Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, any of the HP universe or, really, anything you recognize.
A/N: This story takes place approximately 10 years after Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts. Please forgive any minor inconsistencies which I know will follow regarding things like the existence/state of certain technology and the details of London. I have lived in London for the past three and a half years and have become intimately familiar with it as it is today (i.e. up to early 2013) – I take some artistic license with these details as they do not tend to be too significant to the plot. Also, I do not have a beta for this story because I tend to be pretty strict with my criticism of myself and my work; but if you, dear reader, feel that the story is in need of a beta, please do let me know in a review (well, please review whether or not you think so, actually).
Prologue
It had rained earlier in the day – hardly out of the ordinary in London – and small puddles decorated the streets and sidewalks. A young man stood, slouching, hood up, waiting for the red double-decker to pull up to his stop. He pressed his travelcard to the yellow circle, acknowledged the positive beep with a murmured, "Thank you" to the driver, and then trudged up the stairs to his favourite seat – right at the front of the bus. There weren't many people on the upper level this evening – but the man's sensitive nose noticed that one of the few present stank enough to make up for the absence of more bodies. He stank like he'd bedded three prostitutes and subsequently had them rub their venereal diseases across every bit of exposed skin they could reach. Nose crinkling in disgust, intelligent emerald eyes glanced toward the stinker but couldn't see his face, shrouded as it was in a rumpled, dirty hoodie.
"No wonder Purebloods look down on muggles," he thought, sneering slightly, "when public transport is littered with this calibre of scum. It's enough to make you wonder where all the decent people hide in this mess of a city." Like many Londoners, this young man had a love/hate relationship with the city where one could never be bored, would usually be annoyed, would probably feel aggressive towards every person between point A and point B and yet wouldn't have it any other way.
The bus pulled up to another stop, admitting a squabble of squeaking, quite inebriated students. The messy-haired man's heightened sense of hearing was not necessary to hear the loud squawks, squeals of laughter and appalling language (for such a public setting) amongst the decisive beeps of the Oyster card machine. As the unruly group stomped up the stairs, he turned to openly glare at every hooligan as they appeared. One of the men stared back and seemed about to confront the stranger. A deep growl made his (fractionally more prudent) friends nudge him towards the back of the bus. Emerald eyes seemed to almost dull as the prospect of confrontation fizzled out, turning back around to stare at the cars in front of the bus. The giggling gaggle of scum resumed their racket and he wished his iPod's battery hadn't died. He wished a lot of things hadn't died, to be fair. Shaking his head, he bemusedly considered how more than ten years of being exiled from the magical world had not broken him of remorseful thoughts.
He now had a fairly good job working with the reptiles at the London Zoo (where he had discovered that Parseltongue did not limit him to speaking only to snakes), enjoyed a comfortable flat south of the river and basically just stayed off the radar. Not even that fraud Trelawney could have predicted this outcome for Harry Potter, the blasted Boy Who Lived.
Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind and using a small bit of mental magic to block the noise coming from the back of the bus, he watched the buildings and street lamps float by. He was mildly surprised to realize that the bus was already North of the river. As the bus pulled away from the Charing Cross Station stop, he suddenly felt a strong magical presence approach until it loomed over him, and he tensed up, unwilling to turn around and confirm just who stood not two feet away. He felt as the person sat down beside him but continued to stubbornly act as though the traffic was far more interesting than he truly thought it was.
"Well, Mr Potter," softly spoke a silky baritone, so familiar in its heavy, heady, dastardly confidence, "I thought finding you would prove more difficult than this."
Turning slowly, Harry found himself playing the part of the proverbial deer, caught in the headlights of Severus Snape's self-satisfied smirk.
A/N: Very short prologue, I know. I think I make up for it in Chap 1, though, which is already written and soon to be uploaded. Forgive me for my muse's amusement with several severe cases of consonance.