Chapter Text
Prologue
The crisp night air is the first thing he feels after appearing (as it would look to Muggles) seemingly out of the Void and into the abandoned alleyway. There's a stillness to it, one that puts him at great unease.
Death can be felt tainting it.
With a sinking feeling in his chest, he moves swiftly down the alleyway, long black robes swirling behind him, almost in his wake, before sharply cutting a corner; his wand drawn and at the ready. 13 ½” long of Yew wood, the feather of a Phoenix at its core. But as he steps out into the open of the town's main street, his lungs freeze up in his chest. Heart seeming to cease its beating.
There, lying before him in a visage that would invoke memories of London during the height of the Blitz in the Second Great Muggel War, is the house he had Apparated so quickly to reach.
Without a moment's waste, he rushes towards it. Through the wrought iron gate swingingly lazily in the almost eerie breeze, up the small stone pathway to where the front door had once been; now blown open and apart by magic that reeked of the foul intent behind it.
The first thing he saw was a body. Male. He knew instantly whose it was. And while it gave him no feeling of sadness – much less guilt – it provided him with no satisfaction either.
But if he was dead…
A sound cuts through the silence: The cry of an infant.
With a flickering ember of hope in his heart, he races up the wrecked staircase, hurtling himself with all haste down the hallway towards where he can see another door has been blown apart. Religious he is not, but for the first time in his life he finds prayers being whispered upon his treasonous lips. Begging to all who would bother listening to answer them.
But as he rounds the doorway and bursts into the room, wand raised to fight and defend and kill, the ember dies.
The room is in shambles, a massive hole blown through the roof which allows it to be illuminated by the light of the moon. Two bodies lying in the wreckage. One, twisted and broken, cloaked in sinister dark robes and lying as if thrown back by a great, explosive force. Wandless hand, sheathed in ebony leather, laying limply yet still ominously out. The signature silver talon encased around the index finger gleaming mockingly in the pale moonlight. Its face was obscured, twisted up within the covering cowl. But – like the body laying in the entrance hallway – he already knew who it was: The Dark Lord Voldemort.
The question of how nipped at his mind. But it was nothing more than the buzzing of a gnat in comparison to the wave of grief that flooded him as his watery eyes gaze in sickening horror and devastation at the body of the woman. The woman he had loved for as long as he could remember: Lily.
Over the sounds of her screaming infant, miraculously and unexplainably alive in his crib, Severus Snape unleashes a bellowing cry of anguish, dropping his wand as he falls to his knees and snatching up her lifeless body in his arms, cradling her in them as his own body is wracked by sobs of grief and guilt.
She could not have been dead for more than ten minutes. Snape knew it was impossible for it to have been any longer than that. And even then, that length of time was a stretch. He had missed being there to do something – anything – by mere minutes. But by the coldness of her corpse, he knew she had been felled by the Killing Curse itself.
He feels a presence in the room, and in response his head snaps upwards and back towards the door from which he entered; finding the person he probably wanted to see the least now standing there.
“You!” he snarls, his grief stricken face contorting into a vicious, accusing sneer. “You swore to me that she would be safe! That you would protect her!”
But the old wizard could only gaze around the room. The nauseating twinkle that always resides in his blue eyes, just behind those half-moon spectacles, having long since vanished. His face is ashen and mouth ajar ever so slightly.
With a growl so choked it sounded anything but, he snatches his wand and points it threateningly at him. His normally steady hand quivering in rage and grief. “Say something, Albus! Tell me how this–”
“Put your wand down, Severus,” the Great Wizard instructs him gently, his eyes finally coming to a rest on both him and Lily. A melancholic tone that Snape has never heard him speak with before drifting into his ears with great burden.
Snape stares him down furiously for a lingering moment, the urge to strike at the Headmaster while his wand is dangling loosely at his side oh-so-tempting for failing in his promise. Failing after Snape courted death itself coming back to his side. But, with a seething hiss, he lets his wand drop along with his eyes, letting them linger upon the cold body of his unrequited love.
“They were betrayed,” Dumbledore begins to explain, a hint of a quiver in his voice. Like even he cannot fathom what has happened here tonight. “Betrayed by their Secret Keeper.”
“Black,” Snape spits out, fury rising like an inferno within him as he lays Lily gently back on the floor. As he does so, he notices something: a cut on her hand. Fresh enough to have been made just before dying. But his mind is too burdened by grief and clouded by the desire of vengeance to think anything of it as he swiftly rises, hellfire in his eyes. He prepares to storm out of the room, leave the scene of his greatest nightmare come to life and seek just retribution. “I’ll find that traitorous dog myself and make him pay tenfold the pain he’s ever inflicted on me,” he grits out through clenched teeth. He steps towards the door, but Dumbledore remains in his way, showing no inclination of allowing him passage. “Move!” he demands.
