The Best Revenge

Chapter 2

Every time he allowed himself to forget the mundane, soul-crushing ugliness of the muggle world, it somehow forced itself on his notice. Snape's journey to find young Potter was not short. The Headmaster had not offered him the use of his office floo, and Snape was forced to take the walk beyond the Hogwarts gates in order to apparate to London. Once there, he had to make his way to—

--Little Whinging, he shuddered. What an unspeakably awful name. The fact that Petunia would consent to live in a place so designated spoke volumes about her.

There's no accounting for lack of taste.

He could not apparate to a place unknown to him. The train ride from London to Surrey did not improve his mood. He was ready to be affronted by everything: by the vulgar omnipresent advertising, by the sight of roads packed with vehicles spewing their foulness into the air, by the shrieks and giggles of young muggles crowding into the train. Snape bitterly regretted his inability to take points and assign detentions. The teens, for their part, seemed to find his appearance a source of diversion and merriment. Snape sneered at a pierced and tattooed youth, and received an explicitly rude gesture in reply.

"Bugger off, Dracula!"

The lout's companions applauded this witticism. Snape was indignant.

He was was not, as his students might have predicted, dressed entirely in black. For these forays into the muggle world he invariably dressed in a treasured tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that he had always thought rather dashing. His trousers were crisp khaki twill. Only his turtleneck was black. He had gone to great lengths to blend in with the muggle world.

Unfortunately, there were so many muggle worlds: the World of Muggle Academics, the World of the Country Gentry, the World of Working Folk, the World of Layabouts on the Dole. One never knew into which muggle world one might be precipitously hurled. Snape was now confronted with the World of Unregenerate Youth, and the muggle version was far more uncouth than anything the wizarding world had spawned. They bellowed and screeched and belched and farted. Their conversation was composed almost entirely of obscenities. When they swaggered out of the train, not knowing whom they had offended, Snape thought wistfully of what he might have done to them twelve years before. However, he was one of the righteous now, and had to be satisfied with a surreptitious tripping hex that tumbled the young people down the steps and onto their faces. Their surprised squeals and shockingly filthy curses were abruptly cut off by the closing of the doors. Snape smirked as he looked back at the pile of thrashing, leather-clad yobs.

The essential balance of the universe was restored. Snape sat back, smiling faintly until he reached Little Whinging. Even the intrusive, lilting conversation of the Jamaican-born cabdriver could not much disturb him. His thoughts returned to his visit today. He was glad he had made an effort to look prosperous, albeit in a somewhat Bohemian way. Petunia had despised his poverty in their youth. He was Somebody now, after all.

The cab slowed to a stop, and Snape glanced up.

"Privet Drive?"

"This is the place, mon." The driver flashed him a white grin.

Snape blew out a long breath as the cab pulled away. Standing on the kerb, he straightened to his full height and sneered.

This was the World of the Respectable Middle-Class. Oh, very respectable indeed. It was one of the muggle worlds in which he did not feel quite at home. Neat, anonymous houses stood like soldiers at attention, each with a scrap of painfully tidy lawn. Snape supposed he could have worn something more formal, but his funds did not run to bespoke suits. If he were to dress like Lucius Malfoy, he would need Lucius Malfoy's vault. Besides, he did not want to look like someone from the City. He liked his tweed jacket. It gave him a feeling of debonair individuality, something this dull suburb sorely lacked.

Number Four was before him. There was no sign of a party, unless the three boys roughhousing in the front garden represented one. The smallest, however, clearly was not dressed for festivities, and was digging weeds out of the humdrum flowerbed. The other two boys were kicking pea gravel into his face as he worked. Snape scowled, seeing the child's dark hair and the ragged, oversized shirt. In his own childhood he had been humiliated by the ugly second-hand smocks his mother had given him to wear. A pureblood herself, she had never quite grasped muggle style, and had not understood how it pained her son to look ridiculous. She had not even understood that he did.

He could not waste time on the small boy, no matter how much the unfortunate child recalled his own youth. The boy was obviously too young to be Potter. Snape looked instead at the two bullies. One of them must be The Boy Who Lived, though he shuddered at the thought.

