The Best Revenge

Chapter 3

The years, Snape saw, had been no kinder to Petunia than to himself. She had always been a scraggy, gawky girl, much taller than Lily. Snape had fancied that maturity and motherhood might have softened her a little, especially in a household where the child was so blatantly overfed.

Such was not the case. Even had her expression not been one of fear and loathing, which Snape considered just about the least attractive on a human face, she would not have been called "soft." The bones at jaw and cheekbone and wrist stood out like razors. Her hard, hateful look shifted downward to her nephew, and Snape felt the boy recoil. When Petunia glanced back up at him, Snape easily caught a complacent image of bashing at the boy with an iron frying pan. He stared back, remembering an episode with his drunken muggle father and an empty bottle of gin. He took a threatening step forward.

Petunia squealed and backed away, stumbling. "Dudley darling," she shrilled, "take Piers and go to the cinema. Buy yourself a treat!"

"But Mum--" Dudley whined.

She made a dash for her purse, and fumbled for some money. She pressed it into her son's hand, and screeched, "Out! Get out! I don't want you exposed to these freaks!" She slapped the television off, and placed herself between the back door and Snape, guarding Dudley's retreat.

"Crikey!" Piers shouted. "Twenty pounds!"

Even Dudley seemed a little surprised at such bounty, but he did not stay to protect his mother from this unwelcome guest. He and Piers were already planning the rest of their afternoon. The boys exited out the back door, laughing, while Petunia's eyes remained fixed on Snape.

Hearing the door slam, she relaxed a little, and shouted, "He won't go to that place! I won't have it!"

"Petunia," Snape smirked, "surely you always knew that this day would come. Harry Potter is going to Hogwarts School—" he raised his voice to a bellow, "—of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" He smirked again as Petunia flinched.

Drawing the shreds of dignity about her, she drew herself up and declared, "He can't go. He hasn't a penny of his own, and we certainly won't pay the fees!"

"His fees are already paid," Snape countered. He was not sure it was true, but he did not want to tell Petunia anything about the Potter fortune she did not already know. She had never gone to Diagon Alley, at least to his knowledge, and would not know how to get at the boy's inheritance. "He is going to Hogwarts on September first. We are going to Diagon Alley to purchase his books, his supplies, and his uniform." He gave a great sniff of disgust. "So you see, filling your house with that appalling stench was quite pointless." He cocked his head in Harry's direction. "Mr Potter, please go to your room and change quickly into something more appropriate for shopping than your gardening clothes."

Harry paused, rather ashamed, now that it came to it, that someone other than the family might see that he had only a cupboard. He glanced at Aunt Petunia, whose face was mottled red and white with fury. He bit his lip. This strange wizard seemed friendly, but at the end of the day, Harry would still be living here…

"It's quite all right, Mr Potter," Snape told him quietly, understanding the boy's reluctance in part. He showed Harry the address on his letter, and read it aloud for Petunia's sake. "Harry Potter, the Cupboard Under the Stairs-" Petunia's eyes widened in panic."--Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey." He glared at Petunia in contempt. "I know all about it. That's one of the reasons I'm here."

Watching Aunt Petunia from the corner of his eye, Harry went to his cupboard. Snape's eyes were on Petunia, too, as he followed the boy. "However, I would like to verify this for myself. Would you allow me to have a look, Mr Potter?"

Blushing, Harry stood back, while Snape folded himself nearly double, trying to fit into the cramped little closet. Along with the clutter of dust mops and brooms and pails, there was a cot mattress, eked out with a ragged blanket on the floor. Bare wooden shelves held a few neatly folded garments. There were school papers and drawings—some marked with his teacher's praise—taped to the back of the stairs. The light was a single bare bulb. Far back in the shadows were hidden the boy's secret treasures: a few plastic soldiers, a thin pad of unlined paper, some broken crayons, two dog-eared books without covers. A sheet of paper, also taped up, proudly declared this to be "Harry's Room." Snape felt his blood pressure rising—at the thought of the vicious woman not twelve feet away, of the blindly stupid teachers at the boy's school, of Albus, who had arranged this travesty.

This was not the bedroom of the pampered Boy-Who-Lived: it was the lair of a house elf.

