Chapter 3 - You're a wizard, Harry
11 Years Later
The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window of Number 4, Privet Drive, so casting long shadows across the meticulously clean table. Harry Potter sat stiffly, his back straight, at the end of the table. His sharp blue eyes were fixed on the plate in front of him. Petunia Dursley hovered nearby, her thin, birdlike form moving with nervous energy as she served him breakfast. The smell of fried eggs and bacon lingered faintly in the air, though Harry ate mechanically, his movements precise, almost cold.
Without warning, an owl swooped through the open window, its wings beating a soft rhythm against the stillness of the room. A letter dropped neatly onto the table in front of him. Harry froze, his fork hovering mid-air. Slowly, he set it down and wiped his mouth with the edge of a pristine cloth.
Petunia gasped audibly, her bony hands clutching the edge of the counter. The sound of rushing water from the sink faltered as she turned, her pale face pinched with apprehension.
Harry's gaze fell on the letter. His long, thin fingers reached for it deliberately, turning it over. The seal was unmistakable—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His lips quirked ever so slightly, not in a smile but in confirmation. The years of cryptic hints, overheard whispers, and the strange, undeniable feeling that he was meant for something beyond this dreary house were all true.
I'm a wizard. I thought I might be.
"What is it?" Petunia's voice trembled, her hands fumbling with Harry's plate as she moved to rinse it. Her eyes darted between him and the letter, full of the skittish anxiety of someone who knew too much and hoped to be forgotten. Petunia had always been very vague about his parents no matter how hard he pushed. He knew they were wizards and were killed by a dark lord. He also knew he was meant to fear this dark lord, but instead he was intrigued. 'He must be very powerful'.
"It's a letter," Harry replied, his voice calm but heavy with significance, "from a place called Hogwarts. A wizarding school."
A sharp rustle came from behind the newspaper at the far end of the table. Vernon Dursley lowered it slightly, his small eyes glinting with a mixture of relief and wary optimism.
"So, are you going then?" His tone carried a forced casualness, as though trying to disguise the hope that the answer was "yes."
Harry shrugged, folding the letter deliberately in his hands. "I haven't decided. I need to read it first."
His blue eyes, now slightly narrowed, shifted to Petunia, who was drying the plate with frantic movements, leaving streaks of water behind. She placed it on the counter, but not in its proper spot, and Harry's gaze hardened.
"Are you going to put that away?" he asked, his voice clipped, cold.
"Yes, of course!" Petunia squeaked, grabbing the plate and hastily returning it to the cupboard. Her movements were jerky, her eyes darting around the room, unable to settle.
Harry watched her for a moment longer, then unfolded the letter and read it carefully. His expression remained impassive, though his mind churned with a mixture of excitement, curiosity, and an ever-present thread of suspicion. After reading it twice, he folded it neatly and slid it into his pocket.
"I'll be going out today," he announced as he stood. He adjusted his neatly pressed shirt and looked at the pair of them—Petunia clutching a dish towel, Vernon disappearing back behind his paper. "Don't wait up."
Without waiting for a response, Harry left the house. The door clicked softly shut behind him. He paused on the driveway, the cool breeze rustling his dark, unruly hair.
Wizarding London,he thought, his mind racing. The list in the letter was clear—robes, books, a wand—but how on earth was he supposed to find such things in the middle of Little Whinging?
"How does one get to wizarding London?" he murmured aloud, pacing slightly. The idea of asking anyone from Privet Drive was absurd. He doubted anyone in this dull, suffocating neighbourhood even knew what "wizarding" meant.
He tried again, more firmly this time, as though willing the words themselves to work magic. "I want to go to wizarding London."
Nothing.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. Then, as if the universe had been listening all along, the air seemed to shift. A low hum grew into a roar, and suddenly, with a screech of brakes, a massive red double-decker bus materialised out of nowhere.
It stopped so close to him that he could see his reflection in the gleaming front grille—his polished shoes standing mere centimetres from disaster. The bus seemed impossibly large, its engine idling with a strange, magical energy. The wordsKnight Buswere painted in bold gold letters across the side.
Harry's heart leapt into his throat, but his face betrayed nothing as he stepped back, his mind this is how the wizarding world works.
A door on the side of the bus hissed open, and a thin, gangly conductor with a toothy grin leaned out. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard! Where to, then?"
Harry blinked, his composure slipping just slightly. "Uh… Wizarding London? Where I may purchase my school books," he ventured.
The conductor grinned wider, stepping aside to let him on. "Hop aboard! Diagon Alley it is!"
Harry took a deep breath, stepping onto the strange, magical bus. As the door closed behind him with a hiss, the world of Privet Drive seemed to fall away, and for the first time, Harry felt like he was stepping toward his destiny.
The unfamiliar sensation in Harry's chest intensified as the Knight Bus rumbled through the streets of London. He couldn't quite place it at first, but as the corners of his lips twitched upward, he realised it was anticipation—maybe even excitement. It was a rare feeling for him, and the momentary smile that graced his sharp, regal features was just as fleeting.
