Dark blue eyes flicked around their new surroundings angrily, shifting from side to side in a calculating manner. But he was not quite as mad about his surroundings as he was at a certain old man and his mission IN said new surroundings. Most importantly, the blue eyes, and the face he wore were not his own, and this disguise made him feel most unlike himself.
His normally pale skin, onyx eyes, and silky black hair were hidden underneath a simple glamour spell, making him look, as quoted by the headmaster, "More approachable." He had tried to keep the glamour as similar to his own person as possible, and ended up with an 'approachable' personification of himself. He now had sapphire blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a complexion that didn't make him look sallow or sickly. His nose had shrunk drastically, and no longer had the look that had been created after many through breakings of said nose. He looked normal enough to live on a place like Privet Dr., a place where everyone was dead set on being the epitome of normality.
The Headmaster insisted there was no one else capable of doing this job, that every other option was detained in another location, or unable to make rash choices due to their concern for Mr. Potter's well-being. While he himself had no longing to take this job, the Headmaster had assured him he had no choice in the matter, and swiftly sent him on his merry way. Which was not in the least bit merry, in his general opinion.
To avoid suspicion, he had to do everything the muggle way, by decree of a certain old man. He had to take a moving truck to his new abode, and move everything in by hand. He had moved in a few necessities, so he at least had a bed to sleep on and a table to eat at. The rest of his things would have to be unloaded at a later date, seeing as he had little time before an appointment he was to attend.
A tone rang through the house, notifying those inside that a person wished to speak with the owners of said house. Inside, he cursed Dumbledore, realizing the man had been right. He strode towards the door, and hid behind a mask of kindness as the door knob slowly turned under his grasp. The hinges on the door creaked as the door was flung unceremoniously open to reveal a whale of a boy on the other side. A boy the Headmaster had called Dudley Dursley. He was angry, though not unsurprised, because just as the Headmaster had predicted, Harry Potter's cousin had just visited his doorstep, and if the rest of his foresight was correct…
"Hello, sir. My mother noticed that you had moved in next door," As if the giant moving truck didn't tip you off, "And has offered that you come and eat dinner with us tonight."
He summoned up his kindest voice and said, "Alright, what is your name, kid?"
"Dudley, sir, Dudley Dursley. And you are?"
"Dominic Caulfield, Mr. Dursley. I accept your mother's invitation graciously. What time do you wish for me to come over?" His alias was a strange one, which the Headmaster said was "normal-esque" enough, but not so common it would arise suspicion.
" 6:30, Mr. Caulfield sir."
"Then I will see you then, Mr. Dursley." He concluded, promptly slamming the door in Dudley's face, but the boy was already toddling over to his mother yelling, "HE SAID YES!"
"Obnoxious brat…" He mumbled to himself, his insides in turmoil. Indeed, the Headmaster had been right in saying he would be invited to dinner with the Dursley's. The man's foresight was impeccable.
He observed his bland, empty abode with contempt. He would definitely have to do some decorating. Number 5 Privet Dr. had never had such an abnormal inhabitant, and Severus Snape had never seen such a dull place in his life.
Simply put, Severus Snape was not happy.
Green orbs flicked around their disgusting living quarters sluggishly, even though every corner had been memorized by them by now. The broken glass in the corner might have been new, but it was unimportant to his seeking eyes. He desperately wished to do his summer homework, unlike any typical 14 year old. However his guardians, whom he refused to call family, had locked up anything "abnormal" in his old room, the cupboard under the stairs. Which included everything in his trunk, his homework, etc. They did, however, allow him to keep some parchment and a ball point pen, in order to answer any letters he might get, so his "crowd" would not get worried.
This school year had been a catastrophe. The TriWizard Tournament, instead of being the normal competitive, yet dangerous, recreation between schools, it had ended in the rising of the Dark Lord Voldemort and the murder of Cedric Diggory. Cedric had been a simple acquaintance, they weren't even close friends, but Voldemort felt the need to set his trusted servant on him, officially wiping Cedric Diggory off the face of the earth in a flash of green light.
The 3rd task plagued his nightmares, intensifying the guilt he felt with every 'Avada Kedavra' that left Wormtail's mouth. It was entirely his fault, he knew. He had noticed people associated the color black with death. However, black did not mean death. Black was nothingness, emotionless. Death is a huge emotional burden on those who see it, experience it vicariously as someone else loses their soul. He knew that the color of death was not black. No, the color of death was the color he sees every time he looks in the mirror. Bright green eyes stare back at him in reflective glass, just like the flash of the Unforgivable killing curse.
