Matou Shinji and the Heirs of Slytherin
A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story
Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.
Summary: Trouble is brewing in the Wizarding World. In the wake of the Stone Incident, Albus Dumbledore has begun quietly preparing Britain to survive the coming war. The Stone Cutters, a new organization at Hogwarts for the most talented and distinguished of students, seek new blood to bolster its strength. The Boy-Who-Lived seeks his destiny as the Heir of Slytherin. And a boy from the east meets a specter of the past.
Chapter 2. Reunion with the Past
The house at Number 4, Privet Drive was about as ordinary a house as one could find, as ordinary as any other in the sleepy suburb of Little Whinging, a town in the county of Surrey, just south of London. But then Surrey's days of crowning Kings, playing host to nobility and foreign powers, or even being the home of Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens, perhaps the greatest architect Britain had ever seen, were long past, and today, the county as a whole was simply known for its house prices being among the highest in the United Kingdom, driven up by the presence of well-to-do home-owners that commuted to London on a regular basis.
Homeowners like Vernon Dursley, the managing director of a firm called Grunnings, a prominent drill manufacturer that had stayed in business for a good number of years, while many of its competitors vanished, their lots bought up by the rapidly growing computer and aviation industries.
He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache, and his interests were – or had been – focused on perfectly ordinary things like wealth, industry, and politics. Respectable pursuits for respectable English gentlemen.
Not anything that reeked of frippery or uselessness, like…magic.
Indeed, he'd almost broken his engagement with Petunia after he'd found out that her sister was a witch of all things, instead of a good Anglican, and over a snack of battered sausage and chips, of all things. But he'd decided against it, since Petunia herself didn't hold with such nonsense. In fact, she usually pretended she had no sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were a deep embarrassment to her.
Still, one told a man exactly what he was getting into. Why, who knew if this…magic…could be passed through the blood? What if his children became tainted by what Petunia had explained was not simply an obsession with Satan-worship, Wicca, and getting high on who knew what?
And he had had no truck with people like that, until the day the Potters died and Harry – a mere infant – was left on their doorstep.
Vernon was a stern man, a hard man, but he didn't consider himself cruel. So when Petunia had insisted on their nephew staying with them, perhaps out of good Christian charity, he hadn't argued – too much, even though a second child was an expense he certainly hadn't planned for, especially when it was the child of a family of freaks.
Perhaps things would have been different had Harry Potter truly been an unremarkable child, an ordinary boy untouched by things like magic, but it was not to be. At every turn, the boy was a living reminder that something was not right with the world.
The way his hair grew all over the place into an unruly mess that refused to be tamed – and refused to do them even the courtesy of staying cut. The way some piece of clothing or other that Harry didn't like simply shrank down to the size of hand puppets. The boy somehow managing to find himself on the roof of the school kitchens. And then the glass in the snake enclosure somehow vanishing.
He'd hoped that over time, the incidents would stop, but they just kept increasing in number, with his wife becoming more and more upset about it. He'd even dared to hope that by denying the boy a chance to learn magic, perhaps the Potter boy would be able to learn to do something productive with his life.
But alas, it was not to be.
One year ago, everything had gone wrong, when a letter had come from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the boy had become a spoiled brat, insisting that he be allowed to see it. The Potter whelp had even dared to shout at him, despite the fact that the boy lived under his roof, and was only fed and clothed because of him and Petunia's goodwill – even if Petunia did go out of the way to make sure Harry also saw how much better Dudley was treated in comparison, as if out of spite.
…sometimes, Vernon thought that if it were not for the Potter boy, his son would never have become so spoiled or arrogant.
After all, those…wizards…could never take no for an answer. Usually, when one didn't answer a letter accepting someone to a school, the sender would accept that as a no, but what had those freaks done? Ah, that's right – flood his house with letters that made it clear they were watching whatever he did, as if a man didn't have a right to privacy in his own blasted house.
It had gotten to the point where he no longer felt safe, and so had ordered the entire family into the car for a drive. And drive he had, with him doing everything he could think of to shake off any possible tail, without stopping to eat, drink, or go to the bathroom. Why, he'd almost gotten as far as Manchester by the time he stopped at a gloomy little hotel…
…and then the letters had found him the next day, making him think that maybe the car had been bugged.
