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War didn’t discriminate. It took, and took, and took, whether you were a woman or a man, kind or mean, young or old. War didn’t discriminate. Minerva knew that, and yet, seeing the cold, fear-stricken, motionless faces of her former students, when she had seen them at their happiest— it was gut-wrenching. She felt as if her insides were being burned and frozen all at once, twisted and torn from inside her body.
“Oh, James,” she murmured, stepping over his body. His wand was nowhere in sight— he had been completely defenseless when the attack happened, and yet— and yet he fought valiantly, if only for his wife to have a few, fleeting seconds—
Upstairs, the soft cry of a baby made the woman perk up. Disbelief colored her veins, and her heart thrummed— there was no way—
There was no need to fling the nursery door open, when the one before her had already done so. Her gut twisted once more at the second corpse in the Potter household— but the cry was more important. Standing, peering over the crib’s edge, were a pair of emerald-bright eyes, rimmed with tears as he cried out to his unresponsive mother.
“Oh,” Minerva gasped, striding towards the baby. The boy looked up at her miserably, reaching for the woman on the floor, her red hair splayed like a sunrise around her head. “Oh, come here.”
His cries grew louder as she cradled him in her arms, his chubby fingers reaching for the arms of another instead.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, brushing away his tears with her thumb.
“Mama,” he cried, squirming in her embrace towards the woman on the floor, “Mama!” he cried again, his despair intensifying. It seemed that despite the little he knew of the world, little Harry could understand, to some extent, that something terrible had happened and that his mother was worlds away now. Too far for his short, chubby arms to reach.
“I’m sorry,” she hushed, her voice cracking. “But it’s going to be okay, Harry. It’s going to be okay.”
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She had agreed, at first. Harry belonged rightfully with his relatives, his only ones remaining being Lily’s sister— Petunia— and her husband, Vernon. They had seemed fine enough, living on a quaint Muggle street, perfect beige walls and rose bushes. And yet, the longer she sat on that garden wall, watching the skinny, thin-faced woman fuss over her son, neglecting the crying Harry— the surer Minerva was that Albus Dumbledore was not always right.
“No,” she said, firmly, to Dumbledore, as Harry murmured quietly, his little hands reaching for the rim of her hat. “He will not be going back to that house, Albus, and if so, you will receive my resignation letter by the end of today.”
And that was that.
Harry Potter of Number 4, Privet Drive, was no longer— instead, he was Harry Potter of Hogwarts Castle, Scotland, the little emerald-eyed boy that sat quietly on the desk as the deputy headmistress lectured a classroom of students. The students gawked at first, of course. He was the boy-who-lived, the one who had defeated the Dark Lord when greater wizards and witches couldn’t. But then, he was simply an ordinary boy, who got told off when he put things he shouldn’t into his mouth and who cried when things didn’t go how he wanted.
He was a very lovable child. He had a naturally calm temperament, so much so that Minerva could bring him into staff meetings, where he would nod absent-mindedly to Albus’s announcements. He had a sweet smile, and a laugh like tinkling bells whenever Filius or Poppy fawned over him. Even the stone-faced Septima would crack a smile when Harry made grabby hands at her, eventually relenting and letting the boy grab a hold onto her hat. When he cried, which wasn’t very often, he was easily calmed— most times, he would be soothed by someone’s embrace, and when that didn’t work, Minerva’s cat form was a sure-fire way of eliciting a smile from him.
(Although, he had to be taught not to tug on her tail or her ears).
For the first few months after his addition onto the staffing, Severus Snape was unmoved by the Potter’s boy, frowning or scowling whenever Harry made a motion towards him. The first time they met, Severus had scowled so fiercely that Harry had been scared to tears, the boy seeking shelter in Minerva’s arms. The potions master had gotten the lecturing of his life, and then resorted to keeping a flat face whenever Harry was in sight.
And then, one fateful day, Minerva left the two alone in the staffroom— she had left her teaching materials in her class, and when she returned from fetching them…
“Mr. Potter,” Severus sighed audibly, “I believe sucking items is an act beyond you. Surely Minerva has taught you better manners— please return my quill.”
Harry, evidently, obliged. “Sowie,” murmured the boy softly, “No mad.”
