Ch 2 The Call
Severus understood from the moment Harry Potter stepped into the Great Hall that he hated the boy.
The whole past month he'd spent telling himself to keep an open mind, to give Potter a chance, but as the first years were walking over from the antechamber Severus could find nothing inside himself but anger and loathing.
He saw how Draco flinched back when he met Severus' eyes. When Severus tried to follow up with a weak smile, the boy looked entirely uncomforted.
There was the sixth Weasley child. The family could already barely afford to clothe the fruits of their poor contraceptive habits, and Snape knew there was also a seventh.
Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, Macmillan, Bones—
Nobody else was paying the rest of the first years any attention, either. All that mattered was the scrawny boy with his mother's brilliant green eyes staring past his own upturned nose like Lily never would have done. He was a clone of his father: brown skin, dark hair, and a strutting gait like he thought he owned the world. The way he was looking towards the Gryffindor table made it clear exactly where Potter thought he'd be sorted.
He didn't look bothered in the spotlight of several hundred people watching him. Aloof and arrogant, just like his father.
"He's never met his parents. He's going to be his own person," Poppy had said. "You should give him a chance."
Watching the way the boy ran his hand through his unkempt hair, Severus knew that the apple hadn't fallen far at all, and maybe it had begun to ferment where it sat, intensifying into something putrid.
"They're just wee sprogs," Filch had said, "And they think they can fool you with their innocent looks, but they're rotten, every single one of them, to the core."
Filch knew children like Poppy never could. No, Severus decided, it would be better to loathe Potter from afar. It was a large school with enough students that Severus should be able to barely notice he was even there.
Forcing himself to turn away, Severus watched Bones go to Hufflepuff.
He watched as Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco all sorted Slytherin, which was a pleasant surprise.
Even while clapping for his godson, Severus had to bring his mind back, again and again, to the present as it was occurring. All the Occlumency in the world hadn't prepared him for the sight of that boy, that arrogant little shit who was looking bored of all things on his first day of school, as if he were better than all of them, as if Potter had better things to do than stand there and wait for his turn.
When Minerva said his name the school broke out into whispers. It sounded like falling rain.
Quirinus was leaning over to say something, but Severus ignored him to follow the boy's progress across the room. Potter sat down like the stool had offended him.
For a second, Severus wondered if Albus had ever tried to transfigure the traditional seat into an overstuffed armchair. Or perhaps Sybill could be coaxed to dispense with a pouffe.
The hat's brim opened after only a few seconds, ready to declare to all of Hogwarts that the boy was indubitably just like his father. Just like his mother.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The entire Hall broke into rising murmurs. Severus felt like there was ice crawling up his limbs.
Of all the things for Hagrid to be right about, did it have to be this?
No Special Treatment, he had planned. Also, to ignore the brat for the next long seven years.
With a great deal of reluctance, Severus began to clap. Albus and the other staff joined him, then the house of snakes added their polite applause. The sound of Hagrid blowing his nose trumpeted awkwardly over the other houses' dubious muttering.
Potter was just another student, Severus reminded himself. He would disregard the boy to the best of his abilities, there were plenty of other children to keep him busy.
Merlin, Severus wished Albus would get the feast started so he'd have something to occupy his hands.
And for the House Elves to replace the pumpkin juice at the staff table. His heady disappointment would be much easier to digest with a good red wine.
.oOo.
Through the entire feast, Severus had managed not to look at Potter, but he didn't remember having accomplished anything else. For all he knew, he'd agreed to help Quirrell with his grading.
Oh Merlin, he really hoped he hadn't agreed to help Quirrell with his grading.
It was in the past now. Severus collected himself, crushed his thoughts into a box that lived just beyond the cavity of his heart. He peered through the tapestry at his firsties gathered in the common room. They were staring at the decorative snakes and pretending they weren't terrified.
All but Crabbe, who seemed to have fallen asleep where he stood.
