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Severus Snape would never understand why Dumbledore deigned to place Harry sodding Potter in Snape’s periphery at every turn. Surely a good six years of Snape sneering, spewing insults, and happily marking Potter’s essays in big red scrawl, made it clear the feelings he had on the boy. Why Dumbledore thought that his idea of a summer break was checking in on the spoiled spawn of James Potter was lost to him. Nevertheless, Dumbledore had commanded him, and like a dog he followed, if only for the lingering memory of a red-haired girl’s bright smile and a soft doe.
Snape could feel his lips curling up in a sneer almost involuntarily as he stared at 4 Privet Drive. He hadn’t spared so much as a thought to Petunia Evans, now Dursley, since long before Potter had even shown up at Hogwarts. Now that he did think about it, the wretched place was fitting for her. He stalked up the driveway, past the carefully pruned hedges, and delighted in the fact that any one of her neighbors could see his ominous, “strange” form, dressed in all black like a bat. It would serve her right.
He rapped on the door just once, sharp and hard, and wondered about the situation at hand. Apparently, the Potter spawn had gone missing. There were worried whispers he could have been kidnapped, but Snape saw through the boy. He had lost Black, and loathe as he was to admit it, Black had been good for the boy. Not good for Snape, but for the boy. Potter had probably run off, ignorant of the dangers he was putting himself, and subsequently others, in. Snape had no time to dwell on the matter when Petunia peered through a crack in the door.
“You!” She gasped, indignant and haughty as ever, before attempting to slam the door shut on him.
Snape kept his head high, his face in a scowl, and his eyes physically looking down on her as he pressed a foot against the bottom of the door.
“You need to leave. Now,” She hissed, eyes flitting back and forth at the neighborhood outside.
When Snape simply arched a brow and pressed his foot harder, she seemed to realize he would not be moving. With a miserable snarl on her face, she quickly shuffled him in upon seeing a woman in the window across the road. The moment he was inside, she started again.
“What are you doing here,” She kept her voice low even though they were inside, eyes flitting to the stairs, and Snape suspected her husband was upstairs.
“I’m sure you know,” Snape drawled out, emphasizing his usual cadence knowing she would despise it, “The boy.”
Petunia’s face shriveled up as if she’d eaten a lemon, which surprised Snape a little, though he wouldn’t admit it. He’d assumed they would wait on the boy on hand and foot. Bah, they’d probably gotten sick of the spoiled brat’s antics. Of course, he’d throw a temper tantrum if they dared to discipline him though. Snape internally rolled his eyes and scoffed.
A variety of emotions passed across her face, all negative ones, before she decided he wasn’t going to leave if she didn’t let him snoop around.
“Upstairs, first on the right, and be quiet about it.”
Snape simply deepened his scowl, as if that was possible. He scanned the interior as he headed for the stairs, a spy’s habit. The walls were adorned with photos of Petunia, her husband, and a rather large boy he figured was ‘Dudley.’ An abominable name if you asked him. He quirked a brow at the lack of photos of Potter, but dismissed it.
When he finally got to the room, his brow craned even higher at the various locks on the outside. Perhaps it had once been a secret sex dungeon, now repurposed. He almost threw up at the thought. Snape opened the door, a sneer already in place at the piles of toys and loot he would be sure to find. Instead, the room was bare. Miserably so. It was completely empty, a small bed with a sagging mattress in the center, and no posters pinned to the walls. A bookshelf made of old milk crates laid against the wall and there were only frayed, dirtied clothes hanging in the closet.
Snape scoffed, if they thought they could trick him with this, they must have been stupider than they seemed. Maybe Petunia had the decency to be ashamed of how spoiled the boy was; he’d probably taken the master bedroom. Snape cast a quick spell, not dissimilar to the one the Hogwarts letters used, to identify the place the focus of the spell used most. A red glow from his wand led him downstairs. Snape was confused, to say the least. He hadn’t seen a room downstairs, nor any space for one. But the spell wouldn’t lie, so he headed downstairs.
Imagine his surprise when it led him to a glowing cupboard door.
“What are you doing?” Petunia half-shrieked as he reached to open it.
Her reaction was like a switch in his brain, and suddenly Snape felt something unfurling deep in his gut. He didn’t like this. She tried to bat him away but a flick of his wand had her immobile. His hand reached for the door to open it, and—.
It was a bedroom. There was a dingy mattress on the floor, and a few meager toy soldiers and figurines on a shelf. The worst part, though, the worst part was the paper clinging to the wall. Bright green crayon (so like her eyes, so like his) scrawled out “Harry’s Room” in what could only be the handwriting of a child less than six years old. Beside it was a drawing of three stick figures. The smaller one was notably Harry, with messy hair and green dots for eyes, and the other two. Snape felt his hard demeanor break just the slightest. The other two were blank: black stick figures with black eyes and no hair.
Harry didn’t know what his parents looked like.
He didn’t know what his parents looked like.
“How can you call yourself a mother,” He whispered, still staring into the dark cupboard.
Snape spun around, wand pointed at Petunia, “How DARE you call yourself a mother!”
Petunia, unable to move, just stared back, and swimming in her eyes was some mixture of hate and anger, and the beginnings of a shred of guilt. Before he could even think about it, he was casting Legilimancy.
It only took a quick second of searching her mind before he found what he was looking for, and it came at him in a flash.
Harry, so small, standing on a stool making breakfast. The cupboard door opening to a tiny Harry, curled up on the mattress with only a ratty blanket. Peering through the window to Harry in the yard in midday heat, gloveless and weeding the lawn. Dursley’s large hand gripping Harry’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. Dudley tripping Harry down the stairs. Harry hurt. Harry bruised. Harry with tears in his eyes.
Snape broke free with a pained gasp.
He couldn’t process his emotions, how a boy he had hated for sixteen years with all his soul could be this same boy in Petunia’s memories. So he chose not to process them, instead focusing on his anger.
“Had Lily been in your place, Tuney,” He spat the word with such vitriol it felt as if it were dripping with poison, “She would never have done that to your boy. Never.”
With that, Snape apparated, knowing that a moment longer would have him breaking the Muggle Protection Act in an instant. He hadn’t bothered to free Petunia. She could rot like that for the rest of her miserable life for all Snape cared.
Now he had a boy to find.