He knows the color of death is green.
He hears the click of locks as Aunt Petunia opens the door to his sanctuary in hell.
"Boy, we are having company tonight! Go make dinner, then disappear!" She screeched vehemently into the smallest room in Number 4 Privet Dr. Her voice echoed off the stained plaster walls as he winced, her voice scraping unpleasantly against his ears. He nodded, and she accepted that answer, leaving him once again in a welcome silence. He got up and removed himself from his private haven, and once again made his descent to hell.
As per usual, Dudley was sitting on the couch with a bag of potato chips, lazily watching Cartoon Network. He was slouched awkwardly, a double chin evident, along with rolls of fat. The sounds of crunching potato chips filled the air, as well as obnoxious sound effect that blazed from the TV. Potato chips crumbled in his meaty fingers, and he brushed the crumbs off onto the floor and couch, eyes not leaving the TV screen. He knew they would just be more of the mess he would have to clean before whatever company was coming today got here.
He walked behind the couch, so not to disturb Dudley while he was in a non-threatening state. He slipped into the kitchen, only to see a list of things to do laid out for him. He knew from the beginning making dinner would not be the half of it. The list had the following chores for him to complete.
Make dinner, do the dishes, vacuum and dust the whole house, and stay in room when company arrives.
Simple, and to the point, just the way he liked it. He decided to make dinner last, so it would be warm when it was eaten. He looked to the clock and saw he had 3 hours. He was short on time, and began immediately. He started on the dishes, unloading and reloading. The dishes took the least time, and he worked efficiently. Sneaking a peek out of the kitchen, he saw Dudley had evacuated his spot on the couch, leaving a pile off crumbs in his wake, and the TV still on, as he always did. Shaking his head, he walked into the living room, and turned the TV off, watching the brightly colored characters blink off the screen.
After cleaning his cousin's mess and vacuuming and dusting the whole house in record time, he saw he had an hour and a half to spare. That would be enough time, he decided as he looked through the fridge for an edible substance acceptable for dinner with company. He pulled out some chicken breasts, corn on the cob, and a box of Pillsbury biscuit mix from the cupboard. He put the chicken in a marinade of lime juice and basil and began to boil water as he began on the biscuits. Putting the biscuit shaped dough in the oven; he put the corn in the boiling water. He waited for a while, until the chicken had marinated to for the appropriate amount of time. He took the thoroughly marinated chicken (oh how he hated cooking for THIS family) and took it to the grill outside. Opening the propane and lighting the grill, he placed the chicken on and raced inside to hear the ding of the oven, saying the biscuits were done. He placed them on a cooling rack, and drained the corn. Placing that on a plate, he raced back out to the chicken on the grill, so he could flip it. But standing next to the grill, looking like a giant terrifying walrus, was Uncle Vernon.
"So, boy," He asked, "Do you think you can leave our food unattended?"
"I-I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon. I had to check on the biscuits-" His face turned to the side from the impact of a big meaty hand flung against his cheek.
"So you left more of our food unattended! Insolent boy, do you know what happens to food that goes unattended?" Apparently it was a rhetorical question, because before he could open his mouth to speak, his Uncle continued.
"It burns. Kind of like this!" Uncle Vernon took his wrist and pressed the boy's hand to an unoccupied part of the barbeque. The boy could not resist giving a small shout in pain, but seeing Uncle Vernon's sadistic grin at his reaction, he gritted his teeth, allowing no noise to escape him. The smell of burning flesh, his burning flesh, filled his senses. Tears that refused to fall blurred his eyesight, and his teeth strained with the effort to stay pressed together. Disappointed he only got one small reaction; Uncle Vernon let the boy go. When he did, the boy yanked his hand off the grill and stared horrified at the grill lines burned in his hand. A tear fell on the hand, stinging the marred hand further.
"I will finish dinner boy, seeing as you are too incompetent to do so. Now GO! The new neighbor will be here soon!" Uncle Vernon whispered nastily, giving the boy a kick in the shin. Without any hesitation, the boy ran up the stairs to his safe house, closing the door behind him. He fell to the bed, sobbing silently and cradling his injured hand to his chest.
Simply put, Harry Potter was not happy.