Trying to control his face, Snape eased his way out of the cupboard. "Get changed now, Mr Potter," he ordered the boy, his burning glare fixed on Petunia. Harry shut the cupboard, and there were some soft noises as the boy struggled to change in the confined space.

Snape kept his gaze on the terrified Petunia. "Don't say a word," he hissed. His wand was in his hand, and felt good there. His blood was racing. It was like the old days. He was not sure what he would do: anything could happen. He waited in menacing silence, while Petunia grimaced and fidgeted.

In less than two minutes, the boy emerged, nearly swimming in an enormous blue sweatshirt and over-sized slacks held up by a belt that wrapped twice around his waist. He was still wearing his worn trainers. Snape raised his brows. "Is that the best you have?"

Harry assumed a look of proud indifference. "They're clean. I laundered them myself."

"I daresay you did, Mr Potter. I simply meant to point out to your Aunt, in case she hadn't noticed, that these clothes are clearly her son's, not yours." He asked Petunia, "When did you last buy the boy clothes that fit him?"

Petunia protested furiously, "We never asked to be burdened with him! He's a millstone around our necks! We can't be expected to scrimp and save and deprive our own child—"

"Shut up and sit down!" Snape roared, at the end of his patience. Petunia collapsed onto the couch, mouth open. Snape snarled at her, "You haven't deprived that greedy brat of anything. Listen to yourself, you stupid woman! You're not talking to some dithering pureblood! It's me! Severus Snape! I grew up across the play park! I know about child benefits and I know you would have milked the system for every penny you could get! I know you must get benefits for this boy, and I know you must collect a guardian's allowance for him as well! What the bloody hell have you done with it?"

She mouthed a little before answering. "We give him a roof over his head, the ungrateful brat—"

"Oh, I see," Snape said mockingly. "Your husband is out of work. He's on the dole. You don't know where your next meal is coming from. You just happened to find that big telly over there!" He barked a harsh laugh at Petunia's indignant expression. "Then get a job, you lazy cow! Don't steal the boy's money!"

"I have money?" Harry wondered to himself. This was very interesting.

Petunia shrieked and threw herself at Snape, hands out to claw him. Snape hexed her almost lazily. She sat down abruptly on the couch again, looking shocked. When she tried to get up, Snape rolled his eyes and hexed her again.

"Immobilus!"

Instantly she was motionless, but for her eyes, blinking rapidly in panic. Harry looked up at Snape, very impressed.

"I want to learn that one!"

"All in good time, Mr Potter. First, I want to make some arrangements about your living conditions. Is the cupboard really the only place for you? Why couldn't you share your cousin's room?"

On second thought, he entirely understood Harry's look of horror at that idea. Snape hastily went on, "Or is there an spare room—or an attic—or something that would be better than this?"

Snape felt a little exasperated as the boy looked at the floor and shrugged. Snape sighed again. "Let's have a look about, Mr Potter. Something may come to me."

He had disliked the lounge on first sight, but some the house was not at all bad. He admired the spacious kitchen, and the eating area was pleasant. The back garden was well kept—no doubt by the boy. There was, however, nothing that looked like a suitable place for a young wizard to sleep and think and study. Perhaps he would have better luck elsewhere.

Upstairs were the bedrooms and a large bathroom. The house was no Malfoy Manor, but it was a comfortable—nearly luxurious—middle class home. It was infinitely better than Spinner's End, and really much larger and more attractive than the old Evans house where Petunia and Lily had grown up, and where Snape had often visited. Petunia might well feel she had gone up in the world. Harry's "Uncle Vernon" had done his duty to her, at least as material things were measured.

Nonetheless, Snape felt a certain distaste. Knowing that the house was Petunia's had no doubt prejudiced him against it, and the fussy floral décor did not recommend itself to him. But there was something else here that put him off. Perhaps it was something subtle in the smell: some of the stink of the harsh clothing dye wafting up from the laundry; the odors of various cleaning fluids and heavy muggle perfumes underlaid with the inevitable, faint trace of the house's occupants. Snape had an extremely keen sense of smell—an essential aid in potions-making—and he knew without meeting the man that he was not going to like Vernon Dursley.