“Fine,” came Severus’s weary sigh once more, “I am not mad in any manner, Mr. Potter, so long as you don’t do it again.”
“Okay,” Harry agreed readily. “Hug?”
There was a short pause. “Mr. Potter, I am busy,” clarified Severus. Minerva, who was listening outside the staffroom door, could clearly visualize the face Harry was making— a small pout, and then he would look away, almost as if guilty for wanting attention— “Fine. Come here.”
The staffroom regained its silence, and just as Minerva prepared to open the door, Severus’s voice spoke again, soft and steady.
“Mr. Potter, do you intend to get off my lap anytime soon?” asked Severus. From the light scratching of the quills, it seemed that the potions master had returned to grading his essays, even with a two-year-old boy on his lap.
“No,” said Harry affirmatively, clearly very content with where he was. “Hug.”
Severus sighed (again). “Very well.”
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Unlike the majority of the staff— Filius, Poppy, Pomona, and on occasion Septima (although she would never admit it)— Severus refused to babytalk Harry. Instead, he addressed him as he would any other student, speaking to Harry as if he were a fully coherent 11-year-old, which, to everyone’s surprise, worked very well. Harry understood well what Severus wanted of him, such as no more sucking of the potion master’s quills, and from then on, they got on a lot more agreeably. More and more often, Harry could be found sitting quietly in Severus’s lap as the latter marked essays (angrily), playing with a stuffed toy or a children’s book that Irma Pince had procured.
Between Minerva and Severus’s parenting (although no one would ever tell Severus he was parenting Harry, in fear of his reaction), Harry grew up to be a very polite, mannerful boy. By age four, he was able to eat cleanly at the Great Hall by the staff table, although he resorted to using his hands every once in a while, such as when the elves made him chicken nuggets. Under all the professors’ guidance, he learned to read and write with a quill very early on, and like his mother, became an avid reader by the age of five.
In that same year, Harry watched 2nd-year Charlie Weasley soar on his broom outside the staffroom window, and at age five, Harry wanted to fly. Minerva was not poor by any means, and Harry didn’t ask for things often, so by the end of the week, a children’s broom arrived by owl mail, and on Saturday, the young boy marched out onto the castle grounds, broom in hand, followed by Minerva.
As it turned out, Harry was indeed James Potter’s son, if his bright laughter on a broom was any indication. Most of Minerva’s worries flitted away the moment the boy clasped his hands around the handle, Harry soaring naturally to the broom’s maximum height (5 feet off the ground) with delight glistening in his eyes.
“Of course he’s a natural flier,” grumbled Severus and exclaimed Filius as Minerva recounted the morning’s activities. Tired out by the exercise, Harry had passed out on a couch at the corner of the staffroom, covered cozily by a blanket of golden snitches. “Exactly like his father,” grumbled Severus and exclaimed Filius.
When Harry turned six, Minerva procured the standard textbooks for simple Arithmancy, while Severus dug out Muggle textbooks for Math, Science, and English. During class time— when Minerva was teaching— Harry would sit in the corner, immersed in his Math textbooks, occasionally scribbling additions on spare parchment. After classes, he would proudly scamper into the staffroom, showing his work to anyone who cared (which were most professors). Septima, in particular, was delighted with Harry’s proficiency to teach himself Math, and began showing Harry the basics of magical Arithmancy, which triggered a whole other affair.
It was a no-brainer that Harry would eventually grow old enough to attend Hogwarts as a student— and when the time came, each professor was determined to have their subject be Harry’s favorite.
“Lily was my star student, it goes that Harry should take after his mother’s talent—” Filius argued, one slow afternoon in the staffroom.
“Rubbish! Lily was just as proficient, if not better, in Herbology; Harry loves spending time under the sun and he’s got such a natural talent for raising plants, Herbology’ll be his favorite—” Pomona refuted.
The deputy headmistress, of course, didn’t think there was any point to the childish debate. “He’s already taken after his father as a natural flier, I wouldn’t be surprised if he inherits James’ talent for Transfiguration.”
“This is ridiculous,” Severus, watching his senior colleagues argue, pinched his nose. Beside him, Harry, ignorant to the debate revolving around him, was nose-deep in a textbook. “Mr. Potter, what are you so engrossed in?”