The only safe choice then, was to abandon the car, and so he'd looked around for some place he could do just that, though Petunia and Dudley of course hadn't understood, with his wife telling him they should just return home and accept the inevitable, and Dudley whining about television of all things. Didn't they realize the danger they were in?
It had been a very long time before he'd found somewhere suitable – a shack built upon a rock surrounded by the sea, with no way of getting to it except by boat.
A boat he'd swapped the car for without a second thought, since that was replaceable – and there was a rail station in town - and with any luck, those lunatics would track the car north.
But even that had gone wrong, when a giant had attacked him and his family, breaking into the cottage, destroying his rifle, abusing him and Petunia – the boy's legal guardians – for not telling the boy anything about his past, and not even respecting their wishes for the boy not to go to this institution where children were raised into monsters – bullies who used their power to get what they wanted.
And then the giant had spun an incredible tale about boy's parents, a yarn about a secret war that had taken place under their very noses, and the brat they'd taken in being some kind of hero. Frankly, that was ridiculous, and the notion of a headmaster who would teach a child to abuse power like that was barmy – mad was what it was!
Alas, the giant – this Hagrid – had then taken his revenge – and not even upon Vernon himself. The wicked giant – a creature out of nightmares and cruel fairy tales - had dared to attack his son, giving Dudley a curly pig's tail.
Cowards, the lot of them. Ruddy stinking cowards who attacked the defenseless, and used their power to bully and hurt. In his mind, the sooner this nonsense vanished from the Earth, the better off humanity would be. And if Potter's parents had gotten into that mess, well, what business was it of his if they'd ended up on the wrong side of a wand from a bigger, more powerful bully?
Was he supposed to feel sorry for them when this giant proved that that was all wizards were? Incredible bullies?
To hell with that and to hell with magic.
If they wanted the boy so badly, couldn't they have sent someone who could at least pretend to be civilized, so Vernon could talk to them like a normal person, instead of just using a torrent of letters that demanded a response?
Couldn't Albus Dumbledore, the man who had saddled their family with the burden of raising a second child a decade ago, be arsed to come and explain himself in person?
Obviously, they – and he – couldn't, wouldn't deign to show Muggles, as they called them, even that much in the way of respect.
Why, to add insult to injury, that…that beast of a man had even taken the boat the next day, when he'd needed none to arrive on the island, leaving Vernon's family stranded on that rock until a cutter of Her Majesty's Coastguard had found them while on a routine patrol and had taken them back to shore.
Some days later, they had gotten home, in rather worse condition than when they'd set off, with Vernon having to make arrangements for Dudley's tail to be surgically removed, among other things like clearing stacks of letters from his roof, windows, rooms, and more.
So was it any real surprise that when Harry came home for the holidays, Vernon had treated the boy as if he were a bomb that might go off at any moment? He'd spent a year at that school, under a likely unsavory and unscrupulous headmaster, learning who knew what manner of satanic craft. Why, Petunia had mentioned how her sister had often come home with pockets full of frog spawn, and would turn teacups into rats.
Who knew what the brat would do?
As a precaution, he'd locked the boy's spellbooks, wand, robes, cauldron, and other school supplies in the cupboard under the stairs the boy had once stayed in. Why, he'd even padlocked the boy's owl inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world – though he made sure it was fed and watered.
He just didn't want to see the giant again – or anyone else from that world, who might do far worse than that miserable oaf.
What Vernon wanted was a peaceful summer, without anything abnormal happening to him or his family, where he could live his life in peace, just like the year had been with both Dudley and…the boy…off at their respective institutions.
Was that really so much to ask?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Harry was fairly unsympathetic to what Vernon Dursley may or may not have asked for, given the experiences he had been through at Hogwarts. He'd lost a friend, had his comrades hospitalized, and nearly gotten himself killed during his first year at school, with a protection granted to him by his mother being the only reason he'd survived at all.