The boy was willing enough to give him the Grand Tour. "That's Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's room. I'm not allowed in there—not even to clean."

Snape stepped in and took in the room at a glance. Good quality furniture on a rather large scale, everything in muted blues and greens, a wallpaper he could have done without. Snape shrugged and followed the boy down the hall.

"This is Dudley's room," Harry said, very quietly.

It was nearly as large as his parents' room. A wide bed, shelves of toys and games, a desk cluttered not with books and papers, but with electronic gadgets. A large television set was positioned at the foot of the bed. The room was a disgusting mess: on the floor by the bed were empty drink cans and discarded snack wrappers. Snape opened the closet, which was crammed with clothing, shoes, and obviously unused sports equipment.

Beside him, the boy felt the need to apologize. "I did up his room this morning—I made the bed and picked up the rubbish like I'm supposed to, but he was up here with Piers for awhile."

Snape shrugged. "It's hardly your fault that your cousin is a pig. Isn't he capable of picking up his own room? Does he have any assigned tasks at all?"

Harry shook his head. "If he did, he'd make me do them anyway. And next door here--this is his second bedroom."

"Your cousin has a second bedroom?"

Snape stepped to the doorway and looked over the boy's head. A small room, nearly filled with old clothes, unread books, and broken playthings. All together, the things cast aside in here must have cost Dudley's parents hundreds of pounds. "Doesn't he ever throw anything away?"

"Sure," the boy told him. "This is the stuff he didn't want to get rid of." He confided to Snape, "Now and then I can nick something small that he's forgotten about. I got my action figures that way, and my crayons and books."

There was a single bed in the room, covered with a nondescript blanket. By the window was a small wooden chair. A cheap-looking chest of drawers was the only other furniture. The chair, the bed, and the chest, along with most of the floor, were piled with Dudley's rubbish. Snape grimaced. He wondered if at one time there had been a half-hearted attempt to put together a room for the unwanted nephew. Or perhaps it was deliberate, flagrant insult to the boy next to him. This was not even an outright box room. There was a bed—of sorts. There was chest of drawers and a window. It should be the boy's room, but it was kept in this state as a continual reminder to their nephew that he was unworthy of even a decent place to sleep.

The boy was walking away.

"There's more?" Snape asked.

"The guest room, sir." Harry opened a closed door.

A good-sized room, with good furniture, done in neutral colors. Snape raised his brows. Another unused room?

"Does anyone actually sleep here?"

"Just Aunt Marge." Harry saw Snape's puzzled frown, and informed him, "She's not really my aunt, but I have to call her that. She's Uncle Vernon's sister. She lives in the country and visits one or two times a year." This was said so glumly that Snape understood that "Aunt Marge" was not one of Harry's favorite people.

Snape looked over the room with care. The window was wide, and the room would get good light in the morning. "I think perhaps this should be your room. I'll tell you aunt to see to it."

The boy stared at him in disbelief. "My room? A room for me?"

"Yes," Snape said briskly. "It's ridiculous that they make a show of all this space and don't let you use any of it. I grant that the style is a bit feminine, but that can be altered—"

"Aunt Marge wouldn't like it," Harry warned him.

"I am indifferent to 'Aunt Marge's' opinion. You live here every day and she does not."

"Please, sir--! If I really did get a room of my own, I--I think I'd really rather have Dudley's second bedroom," the boy told him in a breath. He looked up at Snape in appeal. "I could put all the rubbish against the wall, or up in the attic, and I'd be fine."

"Are you sure?" Snape asked, surprised. "This is a great deal bigger. The other room is pretty cramped."

"It'll be fine, sir," the boy insisted. "I don't like this room. It smells like Aunt Marge—and—and Ripper." When Snape raised his brows questioningly, the boy explained. "She breeds dogs. Ripper is her favorite. She likes to set him on me, and he--" he lowered his voice to man-to-man confidentiality "—he pees in the house. They make me clean up after him. I don't want a room he's slept in."

Snape sniffed the air experimentally, curling his lip in disgust. The air was slightly unpleasant, but Snape thought it was mostly due to the bowl of potpourri on the dressing table, which reeked of a scent that perhaps Petunia mistakenly believed to be vanilla. He did not pick up any canine odors at the moment, but sympathized with the boy. Snape was not a dog person himself.