He moved to take a seat, but the conductor quickly approached, interrupting his thoughts.
"That'll be 11 sickles," the man said cheerfully, holding out his hand.
Harry's icy blue eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing the man like a knife. The conductor's smile faltered, his face falling into a confused frown as he shuffled uncomfortably, looking down at his boots.
"No, it won't," Harry said firmly, his voice calm but carrying an edge that brooked no argument.
The conductor blinked, then straightened abruptly, his smile snapping back into place as though nothing had happened. "You've paid then? Good, good. Off we go!"
The bus lurched forward with a sudden jolt, nearly sending Harry out of his seat. He grabbed the armrest, steadying himself, and his stern expression softened as he watched the bus weave impossibly through traffic. It twisted and shrank to fit between cars, careened around corners, and seemed utterly unfazed by the normal rules of the road.
For Harry, who had never left the dull confines of Little Whinging, the sight of London was mesmerising. The city was alive, glittering with lights that reflected off rain-slicked streets. He could feel the hum of energy, of possibility, and for the first time, the weight of Privet Drive seemed to lift.
His thoughts turned to Hogwarts and the promise of something entirely new. He imagined himself striding through ancient stone hallways, commanding respect, and making his mark. I was made for bigger things—much bigger.
But as the bus sped along, Harry's mind wandered to the Dursleys. His jaw tightened reflexively. They hated him—he had known it from the moment they first laid eyes on him. Harry had an uncanny ability to sense people's emotions, even when they tried to hide them. Petunia's thinly veiled resentment, Vernon's simmering anger, Dudley's sneering contempt—it was all too obvious.
When he was a baby, they had ignored him, which suited Harry just fine. But as he grew older, their neglect turned to outright cruelty. He shivered, remembering how they had tried to force him to live in the cramped cupboard under the stairs and wear Dudley's grotesquely oversized cast-offs. He'd refused, of course. Even as a child, Harry knew he was different—special.
He discovered early on that he could change people's minds. At first, it happened instinctively. If he concentrated hard enough, Petunia would suddenly forget why she was yelling at him, or Vernon would find an excuse to leave the room. Over time, Harry honed this ability, turning it into a tool to ensure his survival. By the time he started primary school, he had transformed Number 4 Privet Drive into something almost tolerable.
Fear had replaced the Dursleys' hatred. They tiptoed around him now, careful not to cross him. Harry liked it that way. He didn't need their affection—he had learned to thrive without it. At school, he was well-liked, even admired. He had a small circle of loyal friends who followed him without question. And yet, there was an ache that even his sharp wit and cunning couldn't suppress.
Not all the teachers at school avoided him. Most did, wary of the quiet intensity he carried, but one stood out. Miss Elmsworth, his history teacher, was different. She was graceful, with long blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders and an air of quiet authority that reminded Harry of someone he couldn't quite place.
Miss Elmsworth treated him like an equal, not a problem to be ignored or a threat to be contained. She would smile warmly at him during class, her blue eyes alight with genuine kindness. Once, after everyone else had left, she stayed behind to talk to him.
"Harry," she had said softly, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves in a breeze, "you're very smart. But there's something missing in your work. Do you know what it is?"
He had shaken his head, caught off guard by her directness.
"Love," she had said simply, but her words lingered with him long after she had walked away.
It was true. Harry had never known love, not really. The Dursleys had been a cold, hostile presence for as long as he could remember, and while his friends respected him, their admiration didn't fill the hollow ache in his chest. Miss Elmsworth had seen through him, and for the first time, Harry had felt exposed.
As the Knight Bus hurtled toward its destination, Harry stared out the window, his reflection flickering against the passing lights. Maybe, he thought, the wizarding world would be different. Maybe there, he could find what had always been missing.
The bus screeched to a halt, jolting him out of his thoughts.
"Diagon Alley!" the conductor announced cheerily.
Harry stood, smoothing his shirt and straightening his posture. The excitement from earlier returned, tempered by a steely resolve. Whatever awaited him in this strange new world, Harry Potter was ready.
Harry stepped off the Knight Bus, his polished shoes hitting the uneven cobblestones with a softclick. The street around him was dim and grimy, lined with run-down buildings that looked like they hadn't been cared for in decades. His sharp eyes scanned the area, lingering on a dirty-looking pub in the middle of the lane.
It has to be the pub,he thought, his lips curling slightly in distaste. The peeling paint on the sign, which readThe Leaky Cauldron,and the soot-streaked windows made him loathe the idea of stepping inside. He straightened his back, took a steadying breath, and walked through the creaking door.
The inside, however, was a stark contrast. The room was warm and inviting, filled with chatter, the clink of glasses, and a faint glow from floating candles that illuminated the rustic wooden beams overhead. Harry stood for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as he took it all in.
"So… this is magic," he murmured, a hint of wonder slipping through his usual composed demeanour.
The bartender, a bald man with a jovial face, noticed him lingering and approached.
"Lost, are you?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"I'm looking for somewhere to buy school supplies," Harry replied. His tone was polite but firm, already projecting the confidence of someone used to handling things on his own.
