You Remind Me

(Harry Potter)

By Sissy Slyther

Plot: Haven't you ever wondered what Snape was thinking? What was running through his mind every time he glared or sneered at the Boy Who Lived? Here, the Narrator has created a collection of memories taken from Snape's interactions during the book. Diving into the mind of The Bravest Man Harry ever knew.

Rating: Teen

Pairing(s): None (other than one's that took place during the book)

A/N: She does not own Harry Potter, it belongs to the genius J.K. Rolling. She only owns her original characters, places, and ideas. ;)

Book One

Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone

(Scene One)

I do not particularly enjoy feasts. True, the cooking is always presented with the utmost of propriety, and tastes exceptionally delicious. I do, however, greatly detest the stares and glances I receive, not to mention the copious amount of volume that fills the Grand Hall. Thus, I strive to keep myself present no longer than absolutely necessary, hurrying away as soon as considered appropriate. However, as it is the very first feast of the new year, I am bound by school customs to attend for an extra amount of time, namely to watch the 'new blood' be sorted into their designated houses. It is a tedious thing; I would much rather be below the school in the confines of my dungeon mixing all manner of toxic materials, but there you are.

Though, it did have its uses, being present this night, being here in order to scrutinize the 'fresh meat'. Dear me, that statement does sound inexplicably cruel, doesn't it? But that is beside the matter. They are merely fresh meat to the subtle silences and art of potion making.

And, as archaic as the sorting tradition was, it was best to establish early into the year which students would be in my house, Slytherin. Not that I would choose favorites… no, of course not…

Right. And Dumbledore wasn't a real wizard.

At the moment, however, the first years were ultimately boring, filing through the door and coming to a halt before the raised podium where the Sorting Hat sat upon its usual stool, limp, dusty, and somehow imposing. The students seemed to have stuffed themselves hastily into their new wizarding robes - well, some were new, as I could, from my vantage point, see the red head of one of the new Weasley's, and the second-hand robes he wore were evident. The new arrivals milled around nervously, as if they weren't entirely sure that they were supposed to be present here. I was no stranger to the feeling myself – likely, no wizard in the world was. But years of having never seen a student "rejected" by the Sorting Hat (sadly, as if would have been quite a sight) had made me cynical. They had nothing to worry about, and, as I didn't find young children exceptionally cute, their little faces drawn into expressions of worry was only a source of vague annoyance to me.

A quiet sigh escaped from my lips. But, I suddenly realized, there were many offspring from wizards I had once known at school. The Malfoy's slick blonde hair stood out absurdly from among his darker headed peers. Interesting… I could convey no doubt that he would be designated to my house… that is, if he was anything like his father, and that sneer looked oddly familiar. Nott's offspring was there too, his face rat-like, just like his poor mothers. But, if they were at this age, then… that must mean….

And then I saw him.

I had heard a rumor that it was indeed the year in which the 'Boy Who Lived' would be joining us. I had refused to acknowledge it, considering myself indifferent. Why should I care if Lily's boy is coming?

I shouldn't. It wasn't my place to be worried… I had no right to…

But… I would tell myself, that, like the rest of the magical community, I was merely curious on a platonic level… even though I didn't see the appeal of a kid who was no different than anyone else, save for the lightening bolt scar. I would never admit, ever, even only to myself in the slightest mental whisper, that I was more interesting in the fact that he was Lily's son…

He looked nothing like her, however. On the briefest glance, I might have thought he was James reincarnate… the mere thought of which stirred a burning anger in my stomach. But then… Dumbledore had said, in years past, that the boy had Lily's eyes…

I couldn't tell from this distance, and tore my gaze away from him. It wasn't like me to appear interested, and if someone noted my ogling the "Boy Who Lived", there was no telling what it would do to my carefully cultivated image. Indifference was always best…

Though I couldn't truly be indifferent now. I couldn't be indifferent to James… and certainly not to Lily…

I reminded myself that Harry Potter was neither of them. However much his appearance may remind me of either or them, he was a different person… Right?

The sound of Minerva calling the name of the student in question drew my thoughts back to the present moment. I watched him approach with hesitation to the little stool, his eyes shooting apprehensively from side to side. Well, that was some improvement. James had seated himself upon the stool with pride, smiling smugly at the lot of us when his name was called. The boy did no waving, no smug theatrics, and the smile of his face was really more of a worried grimace.

What was he so nervous about? Did he really think the hat would reject him? I almost – keyword almost – chuckled. I wonder what the likeliness of that happening was. However, the hat did seem to be taking longer than usual to decide. Not excessively so, but on most occasions, it shouted out the appropriate house confidently within a few seconds. It wouldn't have been odd for anyone else, but this was the Boy Who Lived, and heaven forbid he be sorted into anything other than Gryffindor...

Wouldn't that be a switch? The hat was no doubt talking to him now, sifting through his characteristics and potential. Oh! Just hurry up already… just tell us which Damn house he's going to be in so all this drama can start. I grimaced, drama may be the fruit of every school… but it was no less irritating.

"Gryffindor!" The hat shouted at last and the table on the far left erupted into screams and cheers. The raven-haired boy walked quickly to his new house, keeping his head down. Odd, I half expected him to walk proudly with that stupid spring in his step. He also looked relieved, and worried at the same time. What exactly had the hat told him? Why would he be worried?

