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 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. ]

( Once they land, Snape finds himself in a strange sort of limbo. It's immediate impulse to release the child's hand -- physical contact is a foreign concept to him, he couldn't summon up the memory of the last positive touch he had if he tried -- but he finds himself stilling beneath the lean. Frozen like someone afraid to startle a wild animal, afraid moving would imply shrugging it off, but with no natural instinct to do anything else about it.

They land on one of the less harried side streets of Diagon Alley. A dozen or so yards ahead, it's relatively easy to see around the corner. Through the passing bodies, owls in cages ruffle their feathers and occasionally hoot indignantly out of sheer boredom. In the shop window next to it, books are on display - a few with illustrated covers that move and interact based on their contents. A knight slaying a watercolor dragon. A dancing couple, with the man leading the woman into a low dip. The attire will be like nothing he's ever seen before. Magic is in abundance in unnamable small ways.

His eyes flicker down to gauge Harry's reaction, which he imagines will be interesting given his utter wonderment thus far. Petunia can never be forgiven for withholding Harry's entire heritage from him, but...

All the same, there's something to be said about being able to introduce him to the wizarding world from scratch. He isn't quite ready to admit it, but it feels like he's there for something in a way he'd been deprived for every other facet of the boy's life leading up to this moment. Albus is right in some ways; those first few years after the war ended and Lily died, he was not in the right place to be responsible for a child.

Still. There are milestones already passed that he'll never have the opportunity to witness.

Joining this world is a little like being reborn, in some ways. It's significant that he's the one to do it. )

Your wand, I think, should come first.

[ Unlike the practical magic that the professor has displayed so far, the scene before Harry is unabashedly fanciful. Certainly its designer had plucked the inspiration for Diagon Alley directly from the mind of a child: everywhere he looks is designed to delight and mystify.

Snape does not immediately set to towing him along by his arm, as is always the case with his aunt when he spends too long dawdling. It is up to Harry to begin their approach, which is initially quite slow. His shoes scuff over uneven cobblestones as he forgets how to walk; a task made much more difficult when his head insists on rotating around a nearly 360 degree axis, straining to catch every detail.

They come up to the main street before the professor speaks, startling him from his trance. His eyes snap to the man, and around Snape’s hand his own flexes – he hasn’t yet realized that he’s holding on for dear life. ]

A wand.

[ He repeats it back, wanting it known that he is paying attention. Something about Snape’s manner leans more one way than the other, so he points his feet in that direction and starts off. The street is filled with people, all in clothing very different from his own, but the dense crowd parts easily for a tall, imposing man in all black. Harry doesn’t notice their privilege nor how much he sticks out, absolutely absorbed with the shop windows they pass. When they near a cafe, he comes to a sudden stop to watch with an open mouth as an entire table begins to neatly clean itself up, porcelain cups and sandwich plates stacking themselves in midair beside a group of plump, happily chattering old witches in the most bizarre hats he has ever seen.

One catches Harry’s eye and smiles back at him, winking a wrinkled eye; Harry immediately faces forward, rushing Snape along with a tug.

Compared to the rest, Ollivanders’ display is quite bland. He stops at the door, suddenly nervous. Should he not move to usher Harry in, the boy will, after a courage-instilling deep breath, release the professor’s hand to do it himself. ]

( He has absolutely no idea what he's meant to do with his hand. It's so utterly bizarre, and he wasn't given any list of guidelines about something like this. Fortunately it hardly seems to matter, the excitable child pulls him gently through the crowd, erasing any real say he has about it.

Compared to the hustle and bustle of the street, Ollivanders' shop is abruptly hushed. It carries a different kind of magical feeling, the more quiet and more mystifying kind. The hundreds of wands around them cast out their own feeling, their own ambiance, and to Severus it's always felt a little akin to a church.

The owner himself joins them in the front after only a handful of seconds, settling into place and eyeing the patrons of his shop. Snape gets only a brief look and a courteous, "Professor," by way of acknowledgement. His attention quickly moves on, though, as he's well aware which of the two of them they're actually here for.

"And who have we here?" He asks, his curiosity somehow both muted and all-encompassing.

Severus does finally release the boy's hand, and wordlessly nods at him. Go ahead. The process of finding the right wand - or vice versa - is something Harry can only do for himself. )

[ Ollivander is an entirely new sort of strange; as the man leans across his counter, he is torn between eager fascination and intimidation. That Snape fades into the background rather than stepping forward is indication enough that he is on his own. A small, empty hand flexes. ]

I’m Harry, sir. I’m here for a wand.

[ Silently yet somehow firmly, he refuses to elaborate.