But the Headmaster indeed does not acquiesce to his demand and merely places a consoling hand upon his shoulder. Something that takes every ounce of Snape’s willpower not to hex right off. “Severus, Sirius Black will be dealt with. We have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Suddenly, Snape can once again hear the terrified cries of Lily’s son behind him, having been blocked out by the intensity of focus his mind had placed on first his grief, and then his fury. He twists his head around, gazing past strands of his long, greasy black hair towards where the boy is sitting in his crib, crying for the comfort of his parents. A comfort he shall never feel again.
“What about him?” Snape demands testily, knowing already of what Dumbledore speaks.
“We must move quickly to protect him.” Dumbledore’s eyes flick over to the body of his vanquished dark counterpart. “Voldemort may be dead, but his followers remain both numerous and powerful. The Potter’s aren't, regrettably, the only family I have failed tonight.”
Snape levels him with a cool glare, having managed to pull his boiling rage back within him – and it is only just being held back. Like a Chimera on a fraying leash. “The Longbottoms,” he answers, knowing the Dark Lord had targeted them as well.
Dumbledore shakes his head mournfully. “As I figured you’d know. Bellatrix led the attack on them. Voldemort didn't want to risk their son being the actual one of prophecy.”
Snape gives a tight, curt nod. The continued screaming of the child undoing the last threadbare strands of his patience. “So they have all perished as well?” he grits.
“No.” Snape flicks a questioning eye at the Headmaster. A brief simmering of the fire that burns in the black orbs. “Alice and Frank were tortured – I assume by Bellatrix herself – to the point of insanity.” Dumbledore gives him a sad, knowing look. “I fear they will never recover.”
“And their son?” Snape asks. He knows the child's fate already, merely wondering the execution of it and how the spawn of James Potter had avoided a similar one as said infant mercifully begins to quiet, his endless screaming exhausting him.
“Nothing more than a charred husk.”
Snape’s nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath through them. The barbarity and cruelness of Bellatrix Lestrange clearly knows no bounds.
Dumbledore continues to eye him, the weight of his failure to protect not one, but two families on this night clearly weighing heavily upon his elderly frame. “But not all is lost, Severus,” he states with a weariness that's edged with hope. His eyes drift back towards the crib, where only a few meager, pitifully nasally whimpers can be heard, his hand leaving Snape’s shoulder as he walks over towards it.
For a brief moment there, Snape considers leaving. Following through in his great desire to hunt down Sirius Black and kill him. But he doesn't. His gut telling him that he shouldn't. His heart telling him Lily wouldn't want it.
He will always wonder how things would have been different had he done so.
With a frustrated sneer, he pockets his wand and follows the greatest light wizard of his generation over to the crib and for the first time ever, gazes upon Lily’s child. A boy that bears a striking physical resemblance at even such a young age to the man who had captured his beloved’s heart as well as his hatred and envy: James Potter.
But there are two key differences.
The first are his eyes: Bright-green and exactly like his mothers. The sight of which almost causes the breath to catch in Snape's throat. While the second is a large, striking, angry, bloody mark on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt – razor sharp and just off from the center.
“Where did he acquire such a thing?” Snape gasps in horror, taken aback.
“I suspect that our fallen enemy used the same curse on young Harry here that he did on his parents. Somehow, it failed. Redirected right back at its caster,” Dumbledore contemplates in way of answer, though it only begets more questions. Snape exhales sharply, but lets it go. He’s known the Headmaster for far too long to expect anything but.
As silence – outside of the child's dying, whimpering cries – fills the room, questioning in its nature, Snape casts a discomforting glance back towards the corpse of the Dark Lord. A vile answer begins to form in his mind before he banishes it. “But how?” he asks instead, breaking the heavy silence and moving on. Unable to, for all his intellect, fathom how such a thing would be possible. It is, or at least, was, an absolute truism in life: No one survives Avada Kedavra.
“It is too soon to know,” Dumbledore responds gravely. “But,” – he casts a thoughtful, lingering glance towards the body of the boy’s mother – the body of Lily – on the floor beside them – “I may have a theory.”
“And what, pray tell, is that, Albus?” Snape responds bitingly. His amazement at this unprecedented survival washed away by the bitterness that this little James look-alike could somehow survive, but Lily was taken from this world far too soon.
“Not here,” Dumbledore answers, earning an irritated look from Snape that, while seen, is brushed aside. “The Dark Lord’s lieutenants will soon realize something is wrong, if they haven't already. I fear they will move quickly to avenge their fallen master.”
“Where do you plan on taking the boy?” Snape inquires.
Dumbledore is quick to respond. “I feared that despite our best efforts, we may fail one or both families in the end. So in secret, I made plans should the worst come to pass.”
Snape isnt in the least bit surprised by this. For all his eccentrics, Dumbledore is as brilliant and strategic as they come. “And that is?”
