Walking the One-Way Street

Chapter 2: the boy under the stairs

A grey tabby cat wandered through the thick and uncommonly straight bushes lining the garden of Number 4, Privet Drive. To the muggle eye it was quite the regular cat if said muggle chose to ignore the spectacle marks on its face as well as the knowing look cast at the man standing just across the street. A muggle as normal as the ones living in Privet Drive would rather mimic the stare of the cat, though, naturally with added disapproval, for a man like that one was not a welcome sight in a normal street. And a sight the man was!

With his dark robes, the greasy jet-black hair, smouldering coal eyes and a stance that told stories of dignity – which some muggles might have found quite admirable considering his state of dress – he was a picture of everything not normal. But somehow any frown sent his way would change into very uncomfortable unease, bordering on fear. Maybe the muggles felt on a basic level that this man was abnormal to a degree that went far beneath clothes and skin.

The tabby cat was not impressed. It glared at the man, then at its surroundings, eyes shifting to windows hidden by thick curtains – every once and a while a curious eye was seen in a gap between them – and finally to a small black shape trying futilely to make itself invisible while creeping into the Dursley house. The body of the cat tensed by reflex, crouching low to the ground. Then it relaxed. With mischievous eyes it watched the mouse crawl into the well-groomed house as if hoping it might wreck some minor havoc there. After the rodent had disappeared, it looked back at the street, all mirth slowly leaving its stance.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Harry cursed his black fur. And not for the first time, either. It was almost impossible to not be seen by predators in bright daylight. He had dodged a bird and a fat brown cat on his way through only two gardens. As a human the distance had seemed irritatingly short.

So, Severus Snape was standing in front of his house like an annoyed watchdog. Why ever he should be there to watch the Dursleys was a mystery to him. For a short moment he had wondered if it was a good idea after all, to go back to his old childhood home. But as much as he loathed the situation, it was a sad fact that it was his only shelter for now. He had no money – muggle or wizarding alike – and no access to his vault at Gringotts. And even if he somehow managed to gain access to it without his key, how would he ever reach London to do it?

He had quickly concluded that sleeping in a dusty cupboard was still better than sleeping in a street – even in summer. And as long as he got out of their way, the Dursleys usually ignored him just fine. Chores he could live with, sneaking food from the kitchen he could live with and dodging Dudley was kind of easy. In his younger years he had been a menacing bully, but the years had somehow slowly turned that picture in his memory into that of a panting and sweating grease-ball falling behind him in a trail of dust. Of course Dudley wasn't that big, yet, and thus more agile. But Harry had the accumulated experiences of many more years full of magic, friendships and tragedy. Dudley was just a kid. Harry was not.

He carefully scurried from shadow to shadow. He could hear his aunt move in the kitchen. He saw a blur of her back in front of the window as he hurried past the door. He imagined her craning her neck to get a better look at the scene outside. Well, Snape had always been sort of... extraordinary, even by wizarding standards. He stopped in front of the cupboard and paused. He didn't want to get back in there. He shivered. Maybe... as long as his uncle was at work? His sensitive ears then caught the vibrating sounds of steps upstairs. He looked back up the old wooden door of the cupboard, looming above him. It was no use, he told himself firmly and changed back to his human form, quickly but soundlessly getting inside his cage and closing the door behind him with a small click.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Harry yet again changed his position and shifted uneasily until he had the feeling to sit at least moderately comfortable. The time just wouldn't pass. It had never felt like that when he was younger. But then again he had been ignorant of the whole world, of magic, of all the places one could go, of all the things one could do. And maybe he also had perceived time differently. Time had been vast, there had been no mayor task beside his chores and school – nothing he would have wanted to do very desperately, anyway. His world had ended at the school backyard, he had never drifted from the path between home and school and had not seen anything else besides Mrs Figg's place and the nearby park – and those rarely as well, when his uncle and aunt had important people to dinner.

So now that the world was so big and so full of possibilities and tasks, he just couldn't sit still and let the time trickle by idly. He felt nervous and excited and restless – as though an army of ants crawled all over him or just like the impatient tugging of a Port Key behind his navel.

He wanted to go back to his earlier plan and leave his childhood home behind. He wanted to run, to jump, to learn how to use the human body once more, so he could finally shake off the awkwardness of being two-legged and big and noisy and numb to sounds and vibrations and slow and naked and – and – and he missed his whiskers.

He felt like easy prey.

And just like that he shrunk in on himself even though he knew it was useless. The sound of the front door wanted to make his ears twitch into the direction of the sound, instead he had to force himself to turn his head and close his eyes. He heard two voices, one quiet and one deep and angry. So uncle Vernon was back home.

"Dad?" the cupboard shook as hurried steps all but flew down the stairs.

"Yes, Dudley?" the angry voice of Vernon had instantly risen to a much friendlier tone, weirdly enough it sounded genuine.

"Mom said I should ask you if I can go to play with Piers and stay overnight. Can I?" It almost didn't sound like a question, the "Of course, son." clearly taken for granted. Dudley whooped and stormed back upstairs only to come back a few seconds later, dragging something with him that bumped on each step loudly over Harry's head.