And there was a matter of a prophecy about him, though as prophecies went, this one was vague indeed, saying only that he – the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord – would be born to those that had thrice defied him – as the seventh month died – at the end of July.
It was fairly obvious to him that surviving Voldemort's curse hadn't been the end of it, since it hadn't been any doing of his, and well, the Dark Wizard wasn't truly dead, as Professor Quirrell had demonstrated. Which meant that the prophesied confrontation was still to come, and that until that day came, the Boy-Who-Lived needed to devote himself to his studies, to gain more and more power until he could defeat Voldemort in his own right.
For the protection he had against curses would not last forever, and even if it did, it would not protect those around him. Already, too many had laid down their lives for his sake, with the thought of Sokaris being flung through a curtain of flame haunting him still, along with nightmares of the green flash that had claimed his parents' lives.
He'd resolved to spend the summer quietly studying and not causing trouble – only Uncle Vernon had decided to lock away his belongings, without even asking if he would need them (which he would, even if there wasn't a Dark Wizard after his life – teachers never seemed to let a holiday go by without assigning a mountain of work).
And while it would have been a simple thing to wait until the Dursleys all left the house to pick the lock on the cupboard, the house rarely empty, with Dudley, at least home, as Harry's overweight cousin had been restricted from going out after hearing about the escaped convict, Sirius Black.
…about whom the television in the living room was droning on about as Harry came to let the Dursleys know that breakfast was ready, the three of them seated on the sofa, watching as a reporter warned that Black was armed and extremely dangerous, with a special hot-line having been set up for people to report any known sightings of the man.
"Boy, that ruddy owl of yours woke me up for the third time this week," Uncle Vernon growled at him, looking at the Boy-Who-Lived as if Harry were nothing but an annoyance. "If you can't control it, the bird will have to go."
Harry just stared at his Uncle in the way he often saw Professor Snape glower at his classmates, the anger he felt at Quirrell – at Voldemort – at life itself, burning in his eyes.
"Is that so, Uncle?" he asked, his voice edged with the merest hint of threat.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and seemed to press himself into the sofa as far as he could, Aunt Petunia startled and looked at him if she'd seen a ghost, and Uncle Vernon went red, veins throbbing in his temples as he leapt to his feet.
"HOW DARE YOU?!" the older man roared at him. "YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO TALK TO ME THAT WAY! EVEN IF YOU WON SOME FANCY MEDAL FOR—FOR—FOR—"
"—killing a Dark Wizard, Uncle."
"—KILLING A DARK…" Vernon's fury sputtered to a stop as his mind caught up to his mouth, his eyes widening in horror as he looked between the screen, where the gaunt face of Sirius Black was being shown surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle of hair, and his nephew. When he spoke again, his voice was far quieter. "…killing, did you say?"
"Yes, Uncle," the Potter boy answered, politely enough that it gave Vernon the shivers.
He expected the boy to whine, to plead, to protest…not calmly admit to killing someone in the course of his studies, without even a shred of remorse. After all, before he'd went off to Hogwarts, the brat was never what one would call well-behaved, as he'd complained a great deal, shouted at his betters, and altogether proven ungrateful for the room and board that the Dursleys had provided. Vernon thought the boy had learned his place, as he'd been mostly well behaved this summer, doing chores without having to be asked, staying very quiet in his room when company came over, and not complaining about the attention Dudley was getting even once.
And since he'd locked away the boy's wand and books, he'd thought his nephew wouldn't be dangerous…but then, Vernon remembered too late that the Potter boy hadn't needed a wand to set a snake on Dudley or do any of the other abnormal things he'd done before he'd gone off train under the mad headmaster Dumbledore.
Vernon swallowed, unable to keep himself from trembling – though he told himself it was because he trembled in anger, not because of any other reason. How dare this boy, this kill…er…ah, right. His family. He needed to protect his family.
"…just keep the owl quiet," he said gruffly, a sour look on his face as he forced himself to say the next word. "Please."
Hopefully that would be the end of it, because if the boy pressed the issue and forced him to unlock the door to the owl's cage, there would be nothing he could do to stop the boy from calling in the older freaks – and if a young boy like him was already a killer, who knew what they would do to him?
