In which first impressions are always the most important, and James Potter does not impress Severus Snape in the least.


I cannot describe those first few moments in Diagon Alley amongst wizards and witches and surrounded by magic that tingled senses and tickled nerves. Imagine, if you can (your imagination lacks for nothing, I'm sure) what it is like to have spent your entire life in a state of half-waking half-sleeping. You are never fully awake, you function only minimally, and nothing seems real. You feel as if everything you do is barely acceptable and any effort placed into the action would be a waste even if should you have the energy to summon effort.

Suddenly you go from that state of being half-asleep into a state of hyperawareness where your senses expand to humongous proportions just to take in a fraction of your surroundings, and you feel so absolutely alive and the universe stops spinning for just a moment so you may comprehend your environment.

That is almost like what those first few moments were, and so much more. For the first time in all my remembered life, I felt safe and was finally home. Can you understand that? After living on the streets around dangers that would snuff my life out without a single thought, moving place to place to stay one step beyond those dangers, this feeling was the most wonderful thing I have ever known. Since then there have been but very few incidents in my life that have come close to such a sensation.

The majority of the people did not seem to notice the dark shadow that hovered outside their midst. I floated around, awed with my surroundings. Everything was just so colourful and musical. Diagon Alley was crammed with stalls, people, boxes, and little animals that ran underfoot – not at all that much different from now.

Everything was a living entity with personality and character galore. The street and the buildings seemed to breathe with a special spark of life. Everything exuded exorbitance and energy, drawing in harmony and casting away chaos. It all seemed so bright and wonderful. It was not as if I had found heaven; far from it. There were people who jostled against me and yelled at me for being in their way, ignorant or uncaring persons who trod on my bare feet.

I sensed something extraordinary of this place though. It was special in ways I could not understand at the time, but marginally do now.

Magic was calling to my blood, singing to my senses and waking awareness in me for what others my age showed an aptitude towards. In those instances, I unknowingly went from being a worthless gutter rat that would likely never amount to anything, to being a wizard. Magic called to blood, and the blood answered.

I have no idea how far I wandered aimlessly or how much time I spent doing such. With the passage of Time, the wonder of the area wore off and I finally became aware of how human it still was. Not all the noise could be considered pleasant, as rude words and insults rarely can be. I did not have money to buy anything I saw but, at the time, it mattered not as I drank in everything I saw, studying this strange and wondrous place.

I tugged at shirts and sleeves to point at an area and ask the person whose attention I demanded what that was, or that, or that. Very uncharacteristic of me, to reach out to others, but the very magic in the air seemed to change my nature; it was all like a dream come true, a dream that I never realized before had haunted my sleep.

I learned of brooms and familiars and wands, as people deigned to explain, in different ways, what exactly I was pointing. Perhaps they thought this was my first time there and I was too excited at all things to stay with my parents and so had gotten separated from them. They tactfully refrained from saying anything of the rags I wore. Through the pieces of information I was given and the stray things I overheard, I pieced together enough to understand this wizard's market called. It was where one could buy any legal magical item, and quite a number of illegal items as well (but only if one knew where to look and whom to ask – you will refrain from such behaviour in the future; I will not have you committing random acts of delinquency after learning of your great-grandmother).

I did not understand that the concept of magic was a foreign perception to the vast world. Still, the very term magic itself should have been strange to me. I had never grown up with stories of dragons and witches and mystical powers. One never had time to tell such tales on the street, let alone learn them. It was all very bizarre to me, but a special bizarre that I discovered a portion of the world everyone knew, but slum people never had a chance to see.

In the end, my bare feet could only take so much walking on cobbles and people treading upon them, so I finally slipped into a small enclosed café court where tables were shaded by blue and white checked umbrellas. I found a small corner where I would only be noticed through sheer chance and settled down to listen. It was not until I finally studied the sparse number of people seated about the tables did I realize the woman and her grandson from earlier were present.

I felt no cause for alarm though I was curious about them, if only because they were among the very first "wizards" and "witches" I had ever knowingly seen. James was seated with his back towards me and his grandmother directly across. Were James not seated so, I would have been in his grandmother's direct line of vision.