The older students were circling, gazes sharp and assessing as they sorted themselves into a semblance of hierarchy around the room. Many of them would have gotten instructions from their parents on whom to befriend and whom to snub, but they were children.
Most of them would forget all their 'shoulds' by next Monday, entirely preoccupied with whatever nonsense filled their minds. It was a good thing, too, otherwise Draco would be getting overrun by people trying for a Malfoy alliance.
Severus could already hear Lucius' drawling: "Macmillan was talking to my son, have you heard about a death trap hidden behind an Alohomora just down the third floor corridor…"
Meanwhile Draco himself seemed to be trying for a Potter alliance, whispering at the boy even while Potter ignored him to watch a school of minnows flit across the nearest porthole window.
It had become customary for Severus to swoop in and startle the firsties. What had begun as an intimidation tactic to garner students' respect had turned into a tradition: every successive batch of second years got to enjoy the satisfaction of being in on the scare.
This time, just as Severus was stepping through his hidden doorway, Potter spun to look right at his disillusioned form.
Draco turned as well, but his ability to keep a secret was overpowered by Draco's desire to tell everyone how clever he thought he was. "Hello Professor," he called over, making everyone else look.
Potter was smirking, obviously delighting in the fact he'd upstaged his head of house.
Who was Severus kidding, he wasn't being upstaged by anyone. He was a grown man—
—with a grudge on an eleven-year-old child—
—whom he was going to spend the next seven years ignoring, thank you very much.
Hating the way his feelings were boiling in his gut, Severus let the disillusionment melt off him and stepped forward. "Welcome to Slytherin House." He tried not to sound as tired as he felt. "This will be your home for the next seven years, do attempt to avoid making enemies on your very first night."
His traitorous eyes found Potter again without Severus' consent.
"Of course, some of you were born into enmities. Best of luck with that."
The melancholy quirk of Potter's lips had Severus blinking back memories.
"My office hours are on the notice board. Bring your issues to your prefects before you address me, but when you do need my help I will endeavour to assist. Stick together. Watch your back. And whatever you do, don't get caught."
Spinning on his heel, Severus walked back to his alcove and allowed himself to return to invisibility. He watched the children scatter into groups, watched Flint bearing down on the Quidditch team and Farley shepherding the first-years to their rooms.
He listened to their summer gossip, filing the news about Ogden's second cousin's affair and Dagworth's recent investments into goblin-forged jewellery.
As his students settled down and headed towards their beds, Severus let himself fall into a chair by the low-burning fire. The blackened logs were crumbling apart, glowing an angry Gryffindor red against the enchanted green of the flames.
A clatter startled him into turning around. "Mipsy be doing the tidying up, Pr'fessy Snape," the elf squeaked.
Severus wasn't sure when it had gotten that late—his pocket watch revealed it was already midnight. Sighing, he fumbled around his collar for the golden chain with an hourglass dangling off the end.
There were seven years' worth of student dorms that needed warding. Three spins should do it.
Suppressing his yawn, because Lucius had always said that yawning was for lesser men, Severus heaved himself to his feet and got back to work.
.oOo.
By Friday, mission Ignore Harry Potter had proven itself an all-round success. Severus' eyes barely even noticed the way the boy was picking at his breakfast, had hardly registered the deepening bags under the child's eyes.
Nor was he really observing Potter's listless responses as Draco talked at him.
Honestly, Severus wished that Draco would find someone else to befriend; even Zabini would be a better choice. If not for Draco's own sake, it would improve Severus' inevitable headache the next time Lucius and Narcissa invited him over for tea.
Severus walked into that morning's Potions class churning with anticipation.
"You are here to learn the exact art and science that is potion-making," he told them, enjoying the way they collapsed into immediate silence.
Was that a feather in Harry Potter's hair?
Spinning on his heel, Severus paced between the ranks of desks, letting the children crane their necks to watch him. Draco was smirking from the frontmost row, while Longbottom was in the far back, gently quivering. "Many of you will not understand the beauty of—"
And was that teal nail polish on Potter's fingers? The boy was barely paying attention, gaze firmly on a journal in front of him.
