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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( 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?

( One day, the Order will criticize him. They'll see habits in Harry that seem to come directly from Snape -- like this one, repressing feelings and steeling himself in a manner that, to some, may seem cold. It's hardly the most commonly demonstrated behavior from a child, and it's bound to lead to some wholly incorrect assumptions about how he schooled that behavior into him.

For now, he feels nothing but quiet pride at the resolve and countenance. )

Well before you were born, the wizarding world was at war. A particularly evil man rose to power, and built himself an army. One of his chief principals was the thought that muggle-born witches and wizards such as your mother were a threat to blood purity, diluting the quality of the population. Your mother wasn't as afraid of openly defying him as perhaps she should have been.

( He thinks, had Lily and - far more importantly - James been quieter, less audacious about their opposition, they wouldn't have attracted his attention. They wouldn't have... met specific terms leading to a very specific outcome. Had James Potter learned to navigate the world with mindfulness and cunning rather than obstinate, obnoxiously loud pride that may as well have been taunting the Dark Lord into action, he might still be walking to this day. )

He came for Lily and James, and you. Obviously, he wasn't wholly successful. To date, you are the sole survivor of anyone the Dark Lord ever attempted to kill. Beyond that, you managed to redirect his efforts back onto him, effectively ending his life, with only a mark left behind to show for it.

[ The warm kitchen seems a grow a little darker as the story goes on, though the sky outside the window is still cloudless. With as much grace as one can show in a situation like theirs, Harry nods, but again it is not in understanding. Simply acknowledgment.

There’s no threat of tears now. A deeply serious expression makes Harry look greatly older than he is, a boy of eleven playing host to a soul that has already experienced several lifetimes worth of strife.

He reaches up for the second time that morning, fingertips tracing the edge of his scar. When his hand falls again, he makes no effort to reconceal the mark from Snape. ]

How could I have lived when they didn’t?

[ Something in him must recognize that this question in particular is likely not so easily answered as all his others. Harry offers another, nearly as pressing concern. ]

Who was he?

He has several names. Most refer to him as you know who, or he who shall not be named. Some refer to him as the Dark Lord. Rarely do people call him by his chosen name, a lingering fear from a time when speaking it could attract his attention.

( It's conditioning that makes it uncomfortable for Severus to say it himself. He's no coward, he couldn't be while doing what he did. It's just that once you've had the cruciatus curse turned upon you with enough regularity, the revulsion becomes innate. Should his presence still exist in the world as Albus says, he'd rather not find out whether or not that magic is still quietly in effect. )

As far as how you survived him... it's one of the greatest mysteries of our time. We can only speculate. It's possible that your mother's sacrifice tapped into a greater magic than what Voldemort could have understood. I'm afraid that's an answer I can't clearly give you.

[ Like a cursed word, Harry thinks, his understanding of the magic better than he realizes.

Voldemort. Without saying it, he rolls the ugly name around in his head. Snape had initially called the man who killed his parents the Dark Lord, and so that is the title Harry assigns to the shadowy figure he pictures in his mind.

There are still so many mysteries – definitely more than when he had still thought Lily and James had died in a car accident. ]

That’s okay.

[ The corner of his mouth lifts crookedly, a sad sort of smile, yet still managing to express gratitude. After all, this man has been much more forthcoming than any other person he can recall having met.

The bombardment winds down, for now. It will take time for him to fill in the full story: even the faces of his parents are still empty spaces. ]

One more. [ Harry fidgets, for some reason needing to build up a little courage to get his words out. ] Did you ever… face the Dark Lord?

( A long beat of quiet follows the question. This one, he hadn't decided how he ought to answer. Had rather hoped it wouldn't be asked, though in hindsight he supposes he should have known better.

He decides to follow the same strategy that's been working thus far. )

Yes. Part of a larger discussion to be had at a later time.

( Perhaps not to take place in these two weeks. Harry's demonstrated nothing but maturity and competence so far, and so it's purely self-serving of him to write it off as the child not being quite old enough to understand yet. )

What makes this relevant to our outing today is the fame that followed. You ended the war. Your name, as well as the mark on your forehead, are famous. Once you join wizarding society, you'll find yourself overrun with the intrusiveness that comes with celebrity. To help mitigate this, I'll be using a glamour on your scar to hide it for the duration of our trip.

[ That refusal is a disappointment, but before he can think too long on it, his attention is artfully redirected.

He thinks to disagree. Him? Famous? For… not dying? That strikes him as a pathetically low bar to celebrate, but Harry is deeply overwhelmed and desperate not to seem it; he accepts this strange perspective without interrupting, just as he has all the other things that have yet to make perfect sense. He is rewarded. ]

You’re going to do magic to hide my scar? [ The heaviness of their conversation had extinguished the giddiness of last night, but at this proposition a great deal of curious, excited light returns to eyes. Though he sincerely doubts his stupid scar is going to be of interest to anyone, Harry is eager to see more of Snape’s abilities. ] Sorry, I’m not asking, I know that’s what a glamour is.

[ Best his professor not think him totally hopeless. ]

( Another flicker of amusement follows the assessment. There's a single, knowing pause before he responds. )

Correct, Mister Potter.

( Though whether his quickness to amend himself stems from the desire to be a know-it-all or the desire to not look incompetent - there is a subtle distinction between the two - Severus isn't yet sure. Something to keep an eye out for. )

You may also want to consider being wary about who you tell your full name, though I anticipate at least a few people will manage to put it together during our trip. I thought it best to prepare you for the amount of attention you may find yourself receiving. Do you have any further questions on the subject?

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