Chapter Text
Harry hadn’t meant to snoop— honest! The Dursleys had long since scared, and quite possibly beaten, the curiosity out of his frail ten year old body. It’s just that while he was dusting the many, many, many Dursley family albums, none of which Harry was in by the way, a single photo slipped out. Harry held his breath as it fluttered to the ground.
Eager to avoid a scolding and yet another evening without dinner, he quickly picked it up. Turning it around was only meant to be a way for him to check and make sure it wasn’t ruined. It was fine, Harry knew, but Aunt Petunia would still find something to complain about and then punish him for. Best to avoid that altogether.
Speak of the devil… Aunt Petunia herself was in the picture scowling at him. A kid version; older than Harry by maybe a few years and wearing a dress in a deep shade of purple that made him think of an eggplant. Harry held back a snort. She would never wear that color now.
Following Aunt Petunia’s gaze, he noticed there was another girl farther back. Harry froze. She also wore a dress but he hardly paid attention to the color. How could he when she had hair like fire and eyes the same color as his own? Or maybe it was Harry who had eyes like hers. The realization, the hope of who she was, of who she could be, made him clutch the photograph close to his chest.
Mum.
There was a boy next to her. Harry nearly missed him in all the excitement. He blended in with the grey skies and blackened trees a little too well. Harry understood wanting to disappear more than kids his age should. He hated attention. Good or bad, it only ever came with problems and hurt.
The girl with the flames for hair didn’t seem to mind. She had her arm out, wanting to pull the boy closer even though they were already standing close enough to where their sleeves touched. Maybe she would have managed to grab him in time if he wasn’t a head taller, a head with black hair stuck to it like a dirty wet mop. The boy was pale too, the same shade Harry turned come winter time when there was no gardening to be done and therefore no reason for him to be outside under the blistering sun. The Dursleys always found a reason. They liked punishing him by locking him outside in the cold.
Memories of frozen tears, chattering teeth, and the numbness of his fingers and toes couldn’t reach him now. Not when the warmth from the picture started making his world go pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off of the girl and the boy together. He probably wouldn’t have looked away if Aunt Petunia hadn’t snuck up on him.
“What are you doing?”
Harry nearly dropped the photo. Aunt Petunia snatched it from him before he could.
“You had no right to go through my things!” she said with the same scowl as the one in the picture.
Harry shouldn’t have looked up and let Aunt Petunia see the hope in his eyes. He should’ve apologized. Instead, Harry wet his bottom lip and peered up through his lashes to ask, “Is that my mum?”
Aunt Petunia made a choking sound. She began dragging him by the ear all the way until they reached his cupboard. Harry barely felt the pain, the warmth from the photo had spread to his heart.
“If that’s my mum, then who’s the boy she’s with?” he asked before Aunt Petunia could shove him inside.
Harry was never this bold unprovoked. But his hands were shaking and his heart was racing and when would he ever get this opportunity again?
For the longest time, he had grown up believing that his parents were drunkards who died in a car crash. The Dursleys liked to remind him of this fact every time he misbehaved. They told their neighbors about it, his teachers, Dudley’s friends’ parents— everyone within earshot, really.
As Harry grew older, the Dursleys brought it up as often as they did the weather. Rain or shine, the story never changed. Except names. The Dursleys never mentioned any names. They never showed him any pictures either. Lack of information. Lack of food. The Dursleys’ torments seemed never ending.
Harry’s stomach rumbled. He ignored it. He could go a few more days without eating if it meant he could finally find out more about his parents. The Dursleys wouldn’t starve him to death. Though right now, Aunt Petunia looked like she really wanted to. She yanked open the door and tossed Harry into his cupboard rougher than she’d ever done before. Then with a sneer, she leaned down to hiss into his face, “Your mum was not only a drunkard but she was also a slag.”
Harry felt all of the heat from his heart rush into his face. He clenched his hands into fists. “Don’t call her that!”
“Two peas in a rotten pod they were. Two degenerates. Both freaks,” Aunt Petunia said with a smirk that grew wider and uglier on her painted lips.