At the moment, James, along with two boys his age (a quiet one with light-coloured hair and one finger pressed uncertainly against his upper lip, and the other a brawny lad with black hair and rumpled clothes), pleaded to the woman.

"Please?" James asked continuously as the boy with the finger pressed against his upper lip remained silent, and the brawny boy rambling continuously about how the puppets were an educational factor in manipulating inorganic material with simple spells and beginner charms. The woman, for the most part, ignored the boys as she ate a bowl of peaches smothered in cream and sugar. My stomach clenched at the sight for I had not eaten in two days, but I ignored it.

After several minutes of the "Please, grandmother?" and the incessant rambling, the woman looked up from her peaches. She pulled a large watch from her pocket and peered at it.

"I expect you to be back within an hour," she said, tapping the watch's glass with one sharp fingernail. "Do not make me come looking for you." James nodded his head vigorously in agreement, threw his arms around her for a brief hug, then scampered off with the other two boys as the brawny boy called out, "Thanks, Gramma Pandora!" The woman leaned back against her chair and sighed. She tucked her watch back into her pocket then looked directly at me.

There was no denying she saw me, and in that moment when her blue eyes, bright with awareness and a sharp cunning, settled upon me, I was filled with the urge to flee. She posed a danger, as anyone with such strength and confidence always did, and such danger habitually snuffed out the lives of insignificant gutter rats. Yet her eyes drew me inward. They pierced me to my soul and saw everything that I was, from being a gutter rat to being ambitious. It was as if my life was layers that surrounded me, and she stripped away and analysed every layer.

She lifted her arm, smooth and deliberate to lessen any alarm on my part. She gave me a 'come-hither' gesture and pointed at the seat James had occupied. I hesitated, wanting to run from this powerful woman, but I was also curious as to why she deigned to grant notice to one such as myself.

I told myself if she were to attack, I would duck beneath her and run. As well-fed as she might be, she was certainly as old as dirt and would be unable to keep up with one whose lifestyle demanded speed. By promising myself this, I summoned the courage to walk over to her table and climb into the seat. I warily peered at her as she pushed a bowl over to me. I glanced quickly at it and saw it was fruit like the one she was eating earlier. I eyed it for a moment then shot her a suspicious look. She sighed.

"My grandson," she said slowly, "has left me all alone. I ordered a perfectly good snack for him and I have no intention whatsoever to see it wasted. You look as though you might appreciate it." I still looked at her suspiciously, but when she withdrew a book from a pack sitting at her feet and began to read it, I decided she meant me no harm.

I slowly reached across the table to the bowl of peaches and cream, still watching her. I was ready to bolt should she have stirred from what she was reading, but to her credit the only movement she made was to turn pages.

I ate my peaches slowly, savouring the tangy flavour of peaches and cream, although it was…too sweet. I was not used to such a saccharine delectable, and I'm sure that amuses you to think of how I found something as simple as fruit and dairy to be too rich, too sweet.

I find it rather pathetic, myself.

Under the guise of the sweetness and the woman's indifference towards my presence, I felt myself relax. I had not realized how soon I had finished the rich dessert until my spoon hit the glassware. I glared at it accusingly, still hungry- always hungry. I dropped the spoon in the bowl, curled my arms around my stomach, and studied the woman before me. I did not believe she would appreciate my running away from her after she had just given me a gift, but I had to wonder why she would do anything for me. Why this kindness? Why this offering?

As she flipped another page of her book, I leaned close and squinted at the letters on the cover. My reading was still poor and I could not recognize most of the words. I mouthed each letter and the sounds they were capable of producing, but struggled against the hope of knowing what they meant.

"Powerful Potions from Ordinary Ingredients," the woman said absently. I jumped at the sound of her voice, then tensed. She did not look at me as she lifted her head from her reading. Instead, she held a hand up and waved. An instant later and someone wearing an apron of the same colours of the café hurried to her side. He bowed to her, shot me a look of pure malice that had my hackles rising in alarm, and then straightened with a pad and quill in his hand.

"Orange-spice tea," the woman said, "for myself, and one of your bacon sandwiches for my little friend here." She went back to her reading as the man scribbled down her order. With one last look at me, he hurried away. I knew why he expressed such dislike towards me. I was a skinny and filthy child, barely large enough to look over the edge of the table seated as I was, and dressed in grimy rags. Being served by him.