The fat one—surely not. The features and the blond hair could not belong to the child of James Potter and Lily Evans. With a heavy heart, Snape focused on the third boy.

Brown hair—possible. Scrawny—perhaps. Both Lily and Potter had been slender people, though on this boy it was awkward and unattractive. Snape swelled with contempt at the rat-like features and the hateful expression. He could have predicted that Potter would ruin Lily's offspring, even to his appearance. Snape sighed and made himself walk over to them. Fat Boy hit the small child on the side of the head with a plastic box of some sort, and Rat Boy cheered him on. The child flinched only slightly, and kept digging weeds. This did not suit his tormentors.

"Hey, Freak!" Fat Boy blustered. "Wanna go with us to the arcade?"

"Reckon he doesn't have the money," gibed Rat Boy.

"He doesn't have anything," Fat Boy declared with satisfaction. "He has to work if he wants any dinner. We don't put up with shiftless, lazy slackers in our house!" To punctuate his words, he hit the child again.

"Ow!" The boy objected, "Lay off, Dudders!"

"Don't call me that, freak!" The plastic box was smashed over the child's dark head, and there was an ominous crack. Fat Boy looked at his box in dismay, and ran howling into Number Four. "Mum! Mum! The freak broke my Game Boy!" Rat Boy scurried after him, adding his shouts to the insufferable noise. The small kneeling boy rubbed his head with one hand, and held himself upright with the other.

Horrible foreboding trickled down Snape's spine. He crossed the perfect green lawn, made so no doubt by vile muggle pesticides that killed anything but grass.

Taking a deep breath, he asked the boy. "Are you hurt?"

Thin shoulders twitched in surprise, and the boy turned, still rubbing rumpled dark hair. Snape gasped, looking into green eyes he had never dared hope to see again in life.

"I'm all right, sir," was the quiet answer. "He knocked my glasses off, though. Do you see them?"

Under the wild fringe of black hair lay a scar shaped like a lightning bolt. No doubt remained. Snape covered his confusion and elevated heartbeat by peering at the ground. He took another step and winced at the crunch under his boot. The boy hissed in dismay as Snape reached down to retrieve the glasses.

James Potter had worn glasses, of course: glasses with rims of pure gold wire. They had been nothing like these monstrosities. Snape grimaced, seeing he had broken one of the temples.

"Don't worry," the boy reassured him sturdily, getting to his feet. "I can tape it up. Look there—I have to tape them over the nose all the time."

"Nonetheless—" Snape began, thinking that this would be a good opening for a little digging, "—those boys shouldn't have attacked you like that. Perhaps I should speak to your parents—"

"I live with my aunt and uncle. Don't worry about it," the boy repeated, shrugging. "The glasses are rubbish, anyway. When the school nurse said I needed glasses, Aunt Petunia got a pair out of a box at some charity. At least I can sort of see the board at school now."

Snape heard himself asking, "Do you like school?"

"It's all right." The boy said noncommittally.

Without needing to consciously use Legilimancy, Snape heard the boy's unspoken next words.

"Better than here."

"Then, I take it," Snape ventured dryly, "the boy who ran crying to his mother—the rather large boy—is your cousin."

There was a faint, almost inaudible snort. "Yes. Dudley is—rather large."

"Dudley Dursley," Snape muttered, thinking about it. That was Petunia's son? Snape had not been invited to the Evans home after his disastrous fifth year, but he managed to hear news about the family long afterwards. Petunia had married a young businessman, and gossip further indicated that her prospective groom was—what was the word?—"stocky?" "robust?" "big-boned?" "well-set-up?" Snape could not recall the man's first name, and wished he had quizzed Minerva before rushing away. At any rate, Mr Dursley was apparently at work and would not interfere with his conversation with Petunia.

The boy was looking up at him, puzzled. Something about the slight furrow between the eyes painfully recalled Lily. The boy, aside from the black hair, looked a great deal like her. His speech was quiet and polite. Snape was rather pleased with him. Anything was better than Rat Boy.