“Plants,” said Harry quietly, showing Severus the book he was reading.
“Ah,” Severus nodded. “That’s an Angel’s Trumpet. It’s a very dangerous and poisonous plant.”
“It’s very pretty,” commented Harry, his finger tracing over the artistic depiction of the flower.
“It’s used in the Angel’s Draught,” said Severus absent-mindedly, underlining a line of nonsense in a student’s essay. “As well as the Tonic for Trace Detection.”
It took a few seconds for Severus to notice that he had perked Harry’s interest, if the glistening curiosity in the boy’s emerald eyes were any indication. “What’s an Angel’s Draught?” the boy asked, his attention drawn away from the book now.
The potions master glanced up at his colleagues, who were still partly reminiscing about James and Lily’s academic abilities and their arguments for Harry excelling in their subject— and suddenly, had a very, very brilliant idea.
“It’s very noisy in here,” he said quietly to Harry, who nodded his agreement. “Do you want to come see potion ingredients? I have dried Angel’s Trumpet petals in the storage— and lots of other things, too.”
And so, to no one’s notice, the two slinked out of the staffroom and down into the dungeons, where Harry’s interest lay captivated by the various ingredients bottled up in strangely-shaped glass containers, each labeled carefully in Severus’s spidery handwriting.
“It’s so pretty,” said Harry, peering at the glass jars. “Can I eat it?”
“No,” Severus said dryly, “It’ll give you a very bad stomach ache, Mr. Potter.”
“Does it taste nice?” the boy tilted his head, as if he couldn’t comprehend how an ingredient so beautifully colored could be bad for his body. “Have you had it before?”
“I have not,” said Severus, setting aside his unmarked essays. Since he was in his potions lab, he figured he would get around to some ingredient preparation while he was at it. “Simply because I did not fancy myself an afternoon of stomach ache. However, I will say that it smells rather pleasant.”
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To everyone’s disappointment, Severus— who, to be fair, wasn’t even actively trying to win Harry’s favor— ended up being the professor of Harry’s favorite subject. For hours on end, Harry could sit, enamored, as Severus sliced, diced, and minced ingredients, listening intently as the potions master explained their properties.
At age eight, Harry helped Severus brew for the very first time, standing on a stool high enough for him to see over the counter, counting the stirs out loud as Severus watched his technique approvingly. In the same year, he was taught to use a knife, and by eight and a half, he had preparation skills equal to a second-year student— a feat Severus was very quietly proud of.
Harry’s weekends were henceforth taken over by Severus, who would smile smugly as Minerva scowled across the staffroom. Even so, the deputy headmistress would smile attentively as the boy described the latest potions he made, the ingredients he helped prepare, and all the nitty-gritty details of potion making that added salt to the wound.
“This doesn’t mean he won’t be talented at Transfiguration,” Minerva defended one late night, as they were preparing exam papers after Harry had gone to bed, “It’s only that Potions is a subject he can learn without a wand.”
“Certainly,” Severus would say pleasantly, “Although that sounds strangely of denial to me, Minerva.”
By age nine, Harry was sitting in on Severus’s potions classes, and he would often choose to sit by the most talented student of the cohort, observing their technique quietly. Severus’s star seventh year, a Hufflepuff named Sacharissa Tugwood, would often narrate what she was doing as she did it, which quickly made her Harry’s favorite.
That same year, Harry prevented a disastrous accident in a first-year potions class before the explosion occurred. The boy was quietly sitting on Severus’s desk as the potions master walked around the room, surveying his students’ potions. Spotting a mistake from his perch, Harry had hopped off in alarm and stopped the student before he threw his unblanched gillyweed into the cauldron, which would’ve caused an exothermic reaction.
(Safe to say, Severus had never been so proud).
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“Harry, why don’t you show Severus what you learned last night?”
Severus glanced up from his essays (he did seem to be always marking essays), his eyebrow raising at Minerva’s smug voice. The emerald-eye boy was thrumming in veiled excitement, the way he always was when he wanted to show off an accomplishment.
“Oh?” Severus quirked an eyebrow at the deputy headmistress, whose face was the definition of the cat who got the mouse. “Alright, Mr. Potter. Let’s see it.”