"I'll be gone then!" he called eagerly. But then his bouncing steps slowed at the door. "Where are my shoes?"

Harry startled, eyes flying open wide. He knew he still had those shoes on, but looked down at his feet nevertheless.

"Maybe you took them upstairs, darling?" Aunt Petunia offered from the kitchen, where Vernon could be heard muttering.

"No, I put them here earlier!" Dudley's voice pitched dangerously. "I know that I did! Harry must have stolen them!"

Harry heard Petunia fretting, but couldn't discern any clear words. He shook with fear. The adult in him knew he had got over this old fear at a point in life, had seen worse, done worse, been worse, but the body of child Harry and its instincts and experiences couldn't be easily overcome. He was two persons mingled and it tore him apart.

"Boy!" Suddenly the door burst open in a very familiar fashion that made him cringe. He looked up at the looming shadow unblinkingly. Adult Harry wanted to sneer, child Harry to apologize, mouse Harry to hide. He was frozen to the spot, couldn't even feel the muscles of his face, couldn't for the life of him choose between the urges that pulled him apart.

Surely enough Vernon's eyes wandered down to his feet, white expensive trainers a stark contrast to the rest of his shabby clothes. His face twisted sharply into a mix of disbelieving anger and habitual hatred. He was hideous when angry, adult Harry analysed almost calmly in him while child Harry swatted the thought away guiltily, wrestling against the control of one who knew that Vernon Dursley was just a small obstacle in his life in comparison.

Harry made himself blink with some effort and forced the child's mind behind all his knowledge. He still felt oddly exposed and helpless, but also brave and defiant.

"Uncle Vernon." he pressed out, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

"Explain." Vernon growled lowly, moustache quivering. Harry had the distant feeling the man wasn't at all interested in any reasoning he could offer. It didn't matter what he said, any word he uttered would only make things worse. So he clamped his mouth shut firmly and forced himself to look into the small, beady eyes above him.

"Has it – by any chance – something to do with those freaks hanging around in front of our house all day?" Vernon's voice grew steadily louder until he was bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Did you call them in one of your freakish ways, ungrateful brat that you are? They even had the cheek to ring and I bet you can guess what it was about!"

Spittle flew from his mouth as he continued, face reddening unhealthily. Harry swallowed thickly. "It was about you, boy! Wanted to run away, didn't you? Had to steal from us before, of course, and conveniently forgot who paid for all the pathetic things you needed! And you didn't stop there, you had to sick THEM on us, too!"

Vernon's hands were balled to fists, knuckles protruding through the chubby mass of his fingers. His teeth were grinding. Harry was startled, he had rarely seen Vernon so angry – and in those moments there had always been a wizard or a witch nearby to keep him in check. But now there wasn't. Harry was suddenly quite aware of how small he was, how vulnerable, and how much damage his uncle could cause in his anger – maybe even partly unintentionally.

"It isn't like that." Harry mumbled, struggling for neutrality, sweating hands gripping his loose shirt. But Vernon wouldn't believe him, whatever he might have said. He went for a walk? He wasn't allowed outside. He had cold feet? How could he have dared touch Dudley's shoes! It was useless.

"Take the shoes off. Now!" Vernon hissed. Harry immediately bent down to do as told, but obviously he wasn't quick enough, fingers trembling at his feet, because a moment later a hand was in his hair, gripping tightly and then pulling upwards. He gasped in pain and struggled to his feet clumsily, trying to lessen the strain on impulse.

Then suddenly his hair was free again and he stumbled backwards awkwardly, his head hitting the low ceiling of the cupboard. Hurriedly he pushed off the shoes with his feet, loose as they hung at his ankles, and only then chanced another look at his uncle.

But his uncle was not at the door anymore. There was another dark figure, a familiar black shape against the afternoon light. Severus Snape.

His brain couldn't keep up with this new information, which might have been good, too, because he would surely have given himself away at this very moment.

The Potions Master's face held a passive sneer clearly directed at the situation as a whole. Harry tried to imagine how ridiculous he must look: dressed in rags, standing on a small cot that obviously was his bed, childish drawings at the walls speaking for themselves, and in the middle of it all immaculate white muggle trainers, looking alien like a swan in a dirty pond. Instinctively Harry shifted a bit to the side and into the shadows. Spider webs tickled his naked feet. The black eyes followed his every movement, one eyebrow rising mockingly. Suddenly he felt even more shameful. He quite clearly remembered why he had hated the professor in his youth. And a part of him, the part that had learned to deeply respect the man for his less obvious good traits, wanted to reach out to him to see if he was really alive and well, to see if he was indeed breathing and not the pale lifeless shell lying at the feet of Tom Riddle.

"So, Harry Potter." Severus Snape said in a mixture of amusement and discomfort. "has been hiding here all along."

