A.N.: This is a story I've had bouncing around in my head since Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows came out. It takes place in the canon universe of the Harry Potter books, beginning in 1993, during the summer before Harry's second year. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1: The Man in the Black Cloak

Paul and Martha McAlister of 53 Gresham Road, London, were the two nastiest, meanest and altogether least pleasant people in their neighborhood, although their neighbors frequently liked to joke that perhaps the McAlisters were the worst people in the whole city. When they were sober, both Mr. and Mrs. McAlister were argumentative, insulting and rude. But they were only rarely sober. When they were drunk, they went from merely argumentative to violent. At such times, they would start fights over anything at all with anyone at all, including and most frequently, each other. They usually stank of cheap beer and scotch and smoke. Their neighbors could recognize them by their stench, and knew enough to duck into a friend's flat if they even caught a whiff of the McAlisters. The policemen who patrolled their neighborhood had dragged either one or both of them into the station more times than any of them could count and had taken to placing bets on whether Paul or Martha would be arrested first every week.

The McAlisters also had two young children, Timothy and Lucy, ages 10 and nine. It was obvious to the neighbors that, no matter how awful the McAlisters were to their equals, they were all the worse to their children. Both children frequently sported nasty bruises, black eyes and cut lips. When the police were summoned to the McAlister's flat, it was always because the neighbors had called in that the parents had taken to beating the children again.

Although they pitied them, the neighbors also found both Timothy and Lucy to be strange. They were quiet and intense. They moved strangely, suddenly and without warning, twitching, almost, rather than moving smoothly. When you nodded to them as you passed on the sidewalks, they held your eye contact just a little too long, Timothy's dark eyes and Lucy's pale blue ones seeming to almost bore into you. When you greeted them on the street, the children did not return your smile. The neighbors understood this, knowing they must have had precious little to smile about. The children answered any questions politely but tersely, never volunteering information. Their voices were both cold and flat. At school, they got good marks, but they never volunteered answers in class and their teachers seldom called on them to answer questions. Their classmates generally avoided them and they avoided their classmates. Bullies who picked on Timothy seemed to suffer from a spate of inexplicable bad luck until they found new targets. Bullies who picked on Lucy suffered from bad luck and attacks from Timothy, who had developed a nasty reputation as a dirty fighter, quick to come to his sister's defense, speedy and willing to use low blows as a first resort. Only children who were new to the school tried to befriend or bully the McAlister children anymore and they were quickly put off.

July 23, 1992 began like every other day that July: hot and humid. Timothy woke early. Tomorrow was his birthday, and while he didn't expect that his parents would do anything to mark the occasion other than get drunk and pass out in bed sometime after three in the morning, he would still be a year older. Maybe he could sneak a donut from the cupboard to share with Lucy to celebrate. He was pretty certain he could make it look like his mum had taken it to his dad and that his dad had taken it to his mum. They probably wouldn't notice that one was missing, and if they did and fought each other, well, better they hit one another rather than him or Lucy. He walked to the bathroom to get ready for the day. He saw his reflection in the mirror, a small, dark haired boy, the bruise around his eye only beginning to heal. His pale face was thin and his cheekbones were distinct. He quickly brushed his teeth and returned to his room to dress.

Timothy walked down the hall, poking his head into Lucy's room. She was still asleep, smiling faintly. Her lip was almost healed, that was good. Timothy had been worried that it would need stitches given how much it had bled when mum had hit her last week. Walking out into the living room, he found his dad had been too drunk to even stumble back to bed after getting back from the pub last night. The TV was on, but then it was always on. Some vapid morning show host was talking about the latest celebrity scandal, laughing at his own obvious jokes and smirking innuendos.

The newspaper had already arrived. That was good. Timothy didn't much care to read about the various goings-on in the world but his parents didn't let him go to the library and didn't give him any pocket money that he could use to buy books. If he wanted to get something to read, he had to wait for the times his parents had drunk too much to even get up in the morning. It was better when school was in, because at least then he had his school books and the rather small school library. But the newspaper was better than nothing, and helped him get through the summer.