“As you are aware, Lily has a sister. Muggle. The boy will be safe –”
“That woman is a vile, hateful wench,” Snape scoffs, cutting off the Headmaster in a snide manner. “She despised her sister and everything she was out of sheer jealousy and spite. It would be a foolish assumption to think she'd feel any different about her nephew. So no, I would hardly call placing the boy with her safe.”
Silence falls between the two men as the seconds of the clock tick against them. Dumbledore nods ruefully, acknowledging Snape’s point before turning to look at the man with a long, thoughtful expression.
“Then perhaps a Plan B is in order, wouldn't you say?”
Chapter 1
“HARRY JAMES POTTER! I DO NOT CARE IF IT IS YOUR BIRTHDAY! YOU WILL BE VERY REMISS TO NOT OVERSLEEP ON THIS OR ANY OTHER DAY!”
That is how Harry Potter awakens on the morning of his 11th birthday, the day he knows his life will change forever: To the sound of his guardian, Severus Alan Snape, bellowing for him in a somehow still intoned voice to rise from bed and hurry to breakfast downstairs in their cozy two story home on Wadsworth Street, nestled near the heart of the quiet town of Cokeworth.
He shoots up in bed, eyes wide and hair a disheveled bird's nest worse than usual at the realization that he has, in fact, very much overslept. On his birthday, no less. “Coming, Severus!” Harry yells back as he leans over and reaches towards his nightstand, snatching up his glasses and throwing them on, blinking the remaining sleep away.
With the world no longer a fuzzy blur, Harry throws back the tangled mass of sheets and blankets he burrowed himself in the previous night and jumps out of bed, quickly shoving his feet into his slippers and throwing on the matching midnight black bathrobe he had received two Christmases ago that was specially charmed to always fit until puberty, when the inevitable growth spurt he had been told would accompany would be more than the charm could keep up with. He knows better than to attend breakfast, even on his birthday, underdressed. He has no desire to suffer Severus’s displeasure.
Like an owl, he swiftly flies down the walnut dog-legged staircase (a design that has always perturbed his guardian for some bizzare reason. The man has always despised canines and almost anything to do with them; much to young Harry’s dismay. Because what boy doesn't want a dog?), his padded footsteps sounding more like a herd of Hippogriffs than a small child due to his hast – or would, if it hadn't been for the muffling charm a particularly irritated Severus had cast on his footwear one morning after a very similar scene had played out.
Grabbing onto the end of the railing, Harry swings himself in the direction of the kitchen, hurtling down the hallway and sliding into the aforementioned room and right up to the small table in the breakfast nook he and Severus eat at most mornings, finding a hot cup of Assam black tea (the preferred breakfast tea of Severus and, quite proudly, himself) with the perfect mix of milk and sugar, no doubt having been placed under a stasis charm due to his sleeping in, as well as a tall glass of orange juice waiting for him.
“Ah, my most lethargic charge. Finally deciding to join the rest of the world,” he hears Severus drawl most pointedly.
Feeling the man’s stern gaze upon him, Harry twists his head to the right as he tugs at his bathrobe slightly, finding his guardian standing by the stove in his signature black robes (Clearly having been working in his private potions room before breakfast) and finishing up a pair of fried eggs and levitating them onto a plate loaded with sausage, tomatoes, and a pair of fresh scones. “Sorry, Sir,” Harry mumbles sheepishly as he tries to do something with his mess of hair. “Couldn't fall asleep last night. I was too excited about today.”
Severus eyes him, and Harry is able to catch a glimpse of the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of the man's mouth (after all these years, he’s become a bit of an expert at reading Severus’s expressions – or lack of them). “Understandable. Now, seeing as this obnoxious tradition states the world must revolve around you for the remainder of the day – don't get too big of a head – I will once again suffer through it by first asking you what you would like for breakfast.”
Harry chews his lip slightly as his own lips quirk with amusement as he takes his seat at the table, finally giving up on his hair. Though Severus always bemoans birthdays – to the point where Harry has to fight just to get the man to even acknowledge his own – he has never failed to provide Harry with one that hasn't made him feel special. Starting with his willingness to make him (almost) anything he wants for breakfast. In years past, he has always requested pancakes with sugar and lemon. But this year, after stumbling across a cookbook shoved way towards the back of Severus’s surprisingly large collection called ‘Southern Living’, and finding a dish in there that both enthralled and appalled him, he decides he wants to be bold.
Sitting up as straight and proper as he can, fingers laced together atop the table humbly, he asks, “American biscuits and gravy, please.”
And the way Severus turns on him and levels him with the most stunned slightly raised brow he has ever seen in his eleven years of life, you would think Harry had just told him magic isn't real. “You have been going through my cookbooks, haven't you, curious boy.”
Harry nods vigorously, keeping his posture. He doesn't think Severus will deny his request, but no harm in making sure. “Yessir. I was thinking it’s time to broaden my horizons, knowing what year it is.”
