1.05 Ghosts of the Past

Dear Severus,

I have received a reply from the Dursleys, in which they say, in no uncertain terms, that they do not have any interest in seeing their charge while he is recuperating.

A. Dumbledore

The next time Snape saw Harry walking on his own, he said, "I believe you can now eat your meals at the table. Breakfast is at nine, lunch at two, and dinner at eight. Be on time."

It was dinner time, then. Harry stared at the plates of food on the table. "I'm not really hungry," he said, knowing he could definitely sound like a prig, and trying not to make his voice come out that way.

"I don't expect you to be. Potions play havoc with one's eating habits. Were you fed well during your captivity?"

He stared at him with a look on his face. Snape nodded. "I expected as much. Take it slow; you might throw up if you eat too much too fast."

"I might throw up now," he groaned.

Snape handed him a vial. "This is for nausea. Drink this for a couple of days till you've have time to adjust."

He did so reluctantly. He sat at the table. Snape followed. There was a newspaper on the table which he picked up and immediately began to read, effectively pronouncing an end to their discussion.

"Um." He felt, absurdly, like he was in a classroom with this Mister Snape, and his hand twitched to raise itself in the air like he would in a classroom. "Could I ask you something? Some things?"

He looked mildly irritated as he set the newspaper down. "Somethings is not a word. What do you want to know?"

"Does—well, do the Dursleys know what happened, sir?"

He nodded. "We did inform them, but we mentioned it was better for you, and them, if they waited for a few days before they see you."

Harry stared at his plate. He didn't think they'd be interested in seeing him, anyway. "What, exactly, did you tell them?"

"I told them nothing. The Headmaster wrote them a letter."

"I—I don't think they know the Headmaster."

"I assure you they do. Dumbledore has corresponded with your aunt," he said the last word with a queer little twist of his lips, "in the past."

Harry could barely comprehend that. "Aunt Petunia? Knows the Headmaster?"

Snape exhaled in some irritation. "I think you should get used to the idea that Aunt Petunia knows a great deal more than she was letting on."

"Well, yeah, since she never said anything about anything to me. Did she know I was a wizard?" Snape nodded. "And she knew about Vol–person." Snape nodded again. Harry stabbed at his pancakes with a little more force than necessary, shoving them into his mouth.

Snape ate a morsel of his food and said, "From Dumbledore's correspondence to me, I gathered that the Dursleys did not show much interest in coming to visit you. Why is that?"

Harry chewed slowly, grateful for the reprieve this afforded him. "I don't think they care much for magic, sir."

"How can you think that when by your admission they never told you about it?"

"A lot of weird things happened around me. They'd called it freaky. They didn't like it much."

Snape's eyes were boring into him. "And how did they make their displeasure known?"

Harry had caught the undercurrent of tension in Snape's voice, and though he didn't understand why, he felt like crawling under the table would be a good idea. "Nothing particularly. They yelled at me a bit."

"A bit."

Harry forced himself to look Snape in the eye.

"You, Potter, are a terrible liar."

His heart skipped a beat. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

Snape leaned back in his chair. In a seemingly nonchalant voice, he said, "Did you know that wizards have ways of making people talk when they don't want to? There are potions for that." His black eyes were cold, and Harry's hands tightened on his fork. "Tell me about the Dursleys."

"Look, they didn't like me much, alright? I was weird."

"You were a wizard, Potter. It's called wild magic. Petunia—" he broke off, taking a breath seemingly to calm himself. "Your aunt should have known what wild magic was like."

"Well." He tried to reconcile his image of his aunt with someone who knew about magic. The two seemed to be quite incompatible. "If she did she never let on. They made it out like it was my fault."

"And?"

Harry shrugged. "They might've hit me a few times." At Snape's utterly blank look, he hastened to explain, "It wasn't that bad, it was just that—Uncle Vernon didn't hit Dudley much, and they made me do all the work around the house. Mostly." He left out the cupboard under the stairs.

"How many times?"

"Sir?"

"How many times a day were you hit?"