Harry wanted to cover his ears but he also wanted to listen; to learn and understand. Something. Anything. Even if they were lies. Especially if they were lies. There had to be some truth hidden beneath Aunt Petunia’s rage.
“I used to tell her she should stay away from him. She never listened. And look where that got her? It all makes sense now, I suppose, with you.” Her eyes narrowed a smidge. “I always suspected she was messing around with Severus back then. Even after she got with that other freak… I wouldn’t be surprised if Severus was your real father just like it wouldn’t surprise me if she used her freakishness to fool her husband about you.
“Guess being a freak was never enough for her. Oh no, she just had to go and get her way with that man too. Both of them, freaks, in more ways than one. The nerve of my sister. Not that it matters anymore. Lily is dead and I hope Severus Snape died too!” Aunt Petunia’s chest rose and fell as she finished, her face now an unnatural shade of grey. It reminded Harry of the background in the picture. Distantly, he wondered if Aunt Petunia had ever been happy. Always scowling. Always mean. She shut the door in his face before he could feel bad for her.
The light bulb flickered. Harry glared up at it. It was most likely a day away from going out and another day away from Harry willing it to be fixed. Usually, if he wanted something enough, and badly, Harry only had to wish for it very hard. Like getting away from Dudley and his friends when they were chasing him at school. Or unlocking the door to his cupboard late at night when the gnawing pains in his stomach grew to be too much and he could finally sneak some food.
He was too angry to worry about the light now. There were too many questions to focus on and Aunt Petunia had locked him up without answering a single one. How could she do that after saying all those horrible things?
Harry’s eyes stung. His mouth felt drier than the cotton balls he sometimes swallowed to feel full. He should’ve known better. Aunt Petunia wasn’t nice.
The light flickered some more. Harry hated Aunt Petunia just as much as he hated that stupid bulb. He didn’t want it fixed. He wanted it gone, to break.
Crack. Instant darkness overwhelmed the space. Harry crawled under the covers in regret. He always ended up in the dark. This time he had nobody to blame but himself.
Face down onto his pillow, Harry struggled to keep the tears from coming out. Aunt Petunia would yell at him if he cried too loud. I’m sorry, he wanted to say to the light. I didn’t mean it.
Had Aunt Petunia meant it? Harry sniffled quietly. He was just so torn. He didn’t want to believe her. His mum was not a slag. Aunt Petunia was a big fat liar. She enjoyed lying to him just as much as Uncle Vernon enjoyed smacking him around. Harry had learned how to tell when she was telling the truth. This time he wasn’t sure.
Because this time, underneath all of that uncertainty, there was also hope. Aunt Petunia didn’t know whether or not Severus Snape was alive. She didn’t know whether or not Severus Snape was his real dad. But Harry wanted it to be true.
His stomach churned. It felt wrong to feel this way. Twisted. Like betrayal. Harry wanted his dad to be Severus Snape because that meant one of his parents was still alive. Snape must have not known about Harry’s existence, otherwise he would have looked for him… right? Harry wanted this to be true even if… even if it meant that his mum…
No. He sat up abruptly to keep that thought from finishing. Harry was sure that she, his mum— Lily, because he knew her name now— must have had her reasons for doing what she did.
If what Aunt Petunia said was true.
If, if, if.
Harry laid back down and screamed into his pillow. After all these years, he still believed there was something good meant for him out there; something only he got to have, something the Dursleys couldn’t touch. He had never thought it could ever be a person. His dad. Harry wanted it. No hunger could compare to how badly he yearned.
True, he didn’t look much like Snape right now, but that might change over the years. Harry still had some growing up to do. Dudley grew taller and wider every year. Maybe if Harry wished for it really hard, he could change overnight and catch up to him. His lips twitched as he imagined the look on Dudley’s face if something like that actually happened. Or how pale he could turn before the Dursleys accused him of being a ghost. Dursley Haunting sounded loads more fun than Harry Hunting.
It turned out that Harry didn’t need to wait years to change. The next morning he was let out of his cupboard and told to get started on breakfast. He didn’t get far. As soon as Harry stepped into the kitchen, Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped the casserole dish in her hands. She looked worse than yesterday, a paleness to her skin that made her look like the ghost Harry had imagined himself to be.