The Boy-Who-Thankfully-Was-Not-Rat-Boy said, "Yes—Dursley. Do you know them?"

"I know your aunt. Or rather—I knew her a long time ago. I knew your mother, too." He looked down his long nose, and assuming a self-possession that he did not actually feel, said, "I am Professor Severus Snape. You must be Harry Potter."

The green eyes lit with delight. Snape found himself having to repress a smile.

"Yes! That's me! You knew my mum?" The delight faded. "Was she nice?"

This was asked with some uncertainty. Snape wondered what Petunia had said about her. Very firmly, he answered, "Your mother and I were good friends as children. She was a wonderful girl: very bright and charming. An excellent student, too. We went to school together." The boy seemed pleased by this, and Snape decided it was time to be more forthcoming. "Actually, that's why I'm here." He pulled the heavy envelope from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. "Since you turned eleven today, I came to deliver your Hogwarts letter."

The boy stared at him, obviously not understanding. Warily, he reached for the letter. "This is for me?"

"Yes!" Snape said curtly. "Of course! The letters always come out in the summer, after the student turns eleven. Have a look at it, and then we'll go in and make the arrangements with your aunt." He forced out, "Happy Birthday, Mr Potter."

Another smile, somewhat bewildered. "You know it's my birthday?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Obviously."

The boy ducked his head, still puzzled, and broke the seal. Holding his glasses to his face, he glanced over the letter. Looking up at Snape, his green eyes full of fear and hope, he whispered, "Is this a joke?"

Irritated, Snape scowled. "Certainly not. Do you think I have nothing better to do than to play pranks on children? Your name's been down for Hogwarts since the day you were born."

"Hogwarts—" the boy read uncertainly, trying out the words. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." The boy narrowed his eyes and asked, "Are you saying that they teach witchcraft at your school?"

He doesn't know anything! "We teach Magic, Mr Potter. Hogwarts is the finest school of Magic in the world. Did your aunt never tell you about Hogwarts?"

"Never! She and Uncle Vernon have fits if I even say the word 'magic!' Are you saying that magic is real?"

"Here." Abruptly, Snape snatched the broken glasses from the boy's hand. He glanced about to see if anyone might be watching. Seeing no one, he drew his wand from his sleeve and flicked it sharply. "Reparo!" With a lifted brow, he handed the good-as-new glasses back.

The boy grabbed at them, and shoved them onto his face. His green eyes, already wide with wonder, were magnified ridiculously by the lenses. "That was brilliant! So I can learn to be a witch and do things like that?"

"A wizard," Snape corrected him quickly, glad that no pureblood was nearby to hear that socially fatal error. "Men are wizards, women are witches. And you don't learn to be a wizard. You are a wizard, and you will learn to use the magic that is already within you."

Harry shook his head, looking very discouraged. "I'm sorry, sir—Professor Snape. I think you've made a mistake. I don't think I could be a wizard. I'm Harry—just Harry!"

Snape cocked his head. "Really? I assure you that you are certainly a wizard. Perhaps you have already done magic. Has anything—unusual—ever happened that no one else could explain?"

A pause was filled with growing excitement. Then—"Yes!" The boy burst out. "Once when I was running from Dudley and his gang, I ended up on the roof of the school! And once I turned the teacher's hair blue," he confessed. "I got in so much trouble for that!"

Snape frowned. "It could not have been your fault. You shouldn't 'get in trouble' for such a thing."

"Well, I did. Anyway, there was this time when Aunt Petunia tried to cut my hair—she hates my hair—and it was awful, and overnight it all grew back!"

Snape was intrigued. Some latent ability as a metamorphagus? We shall see.

Harry's grin widened. "But the best thing was when we went to the zoo for Dudley's birthday. We went to the reptile house, and Dudley was tapping on the glass and bothering this snake, and then he went away, and I was talking with it, and then Dudley and Piers wanted to see, and the glass vanished! And the snake got away," he added.

"You—talked to the snake?"

"Well--yes. He understood what I was saying, anyway. Is that a wizard sort of thing?"