"I'll see what I can do, Uncle," Harry replied, his quiet voice once more tinged with something dark – and by far more frightening than if he'd shouted or argued. "Was there anything else you wanted?"
"Uh…no, boy," Vernon answered, sitting down. "Just, what did you come in and interrupt us watching the telly for?"
"Oh, I just wanted to say breakfast is ready," Harry said simply.
"Right. Thank you, boy," the Dursley patriarch nodded, his thoughts still reeling from the thought of his nephew being an unstable killer. "Why don't you eat first – we'll eat once you finish."
Dudley looked like he was about to complain, but Vernon gave him a look, as the boy settled down.
"If you are sure, Uncle," the Boy-Who-Lived noted, and left for the kitchens to – for once – eat his fill. "Thank you."
There was a place for gratitude after people did what you wanted of them, not before.
His time in Slytherin House – his time as the Heir of Slytherin – and Quirrell's lessons had taught him that much. Just as they had taught him that reckless anger was meaningless if not backed by power and thought. Looking back upon the past twelve years of his life, he could see why his uncle had never listened to anything he'd said, never given him anything he'd asked for, always assumed he was in the wrong – because Vernon had thought him a freak, it was true, but more than that, because the man had thought him weak and easily cowed.
And perhaps he was weak in comparison to the Dark Lord, but if there was one thing Harry Potter knew to be true, it was that he was not weak compared to Vernon Dursley.
Not when a mere slip of paper would be all it would take to stop the portly man who could do nothing against him.
Harry had promised himself he wouldn't pick a fight with the Dursleys, since it was beneath him to pick on people who couldn't fight back. Hence, he'd tried to stay out of their way, but if they tried to bully him, he would show them the error of their ways.
For having come face to face with his enemy Voldemort – and then Death Himself – Harry Potter had no reason to fear people like the Dursleys.
In fact, if one were being logical, it was the Dursleys who should be afraid of him.
Petunia Dursley watched with a shiver of fear as Harry stared down her husband, with the boy admitting that the other freaks – the wizarding world – had given him a medal for killing a Dark Wizard much like the one that her sister had been killed by. He had changed after going to Hogwarts. He was quiet now, often doing his chores without being asked, but…there had been a dangerous edge to him.
An edge that reminded her of the awful boy that her sister had spent time with – who was part of the world that had rejected her, as people had always rejected her.
She'd never been good enough, not compared to her sister, not for her parents, not for Albus Dumbledore – who had refused to let her go to Hogwarts after she'd all but begged—not for anyone. It had always been her sister who had caught everyone's attention, with people fascinated by her – even that impoverished good for nothing who also did weird things – who'd attacked her with magic, making a tree branch strike her - the one she was sure her sister was going to end up with for some time.
And Lily hadn't ever tried to understand her, hadn't ever thought about what it was like to be constantly overshadowed by someone else. A younger sister was supposed to look up to an older one, not take all the attention for herself, while people adored and doted on her for it.
Lily chose magic over her family – and her parents approved.
She chose that…boy and his freakishness…over her own sister – and her parents approved.
She chose her favorites – and they loved her, even as she used them up and threw them away.
Some days, Petunia wondered what had happened to the boy who her sister had befriended long ago, since she'd stopped hearing about him in her mid-teens. Had she thrown her best friend away, like she had everyone else in her life, when his affections ceased to amuse her? In her darker moments, Petunia hoped so, as she thought it would have served that Snape boy right to see that Lily was hardly the saint he so clearly adored – even if she thought they deserved each other.
And then, of course, her sister had gone and gotten herself killed at the age of 21, leaving a child behind. It was just like Lily, to just enjoy the good parts of life, and leave responsible old Tuney to clean up their mess, arranging James and Lily's funeral and burial, taking in their son and more.
Her sister's son, who shared her sister's eyes.
The child who had displayed odd traits from the very beginning; who had threatened to outshine her Dudley; who was a dangerous attention seeker.
So if one asked her why she treated Harry with disdain and neglect, it was because she could not countenance the thought of that boy doing better than her perfectly normal son. She didn't want Dudley to become as cold and bitter as she, so she had ladled affection on her son, not her sister's, and made sure Harry saw it.
