Severus Snape was prepared.

He was.

Severus Snape was prepared for a total toerag, a perfect James Potter clone with all of James' attitude; all of his bullying; all of his sneering, old-money, Pureblood arrogance.

What he got…

What he got…

What he got was a small, slender boy with James' hair and Lily's eyes, with a skittishness one usually only saw in wild animals, a wide-eyed stare, behind large spectacles, that seemed both fascinated and terrified by everything around him. Like he'd been beaten every day of his life and finally escaped and didn't know what to make of his new situation.

When Snape took the roll and called out, "Potter, Harry," the boy murmured his response so low, Snape almost didn't hear it, but something about the boy's air of misery made him bite his tongue. He didn't snark, he didn't fling sarcasm, or test the boy on things he couldn't possibly know, which, he had to admit, was his intention. Instead, he simply noted the boy's presence and continued to the next student.

Severus Snape gave his speech, the same one he gave every class, gave them the bits about glory and love and death, and the whole time, the boy watched so wide-eyed, so silent and intense, that Snape almost lost track of where he was in the speech.

Twice!

He got through it, though, got through the speech and the class, but his heart wasn't in it, he wasn't feeling surly enough to yell or dock points or give Slytherins undeserved praise, or anything else. When the class was over, and the students were packing their things to go on to the next class, he drawled out, "Mr. Potter, remain behind, young man. I wish to speak to you."

The boy flicked his eyes at a couple of other students, a girl Snape only knew from the roll as "Granger, Hermione," and a boy who was so obviously a Weasley that no corroborating identification was necessary. Then he waved to them, barely, and turned back.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, uncertainty in his entire being.

Snape stared at him for a few minutes, watched him shuffle his feet. "I knew your father, Potter," he said, finally. "Went to school with him."

Harry blinked at the crow-like man in surprise. "With my dad? You went to Smeltings, sir?"

"Smel… Smeltings? What on earth is 'Smeltings?'"

"A secondary school, sir. It's where I was going to go. Before I decided to come here, I mean. It's where my brother, well, my cousin, I guess, really, but he's like my brother, Dudley, will go."

Snape continued to stare as the words tumbled out. He found he needed to close his mouth. "You are the son," he said, slowly, "of James and Lily Potter, yes?"

"Oh." Harry blinked from behind his spectacles, the large green eyes cutting through Snape. "My birth parents, you mean, sir? Yes, but they died before I was born. I don't really remember them.

"I was raised by my aunt and uncle, but they always treated me really well. Sir." He cleared his throat. "My aunt told me once that my, well, my birth parents, were killed by a madman." Again, the throat clearing. "I, well, I sort of came here because I don't really know anything about them, not after my mum went to school here, and there were things I really hoped to learn about them."

Again, he stopped suddenly, and just as suddenly, Snape realized the boy was terrified: nervous, adrift, with no idea where he was or what he was doing. Just… chasing the chance to know parents he'd never known, and rather than James Potter's arrogance or Lily's bravado, he exuded a complete lack of understanding of this new world in which he found himself.

Snape stared a moment and then said, "I… knew your mother, Lily, and your Aunt Petunia, as well. I grew up next to them."

Harry's face broke into a smile, and Snape's breath was stolen by how much like Lily's it was. "Oh! Can you tell me about my mother, sir? I mean, only if you have time. Sometime. If you…" He fell into silence again.

Snapped drummed his fingers on the desk and asked, "Did I see you using a notepad and brio to take notes during class, Potter?"

The change of subject caught the boy by surprise for a moment. "Er," a guilty look flashed across his face, "yes, sir. They didn't actually say it was against the rules. They just seemed to assume everyone would use a scroll and fountain pen and all. If it's against the rules, I'll stop."

Snape waved it away. After a moment, he said, "As long as your essays are on scroll, I don't care."

"Thank you, sir."

He was so earnest. So scared of the new world he found himself in and so uncertain, and Snape couldn't bring his long standing hatred of James Potter to the forefront, couldn't direct it at this boy. He drummed his fingers on the desk again, and said, "Your father and his friends and I… we did not get along. At all. I… like to believe that your mother and I were friends, once, though, quite close ones. For a while." He cleared his own throat and looked toward the bookcase as if searching for something there. "I would be glad to talk to you about your mother, sometime, Potter. I will. When I have time, I will send you a note during office hours."

Harry broke into a smile, a genuine, full smile, and again, Snape felt as if he'd been punched in the belly. "Thank you, sir! Thank you so much, I…"

"Go on to your next class," Snape told him with a wave. "If your next professor complains about you being late or anything, tell them I'll send a note excusing your tardiness, later. What is your next class?"

"History of Magic, sir."

Snape snorted. "Binns won't even notice you're late," he assured the boy. "I'm not sure he notices he's dead. Go on."

"Thank you, sir, see you next week."

"And if you have spare notepads and brios," Snape called after him, "I'd be glad to buy some off you."

Harry Potter paused in the door and gave the potions master a shy grin. "I have lots, sir. I didn't know if I'd have a chance to buy more before holidays. I'll bring you some, next class."

The boy left, then, and Snape sat back in his chair, stared into the distance, and saw the past, rather than stone walls; saw another boy he hated and a girl he loved and started to wonder if some parts of the past wasn't better left where they were, and if bitter dregs of regrets could be swallowed down and washed away, one day.