Harry opened his mouth to ask if she was alright when Dudley, who had been sitting at the table loudly complaining about being starved, began to scream too. “Burglar!” He pointed a fat finger in Harry’s direction. “Someone broke into the house!”
Burglar? Harry couldn’t hide his scowl fast enough. Dudley had called him loads of nasty things in the past. Harry the Weirdo. Harry the Freak. Burglar was a bit of a stretch. Harry didn’t even know that word was in Dudley’s vocabulary.
“Dad! Come quick!” Dudley jumped up and down, scattering bits of the broken dish and egg casserole all over the tiles. Harry half-expected him to crouch down and gobble them up while Aunt Petunia freaked out over him accidentally ingesting glass.
“Burglar! Burglar!”
“I’m not a burglar,” Harry said, voice coming out smaller than he intended. “I’m not!”
His eyes moved back to Aunt Petunia who hadn’t shifted from her spot next to the oven. Her hands shook. “Get. Out,” she said quietly.
Harry almost didn’t hear her. His heart was thudding too loudly in his chest, louder than even Dudley.
“Boy,” Uncle Vernon began while stomping into the kitchen, “if you’re causing trouble this early already I swear I’ll—” He made a sputtering sound and stopped when he noticed Harry. “Who the hell are you?”
“He’s a burglar!” Dudley panted, already out of breath from his earlier commotion. “Call the police!”
“Get out,” Aunt Petunia repeated, making all three of them turn.
“Pet?” Uncle Vernon asked hesitantly.
“Tell him to leave, Vernon.”
Aunt Petunia’s words left Harry feeling ice cold.
“W-Well, I plan to.” Uncle Vernon turned back to him and shook off his confusion. “Right after I call the feds,” he said, unhooking the phone with a sneer. With his other hand, he held Harry’s arm in a bruising grip. “Who do you think you are, eh? Breaking into my home like some nasty vagrant!”
Who do I think I am? Harry’s mouth hung open. This had to be some kind of bad dream. Or a trick. He wouldn’t put it past the Dursleys to try something like this. “But Uncle Vernon, you know me. I’m—”
Dudley gasped suddenly. “He’s wearing my clothes!”
Harry glanced down at himself despite knowing that he very well was. Dudley never let him forget that Harry was stuck wearing his hand-me-downs. He wouldn’t have minded if they actually fit him at least.
“He’s a burglar and a thief!”
“You’re a liar!” Harry yelled back. “I haven’t stolen anything and you know it!”
“You shut your filthy vagrant mouth!” Uncle Vernon let go of his arm so that he could backhand him across the face.
Harry fell onto his bottom with a hiss. Shards of glass dug into the skin of his elbows. Dudley chose that moment to begin to cry, as if he had been the one to get struck.
“Get him out of here now, Vernon!” Aunt Petunia screeched. “I will not have this freak in our house any longer.”
“Freak?” Uncle Vernon asked, looking between her and Harry. “You mean—” His eyes went wide; his face turned even redder. “Freak!”
Aunt Petunia’s nostrils flared. “I was right about your mother, boy. She was a slag. No. She was a stupid whore!”
Harry had never moved so quickly in his entire life. “Take it back or else!” He scrambled to his feet and all of the dishes in the kitchen began to violently rattle and shake. Dudley’s sobs grew louder. Harry wanted to punch him in the face. Harry wanted to grab Aunt Petunia and—
“Not so fast, boy!” Uncle Vernon stopped Harry from getting any further by yanking at his collar and tugging him back.
Harry didn’t know what he had planned to do if he hadn’t been caught. He was just so angry and confused. Most of all, Harry was scared. He couldn’t think properly. He couldn’t breathe. Uncle Vernon was holding him against the wall now, his meaty elbow blocking Harry’s airway.
For a single second, Aunt Petunia had looked scared too. The fear was gone the next time she blinked. “This house is no longer your home. You are no longer welcome here,” she said and something in the air shifted. “I agreed to take you in thinking you were the son of Lily and her freakish husband but clearly you’re not. Whatever trick that old man used to hide the truth from us about you has finally worn off. And good riddance, I say! Now get out of my house. Get out of my sight. I never want to see you near me or my family ever again!”