Freakishness would be punished, never rewarded. Any mention of magic would not be tolerated. He'd be told his parents were jobless layabouts – true enough, since they had been unemployed - who died in a car crash so he wouldn't end up like them, running away from responsibility only to end up dead.
And until Harry's eleventh birthday, it had seemed to work.
The boy, while argumentative and a sheer nuisance at the best of times, had accepted his lot in life. That if he acted out, he would be punished. That he was not someone Petunia would have wanted to take in.
But of course, Albus Dumbledore, the man who had ruined her childhood and her relationship with her sister, couldn't leave well enough alone, and of course, he'd sent a letter inviting Harry to Hogwarts. Of course Harry and not Dudley, just as it had been Lily and not Petunia.
Of course.
Though they hadn't responded, had tried to keep the letters away, the letters kept coming and coming, with Dumbledore sending that giant to terrify her family and threaten her son and her husband, so that Lily's son could go to Hogwarts, while she and her family had been left to rot on that rock in the middle of the ocean.
But in hindsight, she should have expected it after the Headmaster had turned her down all those years ago. He didn't care about people like her, about "Muggles", about the ordinary folk who had to work hard to make a living, and couldn't just wave a wand to get everything they wanted. He'd told her no, and then left Harry on her doorstep, expecting her to just bow to his whims and take the boy in, when her sister hadn't talked to her in years, even though she made sure to send a Christmas gift every single bloody year, as a responsible sibling should.
And then the oaf had attacked – not her husband, who had said what she thought about Albus Dumbledore – but her son, showing that the so-called good wizards were just as cruel and twisted as the ones they called Dark, at least towards Muggles – the ones they dismissed as unimportant, as inferiors, whose opinion simply didn't matter.
After all, it hadn't mattered that Vernon and Petunia hadn't wanted their nephew to go to Hogwarts, now had it, despite the fact that they were his legal guardians? Albus Dumbledore and his agent had just done as they wished, filling Harry's head with how special he was, how heroic and wonderful his parents had been, and how wrong the Dursleys had been to deny him his heritage.
Not a word of gratitude. Not a word of thanks. Not a word of acknowledgement at how inconvenient it had all been all these years.
For the poor Muggles, there was nothing at all, not even a boat to shore.
She supposed she should be lucky that Dumbledore's agent hadn't just killed her husband and her son, since after all, the only one who he needed alive for his purposes – for his blood wards – was her.
Which was why it didn't surprise her as much as she'd thought it would when Harry had changed, becoming like the boy who had lived at Spinner's End, a cold, dangerous killer; just as it didn't surprise her that like her sister, the boy had won some award for his brilliance.
Of course he would.
That was just the way things were.
As a mere Muggle, she had no right to expect any better.
Bzzt!
And then the doorbell rang.
Wanting something, anything, to distract her from her thoughts, Petunia Dursley rose from the sofa and opened the door – only to freeze at the figure she saw there.
"You…"
As he appeared at Privet Drive, and made the long walk to Number Four, one of a number of identical houses on the street, Severus Snape was having some second thoughts. Being honest, he didn't want to face Petunia Dursley, since he knew the woman still blamed him for taking Lily away from her, and ultimately for getting her killed.
…an accusation that was more right that Petunia knew, as he had told the Dark Lord about that Prophecy, after all.
Not that he'd ever liked the woman. Petunia and he had despised each other from their first meeting, with her looking at him as a poor ragamuffin and a weirdo, and him thinking of her as an obnoxious Muggle – like his father – who would never understand his world. She had looked upon him with contempt, judging him for his poverty, for his awkwardness, for his magic, as so many others in his life had done.
She had hated him, and hated even more that Lily had befriended him – that to him, Lily soon became his closest person in the world.
Until the day Lily wasn't, when one slip of the tongue drove her away, into the arms of James Potter, the boy who had tormented him from the first time they'd met on the train, simply because he had a low opinion of Gryffindor House.