“Okay,” Harry nodded agreeably, pulling a pebble out of his pocket and setting it onto the table before Severus. He glanced up at Minerva, who slid her wand into his hand, and making a scrunched, concentrated face, the boy pointed the wand at the pebble, and—
In the blink of an eye, the pebble had been transformed into a stone teapot, pearly gray, like a sort of marble, complete with a smooth spout, handle, and an embellished lid. It was difficult to tell who was more proud, for both Harry and Minerva were preening at the successful spell.
“Well done, Mr. Potter,” Severus acknowledged. “That was very impressive.”
Harry beamed.
Between attending Severus’s potion classes and Minerva’s transfiguration lessons, Harry essentially had the course load of a full-time student at Hogwarts. In fact, he was already listening to seventh-year material when he hadn’t even been enrolled yet. Once, Minerva pondered if Harry would become bored with the syllabus once he became an actual student— but figured it was a problem to be dealt with once they got to it.
For his tenth birthday, Harry received his first ever proper broom from Minerva, who gifted it to him early in July. He spent a large amount of that summer with the Weasleys, as the deputy headmistress figured that he could benefit from spending more time with other children. Charlie Weasley, who often had the boy sitting in on his Transfiguration classes— was more than happy to teach an exuberant Harry to fly , and it was that year that the boy got a healthy tan.
Harry spent most of his tenth summer bouncing between Minerva’s and the Weasleys. Arthur and Molly were more than happy to put down an extra mattress in Ron’s bedroom for Harry, should the boy want to stay over, but at the end of the day, Harry often longed for his bed in the deputy headmistress’s summer home.
Some nights, he would return to Severus in Minerva’s kitchen, the two sipping tea as they talked casually. Minerva would tell him to take a shower and magically heat up leftover supper, and Severus would quiz him about random potion ingredients as he ate (much to Minerva’s indignance, stating that “There should be no mention of dragon blood or goat livers over meals,”).
Harry’s eleventh birthday was celebrated quietly , as he liked it. Minerva had offered to invite his friends— the Weasley brothers (and Ginny), mainly, but also Neville, who Harry had gotten to know recently, but Harry politely refused. It was a simple dinner— Harry’s favorite, which was pasta, and a chocolate cake they bought from Diagon Alley.
“I’m going to be a first-year next year,” Harry said out loud as they sat on the couch together, glancing up at Minerva. “Is it going to be weird?”
“Perhaps,” said the deputy headmistress, “But you’ll be okay.”
Harry smiled. “I know.” he paused. “What if I accidentally call you Aunt Minnie when you’re teaching me?”
“Well,” the deputy headmistress said thoughtfully, “We’ll simply deal with it if it ever happens.”
“Okay,” Harry nodded. “... I’m going to miss my bedroom in your quarters.”
“It’ll still be there,” said Minerva, ruffling Harry’s hair lightly. “You’ll have your bed in your dorms, of course, and you’ll have your bedroom in my quarters. You can always come up to visit, if you ever feel like it.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“And I can come study in the staffroom?”
“I doubt you’ll want to study in the staffroom when you have friends and a common room,” said Minerva.
“That’s true,” said Harry thoughtfully. “It’s going to be weird when I become a student.”
“Yes,” agreed the deputy headmistress, “But we’ll figure it out.”
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To put it simply, none of the professors had ever felt so stressed at a sorting ever before. They had agreed, of course, that no one would make any speculations (or debates) about which house Harry would end up in, but it was natural that they wished for the boy in their own house— especially after witnessing his talent in flying. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was an excellent Quidditch player in the making.
But it would be all up to the Sorting Hat to decide.
“Potter, Harry,” announced Minerva at the front of the hall. The first years gasped audibly— although the upper years, already seated at their tables, were used to the boy’s presence. Even so, a good number of them sat up straight, peering over each other to see Harry’s sorting. After all, he had been among their numbers for years, houseless—
“Hi,” Harry whispered, stepping up to the stool. Minerva’s face remained neutral, but he could see the smile in her eyes. “I’m a little scared, but… I’ll be okay.”
“Yes,” she agreed, lifting the Sorting Hat. “Ready?”
Harry smiled. “Ready.”
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