There was no point in forcing something on the boy that had such unpleasant associations. Snape's own boyhood room at Spinner's End had been no bigger than the room the boy wanted. Snape had not thought much of it at the time, but compared to young Potter's cupboard it had been a sanctuary and a refuge and a paradise of comfort. And it spoke well for the boy that he was so modest in his wishes. "Very well," Snape agreed. "Dudders' 'second bedroom' it is."

He had seen enough. He turned and descended the stairs quickly. The boy followed gamely behind, jumping down the last three steps in one excited bound.

Petunia was still helpless on the sofa. Her eyes widened at the sight of them. Snape sneered at her.

"Now listen, Petunia. This is what you're going to do. Listen carefully, because you're going to be very busy for the next few hours, but that won't matter, will it? --As you weren't planning a birthday fête tonight. You're going to go upstairs and clean the room you allow your son to use as his rubbish tip—his 'second bedroom.' It's your nephew's room as of today. You may consider it your birthday present to him. Don't even look an objection at me. It's obscene that Dudley has two rooms and Harry has a cupboard. If you weren't certifiably insane you'd see it. Actually, I think you do see it, since you don't boast of it to your neighbors. What would the neighbors say if they knew the truth about you? You pretend so hard to be normal, Petunia, but it's all a sham. You're not normal at all: you're a sick and depraved child abuser. You look like you'd like to shake your head. You know, I don't think I'm interested in anything you have to say. There's no possible way to defend tormenting and depriving a child—your own sister's son. You and your husband aren't satisfied with being criminals yourselves. You're training your own son to be one too. Don't—just don't. I saw him and his friend Rat Boy—"

Harry grinned widely. He was delighted at the sight of Divine Justice in a tweed jacket; and enchanted by such a perfect name for Piers.

Snape continued ruthlessly. "--He's a bully and a coward, and well on his way to developing into something of a sadist. Something to make your maternal heart swell with pride, it seems. Anyway, we were talking about your day. Get rid of Dudders' rubbish, and clean the room—make the bed, scrub the floors, wash the windows. The furniture is nothing much, but I have ways of dealing with that!" Restlessly, he paced the floor of the lounge, missing the sweep of his robes. "I daresay you've already spent Potter's child benefit for the month, as well as your guardian's allowance—and all on Dudders or your trashy magazines or some such tripe. That stops today. On my return, I expect to receive an envelope containing cash equal to those two sums. Harry's benefit and his guardian allowance will henceforth be managed by me. I will open a muggle bank account for him and you will deposit every cheque for him in it while he is in school. And don't cheat, Petunia. I can add, after all. You looked pained—"

He waved his wand, and Petunia burst into frantic speech.

"I haven't that much money in the house!"

"Well, you'll just have to tell your husband to get it!" Snape snarled in her face. "You haven't had any trouble spending it in the past, have you, you shameless thief? That brings me to Harry's Uncle Vernon. When he comes back, you will inform him of the changes. You will convince him that it would be best to submit to the new regime. Because, Petunia, if your devoted spouse tries anything on with me, you'll find yourself married to a cockroach—up until the moment I crush him underfoot!" Snape stamped his boot on the floor, and Harry jumped, eyes full of awe. Petunia whimpered, hiding her eyes.

Snape found he enjoyed being a Smiter of the Unjust. "Don't wait dinner for us. Mr Potter and I have a great deal of business to transact, and we shall be dining in town. Expect us around seven or eight, and I can explain things in person to your husband, if necessary." With the corner of his eye, he caught Harry's doubtful look. Apparently, the boy believed it would be entirely necessary. "And I'll have a word with Harry's cousin, too, and let him know that his days of petty tyranny are over. It would be so sad, if Dudley started experiencing all the things you've done to Harry over the years—"

"You can't do this to us!" Petunia screeched. "You lot aren't allowed to harass decent people! I'll call the police—"

Snape's eyes brightened. His lips drew back in a terrible grin.