And this time, Severus’s lips really do quirk upwards. “You may relax yourself, child. We both know how much such proper posture strains you.” As Harry wastes no time relaxing into the chair with almost a sigh of relief, Severus turns towards the small enclave he has set aside on the countertop next to the fridge. “Accio Southern Living.”
The book in question flies over to his waiting hand, and he quickly opens it up, swiping across its pages with his wand to make the correct recipe appear. He looks down at it, studying it for a moment with an unreadable expression before his gaze returns to Harry, looking most unimpressed by what he’s read while in a flat tone comments, “Only because it’s your birthday.”
Harry grins excitedly, pumping his fist in the air before taking a careful sip of his tea while Severus Accio’s the necessary ingredients over to him and quickly gets to work, putting his own food under a stasis charm as he does. “Where did you get that cookbook by the way?” a curious Harry questions him, following a second, larger sip.
“A colleague in America gave it to me years ago. I haven't the faintest idea why,” he states with a near-loathing voice before flicking his gaze back to Harry. “How would we solve the issue of lacking –” he makes a face at the next word that Harry recognizes as how is this a thing “– buttermilk, Harry.”
Harry’s own face scrunches in thought, wracking his young mind for the correct solution before it finally comes to him. “Transfiguration!” he says brightly, looking to his guardian for approval.
“Correct,” Severus intones, slamming the book shut and returning it with a wave, ingredients and instructions memorized perfectly, Harry knows. A pleased feeling fills the boy as the man wordlessly performs the necessary wand motions over the bottle of milk. Nothing appears to change about it, but Harry will never question Severus’s magical knowledge or prowess. As far as he’s concerned, his guardian is second to none.
… Minus Albus Dumbledore. Maybe.
Aided by magic, the requested breakfast is ready a mere ten minutes later, with a very dubious Severus setting it down in front of a very eager birthday boy with a look that Harry has come to learn means better you than me.
Unperturbed by the look and the questionable appearance of the dish, Harry grabs his silverware and, following an almost forgotten excited “Thanks!”, cuts into the fascinating, goopy looking meal before him, shoveling a massive forkful into his mouth and immediately groans.
“Everything you ever dreamed it would be?” Severus drawls, watching with mild interest as he cuts into one of his eggs, letting the yolk spill out.
“Dis is uhmazin'” Harry enthusiastically replies, words finding a way out around a mouthful of food as his mind is literally unable to comprehend how a circular scone, chopped up sausage, and something that looks like to peppered-white throw-up could taste so amazing.
Severus, having watched Harry’s appalling etiquette, merely rolls his eyes, muttering indecipherably to himself. And Harry has no doubt whatever the words are, they are some form of admonishment for himself and the man’s continued failures to perfect Harry’s table manners to Severus’s standards (he does, however, think the man has finally just accepted that above neanderthal will just have to suffice. Severus’s words, not his). But before picking up his copy of The Prophet, in an audible tone he intones, “I’ll take your word for it.”
They sit in comfortable silence, Severus reading his paper while casually working his way through his breakfast, broken up by intermediate sips of tea, while Harry wolfs down his own plate before chugging his juice. It’s a testament to the claimed reluctant fondness Severus has for him that the man has never actually followed through on any threats to turn him into an animal befitting his manners.
“So…” Harry says, dragging out the vowel once Severus has finally taken his last bite.
“Harry, if you wish to inquire about something, inquire about it. I have no time for games of any sort,” the man replies with mild sharpness, eyes never leaving the paper.
Harry smiles, rolling his eyes before in a hopeful voice inquires, “Has it arrived yet?”
Severus flicks a glance at Harry before returning them to his paper. “I would ask you to clarify, but fortunately for you my discursive charge, there is only one thing you’d be so eager to receive. Even above presents.”
“You got me a present?” Harry asks excitedly, receiving the really? look from Severus. Harry can't help the giggly snort of laughter that escapes him.
“You act so abused under my care,” the man drawls.
“I would say you have endeavored to care for me in a most satisfactory way, my cold-hearted guardian,” Harry replies back in what he considers a spot-on impersonation of said guardian.
For a freshly turned eleven year old.
Severus gives an indignant snort, once more returning his attention to the paper. He doesn't say anything for what feels like an eternity (a minute, tops. But that's close to forever in the present context), leaving Harry to squirm in his seat over the lack of knowledge of if the one thing he’s been dreaming of receiving since he’s been old enough to comprehend that magic is a thing. He comes dangerously close to whining. But Severus, undoubtedly sensing what's coming and wishing to spare himself the annoyance, sighs deeply and reaches into his pocket, fishing around in it for a half-second as Harry leans forward eagerly; producing a crisp, unopened letter bearing the official seal of Hogwarts.
“Here.”