"...of a cauldron," Severus finished. The rest of the words followed automatically, admittedly from long practice before the bathroom mirror. While his mouth was moving Severus let his eyes trail repeatedly back to Potter and observed as the boy took the feather—no, the quill—from behind his ear and began to write.
For a heartbeat Severus' greatest desire was to have that notebook, to find out the inane workings of Potter's little mind.
No, that was ridiculous. Severus' greatest desire was a pack of fags and a night in muggle London, bar-hopping down Old Compton Street until he was drunk enough to forget, if only for a moment, about Harry bloody Potter.
"...if you're not a bunch of dunderheads like I usually teach."
Draco was still smirking, firmly convinced he wasn't a dunderhead, or perhaps feeling especially smug over his head start.
Privately, Severus found Draco rather lacking, especially considering the tutors and opportunities that had been spoon-fed to him off a silver platter. Lucius and Narcissa, naturally, had convinced their son he was a genius.
Nevertheless, there was a class to teach. For the first lesson Severus liked to begin with a practical, hoping beyond hope to incite even a modicum of enthusiasm for the beautiful magic of potions by letting them actually brew.
He assigned a boil-cure, the simplest three-step, three-ingredient potion in their book. It was always astonishing to what extent the students managed to get it wrong.
Potter was still scribbling something, and Severus didn't know why he found that so irritating. His frustration was steaming inside him like compost under a blanket of snow.
"Tell me, Mister Potter," Severus said, feeling a jolt of glee at seeing the boy jump, "what would result from the combination of Asphodel and Wormwood ?"
It was a simple question, if the boy had read beyond the letter A in his alphabetical textbook. At the same time, Severus wished bitterly that his mind had come up with something a little less…symbolic.
Potter was blinking slowly, eyes much too green and looking far too tired. When he spoke the words were measured, the opposite of his father's excitability and his mother's passion. "Draught of Living Death, sir."
Scowling, Severus let himself move on. Perhaps Longbottom had read past B and might know about Bezoars, though history had shown that most students neglected to crack the spines of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi until the due date of their first essay.
Judging by the state of the summer essays Severus had to grade, he suspected there were some who managed to reach their OWL year without opening their books at all.
The class progressed in stunning mediocrity. Potter prevented Goyle from setting himself on fire, and Granger prevented Longbottom from being an environmental hazard.
When they all shuffled out again, a gaggle of Gryffindors and a few scattered groups of Slytherins, Severus called Potter to stay behind.
He had decided that, at least while the boy was in his class, it was only prudent to acknowledge that he did, in fact, exist.
"Sir?" Potter was standing there, re-adorned with his hair-quill. It looked ridiculous.
"What bird is that from?" Severus found himself asking.
He'd meant to say something much more relevant, something like, You are committing a gross uniform violation with your fingernails and you will desist, or, Have you been tutored in potions before, because no beginner could do that well without cheating.
"It's from a papagaio-verdadeiro, a Brazilian friend gave it to me."
Lucius would have said something snide about the way Potter had tacked on a shrug as an afterthought.
Thank Merlin Lucius would never hear about this, because then he'd know Severus was alone in a room with this boy, whom Severus loathed, and instead of doing anything of merit he was asking about a stupid accessory.
"Was that all you wanted me for, Professor?"
All the words Severus desired to say were floating away like dandelion seeds in a stiff breeze. The only thing welling up in him was his longing for alcohol. "You may go." When the boy's back turned, he let himself slump into his seat.
As the door closed behind Potter, Severus caught the sound of Draco's voice, and Goyle's inconsequential grunting.
And it was a good thing, Severus knew it was a good thing, that his Slytherins were keeping together just as he'd told them to, but at the same time the demon on his shoulder—the snake on his left forearm—was whispering how much he wanted for Potter to be eaten alive.
.oOo.