"Very." Harry Potter is a parselmouth? This astonishing piece of news was tucked away for further consideration. What will Albus think?

Instantly he said, "The power to communicate with snakes not unknown, but it is a very rare gift. Sometimes unusual abilities make other people uneasy. I would keep that particular talent a secret, Mr Potter. It's always handy to know something that other people don't."

"OK."

"And now I think it's time that I had a word with your aunt."

"I don't know, sir," the boy said, looking worried. "All these things on this list…I don't have any money, you know. Aunt Petunia won't like it."

"How unpleasant for her. I assure you that your parents left you well provided for."

This was clearly news to young Potter. "They—" he said with a nod to the house, "are always saying that I'm stealing the food out of Dudley's mouth."

"Clearly," Snape sneered, "you haven't been stealing enough."

The boy laughed, then: a fresh, sweet sound that once again recalled happier times to Snape. Favoring the boy with a benign look that was not quite a smile, he gestured peremptorily to the front door. The laugh died on the boy's lips and he looked anxiously at the flowerbed.

"What is it now?" Snape asked impatiently.

"I've got to get the weeding done before Uncle Vernon comes home," Harry told him urgently. "It'll just take a few minutes. If he comes home, and I'm not done—"

A flick of Snape's wand, and dandelions, thistles, and sorrel flew out of the ground, roots and all. Another flick, and the weeds vanished completely.

"Whoa!" Harry breathed. "Magic is really useful! You must really know a lot!"

Snape smirked, pleased despite himself at the artless admiration of his old enemy's son. Take that, James Potter!

With a flourish, he holstered his wand. "And now, if you're quite ready..."

Harry led the way. "I'd better tell you that it stinks in there. Aunt Petunia was dyeing some of Dudley's old clothes grey to make my uniform for Stonewall High. It looks like somebody skinned an elephant!"

Snape snorted. "And Dudley is the elephant?I daresay he would look like one in a grey uniform."

"Actually, he's going to Smeltings, Uncle Vernon's old school. It's very posh. Smeltings boys wear a maroon tailcoat, orange knickerbockers and flat straw hats. And they carry sticks to hit people with," he added grimly.

"I'd pay a great deal of money never to see your cousin wearing orange knickerbockers." Snape considered, and asked, "Does the idea of not going to—what?—Stonewall High-- disappoint you?"

"Crikey, no! Not if I can learn magic instead!" Harry added, "Mind you, I wasn't exactly upset at the idea of going to a different school. Dudley and his mates always bullied anybody who wanted to be my friend. And I got into trouble if I ever made better marks than Dudley, so I learned not to do that quick smart."

"You shouldn't let anyone keep you from doing your best, " Snape reproached him, with a teacher's natural reflex.

The boy looked up at him skeptically, his young face full of an old man's cynicism.

Snape thought Albus had much to answer for. "Everything will be different now," he said, hoping he was not making promises that he could not keep.

Harry opened the door for him. Once again, Snape was pleased by his manners. Lily had had nice manners, except when furiously angry.

The telly was on. Petunia was not watching it. Instead, she was sipping tea: ensconced in a pink armchair and engrossed by a gossip magazine. Fat Boy and Rat Boy were stuffing their faces, laughing as a man with a chainsaw pursued a scantily-clad young girl. Fat Boy looked up, and his small eyes nearly disappeared as his cheeks swelled in a gloating grin.

"Mum! The freak's in the house!" He crammed a fistful of crisps into his mouth. Crumbs spewed out with his taunts. "You're in trouble now!"

Snape stepped into view. "I believe—not. He's not in trouble, and he's certainly not a freak."

Startled, Petunia looked up, face frozen in shock. The teacup slipped from her fingers, splashing brown onto the creamy-white carpet. She stammered, "It can't be!"

Snape sneered, "Good to see you too, Petunia. I just popped by—" he smirked as she winced—"to give Harry his school letter. We'll be going shopping for his things now. That doesn't upset your plans for his birthday celebration, I hope?"

Note: Thanks to all my reviewers. I'm pleased at the initial response. I'll attempt to get back to you as soon as my work permits!