"What? No, like once a week." Really, it was more long stints in the cupboard. Uncle Vernon didn't hit much. Harry wondered if he was afraid to, or because he couldn't be bothered to expend any energy on Harry.

"Were you underfed? Your body scan showed a long-term nutrient deficit, from before you were captive."

He flushed. "Maybe just a little."

Snape looked coldly furious. "I can decipher the exact extent, Potter."

"Look, they probably weren't very happy at taking me in. It wasn't their fault, they badly want to be normal folks and I'm about as far from normal as anyone can get."

"That is not an excuse, Potter."

But the conversation had brought another question to Harry's mind. "Do you really think I'm a Dark Lord?"

A hint of a sneer played about Snape's face. "You tell me. Do you feel an urge to use human blood or bone for evil purposes?"

Harry broke his gaze and looked down, suddenly feeling like puking. When he could speak again, he whispered, "That's horrible. Sir."

There was a short pause before Snape said, quietly "Ah." And then, in a surer tone, "The point I was making is that Dark Lords have a passion for the Dark Arts, which is mainly about dark rituals and spells. You can imagine what they are like. You have neither the propensity nor the inclination to indulge in the Dark Arts."

"Is Vol-person one of the Dark Lords?"

"Yes. And do not call him that."

"I'm not going to call him You-Know-Who, that's silly."

"The entire magical world calls him You-Know-Who."

"Is he dead?"

Pause. "Supposedly."

"What does—?"

"It means, Potter, that the circumstances behind his death were very unusual, and it seems beyond reason that a Dark Lord could have been killed the way he was, but he has not been seen for seven years, so we assume he was destroyed."

"What unusual circ-circus-?"

"Circumstances." Snape said it almost as fast as before, so Harry wasn't really sure if he was saying it for Harry's benefit. "The Killing Curse he cast at you rebounded and hit him."

"Is that the — abrac—"

"Potter!"

He bit his lip, abashed.

"Do not, ever, say those words in jest."

He nodded hastily. "Sorry." Into the ensuing silence, he asked, "Was that the curse they used on Mrs. Figg?"

Snape nodded. His nods were just a single nod, down-up, as if he were carefully measuring out every movement, not moving any more than strictly necessary. "Do you wish to see the Dursleys? I'm sure Dumbledore will get them to see sense if you—"

"Oh, no, sir. That's all right."

"Hm." He looked unconvinced. "Is that all?"

"How did you get me out of there?"

"I can't tell you that."

He stared. "Oo-okay. Were you hurt?"

He clenched his jaw. "No."

"You said you're a Potions Master," whatever that means, "and the Headmaster said you're a teacher, so are you a soldier as well? A really good one?"

He blinked slowly. "I'm not a soldier, but I know how to fight." He was frowning, but all he said was, "Eat your food."

He pointed at his plate. "You're not eating, either."

"I'm not nine years old."

"Everyone needs to eat."

Now he definitely looked amused. "Quite." He took a nibble. "Any other questions?"

"You went to school with my parents?"

This question was much higher on the not-happy scale. "Personal questions are forbidden, Potter. there anything else you want to know?"

He frowned, taken off guard. There had been, but, "I can't remember."

He picked up his newspaper. "It'll come to you."

"Wait! I remember. Can I sue the Death Eaters?"

He again put the newspaper down, this time with a look of resignation. "I'm afraid not."

This, he thought, was an utterly unacceptable answer. "Why?"

"Muggle and Wizarding courts don't work the same way, and the Malfoys are a quite reputable, and rich, family. The word of a nine year old may not be enough."

"Why? We're not stupid," he said, unable to keep the indignation out of his voice.

"The Headmaster will speak to you about this. If it's at all possible…" he shook his head. "Eat," he said.

He took an obligatory bite and swallowed before taking another one and pointing at Snape's plate, "Eat," he said.

Snape scowled. Harry almost laughed.

Snape had the distinct feeling he'd been cheated.