By the end of the day, the only thing containing Severus' jittering hands was the force of long practice. He excused himself from dinner early, feeling about ready to explode if Albus were to try offering him another slice of lemon tart. They both knew what he really needed wasn't something sweet or sour, it was a palate cleanser.
The act of walking to the school gates helped, his feeling of progress growing with every step. An apparition to Spinner's End for a quick change of clothes, a glamour, then a stop by the same corner shop where Severus had been buying cigarettes since Tobias deemed him old enough to properly count the change.
Perhaps the only perk of living in a run-down neighbourhood was that nobody turned around at the sound of a car backfiring.
Just turning off Charing's Cross onto Old Compton Street had Severus' shoulders loosening, the weight of everything no longer feeling quite so heavy.
Maybe it was the air tinged with stale beer and smoke, or the clamour that poured out of every bar Severus walked past. He moved easily through the early evening crowd, sucking greedily on the night's first cigarette.
The pub greeted him with its usual worn sign, just enough music filtering through the muggy air that Severus knew it would drown out his thinking. He nodded at the smattering of men chatting outside the Admiral Duncan and stepped inside.
The lager here wasn't awful, but today Severus was feeling more like a glass of the decent house red, enjoyed from the comfort of an out-of-the-way table. Lucius would have hated the place, sneering at the lacklustre alcohol and the way the men here all stood just a little bit closer to each other than was appropriate, arms almost always reaching out to touch.
Poppy, on the other hand, would have approved. Severus pictured her and Minerva sitting by the bar, Minerva's pinched face relaxing as Poppy got louder and more giggly with every successive drink.
But then he was walking in, the very reason Severus had come to frequent this bar over all the other gay bars in Soho, despite the fact that there were ones with better drinks and more comfortable chairs.
The man walked like he knew exactly where he belonged in the world, and that place was right here in this pub, chatting with his usual friends and flirting with every other person who passed by.
Someday soon, Severus was going to introduce himself, just for the pleasure of having those sparkling eyes turned on himself. Besides, it would be nice to have a name to go with the face, even if just so that he could better convince Poppy the man was real.
"Oi, d'you need these chairs, mate?"
Severus glanced at the interloper and indulged in a shrug. "Help yourself."
There was a small area cleared out near the centre of the room for dancing. Even without having downed a drink, and despite being the only ones out on the floor, Severus' green-eyed friend had dragged a mate over to dance to a melody different from the one coming out the speakers.
Severus thought he could see relief unbowing the man's shoulders, as if his past week had been just as gruelling as Severus' own.
He liked to think of them as kindred spirits. Severus was savouring the process of unravelling the man's mystery. There was nobody breathing down Severus' neck here, nobody asking for mission reports or the latest news spied from behind enemy ranks.
The only interests Severus was serving tonight were his own: the lovely fog of the wine, the numbing drone of the music, the deafening smell of sweat and cigarettes. And the view of a green-eyed man in a blue pleated skirt who was acting like the only thing that mattered was this moment, this breath, and the way the light from the lopsided disco ball played across his skin.
"Did nobody ever tell you it's rude to stare?"
Severus looked over at the man who had pulled up to his table.
"Anthony," the man said, offering a hand. "We've been wondering when you'd come over and actually talk to us, then they voted I ask you to join us instead."
There was something truly kind in the man's eyes. Their corners crinkled not as if he was laughing at Severus, but as though he was amused by the way the entirety of human existence was a cosmic joke.
"People call me Gramps, or Wheels, but I prefer Gramps. What's your name?" The man exuded friendliness to the extent that it was almost unnatural—but this was just a muggle pub, not Knockturn Alley, and a man with a walker was hardly a threat.
Reaching across the table, Severus shook the hand lest it get taken away. "Sev," he decided to call himself. "The pleasure's mine."
"Lovely. Are you coming with?" Even Gramp's voice was genial, and smokey like a storyteller's by a campfire.
He didn't see why not. Perhaps, it was about time Severus tried something new.