It was his fault of course, he knew. He'd fallen into perhaps a bad crowd (albeit the only one who'd ever accepted him and appreciated what he could do), pursued the Dark Arts for power – because he didn't want people to bully him ever again, and had – in a moment of humiliation and shame – called Lily a Mudblood because of the pity in her eyes – pity that for a moment had reminded him of Petunia.
She hadn't ever forgiven him for that, and had chosen the company of the Marauders instead, those cruel, vicious boys who he had only ever wanted to protect himself from.
That rejection – that loss – of the person he loved most in the world, hurt more than anything he could imagine, a loss that was echoed the night she died because of him, and he'd held her lifeless body in his arms, pleading with whatever higher power existed – or didn't exist – that he might take her place. That he might die, and her life might be restored.
But it was not to be, and now over a decade later, her son had lost someone he cared about too, because Severus Snape had not been vigilant enough.
He'd seen the look on the boy's face – the wooden half-expression he wore in his classes after the incident – the sense of disconnection with everything – the self-loathing he hid from the world behind his honors and titles.
Severus had been most struck by what Potter had said during the funeral – that he would give up everything if it meant Sokaris were still alive.
Because in that moment, he'd realized that for all the expectations that had been heaped on Potter, all the praise, the titles, and honors, the boy wasn't like Lily or James at all. He was neither confident to the point of arrogance, nor a genius.
Harry Potter was like Severus Snape, an awkward half-blood seeking his way through an unfamiliar world, with few real friends, the enmity of certain Gryffindors, and who knew arts and spells beyond his years.
…though Potter had succeeded in earning the respect and approval of the school as a whole, something the Potions Master would once have given anything to obtain. Now, if only he was better in Potions, Potter might even be a good protégé…but while competent, he wasn't anything spectacular, and Severus knew he would only be fooling himself if he thought so.
Severus supposed he was…worried about the boy, but didn't he have reason to be?
With a sigh, the Potions master – dressed in professional muggle attire of suit and tie - made his way to the door of the Dursley residence and rang the doorbell, only to come face to face with a ghost from the past.
"You…" Petunia breathed, her face pale with shock. "I-it can't be…"
"Hello Petunia," Snape replied. This was a bit awkward even for him.
"W-what are you doing here?" the woman said, wondering what might have brought this boy who was all grown up to her doorstep. For a freak to come and invade her orderly life. The only reason she could think of was… "She's not here you know. She's dead. She—"
"I know," Severus answered, fighting back the urge to wince.
Interrupted as she was, Petunia seemed puzzled, not knowing what to say.
"…then why are you here?" she asked guardedly, her eyes flickering from side to side.
"It's about the boy."
"No," Petunia whispered, taking a step back – though her hand never left the doorframe. "Not…Dudley."
"Lily's boy," Snape drawled. "I have some school business to discuss with him."
"…Hogwarts," Petunia all but spat, eyes flashing with a long-held grudge. "You've come from Hogwarts."
"Indeed," the Professor said stiffly. "May I come in?"
He was trying his best to be polite around Petunia, which had never come easy in his youth. It still didn't come easy to him now, since she reminded him of her sister.
The woman before him glared at him for a long moment before swallowing and stepping aside.
"…I suppose I can't stop you, if you're here on Dumbledore's business. Better than you tearing the door down or trying to turn my son into a pig like that giant oaf. You'll come do what you want even if I say I don't want you to."
Snape froze.
"What…?"
"Don't pretend you don't know," the blonde woman replied quietly. "You must have talked about it with Dumbledore, had a good laugh with the manipulative bastard. About the poor ignorant Muggles who the oaf scared half to death and stranded on an island with no way back to shore, while he went off with Lily's son! The poor Muggles who your people used magic to harm, you freaks. Bullies, the lot of you."
Snape found himself at a rare loss for words.
This was certainly not how he had pictured their reunion going. He had certainly thought she'd be angry at him, but to hear about an incident like this was actually rather appalling.
"…Petunia, I will…have a talk with Dumbledore about this," he said slowly, as he met her eyes, gently looked into her mind to confirm the truth of her words…and saw more than he expected.