With a squeal of excitement, Harry leans across the table and snatches the letter out of Severus’s hand, leaning back in his chair and staring at it in awe as he clutches it in both hands.
“Go on, open it,” Severus intones gently.
With his fingers now trembling with nervous excitement, Harry has to take a steadying breath before he rips open the letter, pulling out two pages. He looks over the first one, admiring the blazon of the Hogwarts Coat of Arms which features the mascots of the four houses: the Gryffindor lion in the top left, the Slytherin serpent to the right of it, the Ravenclaw eagle just below that, and the Hufflepuff badger to left of the eagle. All circling the bold letter 'H' with the motto, "draco dormiens nunquam titillandus", carried in an escroll beneath the shield.
Scarcely believing this day has finally come, Harry allows his eyes to drift downwards to begin reading the letter proper.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry frowns. “Wait… the 31st–”
“Do not worry your bed-inflicted head. You have already been accepted, the letter is merely a formality,” Severus assures him, clearly deducing Harry’s worry.
Letting out a relieved breath, Harry moves on to the next page of the letter, which details all of the supplies, uniforms, and books Harry will be needing for his first year. Along with a reminder to parents that first years are forbidden to have a broomstick.
The last part causes Harry to slump dejectedly in his seat, an act that fails to go unnoticed by his incredibly perceptive guardian. “Something wrong, Harry?”
“No broomsticks for first years,” the boy grumbles unhappily.
“And what possible use could a boy of your age have for a broomstick?” Severus asks wryly.
Harry shoots him an accusing glare. Severus knows the answer, but Harry still finds himself petulantly explaining, “I want to join the quidditch team, like my father.”
Severus ignores his tone (thankfully), eyeing him with a glint of sympathy and nodding in a considering manner. “I am not surprised by such an aspiration. You will be allowed to play – and therefore, own a broomstick – by your second year. If you really are the son of James Potter, I have little doubt in your abilities to make your future house's team.”
And despite the rare complimentary nod towards his father, even if a bit roundabout, Harry can’t help the small sinking feeling in his chest as he sags just a tiny bit more. “I’m your son…” he thinks depreciatively to himself. He doesn't dare say it aloud though, knowing Severus’s feelings on such claims.
Speaking of Severus, the man suddenly leans forwards, intertwining his fingers and resting his chin upon them, studying Harry in a manner that befits the way he somehow always seems to know what Harry is thinking. Harry tenses up, worried that his guardian does indeed know the thought that his mind had just fancied, and is preparing to chide him for it. But, much to Harry’s surprise, a soft look that almost dares to be fond appears on his face before he opens his mouth to speak, the words that follow taking a gentle, near-musing quality.
“I wish they could be here to see this, Harry. Your mother and even your father .” Like most every time Severus speaks of them, there’s a stark difference in how. A fond, yet melancholic tone for his mother, but a strained one when it comes to his father. Harry may be young, and he will begrudgingly admit he lacks the raw, natural intelligence of his guardian, but it is very clear to him that the man had two very different relationships with his parents. The one with his mother obviously one of high regards and care.
It’s never been properly explained, the full details surrounding his coming to live with Severus. Attempts at ascertaining the full truth always stonewalled by his guardian – sometimes harshly – and explained as something he will be told quite vaguely when “he’s older”. But some details the man has never hid from him: He knew Harry’s parents for a long time, though the exact relationship (or ships) they had are frustratingly unclear. But it was enough of one that, lacking any other family to take him in following their deaths at the hands of The Dark Lord (he has also been told about how he had miraculously survived, protected somehow by his mothers love, the encounter leaving him with his scar that to this day, hasn't faded a bit), Snape was apparently chosen by Dumbledore himself to raise and protect Harry from those who would seek to avenge their fallen master.
And Harry loves Severus, he really does. Harry feels he is the luckiest boy in the world not because he survived, but because he got this man to raise him. And that despite his seemingly distant, if not aloof, personality, Harry has never doubted the man cares deeply about him (it’s become a little joke for Harry, to call Severus’s feelings towards him ‘cares deeply’. The word ‘love’ simply too sickeningly sentimental for the man. Adds to his cool factor). But the older he gets, the more frustrating the gaps in knowledge become. The more the lack of stories about his parents beyond his mothers kindness and his fathers exploits (specifically at quidditch) annoy him –
“Harry?”
He finds himself ripped out of the rabbit hole his mind has gone down by the sound of Severus’s voice, slightly raised and firm. Enough to get his attention, but still gentle enough that Harry knows the man isn’t displeased with his lack of attention.
“Sorry, Sir,” Harry answers, finding himself sheepish for the second time this morning as he straightens himself up. “I, uh, I just got to thinking. You know, about them…”
Not exactly truthful. But not really a lie either. He knows better than to lie to Severus. The man somehow always seems to know when he is. But, Harry has learned that as long as he at least tells a part of the truth, Severus will usually just leave it at that.