When Dumbledore and he had spent day after day, week after week, in his office, trying to work up a plan to rescue Potter, it had never been in question that once Harry Potter was rescued, he would be under Snape's care. He hated it, but he didn't question it. Someone with a good knowledge of healing, potion-making, and even the Dark Arts would be needed, in addition to being trustworthy and having time to spare. Snape was the only one who fit all these categories. Snape understood that, in fact, he'd been the one to suggest his own house as a refuge for Potter—though judging by the look on Dumbledore's face, he'd been expecting that already.

Snape had also prepared himself for James Potter's son. A month and half of capture would certainly have taken some of the bluster out of him, but given a week or two, he'd be back to his usual self, and Snape would have the pleasure of taking him a peg or two down.

The pleasure was slightly offset by the fact that Snape had prepared himself for the meeting in 1991, it was a whole year too early to meet the progeny of one James Potter, and seeing Lily Evans' eyes in so hated a face was like having his heart yanked out and stomped upon, every time. Really, it wasn't a pleasure, it was simply a mild consolation.

But it had been two weeks, and Harry still looked down at his feet and sat hunched in his chair like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, as if he wasn't small enough already, and he was too quiet, and polite, and what in the world was all that about the Dursleys, he'd have leaped to the conclusion that Potter was lying except he really wasn't a good liar, he didn't have an ounce of deceit in his big green eyes, and the letter from Albus was undeniable proof that the Dursleys had clearly shown no interest in seeing him.

Petunia Dursley. Snape hadn't thought twice about her since the day Dumbledore told him Potter would be staying with her. He'd assumed, of course, that Potter would be treated like a prince, but he hadn't entered Petunia Evans into the equation—Petunia who hated magic, hated everything to do with magic, hated even her own sister for being magic—

It was really most unfair. He did not need this. life was much easier when Potter was Potter, and not some other little child whose name just happened to be Harry Potter.

Green light, so bright it filled the room. A cold, mocking laugh.

A hand on his—arm?

Harry opened his eyes with a breathless gasp. Snape was sitting in a chair next to his bed, removing his hand from where he'd apparently placed it on Harry's elbow.

"The same nightmare, Potter?"

"N-no, this was different." Harry pulled himself up, barely noticing that he was sweating. "I think it was my parents."

If he'd glanced up, he'd have noticed Snape pale slightly. "How can you be sure of that?"

"There was a green light, like with Mrs. Figg, and this laugh—a very horrible laugh—" and Harry shuddered. "You don't think it could be—?"

When he looked over at Snape, the man looked quite indifferent. "It's possible. Or perhaps your imagination conjured it up based on what I told you of the Dark Lord."

"No, I've remembered the green light before."

"You were far too young to remember anything, Potter."

Harry set his jaw stubbornly. "I remember a motorcycle, a flying one," he said, a bit softly because he knew it sounded daft, but also with a conviction that in the magical world, this could very well be true.

Snape was startled; Harry could see that in the minute lift of his eyebrows. "You were transported to the Dursley home by one." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Do you remember anything else?"

Harry frowned in concentration, before shaking his head in regret. "Is the green light the Killing Curse? How he killed my parents?"

"It would appear so."

"Why do you call him the Dark Lord? Sir?"

Snape stood up. "Goodnight, Potter."

"Do you still hate me?"

Snape stilled, standing parallel to the bed so Harry could only see his side profile. His chest rose and fell. "That is quite irrelevant. Dumbledore asked me to watch over you. You are my responsibility, and I do my duty."

"But you don't like me."

Snape looked over at him then. "No," he said smoothly. "I do not."

And then he left.

After Harry went through the book Snape had given him in a day, Snape gave his leave to go through the newspapers he'd accumulated with a stern warning to place them back exactly as he'd found them, and not mess up the order. He'd also pointed out a section of the shelves that he could read, with a repetition of the warning to not damage the paper in any way whatsoever. Highlighting was out of the question, though if he wanted to, he could note down sections on some parchment he'd given him. When he told him he didn't know how to use a quill, he'd growled and gotten Harry a pen instead.

So now he was sitting with a book and his parchment and pen in hand, at the table, where he sat, studying Wizarding History after breakfast. Snape hadn't shown up. After a short nap, it was lunchtime and he came to the hall, where he was sitting with a cup of coffee and a look on his face that said, 'do not disturb'.