When Uncle Vernon finally let him go, Harry collapsed onto his knees gasping for air. It felt like he barely got a chance to breathe when he was being grabbed again. Uncle Vernon didn’t wait for him to get up. He proceeded to drag Harry all the way out into the hall while Dudley’s sobs shifted into cheers.
Along the way, Harry caught sight of himself in a small mirror hung on the wall. His whole face and hair had changed. His eyes were still green but the rest of him, of Harry, was gone. Pale skin, dark floppy hair— he looked like that boy from the photo. He looked like Snape. Now more than ever, Harry was sure he was in a dream.
“What are you doing?” Aunt Petunia demanded when Uncle Vernon stopped at his cupboard.
“The feds’ll be here any minute now. Better to get him locked up and make sure he’s put away for good.”
A small, broken sound escaped Harry’s mouth. No. He glanced up at her and winced. It hurt every time he moved his neck. “Aunt Petunia, p-please. I’ll be good. I’ll change back.” He had no idea how he had changed in the first place. But he would try. “Just don’t let them take me.”
Aunt Petunia ignored him. Her hands were still trembling. “And if the old man comes by, what do we say?”
“The truth,” Uncle Vernon answered with a smirk. “That the boy was no good so we had them take him away.”
Satisfied, Aunt Petunia gave a little nod and then walked away without ever giving Harry a second glance.
“No. Wait!” Harry screamed. He twisted and writhed to get away from Uncle Vernon but there was no winning against his ruthless grip. Uncle Vernon flung him into his cupboard and slammed the door so hard that the hinges squeaked. Harry bumped his head against the wall. For the next few minutes, he saw stars every time he blinked.
Soon, police sirens could be heard in the distance. Harry turned to the door with blurry vision. His glasses had fallen off at some point during the struggle.
Open, he tried desperately. Open, open, open!
But the door wouldn’t budge and the sirens kept getting closer. Harry was too distressed to focus. He couldn’t stop crying. He still couldn’t breathe or see very well. Every time he closed his eyes, Uncle Vernon was there, pressing him against the wall while Aunt Petunia looked on in…
Disgust, Harry decided with a whimper. She had looked at him in disgust. And then she hadn’t looked at him at all.
Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring
“They’re here, pet!” came Uncle Vernon’s cheery voice from the other side.
Harry counted his footsteps the way he always did. It usually took him twelve to get to the door. Eight if he was using long strides. Uncle Vernon had reached the door in five. A new record. They were serious about this.
Come on, Harry tried the door again one more time. Nothing happened.
There were more footsteps in the hallway now.
Please, Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to go to jail. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault that he woke up looking like his dad.
Dad…
Harry would never get to meet him now. Surely his dad wouldn’t want anything to do with him once he found out that Harry was in jail… if Snape was even alive. Aunt Petunia hadn’t seemed sure yesterday. Then again, Harry had still been himself yesterday too.
Anything can happen.
Harry chanced another try at the door again and then shrunk away from the wall altogether as the footsteps from outside came to a stop.
“He’s in here you said?” an unknown voice asked.
“Er, yes,” Uncle Vernon said with a nervous chuckle. “Had to lock him up to make sure he didn’t escape after breaking in. Practically did all the work for you lot, ha!”
The officer didn’t laugh. Harry held his breath. Maybe…
“Right. Well. We’re here now to take him off your hands so if you could just open up.”
“Yes, yes! I have the keys right here.”
Dad. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and curled his hands into fists. One last try. I want to be with dad.
The key went into the lock. Harry tried again. Maybe he had to be more specific.
I want to be with my dad. He clenched his entire body until it hurt. The doorknob twisted. With Severus Snape, Harry added. His fingers and toes began to tingle— yes! Almost there.
Take me to Severus Snape. Where he lives, wherever he’s at, that’s where I want to go. That’s where he belonged.
The door to the cupboard was flung open and with one last plea, Harry was swept away.