And in what must be in the spirit of Harry’s birthday, Severus offers him a rare, true smile that’s soft and sympathetic in form. Harry almost asks the man if he has been drinking. And if so, what?
But Harry does indeed manage to hold the quip, instead allowing the wonderful feelings of warmth he gets whenever he does receive one of these rare smiles to expand within him and finding his own lips molding into one of his own.
“That is more appropriate a look on a freshly anointed Wizard in the making. Especially on the day of his birth. There will be no more melancholia today. For I would be remiss to allow you to steal my dour style.”
Harry blinks at him, watching his smile twist into the wry one he always makes whenever he’s actually trying to be funny. Then, Harry snorts. A bundle of childish giggles flowing out of him at that crazy notion.
Severus allows him to enjoy his bout of laughter, watching him with what normally passes for a fond look in his eyes. Only telling Harry once his giggles have subsided sufficiently to go bath and get dressed.
“Where are we going?” Harry asks curiously, wondering what his guardian has planned for his birthday, seeing as per usual, Harry won't be having a party. Which is fine. Severus always manages to come up with rather interesting trips and activities that are way cooler than some lame old party like other kids have.
At least, he assumes.
“Have you forgotten the list of items required for your schooling?” Severus intones as he stands, waving his wand to levitate their dishes as he does.
Harry scrunches his face. “You’re taking me school shopping on my birthday?”
Ok, maybe a party isn't that lame of an idea…
And while, due to the man no longer facing him, he can’t see it, Harry can hear the eye roll in Severus' drawl. “I assure you, my young charge. You will find this a most exciting trip.”
Harry finds himself standing in front of the sitting room’s lit fireplace, having hurried back downstairs following his bath and change of clothes that will surely appease Severus’s request of being ‘respectable’, even if that standard seems to have a maddening degree of variance to it. Often being left open for Harry to figure out based on where or what they were doing. And though they were only going to buy school supplies, they were obviously going to be in public and undoubtedly amongst other witches and wizards. Something that Harry oddly never got to experience much growing up despite knowing (through some of the very rare interactions with Severus’s colleagues at the Ministry as well as when he’s been babysat by Mrs. Andromeda) that his guardian is a very accomplished and powerful wizard.
So, with that in mind, Harry had quickly thrown on a pair of dark trousers with a matching vest over a light gray long sleeve button up; wanting to go with a color scheme he thinks Severus would choose. His hair had proven to be far more agreeable post-bathing, as usual. Making it easy for him to brush his hair into his preferred pixie cut, allowing his bangs to hide his scar; a habit he had gotten into a few years back after noticing one-to-many stares from adults and few mocking comments from some of the few other children he ever met in Cokeworth.
Upon seeing him, Severus gave him a once over before quickly dipping his chin in approval. The man himself was dressed to form, which is the same as most everyday: a deep gray, long-sleeved button-up coat with matching trousers. Though he did add a similarly colored fedora for their outing.
“Do you wish to cast the Floo powder first?” Severus asks as he grabs the jar containing the glittering green powder, knowing full well Harry loves to do it first.
Harry grins, nodding eagerly. He steps forwards, taking a pinch from the offered jar and prepares to throw it into the fire, only to be stopped by the sound of Severus clearing his throat. “Eager boy, you do not even know where we are going yet.”
Harry feels his face heat up. “Oh, yeah, um…” he looks back, tilting his head up towards the man. “Where exactly are we going?”
“The Leaky Cauldron,” Severus tells him flatley.
Harry nods like an over-eager Crup, grinning and giving his guardian a thumbs-up before turning back to the fireplace and throws his pinch of powder into the flames, watching excitedly as with a roar, the fire turns emerald green and reaches as high as Severus himself.
Harry is about to step into it and shout the name of his destination when he feels Severus place a hand on his shoulder and remind him to keep his eyes and mouth shut, elbows tucked in, and most importantly wait for him.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he assures his guardian. Who eyes him skeptically before allowing Harry to continue.
“The Leaky Cauldron!” Harry shouts excitedly before stepping into the flame.
Just like the previous times he’s used the Floo (namely to go stay with Mrs. Andromeda and her husband), he felt as though he was being sucked down a giant drain, spinning very fast with a roaring in his ears that’s deafening. But as quickly as it begins, it's over. And Harry finds himself stepping out in a large, open musty smelling dining room filled with long wooden tables and benches covered in food, pints, and candles and all manner of people sitting at them and hardly giving him a second glance. The place has the look and feel of a medieval tavern to it: merry, but dark and shabby. And Harry has already decided he loves it.
The Floo flame roars behind him, and he turns to see Severus emerging right behind him. His eyes scan the room after having immediately landed on Harry when his face first appears.
“Is this where they sell school supplies?” Harry asks innocently. “Because it's a bit odd.”