"So you don't like me because you didn't like my father?" Harry asked before he'd even entered the room.

Snape scowled. "While you are in this house, Potter, you are to speak to me with respect. Now eat your lunch and keep quiet."

He hopped onto the seat. "You don't even know me. Sir. All you know is that I was kidnapped and hurt and I have nightmares. That's nothing."

Snape glared at him. "Your father never followed orders, either. Sit down, eat, and be quiet."

Harry opened his mouth to object, but then he remembered the first sentence of Snape's reply. He had a mouthful or two, before he mouthed, 'can we talk?'

He looked at Harry with some exasperation. "What now?"

"You wanted me to be quiet, sir," he said. "Do you know sign language?"

He scowled. "I meant I want you to not talk to me."

"Because you hate me."

"Because I don't want to talk to you," he said waspishly.

"Yeah, because you hate me."

He flung the newspaper down and Harry flinched, the bravado going out of him as suddenly as it had come. Snape noticed, took a deep breath, and seemed to be steeling himself. "I don't like children."

"So—can we talk in ten years?"

He glared at Harry. "If you haven't killed me by then," he muttered.

He frowned in confusion. "Why would I kill you?"

He lifted up the paper again. "You're coming to Hogwarts, and I teach there."

"Hog what?"

He put down the paper—Harry was beginning to wonder if he'd ever read it—and looked at him thoughtfully, running a finger along his cheek. "You wouldn't know. Hogwarts is a wizarding school in Britain. All wizards and witches go there for seven years for their magical education."

Harry felt his fork slipping from his limp hand and he placed it on the plate before it fell. "There's a school for people like –them?"

"Like us," he corrected, quietly.

"Yeah, but, but, people like them."

"Hogwarts is completely safe. Raising a wand against another student is a high offence, and bodily harm is grounds for expulsion."

He imagined it, the students wearing robes and using wands and casting spells and charms—

Avada kedavra! There had been a mention of the curse in the book he'd read, and Harry could now reconstruct the voice in his head that had spoken those words and killed Mrs. Figg.

And his mother, though he couldn't remember the voice, only the laugh.

"My parents went there too?"

"They—met there."

He looked up at him. "You went there too? Sir?"

"Hogwarts is the only wizarding school in Britain. All British wizards go there."

"And those, Death Eaters, they went there too."

"They did." His face was carefully blank.

"You said my father was—not nice, what about my mother?"

Snape stared at him for so long Harry thought he'd been struck by that freezing curse. "She was nice."

Nice. Aunt Petunia had never said a word about his mother. There hadn't been any pictures of her in the house. "What did she look like?"

Snape looked rather furious. "Did your aunt tell you nothing, Potter?" Without waiting for a reply, he said, "She had red hair and green eyes."

Green eyes like mine. Harry looked away from Snape, feeling the sudden wetness in his eyes. After a while, he looked up. "And you – you still hate me? Sir."

"I do not hate you."

"You look like you do."

He looked angry, now, for some reason he couldn't understand. "You're a lot like your father." And then he lifted up his newspaper. "Now, let me finish."

"I–have one more question."

He glared at his newspaper. "What?" he snapped.

"Is it compulsory to go to Hogwarts?"

"The Headmaster will answer that."

"The Headmaster of Hogwarts will never tell me not to go to Hogwarts, that's bad advertising."

"The Headmaster of Hogwarts does not care about advertising." He opened his mouth but before he could say anything he sighed a little and said, "But I imagine you have a point." He didn't lower the paper, though, as he looked at his and said, "Hogwarts is a school that teaches you to use your powers. You get a wand. You learn to use it. You learn spells, charms, and potions. The school does not create Death-Eaters. The Headmaster was the leader of a group who fought against the Death-Eaters, a group of people including your parents. You have nothing to be afraid of. You will have a Head of House whose duty it will be to keep you safe from any students who might wish to hurt you, but it is the duty of all the teachers to keep the students safe." And, with a pointed look at his plate, he went back to his reading.