It wasn't just the lack of awe that bothered Snape. The boy had been around magic his entire life, even if it was of a type unfamiliar to wizard kind, so it wasn't surprising that he was able to adjust to the sights of Diagon Alley.
It wasn't even the way his attention flitted from one thing to the next; the boy had by all reports never been to a human school at all. He'd never even had the formal tutoring that most wizard born children received, tutoring that instilled the same sort of discipline that the muggle educational system did.
Fortunately, Ministry testing indicated that he'd somehow managed to receive an adequate education in reading, mathematics and the basic sciences, although his knowledge of human history was woefully lacking. He didn't even know much about his own world's history, much less that of this one.
Doubtlessly he would find the History of magic even more excruciating than most students. Binns had been teaching the subject since before he'd died, and he'd been a terrible teacher even then. Snape had his own recollection of Binn's class and he regarded it as an excellent preparation for Ministry work.
What bothered Snape was Steven's utter lack of fear. Eleven year old children lived in a world of giants, adults who controlled their lives in ways they couldn't even comprehend. Any adult had more power than any given child, and they knew it.
Most children trembled at the sight of Snape. He'd purposefully cultivated an image of being fearsome, long ago learning to billow his cape as he walked. Some of the muggle children compared him to a raven.
It was useful. A terrified child was a compliant child, and of all the classes taught in Hogwarts, his was the most dangerous.
Oh, most of the practical classes had the potential for disaster. Transmutation, defense against the dark arts, care for magical creatures. Generally, though, a disaster in one of those classes would affect one, perhaps two students.
Potions had the potential for lethal explosions if not done correctly. Watching over fifteen sets of cauldrons stirred by thirty brats who not only had the attention spans of gnats but often actively attempted to subvert each others potions would have made a lesser wizard pull his hair out with anxiety.
It made Snape irritable.
He'd long ago learned that a cowed group of children was a group of children who ended the school year with fewer injuries. They might hate him, but they were alive instead of splattered all over the walls of the school dungeons.
Also, it felt good to set dunderheads in their place.
Steven, though walked as though he owned everything he surveyed. He hadn't even noticed Snape's billowing cape or his scowl.
Instead he'd simply described a teen-aged friend who he described as being irritable but inwardly decent, and told Snape that he reminded him of that person.
Ministry reports said the boy was at least ten times as strong as an adult human. It would be absurdly easy for him to hurt another student even accidentally.
Furthermore, he was much sturdier than any human. Ministry estimates were that despite his size he was sturdier than a half-giant like Hagrid.
In a way, Steven reminded Snape of Hagrid. The big oaf was resistant to things that would harm ordinary adults, much less children. This made it difficult for him to estimate how dangerous the creatures he cared for were to ordinary children.
Steven had not learned discipline. He had no fear of ordinary things and with good reason. Furthermore, he was not afraid of Snape.
He was going to be a disaster.
Snape considered stocking up on cleaning solution for the walls of the dungeons. It was only a matter of time before he blew another student or himself up, and Snape suspected that Steven would survive just fine.
The same couldn't be said of the other students.
"You don't want an owl?"
The boy was thin, looking almost undernourished. He had glasses perched on his nose, which reminded Steven a little of Connie, even though the glasses looked not even remotely alike.
"I've got nobody to send messages to," Steven said. He looked down. "I haven't had good experiences with pets anyway."
You loved them and then they sacrificed themselves for you.
Lion was just one of the holes in his heart.
"I don't have anybody I want to send letters to," the boy said. "Not yet anyway. My relatives don't like magic. I'm getting one anyway."
"I'm Steven."
Steven forced himself to smile. Smiling had been easy before, as easy as sunshine and as natural as the waves. Now, though, it was the only way he could hide the pain that was just under the surface.
His dad, Connie, all his friends in Beach City...he'd had to leave them behind forever.
He'd lost Lapis and Lion, and he wasn't sure if the gems were going to make it, and even if they did he didn't know if they'd return before he was an adult.
His entire world was gone and it was all he could do to keep up a veneer of normality.
Of course, that's what he'd always done.
Garnet had once told him that he was the glue that kept them all together, that he inspired not just them but the people of Beach City.
Deep down he'd known it was true, but no one had ever thought about how much pressure that put on him. He always had to be strong for the others, and he knew they expected him to step into his mother's shoes.
His mother's shoes were enormous and he was only a small boy.
"Harry," the boy said. "Harry Potter."
He stared at Steven expectantly, as though he expected some sort of reaction. At Steven's shrug of incomprehension, the boy grinned.
"You're an American, right?"
Steven shrugged uncomfortably. "Kind of."
"They say Americans don't pay much attention to the rest of the world," the boy said. "Like British magical history."
"I don't even know American history," Steven said.
The boy's grin grew wider. "I think we'll get along just fine."
Seeing who Steven was talking to, Snape decided to double his order of cleaning reagents.
This year wasn't going to be a disaster. It was going to be an epic disaster.