Severus shoots him a glance. “Hardly. We won't be staying long. I just need to attend to some quick business. Follow me.”
Severus quickly makes his way down the corridors between the tables, before cutting a sharp right towards the bar. Attending it is an older, balding man with a warm and welcoming smile who quickly waves at and greets them. “Ah, Mr. Snape! Good to see you! And who is this charming young fellow in your company?”
The man turns his cheerful gaze and smiles at Harry, who smiles and waves back in turn. “Hello, Sir. I’m–”
“My current charge, Tom,” Severus informs the man curtly, earning a confused and somewhat hurt glance from Harry. He knows Severus kept his contact with other witches and wizards minimal to the point it felt secretive – a fact he has always assumed has something to do with surviving The Dark Lord – but he still hates it when he’s treated this way. Even if he knows that it's “for his protection”.
If the bartender, Tom, notices his reaction however, he doesn't say anything. Instead returning his attention to Severus. “Official Hogwarts business then, I take it?”
“Precisely,” Severus drawls in response.
An understanding seems to pass between the two of them, unspoken, and Harry is about to ask if that means they are going to go get his supplies when suddenly a booming, merry voice can be heard shouting from across the room.
“Professor Snape! Good ta see ya!”
Harry spins around at the sound of the voice, seeing a giant of a man standing in the doorway to the tavern. His face is almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, while his vast torso and shoulders are draped in a giant overcoat made of some kind of animal pelt.
The huge man merrily lumbers over to them, taking great care not to accidentally bump into any of the patrons around his orbit. And as he gets closer, Harry is able to truly appreciate exactly how huge this man who knows his guardian clearly is, looking to stand about twice the height of any adult Harry has ever met and three times as thick. And, as he comes to stand next, or, maybe over them, Harry can see through his wild hair two dark eyes that glint like beetles; twinkling merrily down at the both of them. But especially him.
“Hagrid,” Snape says sharply, quickly catching the giant man’s attention. “I’m not a Professor yet.”
And at that, Harry’s attention snaps up towards his guardian. “Wait… Professor?”
The giant, Hagrid, barks out a hearty laugh at that. “Only be a matter o' formalities at this point. An’ you young man mus’ be Harry Potter!” The bear-sized man says, attention focusing on him as he grins ear-to-ear. “Ya mus’ be so excited to know yer–”
“Hagrid!” Snape hisses, eyes flaming in anger and leaving Harry to wonder what exactly was going on.
Hagrid, for his part, seems to have realized whatever mistake he’s made as his eyes suddenly go wide and he snaps his mouth shut. But it appears that the damage has been done, for right behind them, Tom the Bartender can be heard gasping and in a disbelieving voice stating, “Bless my soul. The Harry Potter?”
Abruptly, the music that has been playing in the taverns background comes to a halt, as does the many conversations the bar patrons have been having amongst themselves as not a single eye is left unturned towards Harry, who now finds himself squirming uncomfortably at not only being the center of attention, but also apparently being famous.
Harry takes a step backwards, clutching at Severus’s robe as he sees a couple of people begin to step towards him, awe and wonder in their eyes before their gazes dart upwards towards he assumes Severus, a small frown forming on their faces as they quickly step back. No doubt his guardian has leveled them with a foreboding look.
He tugs on Severus’s sleeve, looking up at him pleadingly and in a matching voice asks, “Severus, can we go? Please?”
Severus looks down at him, nodding sympathetically. “Indeed. Hagrid –” Severus’s voice goes a few degrees colder as he eyes the huge man with a very displeased look. “– I should have known you wouldnt comprehend the art of subtlety–” Severus reprimands harshly before he’s interrupted by by a new, stuttering voice.
“H-harry P-potter.”
Harry looks over to see a thin, pale man in dark robes and sporting a dark purple turban upon his head. His beady blue eyes shining with delight, though seemed to possess an odd twitch. He gives Harry a friendly smile as he reaches out, offering a pale hand for Harry to shake. “How p-pleased I am t-to meet you.”
Harry looks at the man's hand, unsure of if to take it, despite his friendly demeanor. But before he can decide whether to shake it or not, he feels both of Severus’s hands firmly upon his shoulders, gently pulling him back some.
“Professor Quirrell,” his guardian says crisply in greeting. “I was under the impression all the other professors were at the school currently.” Harry can't help but note the crispness in which Severus speaks, like he’s displeased by this seemingly unassuming man's presence.
Professor Quirrell looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he appears to take in the sight before him, a look of realization setting in. Severus’s posture with Harry seeming to have clued him into something he hadn’t realized. “S-severus! S-so good to s-see you! And with y-young m-master Potter! I h-had no idea you w-were… oh my!” The man seems to become flustered, and takes a small step backwards as Harry realizes the man has likely deduced Severus to be his guardian.