Hagrid's actions were there of course, but also what had led to it. The storm of letters. The drive. The cupboard.
The cupboard…Lily's son…stayed in the cupboard?
Spurred on by horror and incredulity, his probing intensified, grew less subtle, more vicious, looking into what had happened over the past decade, until he pulled away, finding himself looking into dark, angry eyes, and a face set in a mask of rage.
"You bastard," she hissed, her hand moving to slap him – though he caught her wrist in mid-flight, perhaps a bit painfully. "You had no right to just—"
"I had every right," the Potions Master sneered, releasing Petunia's hand, with the woman drawing it back as if burned.
"You and the rest of your freakish kind…" she said in a small, hollow voice, looking at him in an odd mix of hate and fear. "You never liked ordinary people like me. Never cared. All you wanted was her. Well you got her into your world, and now she's dead. My sister is dead because of you."
Caught off guard by this accusation – something that wasn't what Severus Snape wanted – or needed - to hear, Severus found himself unable to reply.
"Petunia!"
Before he could do so, a thick, heavyset man moved into view, interrupting them as he looked between Petunia and the man at the door.
"Who are you?"
"An old…friend of your wife," Severus said, thinking the man might be somewhat more reasonable if he didn't introduce himself as a wizard immediately.
"…boyfriend?" Vernon Dursley asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"No!" both Petunia and Severus replied – the two agreeing on something for once in their lives.
"He's one of them," Petunia continued. "He's here for…for Harry."
It was as if an expressionless mask slammed over Vernon's features, and even without the benefit of Legilimency, Severus Snape could sense the man's raw fear.
"…Professor?"
A voice interrupted him, as the Boy-Who-Lived stepped into view, dressed in hand-me-downs that were clearly too big for him, at which Snape frowned.
"Ah…Potter," Snape drawled. "As I was about to inform your relatives, I am here to take you away for the summer."
Harry's face lit up as he remembered what Dumbledore had promised – that the old man would see what he could do about letting him visit Japan.
"So I can go to—"
"Yes," Snape interrupted. "Get your things. We have…half an hour."
"Ah…"
"…yes, Potter?"
"My books and things are locked…in the cupboard. And Hedwig is locked in her cage upstairs."
Harry didn't want Snape to see where he had lived – to see the sorry living conditions of the Heir of Slytherin. He hadn't wanted to admit that his things were locked away either, but…
"Dursley, unlock the cupboard."
"Now, see here. You can't just walk into a man's house and—"
"Unlock. The. Cupboard."
It was said by some that when Professor Snape became angry, it was almost as if a dementor stepped into a room, with all hope fading, all warmth being sucked away as the man spoke. And it was more true than not, as Vernon bowled over himself to obey.
Inside the cupboard, the books and belongings – the trunk – was certainly there, but so too were signs of occupation, as if it had once been used as a sleeping space.
"Petunia," Snape growled, fixing a baleful stare on his old…acquaintance. "Help your nephew with his…owl."
"…I hate you, Severus."
"Whether you do or do not is immaterial, merely that you do as I ask," Snape replied. "The sooner it is done, the sooner we can be gone from your house."
Petunia did as told, fetching the key to free Harry's owl from its confinement. And as for Dudley, he remained in the living room, huddling behind a sofa in fear as he covered his bottom.
Soon enough the goods were gathered, with Harry ready to go, dressed in his school robes – which were admittedly, the best clothing he had, and the Dursleys getting clear out of the way. They had no desire to anger someone clearly more dangerous than the giant oaf, if not as physically imposing.
Seeing this almost – almost made Snape curse – but he held his tongue.
"Potter," the Professor said, withdrawing a ball of yarn from his pocket. "Hold onto this with one hand and your trunk with another and do not let go."
"Yes, sir," Harry agreed, taking hold of the ball and his goods, Hedwig settling on his shoulder.
Snape followed suit, and in a minute, both he and the Potter boy vanished from the Dursley household, leaving no trace.
The Dursleys' only bright spot for the summer holidays would be that Vernon's long-planned dinner party with the Masons went well, with the man securing his long-sought contract, and with it, his prospects for a vacation house in Majorca.