Well, it wasn't my place to be curious. I shouldn't be curious. No! I should care less about that worried expression that always flitted across Lily's face… I nearly kicked myself and forcibly turned my attention back to the sorting.

I did make a decision, however, even as I watched student after student sorted into their appropriate house. However much the boy was like Lily... he was a reminder of James, from his appearance to the mere fact of his existence. And, I realized, even if I tried to make it a point of being civil to the "Boy Who Lived", I wouldn't be able to manage it. So I made the choice to give in to disliking him, resemblances to Lily be damned.

On first sight, I had made the decision to hate Harry Potter.

My hate was unjustified. Though, at the same time I had every reason in the world to hate him. He was the proof of Lily's preference of James, a constant stinging dagger at mine own stupid mistakes. He was a resemblance of the man who had taunted me my school years and stolen my love. And… my hate was unreasonable, for he was neither of them. He was just another student, a student I didn't even know yet. But I didn't care.

And it was then, just as those tumultuous thoughts were chasing themselves about my mind in convoluted curls, the subject in question chose to look up... in my direction. But his gaze was not on me. It was on Dumbledore, who gave the closest thing to a smile I'd ever seen.

A smile reserved for Gryffindor.

No… A smile reserved for the Boy Who Lived.

I watched as relief clouded the young boy's features and he quickly dropped his eyes before I had managed to glimpse their color. Oh? Looking for approval was he? How spiteful!

I doubted that he even knew who Dumbledore was. Raised with Muggles... Lily hadn't known, either. Not that it really mattered. I'd never before seen the Headmaster choose favorites, but if anyone were "deserving" of it...

No. "Deserving" of it? He did not deserve to be a favorite, he deserved to be hated and avoided. Ah, no, that's wrong as well. He deserved to be hated by me, deserving all manner of vile things and trouble in life. He didn't know what it meant to be 'deserving' of something. Living, no doubt, a life of pleasure with muggles who dotted on his every whim.

It was at that moment that the sorting abruptly came to a close and Minerva took away the stool. Minerva… perhaps one of the only teachers - bedside's myself – who possessed the gift of maintaining a disciplined classroom. She was one of the few teachers within this blasted school that held my respect.

Albus Dumbledore stood up at that moment; bringing a silence to the students.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin out banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

I almost rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of his words. Yes, give the first-years something in order to begin building a reasonable case in which your sanity was involved. Barely paying attention to what it was before me, I began to pile my plate with food – hot and steaming.

"S-S-Severus?" came a meek voice from my left, his stutter proving difficult to be mistaken.

I turned my attention to the new Defense Against Teacher; Professor Quirinus Quirrell. Not my favorite person in the school... or out of it, for that matter. And it wasn't just because of the fact that he was the latest holder of my most desired position at the school - I had almost gotten used to having my requests to teach said subject turned down without proper consideration. Quirrell was... my opposite in every possible way. I had met him, briefly, at the Ministry, at a time when he wasn't wearing that ridiculous turban, and his speech impediment still in its early stages. Even then, he had been barely tolerable, more jittery than even a first year, desperately seeking approval from someone, anyone.

And I wasn't the one to provide it.

"Quirinus," I responded curtly, tilting my head in ever so slight a nod of acknowledgement. However much I may detest the man, I could offer him the common curtsies, as he was indeed a fellow professor. That is, until he gave me a reason not to.

"H-how was y-y-your s-summer?" he asked, dropping his gaze hurriedly onto his plate.

I considered, briefly, responding that I had hardly noticed the changing of seasons, as I spent three-hundred-sixty-four days a year in the dungeon, but dismissed the idea. Then I considered informing him that it would have been much better if I had been allowed even the slightest hope that I would not merely be Potions Master this year, but dismissed that as well.

"It was fair," I said flatly. "And yours? How was that business with the... vampire, was it?"

Immediately, his face paled even further… if that were possible. "Ah… y-yes, that was r-r-resolved. W-What d-d-do you t-think of the new s-students?"

I knew he had dodged the subject, rather obviously, I might say.

"The same as I think of them every year," I replied bored.

"B-but... Harry P-P-Potter..."

"Ah... yes..." Was no one above this... hero worship? While Quirrell went on about having met his new idol in The Leaky Cauldron, I chanced a glance at the Gryffindor table. He was smiling even as he shoveled food into his gullet. What? Did he never have a proper meal, or something? Or was he just a gluttonous pig?

He looked up again, just as these vile thoughts were probably making themselves known on my face. His reaction was what I expected… and then it filled me with internal surprise. He looked... puzzled – a natural reaction as my expression was probably less warm and fuzzy than he was accustomed to – but the next moment, it was pained. As if my gaze alone had somehow inflicted physical pain upon him. He clapped a hand to his forehead as if in reflex, though he dropped it quickly.

The expression that he had in that split second froze the blood in my veins. Because he was looking at me with Lily's eyes, and I had seen that expression on Lily's face before...

When I accidentally called her a 'mudblood'.

I turned back to Quirrell, trying to listen to whatever rubbish he was jabbering about now. But, even as I tried to understand what his train of thought on 'the Boy Who Lived', I couldn't shake the feeling that was wracking my bones.

I recognized that he had, perhaps, more opportunity to get under my skin than any creature, which graced God's green earth. So... I wouldn't allow myself to be fooled by the emerald eyes. I would never like the boy, I knew then and there.

But I could loathe him.

Yes, I could definitely do that.