At this point, Hagrid, sounding relieved to be free of Severus’s ire, leans forwards and whispers to Harry, “Professor Quirrell will be yer potions instructor, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes widen as his cheeks flush, feeling properly ashamed for not returning his future instructor's greeting. “I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Quirrell,” he finally greets back.
Quirrell looks back down at him, smiling warmly as he nervously plays with his hands. “P-pleasure is m-mine, I’m s-sure,” he says before his eyes return to Severus. “I d-do look f-forward to seeing b-both of you at H-hogwarts this y-year.”
Harry looks at the man questioningly, not understanding what he means by that, when suddenly, it all clicks. “Wait, is… is that why Hagrid called you ‘Professor’, Severus? Are… are you…?” Harry can feel his face lighting up, eyes widening in gleeful surprise as he turns around and beams up at his guardian. “You’re going to be teaching at Hogwarts while I’m there!?”
He can see Severus staring daggers at Quirrell before his eyes drop to him, turning infinitely softer as he sighs and shakes his head in confirmation.
Harry lets out an excited whoop, grinning ear to ear and throwing his arms around Severus. He knows the man is… not overly keen on hugs, but Harry is too excited to care. He feels Severus awkwardly pat him on the back as he tells him, “I had planned to tell you tonight, but it seems that particular surprise has been ruined.” Harry is positive both Quirrell and Hagrid are receiving one of his guardians' fearsome death glares, the kind he only received once and solemnly vowed to never receive again. It had been… scary (That was also the moment he realized he would never, ever get to have a dog).
Harry, realizing his hug is lingering and not wanting to push his guardians good graces (even on his birthday, they only go so far), ends the embrace. With a last, joy filled look up at his guardian’s slightly strained face, he turns around back towards where Quirrell is standing against the old wall, its plaster missing patches and faded.
“U-used to be m-my job, you know,” Quirrell says, eye twitching some more. “That he’s t-taking. Defense Against the Dark Arts. P-perfect man for the j-job, though.” He smiles at both of them nervously, licking his lips. “I d-don't suppose y-you’ll have an p-problems in t-that field, eh, Potter?” he quips, smiling down at Harry knowingly and pointing a finger towards where his scar is hidden behind his bangs. Harry’s own smile falters as he averts his eyes away. Thankfully, Severus decides to end things there.
“As wonderful as this unexpected run-in has been, we have a busy schedule to keep,” Severus drawls very crossly. “Hagrid, join us. I wish to speak with you about the art of holding one's tongue. Quirrell.” Harry looks up just enough to see the other man bow almost coweringly at his guardian. He feel’s a gentle nudge at his back. “Come, Harry.”
With that, Harry politely bids Professor Quirrell goodbye and is guided by Severus to a door in the back, Hagrid following closely behind. As they reach it, Severus steps in front of Harry, opening the door and leading them into a small enclosed area with a few barrels. Once Hagrid has followed them out and shut the door behind him, Harry blurts out, “You never said I was famous.”
Severus is facing away from him, towards the brick wall enclosing them in. But Harry hears the great sigh that escapes the man. “Or infamous, depending on who you ask.”
Harry looks down, biting his lip. “Is it… is it because of, well…” Harry’s voice drops, practically to a whisper. “You know…”
He suddenly can feel Severus’s eyes on him, and he looks up at the man, finding him looking down upon him with the unreadable look he gets when he’s about to explain something important. “Yes, Harry. That is why. It’s another thing I had hoped to talk with you about. Before you started school. But since some individuals are particularly skilled at running their rather large mouths –” his eyes cut harshly to Hagrid, who Harry hears mumble an apology “– it ruined my hopes of you enjoying the day toiling in relative anonymity. As it was to be one of the few you would have had left.” His eyes return to Harry. “But regardless, we still have tasks to accomplish. Come now. I believe I told you no more melancholia today. And if you remember, you have yet to receive your birthday present.”
Harry immediately perks up at that. In all the excitement of the day, he had completely forgotten Severus had yet to present him with a gift yet.
Seeing Harry noticeably brighten at that causes Severus to smirk. “Such an easily excitable child you are. Now prepare yourself, my young charge.” Severus twirls around dramatically, pulling out his wand and tapping several bricks in succession.
Once he finishes he steps to the side, and they all watch as the a small hole, no bigger than a keyhole, appears in the center of the last brick before it rapidly grows wider, as if a great mouth were opening. With a quiet, grinding sound, it and the surrounding bricks begin to wiggle and shift, peeling away from each other in a magical, fluid motion where, instead of falling, the bricks simply fold and twist, vanishing into the wall's surface. Within moments, the solid brick barrier gives way to a magnificent, arched entrance, revealing a bustling street that's crowded with people wearing robes of all manner of styles and colors and numerous shops lining both sides of it.
“Woah…” Harry says, full of wonder as Hagrid steps up besides him.
“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry.”