“Of course you are,” says the wandmaker after a heavy pause. “I have just the one.”

And it begins. The selection of each long, narrow box the man pulls from the shelves seems to be at random to Harry’s inexperienced eye. From their looks, the wands have minor variation – length and knobbiness, color and heft – but Mr. Ollivander does not share his methods with the customers as options are selected and eliminated.

His own job is simpler. A dozen wands make it into his hand, some snatched away as soon as they hit his palm, some allowed a cursory wave. He can feel the thread of magic in each of them, though differently each time. The current wand is strongest yet, and at Ollivander’s encouraging nod, he flicks it.

The sound of glass exploding in the room over has Harry shoving the wand back into its box, but the old man seems more excited than ever. Each failure seems to take years off of him, and he is all but spinning when he turns and strides away, tutting. “I wonder…”

Harry has a few seconds to send a panicked look over his shoulder to Snape, but as he had disappeared, so does Mr. Ollivander manifest again, appearing from the shelves with another box that appears exactly the same as the rest.

Harry can feel it across the room. Straightening sharply, he picks this wand from the box and just knows. When he waves it, smiling, a silvery ribbon in the same shade as the wandmaker’s eyes is spun from the very air, trailing the tip in an arc. It floats for a moment after his arm drops, heavy with shock, and the wandmaker snatches the length of it out of the air with a sound of victory.

“Wonderful! Wonderful, Mr. Potter, just wonderful.”

Harry is too excited to notice, turning at once to show Snape, relief heavy in his voice. ]

I’ve found one!

Edited (what was that you said about novels with a million edits???? sorry lmao) 2021-09-03 18:52 (UTC)

( Truly a shame there aren't any cameras present in the moment, because it might be front page news - his lips curl up just a little. A little pleased, a lot amused, a little second-hand pride running through him despite knowing full well he'd have found one eventually anyway.

He doesn't get to keep the expression long.

"I wonder," Ollivander says. "I do indeed wonder. What a very curious thing."

Snape lifts his eyes from his son to the man reverently boxing up his wand. )

Do you intend to continue to pause for dramatic effect, Garrick?

( He asks slowly, a gentle warning in his tone. Ollivander, for his part, doesn't look particularly phased. He's too old, been through too much, and distinctly remembers selling Severus his own wand as a child. Hard to feel intimidated after you've seen someone at eleven.

"It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand... gave another feather... just one other."

At which point Severus steps up, discretely hedging around the boy and blocking him from view as he pulls out his pouch. )

That will be all, Ollivander. The child ( he gently emphasizes the word; what absolute dithering moron would- ) has other purchases to make.

( It takes great effort to school down his flaring irritation as they pay, and as they leave. )

[ Trained thoroughly in the manner of reading the moods of the adults around him, Harry keeps his mouth shut as Mr. Ollivander is eclipsed by broad, black cloaked shoulders. He watches the exchange with open curiosity. When Snape turns and ushers him from the quiet store, the old man makes a point to lean at an angle that Harry fears might topple him, craning to get one last look. His smile is knowing, eyes twinkling as he calls to their backs.

“Good luck, my boy!”

The street outside is a crash of color and sound again, but somehow he finds it easier to breathe out here. He looks from the wand in his hand to the man towering beside him, and with wisdom well beyond his years, Harry says nothing of what had happened inside. He reverently tucks his brand new wand – his very first brand new anything – into a deep pocket. ]

So. Will I get to dress like you? Or is it going to be –

[ His dark eyebrows rise high as he inclines his head very unsubtly back to the man inside the shop, getting a last look at the wandmaker, who is still at his counter watching them. The puce tweed robe-and-suit ensemble the man wore isn’t the loudest Harry had seen today, but it is certainly one of the ugliest.

A cautious joke, designed to measure the temperature of Snape’s mood. ]

( He glances down at the boy's question, and at first doesn't realize it's meant to be a joke. Too busy stewing in his own irritation - what kind of bloody fool would plant such a thought in a child's mind? ruin the experience of first finding their wand by telling them it's a twin to the one that murdered his parents- but then the other half of his mind clicks the pieces together, and something in the corners of his expression almost go wry.

Truth be told, it's a bit more over the thought of anyone willingly dressing like him, but he understands the intent. )

I'd choose somewhere in the middle, if I were you.

( He responds dryly, a slow drawl. )

The general population as a whole tends to prefer some balance between frightening and absolutely mad.

( Though speaking of, it does make for a good way to choose their next destination. May as well get him fitted for his school robes, and... buy something that doesn't look like it came from a baby rhinoceros somebody draped over his shoulders. )

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