"You do that, Petunia." He strode to the telephone, and picked it up, shoving it at her. The receiver crashed to the floor. Petunia flinched back, hands in front of her face. Snape felt his anger building. "You just do that! Go on! Call the police! Show them the hideyhole you kept your nephew in! Show the rags you peeled off your great pig of a son to dress him in! Show them the glasses you found for him in a rubbish tip! Then try to explain to them how you used the boy's money! After they finish working your husband over—the policemen I've known really, really, don't like child abusers--they'll move on to the formal part of your punishment. The two of you will be lucky if you get out of prison in less than ten years! Abuse—neglect—misuse of government monies—I hope your husband has relatives who can take your precious Dudders in, because you won't be seeing him until he's all grown up!" Snape smirked at Petunia, who had backed away in horror. He cocked his head. "Perhaps it is I who should be calling. Shall I?" He started to punch in a number.

"Don't!" Petunia bleated. She wrung her bony hands, and looked about her, as if hoping for help. She saw the open cupboard, and her eyes narrowed just a little. She glanced at Snape, thinning her lips.

Snape loved being a Legilimens at times like these. He flicked his wand again, slamming the cupboard shut. "And don't think you can hide the evidence. No one but Harry or I or the muggle police will be able to open that door. We'll keep the scene of that crime pristine for the authorities." He looked down his nose at the trembling woman.

"Meanwhile, no more chores for Mr Potter. He'll be much too busy getting ready for school. I do see the value of assigning responsibilities to children, but you clearly can't be trusted with any power over your nephew at all. I might suggest that your son do his share, but I wouldn't dream of usurping your parental authority. You're doing just fine destroying your son's life by yourself."

She began to sob, now, and Snape felt some mean satisfaction. Of course, it was perfectly clear to him that she was not sobbing out of shame or remorse, but because she was angry and helpless, and felt terribly hard-done-by, not being able to torment her nephew as she liked. Snape felt something else needed to be said, but first—

"Mr Potter, would you wait outside for me a moment? I have something else to say to your aunt, and it's not for your ears."

Green eyes wide, Harry left the house, closing the door softly. Snape suspected that he was doing his damnedest to eavesdrop. Snape certainly would have, in his place.

Snape caught Petunia's upper arm in an iron grip. She yelped as he dragged her close--close enough that he could hiss in her ear, with no fear of Lily's impressionable child being shocked.

"The next time you need household help, you evil bitch, hire a maid!" He shoved her away, and she fell back, sprawling on the rug, her skirt riding up over knobby knees. "You're pathetic. If you'd been hit by a lorry, Lily would have treated Dudley as her own—"

Petunia scrambled to her feet, and swung a slap in his direction. She missed, and stumbled into him. He grabbed her arm again, just at the place he had already bruised. Petunia cried out in pain, and then shrilled a wild laugh.

"Still carrying the torch, are you? Oh, you and your Saint Lily! What a laugh! Lily wouldn't have let a mere muggle under her roof! None of her family were good enough for her after she went to your freak school! I didn't care—all you freaks deserve each other! I'm alive, and she's dead, for all her magic and her airs, and being so very special. I'm alive and she's dead! You're the one who's pathetic—pining after a girl who only put up with you out of pity! She dropped you quick smart when she got her claws into Potter—"

Snape threw her onto the couch, and drew his wand. She gasped with fright, and opened her mouth to scream.

Snape whispered, "If you scream, I will curse you. Do you understand? Nod. Good. If I ever hear you use the word "freak" again, I will curse you. If you or your husband or your son insult or injure Potter again, I will curse you." His glare blazed. "And if you ever say Lily's name again, I will fucking kill you. Are we clear about things now? Yes? All right, then. I'm off."

He strode to the door, and turned.

"But I'll be back."

Note: Look—Harry goes to school. Therefore he exists legally. Thus the Dursleys can claim a child's benefit for him. I can't believe they would pass that up.

Also--yes, Snape's first impression of Harry is entirely different than in canon. He sees Harry close to, and without his glasses. In canon, he sees him at a distance, and the dark hair and glasses would be the most notable features, thus heightening the resemblance to James Potter. Of course, Harry was also scowling at the moment from the pain caused by Quirrell. Snape probably took that as a sign of hostility toward himself.

Thank you to my reviewers. I appreciate the interesting points that many of you have raised!