate that is set before him are very comparable to what his cousin might have demanded, and Harry tucks in at once.

A hunk of tomato stops midway to his mouth, and Harry gives Snape a very considering look across the table. It’s clear that he has prepared in advance, because no sooner has permission been given before he asks, ]

Where are we going today?

( It's an effort in Snape's mind not to over-analyze every behavior, quirk, and decision the child makes - comparing and contrasting it against himself. Looking for proof, or looking for something that vehemently contradicts the idea that he might be Snape's son. He's well aware that some things are innocuous, coincidence, an action that may not be a habit but rather unique to the circumstance playing out.

All the same, the immediate leveling of a question, obviously the top of a prepared list, strikes him as familiar. )

Shopping.

( He answers levelly. )

You'll need clothes. School supplies. A wand. I can all but guarantee your aunt will have never taken you anywhere remotely like it.

[ Honoring their terms, Harry chews as Snape speaks. It is hard to be disappointed in such a wonderful situation as he had found himself in, but to hear that they were going shopping almost did it. Being dragged from shop to shop, bored and miserable, never allowed to touch anything, to move or even breathe… that was his impression of shopping.

Yet, what Snape said made sense: he seemed very unlikely to shop at the same sort of clothing stores Harry’s aunt frequented.

They’d be buying a wand, too.

Something tight grips Harry’s chest suddenly. A look of terrible concern crosses his face, and he swallows thickly. ]

I haven’t any money.

You need not concern yourself with money.

( He answers dismissively. Although he's been made aware of the inheritance left to Harry - who may not be a Potter by blood, but he's still Lily's son and a Potter in name - he has no interest in withdrawing from it. He'll inform the child of its existence when he's old enough; until then it simply isn't necessary.

Severus has more than enough money for this on his own.

Though, the child's concern does answer a question he'd already been reasonably sure of - he's no idea about James Potter's wealth. It likely means he knows very little about James and Lily at all, which is something he'll have to navigate carefully until he's prepared to break the larger news in a couple of weeks. )

And at any rate, the type of money used by wizards isn't the same as the type used by muggles. Persons without the ability to do magic.

( It's as good a time as any to incorporate this basic lesson, and so he slips a hand into his pocket to produce some coins, and explain their names and value.

This part is easy. Teaching, lecturing, he's intimately familiar with it, and far less annoyed by it when there's one quiet attentive child than thirty squabbling pre-teens who don't appreciate the potentially lethal fall-out from corrosive or explosive ingredients. )

[ Muggles, knuts, sickles, and galleons.

Like a dry sponge, Harry soaks it in. He has to remind himself to eat as the professor speaks, though before long his fork has been abandoned in favor of a bronze, knuckle-sized coin from the tabletop.

The conversion isn’t so complicated as magic coins initially implies, and Harry only needs it explained once: 29 knuts to a sickle, 17 sickles to a galleon, and when he asks how many pounds that might be, Snape promptly has that answer, too. Grateful for context he can understand, he sets the shining knut back among the others.

You need not concern yourself with money.

The lesson isn’t quite enough to distract him from a very poignant concern: why is it that he doesn’t need his own money? The Dursleys have never so much as offered up a shilling for him to call his own, but Harry knows that he is expensive to care for – the constant reminders from his aunt and uncle could never let him forget.

What’s Hogwarts like? is the second question planned. Instead, he deviates. ]

If my parents were muggle, why aren’t I?

( This conversation was inevitably going to happen before they left. It's been his intention to brace the boy for what he might experience, and explain the precautions he's going to be taking as a result.

He's clever. Sharp, it seems, not that he has all that much to go off of. He intends to do his best to keep this conversation forthright, while not... yet tipping his hand on what he's planned to withhold until Harry's acclimated to both this world and his presence.

It'll be a fine line to walk. Fortunately, this is exactly his skill set. )

Your parents weren't muggle. It shouldn't surprise me Petunia withheld details from you, but I hadn't expected the extent of it. What story has she told you?

( So he can decide precisely how angry he's going to be. )

What? [ Harry’s fork scrapes against the porcelain of his plate. They weren’t muggles? But that meant… they were wizards, too?

Something about the way Snape says his aunt’s name… as though he shares Harry’s disdain, as though he knows the woman personally. Harry’s eyes narrow suddenly, his gaze much less adoring and much more confused as it tracks over the professor’s face. ]

Nothing. [ That’s nearly accurate, yet he shrugs in a way that makes it obvious it is not the whole of the truth. The Dursleys rarely spoke of the Potters, but when they did it was never to reminisce fondly. Harry has no desire to share with anyone the sort of things he’s been told about his mother and father, so he throws the man the most inoffensive scrap he can think of. ] They died in a car crash when I was a baby.

[ Reaching up, his fingers comb through messy fringe. He touches the scar on his forehead lightly even while he instinctively tries to hide it with his hair. ]

Edited 2021-09-02 17:17 (UTC)

( He's seen Harry shovel down enough food at this point that he isn't as strictly concerned about his attention to his plate anymore. He's set his own plate aside himself in favor of settling back in his chair, as though he's making himself comfortable for a long conversation. )

Your aunt lied to you.