A sound at the door to the hallway caused him to look up from the world news. Lucy was up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Are you hungry? I think there's some cereal in the cupboard and the milk's probably still good," Timothy said softly as to not wake his father.

Lucy nodded and went into the kitchen, coming back out shortly with two small bowls of cereal. "That's the last of it. I checked in on mum before coming out here. I think she had less than daddy last night. Maybe we can talk her into going to the store once she wakes up," Lucy said.

"Yeah. She might get really drunk tonight or something. It'd probably be best to try to get her to go to the store today."

"When do you think Daddy will wake up?"

"Not before noon. If mum had gotten that drunk, maybe we could have made it to the library and back before they woke up. Do you want to go to the playground this morning?"

"Alright, then."

The schoolyard was nearly empty this early in the morning, which was really all the same to Timothy and Lucy. They never asked to join the other children, nor did other children ask to join them. Mostly, the two of them played on the swings, no longer engaging in their complex games of make believe which had tended to see them whisked away to live with the Queen or in America or with the Pharaohs or anywhere that wasn't with their parents.

The children only stayed at the playground briefly before returning home. Timothy hoped that their mother was still asleep and hadn't noticed that they'd gone out without permission. Their father was now snoring loudly, drowning out the soap opera that had come on. "Do you know what's in the cupboard for lunch? Not that I'm hungry yet, it's only that I'm curious," Lucy said. Their parents usually spent most of their money on alcohol and cigarettes, leaving little for food. Nor did they go to the store enough, so the food was usually stale at best.

"There's some bread and peanut butter in the cupboard, I think, and there are pickles in the fridge. Mum hates them and dad won't be up in time for lunch. Although I don't think he likes pickles either… He probably bought them some time when he was too drunk to remember that he didn't like them," Timothy answered.

"Oh, good. Pickle and peanut-butter sandwiches," Lucy said. Her sarcasm probably would have gone over anyone else's head, but Timothy caught recognized it and smiled tightly.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully until Mrs. McAlister got up just before 11:00 and stumbled into the bathroom. By this point, Timothy and Lucy were playing another game in their rather endless rounds of checkers at the kitchen table. "Does mum work today?" Timothy asked as he took one of Lucy's pieces and was promoted to king.

"I think so. She probably starts at 11:30 or something. Or maybe she was supposed to start at 10:00 and is going to be late again."

Timothy smiled again at this. When their parents weren't listening, both children were more than willing to make rather cruel, but usually accurate, jokes and comments about their parents.

Mrs. McAlister stumbled into the kitchen at that point, dressed in her uniform for the fast food place she worked at down the street. It was something of a mystery to Timothy how either his mother or father managed to stay employed. They had gone into work drunk more than once, were frequently late and Timothy couldn't imagine that they were any nicer to customers or coworkers than they were to anyone else. "You two finish off the milk?" Mrs. McAlister grunted at the children by way of a morning greeting.

"We were almost out anyways. We're out of cereal, too. Do you think you could pick up some more food after work?" Lucy asked in a small, scared voice. Mrs. McAlister was pouring herself a cup of gin at this point but grunted. "Thank you." Lucy replied. Mrs. McAlister tossed back the gin and stuffed a donut into her mouth before trudging out the door.

At exactly noon, however, Timothy's life changed forever. There was a sharp, loud rap of knuckles on the cheap front door to the flat. Timothy, who had just lost a second game in a row to Lucy, turned his head toward the living room. "Who could that be?" he asked.

"I don't know, but we'd better answer it before whoever it is knocks again and wakes up dad. He'll blame us, you know." Lucy replied.

The children padded into the living room. Neither was tall enough to see through the peep hole, so Timothy simply opened the door. Standing in the hallway outside was a man of perhaps average height, if not a little short, thin, and really rather unpleasant looking. His face was pale and faintly yellowish and was framed by long, black hair that looked like it needed to be washed. His rather large nose was hooked and neither his black eyes nor his thin mouth conveyed any warmth. He was dressed strangely, too. He seemed to be wearing some sort of black robes and an academic gown, His eyes narrowed slightly as Timothy opened the door and the two of them made eye contact, but in the next moment, the expression had returned to a faint sneer. "Are you Timothy McAlister?" the man asked, his voice soft but clear. Timothy nodded but did not respond. "Are your parents in? You, your parents and I need to discuss your future education options."

