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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[ 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?

No, sir. I understand.

[ Hard to believe his curiosity is satisfied.

Like someone who has been given an unspoken cue, Harry reaches across the table to drag Snape’s plate over to himself, then picks his own up, making moves to clear the table as he always does. ]

But you should call me Harry, otherwise everyone really will work out who I am.

...A fair observation.

( He says after a few quiet, slightly surprised seconds - it's the combination of his manners and of the fact that he hadn't even thought that far ahead yet.

He could not, for the life of him, explain what exactly the difference is in the two names. Only that there is one, and seeing as he is the boy's father it's probably appropriate to begin making the transition.

Something to note.

Once the dishes are in the sink, a flick of his wand has them beginning to wash themselves - water, soap, brush and all hovering in the basin and going through the motions without Snape giving it a second look. )

Come here. Let me take a look at your scar, and then if you're quite ready we can be off.

[ Just as he is turning up he sleeves to start washing, the dishes in the sink leap into motion. Open mouthed with shock, he is almost as delighted by this show of magic as he had been by the talking chess set. He walks backwards so as to watch a little longer, but he doesn’t dare ignore Snape’s summons entirely.

Pulling his eyes away from the sink, Harry plants himself before the professor, looking at the man with a friendly, trusting smile. ]

Thanks for breakfast.

[ Without needing to be asked he reaches up to brush his messy hair out of the way, though he does a haphazard job of it; his eyes and attention drifting back to the dishes, now being dried by two independently floating dishtowels. ]

( Did he perhaps only cast the cleaning spell to see the child's reaction?

Maybe.

Difficult to prove as much, as his expression doesn't look all that affected unless you know what you're looking for. )

You're welcome.

( A courteous and absent response, an afterthought to the attention he's giving to the task at hand. Quite literally, as it were. His left gently catches the lingering strands the child's hasty movements missed, and he holds them back out of the way so he can barely press the tip of his wand against Harry's forehead beneath the scar.

This is the closest he's been to the child's face since meeting him.

He feels as though he can pinpoint each trait and which of the two of them it came from.

Swallowing down any particular feeling he might have over the concept, he murmurs a simple glamour charm to conceal the scar not terribly unlike a band-aid. Simple, flesh-tone, it'll wear off within a half a day or so.

When his hands finally fall away, he finds himself briefly rooted. After a moment of biting the inside of one cheek, he finally says; )

You have your mother's eyes.

[ The wand’s appearance puts the dishes out of mind entirely. He catches his breath and stills to feel it touch just beneath his scar, a natural reaction to the quiet concentration Snape displays as he casts. Harry watches and tries to understand the words, curious, but it’s no great show like the dishes. He can’t see his own forehead.

A sensation of something almost tacky spreads outward from the wandpoint; when Snape’s arm loweres away and leaves Harry free to reach up and touch, his fingers find that the skin there feels perfectly flesh-like.

Again, rapid-fire, his focus shifts. His eyes recenter on the professor’s gaze and, sensing that something in the subdued man has changed, Harry studies him back. ]

Do you miss her?

( The expression he wears is deliberately unreadable, schooled into something cool and reserved. If one were to go by that alone, the answer might seem like a rather apathetic no.

But the words don't match. )

Very much so.

( Which is the last he intends to say on the matter, and instead stands. He slips his wand away, and holds a hand out instead.

Crisply, but not unkindly: )

Come along then, Harry. You've a lot to see.

[ Harry’s mouth tucks into a frown. He feels as though there should be more to that reply, but trying to scry anything from the vacant space that is Snape’s expression would take skills an eleven year old simply does not possess. Promply, before he can ask more questions about his mother, before he can even murmur a quiet me too, the moment is ushered past.

Reminding himself not to be disappointed - he still has two more weeks to learn all he can, after all - the offered hand becomes a very good consolation prize. With a better understanding of what will happen when he takes it now, he prepares himself more thoroughly than he had last night in the shack before grabbing hold.

The disorientation of apparition is just as strong the second time. He leans into the much taller man’s arm as his eyes and ears readjust, blinking rapidly. ]

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