He finds himself walking to Hagrid's hut. He's not sure why and to what end. He is about to turn back when Hagrid opens the door.

"Come on in! I just put on the kettle."

He sits at the table while Hagrid pours the tea into two large mugs and sets one in front of Snape.

Finally, he blurts out: "You gave the boy his letter."

"Tha' I did." Hagrid seems to have been expecting this.

"What did you think of him?"

"He's a nice lad. Yeh'd like 'im. A bit shy, but tha's ter be expected after living with that aunt and uncle of 'is. Yeh wouldn't believe how big Muggles they are!"

"I think I have an idea. Tuney Evans was always suspicious of magic. Jealous because she didn't get into Hogwarts." It feels odd, he thinks, talking about this. He's not sure why he volunteered this little tidbit.

Hagrid raises his eyebrows and starts to say something. He thinks better of it. "Righ'. I forgot you knew 'er. Tha' explains a lot, I suppose. Did yeh ever meet tha' great brute Dursley?"

Snape stares into his mug. "Saw him once. Didn't seem very pleasant."

Hagrid snorts into his tea. "The years haven't changed 'im."

"Did you expect the boy to be sorted into Slytherin?"

"Ter be honest, no I didn't. Mighta let slip somethin' about all Death Eaters bein' Slytherins."

Snape can barely muster a response. For the umpteenth time in the last quarter hour, he wonders why he's even here. He feels detached, apprehensive; like he's about to witness a train crash and can't bring himself to look away.

"So," Hagrid says while fiddling around with the tea kettle, "the question yeh want to ask me, but won't, is: Is Harry more like James or more like Lily?"

Was it that obvious? He tries an evasion. "What makes you think that?"

"Is tha' the best yeh can do, lad?" Hagrid smirks. "I mean, professor."

He merely sips at his tea. Too hot and too sweet. Hagrid looks at him with a sympathetic expression. It is infuriating.

"Well, like I said, he's a shy lad. Yeh'd never accuse James o' bein' shy."

"That's before he knew he was a celebrity. Give him time and I'm sure he'll come round." He can feel his mouth turning into a sneer.

"Doubt tha'. Not the type."

"He's the spitting image of James Potter." He doesn't know why he's doing this; this incessant picking at scabs.

"'Cept for the eyes. Lily's eyes through an' through. They say the eyes are the windows ter the soul."

"Stop talking about his bloody eyes, would you?" He slams his mug onto the table, sloshing hot tea all over the place. "Evanesco," he mutters. He has the decency to look embarrassed. It was not much of a train crash, he thinks, more of a pranging. He makes some apologetic noises and moves to leave.

But Hagrid puts his hand on Snape's shoulder and pushes him back down to his chair. The gamekeeper looks earnest and Snape braces for impact.

"The thing yeh need ter understand is James was a good man." He holds up a large hairy hand before Snape could interrupt. "He was a git o' a boy, I won't deny it. He was terrible to yeh; he was arrogant, he thought the world was his by rights. But he grew out of it. He realized he made mistakes. If he had met yeh again, he would've apologized."

He closes his eyes and pictures himself being slammed to the wall. It is almost satisfying. He opens his eyes and looks out the window. "Then it's a shame I killed him before he had the chance to, eh?" His voice is monotonous.

"Yeh stop tha'. Yeh stop tha' right now. We both know yeh didn't kill him." He forces Snape to turn and look at him. "Or her."

Snape stands and walks toward the door. "Good night, Hagrid," he murmurs, "Thanks for the tea."