"My father is here." Timothy replied.

The man in the dark robes waited for no more than a couple of seconds. When it became obvious that Timothy was not going to get his father, nor volunteer any further information, the man cocked his eyebrow. "Would you bring him to the door, then?" he asked silkily.

"He's asleep. If I wake him up, he'll be angry at me, even if I do it because someone else asked me to." Timothy replied.

"Then I will wake him up."

At this moment, a large, brass lamp on the table next to the couch tipped over, seemingly of its own accord. It fell to the ground with a crash and Mr. McAlister started awake. He slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position and stared at the lamp, swearing softly.

"Mr. McAlister, you and I need to have a conversation about your son," the man in the cloak said from the door. "May I come in?"

"The hell are you?" McAlister replied, staring blearily at the man at the door and at Timothy and Lucy.

"My name is Severus Snape. May I come in?"

"Sure. I guess you're not going to let me get back to sleep."

Timothy moved aside to allow Mr. Snape into the flat.

"Is there a place we can talk?" Snape asked Mr. McAlister.

"Yeah. You and the boy can stand and I'll sit here on the couch." Mr. McAlister grunted. At this, Mr. Snape's sneer grew more pronounced, but he did not respond to McAlister's hostility.

"Mr. McAlister, I am a professor at a special institution in Northern Scotland, known as Hogwarts. Your son is on our lists as possessing the talents we look for and hone and, therefore, he has been accepted to begin as a first year. Term begins September first." Snape told him.

"And what skills does that little brat have that anyone could possibly want, Mr. Snape?"

"Professor."

"What?"

"I am a professor and I would prefer that you address me as such," Snape said, his voice glacial.

"Alright, then, professor. What skills does that little brat have that anyone could possibly want?"

"Your son has magical aptitude. With training, he could become a wizard." Snape replied.

McAlister stared at Snape and then burst into loud, raucous laughter. "A wizard? Alright, did you just get out of the loony bin today? Does your nurse know you're here?" McAlister responded in between huge peals of laughter.

Timothy pivoted toward Snape. "You think I'm a what?" Unlike his father, Timothy didn't really think that this "Professor Snape" was very funny at all.

"I said that you are a wizard." Snape responded.

"Don't be stupid." Lucy said, speaking for the first time since Snape had arrived at the door.

Snape rolled his eyes at the response he had received. From inside of his robes, he pulled out a long, straight, black stick and pointed it into the air. There was a loud bang and several real, live bats flew from the tip of the wand, fluttering around the room. Snape waved his wand again, and the bats disappeared.

Timothy's jaw dropped and Lucy shrieked and ran back to her room. Mr. McAlister tried to rise from the couch, but collapsed back, staring in absolute astonishment.

"You were telling the truth? There is such a thing as magic and wizards and spells that make bats fly out of wands and schools that can teach you how to do that?" Timothy said.

"Yes."

"But if I'm supposed to be some sort of wizard, how come I can't do anything like that? Why can't I stop people from bullying me? I can't even stop my parents from…" At this, Timothy trailed off, realizing he had said too much. His father was looking at him very dangerously.

"Have you ever found that strange things, bad things, happen to people you don't like?" Snape asked Timothy, ignoring McAlister's threatening look. Timothy turned and looked at the television, and thought for what seemed like a long time. In the silence, Lucy returned from her room. Wasn't he usually left alone by the bullies? Hadn't Bob Turner's prized bicycle rusted apart on a sunny day when he had taken Timothy's lunch money three years ago? And just this last May, hadn't Tommy Higgins had to go to the nurse when his pen started spraying ink right in his eyes after he had punched Timothy during gym class? When he fought to protect Lucy from bullies, didn't he seem to always be able to land his punches and kicks? And when his parents hit him, didn't his injuries heal quickly sometimes, even overnight once or twice? He turned back to Snape, who favored him with a thin, cold smile. "I thought so. Do you want to come to Hogwarts?"