( Bluntly.

He flicks his eyes to the scar for a singular moment, and then back to the boy again. )

She's harbored a resentment toward your mother since they were young. Your mother got the gift. Your aunt didn't. It seems that pettiness has only gotten stronger over time instead of lessening.

[ Behind bright green eyes, fantasy unfolds.

His parents are not dead at all: this man knows them, he has been sent by them, and very soon he would be taking Harry to Hogwarts, where surely James and Lily Potter waited, ready and prepared to explain away all of the misery and loneliness of the last decade.

He’s too smart for it to last more than a heartbeat or two, and where a second ago Harry had drawn himself straight up, he sagged again back against his chair, hard enough to make the old wooden joints creak. If his parents were alive, certainly they would be here instead Severus Snape, a stranger from another world entirely.

He pushes away the ache, reinvesting his attention in the man across. ]

Did you know her? My mum?

( Oh, child. Be careful what you wish for. Perhaps your disappointment now will pale in comparison to what comes later. )

I knew her.

( He affirms, past tense. It's a battle within himself to keep level; prying the lid open on this particular topic is...

Difficult. Rare. He's stubbornly refused to do it, but that isn't an option now. )

I knew her well before we were your age.

I knew it. I knew they were lying.

[ It’s his first show of temper so far, and the rawness is potent for such a small, young boy. Having this lie confirmed makes it so much easier to see the rest: a whole forest of them, deeply rooted. ]

What was she like?

[ (You knew it was coming, Severus.)

Hands flat on the table in front of himself, a hunger in his eyes that no food could ever touch, he pins the professor with a look of transparent awe. ]

Did you know my father, too?

( He knew it was coming. He's had months to prepare for it, months of reinforcing the necessity of it, and yet.

Theory and practice are very different creatures at the end of the day. It aches like an old string being plucked, allowing a single note to reverberate through his otherwise empty chest. )

Yes. Your father is a topic we'll discuss at a later time. Today, we can discuss your mother, and your history.

( Setting clear expectations, he thinks, and then following through on them is probably the best tactic he can take. Some people, some actual parents — Molly Weasley, perhaps — might say that he's speaking to Harry in a manner far too adult. Too frank, too blunt, not enough empathy and not enough softening of the rough edges.

Unfortunately, that's out of his wheelhouse. He's hardly the slightest instinct or idea on how to begin trying that approach. An excellent case to be made in favor of not choosing to stay with him once they near the end of this two-week period, but best not get ahead of himself. )

As it so happens, she grew up eleven houses down from this one. The envy your aunt carries toward your mother isn't solely because of her magic. Your mother outshone her in nearly every facet, but particularly in competence and compassion.

( A beat. )

Also, your aunt looks a bit like an angry giraffe. Not an affliction your mother suffered.

[ He’s been given no reason to distrust, and the consistency of his treatment so far has already begun to pay off. Harry settles significantly with the reassurance that this conversation might be an open-ended one, and he’s so relieved that it’s not any real disappointment to have the topic of James shelved.

Like all the other compromises that Snape has proposed, it’s reasonable. Though, even if it wasn’t, it rarely occurs to Harry to attempt a negotiation with any adult: they always claim to have their lofty reasons for withholding things, and his experience is that arguing further is pointless at best and antithetical at worst.

Having never heard so much as a kind word regarding his mother, he is absolutely rapt to hear her be kindly detailed, warmly remembered.

Harry has also never heard anyone else transcribe his mental image of his aunt so succinctly, so perfectly, and it shocks a laugh out of him. Tension releases suddenly from Harry’s shoulders; he hadn’t realized how emotional he had become.

Trying to be subtle, he wipes the overly long sleeve of his sweater across his damp eyes. Snape has been spared any tears, but there’s a telling thickness to Harry’s voice when he confesses, ] I always rather thought she looked like a horse, but I suppose neither of us is wrong.

[ With a heavy exhale, he shakes his head. As good as it is to hear someone else disparaging his aunt, Harry would much rather talk about his mother. ]

So my mum went to Hogwarts? Did you attend together? What’s it like? Am I really going to learn potions and… and how to walk through fireplaces?

( A horse. His lips twitch, tug up at one corner.

He tries not to make more of the moment than it is. Likely fails. Wonders if he ought to be doing... something about those tears, but finds himself rooted to the chair for lack of any good idea. )

Your mother did attend Hogwarts. We were, however, in separate houses, and eventually less close over time.

( To put it. Mildly. )

And you will most certainly be learning potions. Before we transition entirely from the topic of your mother, I'm afraid we're going to have to discuss how she died. It leads into a far bigger conversation about you, the significance you have to the world, and some precautionary measures we'll be taking as a result.

[ A ringing silence follows.

Eventually, after a time that feels significant but in reality stretches only a second or two, Harry nods. It is not a nod of understanding, because he certainly does not, but it is a nod of permission. ]

Alright. [ Unconsciously mimicking Snape, Harry straightens in his chair, firming his shoulders and hardening his jaw. Starting with the most prudent: ] How did my mother die?

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