Severus sat at the staff table, surveying the multitude of chattering students in the Great Hall. Here came Professor McGonagall with the new first-years, looking like drowned rats and dripping all over the floor. The same ritual, every year. Boredom threatened to overwhelm Severus as each first-year student took their place on the stool…
"Harry Potter!" Minerva announced.
Harry Potter.
Unlike most people in the Great Hall, Severus remained silent, and did not seek to check that he had heard the name correctly. Like everyone else in the Great Hall, he did watch the Boy Who Lived as he took his place on the stool and placed the Sorting Hat on his head. Since Potter was facing the rest of the hall, Severus could only make out the untidy black hair sticking out from under the tattered old hat. He managed not to groan.
"GRIFFINDOR!" yelled the Sorting Hat.
Potter removed it from his head, and practically skipped down the hall to join the Griffindor table.
Dumbledore stood up and made a joke of saying "a few words", and then the Feast began.
The usual start to the term. Severus was stuck next to Professor Quirrell, of course – the pathetic creature who had taken the job Severus had wanted for so long. This stuttering fool was the man Dumbledore chose to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts? Quirrell was afraid of his own shadow. Not only that, but he also insisted upon trying to engage Severus in conversation. This was the worst feast Severus had ever attended. On and on, even through dessert. It was enough to sap anyone's appetite. Severus spent a large part of the meal picturing exactly what he would do if he ever managed to track down the vampire which had apparently so frightened Quirrell over the summer. His eyes meandered across the students…
Potter.
Severus's eyes met those of Harry Potter.
Heart hammering against his chest, Severus turned back to Quirrell.
"… a-and th-th-this t-t-t-t-t-treacle t-t-tart is d-delicious, d-don't you agree?"
Severus nodded, his lips still closed, allowing the man in the ridiculous purple turban to witter on incessantly.
The look at Potter had been jarring. The boy looked exactly like his father, and was probably like him in character too – rude, disobedient, full of himself – but Severus had not been expecting those eyes. Lily's eyes. Why, why did Lily's son have to have her eyes, and his father's face? It was as if the Boy Who Lived, lived in order to taunt Severus mercilessly, unknowingly. To have to see her beautiful eyes, looking up at him from the face of that arrogant Potter, whom Severus had hated and despised beyond compare. The dichotomy was tortuous. It was as if the boy had been genetically engineered to test him.