She did not feel dangerous. On the streets, one's senses for danger are acute and I felt nothing more from the woman than the need to curl up against her and let her hold me. I wondered if it had something to do with the area I was within. Perhaps it was playing around with my feelings. She was not like the other older women I often crossed in the slums, the hookers and whores who would leer at a child and curl fingers eager to paw and poke. They just wanted to capture what pleasure they could as a customer rather than as the client they usually were. Despite how I knew this woman to be dangerous, I found such knowledge comforting. Because she would not let other older women pursue such behaviour.

The woman closed her book and set it on the table between us. She leaned back against her chair, crossed one leg over the other, and folded her hands in her lap. Her blue eyes regarded me once more. I wiggled uncomfortably in my chair, wanting to run from her but also wanting to stay and bask in her attention.

She tilted her head to one side. "Where are you from?" she asked suddenly. I felt myself wilt at the words, regard having been miscalculated. Could she not tell I was a gutter rat just from my clothes and health? She sighed, as if understanding how difficult it was for me to explain I was from the slums. "Do you have a name?"

I wilted further down my seat. No name, unless "Hey! You!" could be considered a name. I was distinguished amongst the other children as the oddball, but beyond that there was nothing I ever called myself.

I heard her sigh and then mumble beneath her breath as if to convince herself: "I'll certainly not ask of your parents."

The peaches in my belly turned into a sodden lump. I knew then it was time for me to run; in those words alone it seemed she knew everything about me. Ashamed, I leapt out of my chair and dashed across the café's little yard. I ran into the waiter who carried the woman's order, tripped him up as I dodged around his legs, and easily slipped into the crowd of people that filled the street outside the café.

Behind me, I heard the woman call after. "Boy! Boy! Come back!" She did not sound upset although I had clearly foiled her plans. Well, forget it, I thought as I scurried through the crowds of people, slipping between legs and around small children. You was nice and all, but you scared me.

I finally stopped running after so many twists and turns down separate little waysides, at the front of a small building where dummies wearing multi-coloured robes stood in the front window. I looked at them and then was filled with hate for everyone. Did they realize what it was like to live in the slums, nothing stable or dependable, not even having a name? What would they know about terror and dark men who killed with green light and drug dealers and people who violated others out of their own need to hurt and hurt and hurt someone who couldn't fight back?

The happiness I had known at being in Diagon Alley disappeared beneath the tidal wave of revulsion I had for every person I saw. It choked me, sending my senses spiralling higher to encompass all. I felt the body heat of every person who passed me, heard their happy words, and saw their bright cheerfulness. And then I became aware of something I had not noticed when I first entered the area.

This façade of cheerfulness hid something. My hate wavered somewhat as I felt a steady undercurrent of fear and terror, a reminder of whatever horrid thing that lay out there and would have to be faced when people finally left this refuge. I suddenly realized just how forced were the smiles and how false was the laughter. What was it that held these people in such a state of terror that they would be so worried? I was filled with confusion and cared no longer to be there. I did not want to believe these people, living in their homes, tucked away from the horrors of the streets, with their steady lives and their names and their food, would be scared like a lost gutter rat.

I turned and fled, searching frantically for the wall through which I had entered. I realized I had no knowledge of how to escape and wondered if I were to be trapped in this strange world. I did not know what was worse: knowing that people were cheerful to cover their fright, or living in a place where the people did not know how to hide their terror.

Blinded by my panic (a mistake that could easily have killed me in the slums) I ran headlong into a stranger and the two of us became entangled. I struggled, biting and kicking, and it was when we had finally freed ourselves did I grasp control of my panic and recognize whom my opponent had been.

"Are you all right?" Without regard of my personal space, the woman's grandchild hauled me to my feet by my rags and thrust his face into mine. "Are you hurt?"

I saw my reflection in his eyes: greasy black hair standing on end and black eyes narrowed with suspicion. In his eyes, I saw him judge and condemn. I saw disgust and loathing, and he released me and scrubbed his hand against his shirt as if trying to rid himself of any disease he might have suspected me having.

From that moment onward, I despised your father.