Harry wanted to protest, but pressed his lips together. The professor must have seen the spark of anger in his eyes, though, because a smirk pulled at a corner of his mouth for a moment. It passed quickly enough as shouts could be heard from the kitchen nearby. Minerva McGonagall's voice was quite clearly discernible. Harry tilted his head to hear more, in the same fashion he had done earlier, a deeply ingrained habit to catch every noise to try to identify it as no immediate danger to his health.

"Come." Snape said and Harry flinched. He cursed child Harry once again, because his feet were rooted to the ground, legs feeling like wooden sticks. "Merlin." An exasperated sight, then a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him through the corridor into the kitchen. His legs still felt insecure under him and he stumbled to a halt shaking like a leaf and not exactly sure why.

The shouting had stopped with their entry and every eye turned towards them – the Dursleys' fixed on Snape, McGonagalls' on Harry. He looked back at her uncertainly, still uncomfortably aware that his arm was in a death grip and he couldn't stand straight because his elbow was angled too high. Her face was burning with rage, mouth a tight line in her face.

"Harry." She intoned quietly, moving towards him, but then stopping herself with some obvious effort. Her gaze shifted to her colleague with a frown. "Let him go already, Severus, for heaven's sake."

The hand tightened for a moment, then vanished and Harry shifted backwards slightly, unsure which reaction was appropriate. He couldn't just go and fiercely hug the elderly lady as he felt inclined to. He hadn't been aware as of yet how much it would touch him to see her, even more so as she looked exactly the way he remembered first seeing her. Proud and confident. At the same time he wanted to tell her not to worry, not to feel bad. Somehow child Harry in him couldn't progress any further, only seeing the fierce woman who looked at him as though he was the product of a crime she committed. He wanted to tell her he was okay. Adult Harry of course knew more, knew better, but was trapped in the net of the feelings of an eleven year old that had once been him and that now was him. Having all these memories didn't make his body older. Some things developed with time only.

Professor McGonagall turned back to the Dursleys, her body going taut, looking ready to strike. One of her hands was opening and closing restlessly.

"Let me sum this up." she seethed. "Since Albus Dumbledore left this boy in your care trusting that the only family he had left would take care of their own flesh and blood, you have been knowingly mistreating him for reasons that are not his to choose. And you..."

Vernon's spiteful laughter cut her off.

"He is not our flesh and blood." he all but spat, rising a shaking finger in lecture. "He is an incorrigible error of life, that's was he is. Just like his parents, failures who couldn't even manage to stay alive long enough to keep their horrible spawn away from normal, hard-working..."

"Enough." Snape's wand flicked almost casually at the three Dursleys huddled together in front of the sink, while he muttered a Silencio at them that was almost too quiet to catch. Anyone who didn't know him would have seen a cold, unmoved man, but Harry remembered his Potions lessons quite well and knew when the professor was grasping to control himself, he saw the slightly gritted teeth, the watchful eye that dared them to move and give him an excuse to let himself slip. Not to see that anger directed at himself, but at someone else for his sake... it was disconcerting.

Harry looked at his bare toes. It made no sense. Snape hated him, he knew that. Despised him for his parents. The vulnerable, open, young part of him felt overwhelmed for a moment, but he pushed the feeling back and forced himself to look up at the man. Black glittering eyes, looked back at him for a brief moment, almost thoughtful. Then the well-known unpleasant sneer pulled at Snape's mouth.

"Harry." he looked back at Professor McGonagall quickly, relieved. She smiled tightly at him. "I guess you will have a lot of questions. I think we should introduce ourselves first. My name is Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and this is my colleague Severus Snape, our resident Potions Professor."

Harry couldn't manage to look surprised or amazed or anything that might have been appropriate when supposedly meeting wizards for the first time in life. He knew it by the way her words faded at the end of her introduction. Hastily he made himself blink, tried to plaster confusion over his features, but he somehow felt queasy to his stomach. Why couldn't he just tell her? I know you! I have known you for years!

But the words died on his tongue. He couldn't say them. What would they all think of him? How would they look at him? Maybe they would think he was messed up in his head. Maybe they would believe him and that was even worse. It would be a giant barrier between himself and a decent life. A normal life. And Dumbledore... oh, how he dreaded meeting the old wizard. His mentor. The guiding force that had led him blindfolded, played him like a card, that had loved him regardless. He would not be able to meet him equally if he betrayed that he wasn't the Harry they placed with the Dursleys.

No, Dumbledore would not trust him. He had no reason. He didn't know Harry. No one did. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes briefly. No one did.

Opening his eyes, he brought a nervous smile on his lips and held out a shaking hand.

"Well, you seem to know my name already, but... I'm Harry. Nice to meet you."

End of Chapter 2.

Author's Note:

Sorry, it has been some time, but I have been a bit distracted. I still hope you like how the story progresses. You probably can guess that I'm a fan of Severus Snape... err, well, he IS amazing, so he will be quite prominent in my story, too.

Correction of errors is always welcome. I read it several times, but some things just evade me until someone rubs them under my nose. :D

Ah, and another thing: I'm trying to keep it British English, so please tell me if there are errors of that kind.

Next chapter: Nagininess!