Disclaimer: Playing with borrowed toys

A Matter of Logic

Chapter One: Expectations

Sweat gleamed on the forehead of a darkly clad man. The man brought a pale, sure hand to his brow to wipe away glistening beads, brushing black, greasy locks from his face in the process. The temperature beneath the invisibility cloak was dizzying. Heat radiated from the sun cooked asphalt of Privet Drive.

Severus Snape scowled at the dying lawn of the Dursley residence. It was his turn on the rotation to protect Potter, and he was less than pleased.

This was his fifth rotation, and he had seen the Potter boy twice. Both times the whelp seemed to be wearing a walking whale's clothing. Both times the brat had been working efficiently toward one end or other, gardening or otherwise maintaining the aesthetic aspects of his home. Both times his aunt had come out to chastise him for some misdeed or other, though even Snape, ready as he was to find fault with the boy, could not fathom what the child might have done. Perhaps the woman was simply temperamental.

"Come along, Harry dear," said Petunia Dursley as she opened the white screen door of the house, and set one bony, sandaled foot onto the red stoop. "Your uncle will be home any moment, and you know how excited he'll be to see the work you've done on the garden. It might even be early enough for the two of you to do some gardening together." Petunia Dursley smiled lovingly as the Potter boy strutted onto the yard. "He'll be pleased when I show him what I've done with the flowerbed," said the insolent brat. "I know he'll think it brilliant." Arrogant. Arrogant, Potter, like his arrogant father…

Except, that wasn't right. Severus had come to expect a different vein of arrogance from Potter – an arrogance that got people killed, an arrogance in his actions more than in his words. Potter was arrogant, but this was different. Potter now held himself more like James had, and the words – his language consisted of terms and a tone that Severus would have expected the boy's father to have used.

Intrigued, Snape turned his attention back to the scene before him. Potter's aunt was dragging a lawn chair across the grass, bringing it to a spot where she had placed a novel and a glass of lemonade. As Petunia unfolded the chair, Potter propped himself up against the trunk of a large tree and pulled out a snitch. He let it go, paused a moment, then caught the fluttering orb before it could vanish.

The scene was unnaturally reminiscent of Potter Senior at Hogwarts. The untidy black hair, the light brown eyes… no, green eyes. The green eyes were as bright as ever, the scar on the boy's forehead as stark as he remembered. But Snape knew what he had seen. Something was off here. Snape touched a glass lemon drop in his pocket, refraining from sneering at the thought of the man who had insisted on this ridiculous trinket as a form of communication. The lemon drop heated slightly in Snape's pocket, causing a silver ring on Dumbledore's left hand to squirm.

Snape remained perfectly still as he stood outside Potter's residence, waiting for the Headmaster to arrive. The woman and boy persisted in their chosen means of relaxation, and all seemed calm. Clearly, the idiotic child had landed himself in some trouble. What foolishness the boy had engaged in, in order to bring this about, was something he did not want to contemplate until he had some solid facts on which to base his theories.

Within fifteen minutes of Snape signaling the Headmaster, a lemon drop hit the sidewalk a foot from where he stood. The Headmaster was here, and invisible.

Snape presently began to relay the situation in a low hiss, looking downward as he spoke, so as not to have to look through the Headmaster, or three inches to his left. "Potter's behavior since he and his aunt first exited the house has been strange," whispered Snape, sparing not a moment for pleasantries. "At first, his mien was so reminiscent of his father's," Snape favored Dumbledore with a wry sneer, "it seemed to warrant closer inspection. When I looked at his eyes, I first saw brown, causing me to suspect something a bit more sinister than I had initially credited. That's when I alerted you."

The Headmaster surveyed the scene. "I see what you described, Severus, but I do not believe my eyes: I think they are being deceived. Nor am I convinced that what I see is what I first saw." Typical Dumbledore statement that will make sense once the utility of the information has expired, thought Severus. The Headmastere sighed. Dumbledore's eyes did not twinkle, and the sad weight in his voice dulled Snape's ire. "It is a mark of my great failure that I know something to be amiss because I see Harry being treated well by his relatives."

"That is not something you would expect to see," Snape deduced, his voice flat despite his curiosity.

"Expectations are a powerful tool, Severus, and I believe it is you who saw what you expected to see," replied Dumbledore. Snape considered the man. The idea held merit: he saw what he believed he would have seen on his first shift, nay, at Potter's first appearance at Hogwarts. He saw James Potter playing with a snitch, and that worried him.

"If I see what I expect to see, and in voicing it have caused you to see this same vision of Potter," Snape correctly interpreted the Headmaster's implications, "what is actually going on behind this façade?"

"An excellent question, Severus," said Dumbledore, as he withdrew his wand from his robe pocket and directed it at the sight in front of him. "Liberus," whispered Dumbledore six times in quick succession, forming six parabolas in the air as he did so. Petunia and Harry remained immersed in their activities, oblivious to the wizards standing in front of their gate.