"Are you…. No can't be." The bartender shook his head softly as if trying to get rid of a something then gave him clear instructions on how to access Diagon Alley through the back courtyard. As Harry turned to leave, the man hesitated, looking him over curiously.
"Are your parents with you?"
Harry's blue eyes narrowed slightly, his expression turning cold. "No, but I don't need them with me."
The bartender nodded quickly, sensing it wasn't a topic to press. "Right, right. Anything to eat or drink before you go?"
"No, sir. Good day to you."
The man tipped his head, and Harry left without another word, following the instructions to the back courtyard.
In the enclosed space, Harry reached out to the bricks with his hand, channelling his magic through his fingertips as he traced the pattern the bartender had described. The air tingled as the wall shifted and began to part, the bricks folding away to reveal a bustling street beyond.
For a moment, Harry simply stood there, his usually controlled expression giving way to awe. Diagon Alley was like nothing he had ever seen. Colourful shopfronts lined the street, their windows filled with glittering displays of magical wares—cauldrons, potion ingredients, wands, and books with spines that seemed to move on their own. Witches and wizards in robes bustled past him, their conversations creating a hum of energy that filled the air.
Harry stepped forward, drinking in the sights. He was so captivated by the scene around him that he didn't notice he was about to collide with someone until it was too late.
He slammed into a tall, dark-robed figure, stumbling back slightly.
"Watch where you're—" the man began, his voice sharp and irritated. But then he stopped, his black eyes narrowing as he looked down at Harry.
"D—Harry Potter?"
Harry straightened, brushing himself off. His face was calm, betraying no surprise, but his eyes studied the man closely. He was sallow-skinned, with greasy black hair that framed a hooked nose and piercing eyes that seemed to look straight through him.
"You know who I am?" Harry asked, his voice even.
The man hesitated. "I know—knew your mother," he said softly, a flicker of emotion passing through his dark eyes.
Harry watched him critically for a moment, sensing the genuine affection the man had for him. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome, though his expression remained neutral.
"What brings you here?" the man asked, recovering his composure.
"I'm here to get my school supplies," Harry replied.
"By yourself?" The man raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his tone.
"I don't know any wizards," Harry said simply.
The man tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "And how did you get here?"
"The Knight Bus."
"Without money?"
Harry smirked faintly. "They were very accommodating."
The man's expression darkened with suspicion. He had never known the Knight Bus to be "accommodating" without payment, but he chose not to press the issue.
"Would you like help getting your things?" the man offered after a pause. "I'm sure you can manage fine on your own, but I have errands to run anyway. You could… tag along."
Harry tilted his head, studying the man carefully. He could tell it wasn't the entire truth, but he didn't mind. The idea of company—especially someone who had known his mother—was oddly comforting.
"I'd appreciate that," he said finally.
The man gave a curt nod. "Very well. I'm Professor Severus Snape. Potions Master at Hogwarts."
Harry inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Harry Potter. Though it seems you already knew that."
Snape's lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. "Come along, then, Mr. Potter. Let's see to your supplies."
Together, they walked down Diagon Alley, their unlikely partnership drawing curious glances from passersby. Harry, for the first time in his life, felt a flicker of connection to someone, and though he said little, he allowed himself to hope that this world might truly be different.
As they walked the street was alive with activity: witches haggling over potion ingredients, children pressing their faces against shop windows, and the occasional owl hooting from a perch.
Harry's attention darted from one sight to the next, his normally reserved demeanour cracking under the sheer wonder of it all. Snape walked beside him in his usual measured pace, his black robes billowing faintly, keeping a watchful eye on the boy.
"First stop: Gringotts," Snape said, his voice low but firm. He inclined his head toward the imposing white marble building at the end of the street. "You'll need funds to purchase your supplies."
Harry nodded, his curiosity piqued. The grandeur of Gringotts loomed larger with every step. Massive bronze doors, flanked by goblin guards with sharp features and sharper eyes, opened to reveal a vast hall lined with counters manned by even more goblins.
"This is… impressive," Harry murmured.
Snape gave a small nod. "Goblins take great pride in their work. Treat them with respect, and they'll do the same. Now, come along."
They approached a counter, where a goblin with thin spectacles peered down at them.
"Name?" the goblin asked brusquely.
"Harry Potter," Harry replied, standing as straight as he could under the goblin's calculating gaze.
The goblin's eyes narrowed slightly before he nodded. "Key?"
"I don't have one," Harry admitted, glancing at Snape.
The professor fumbled around in his pocket for awhile as if looking for something and then handed over a key. The goblin scrutinised it for several minutes before giving a sharp nod. "Follow me."
"How did you know I would be here?" asked Harry, motioning to the key.
"I didn't," replied Snape as they followed the goblin into the cart.
Before Harry could ask another question the cart was moving and the incident forgotten. The ride to Harry's vault was a wild, exhilarating affair. The cart sped through winding tunnels, banking sharply on turns and descending steep drops that left Harry gripping the edge of his seat.
When they arrived, the goblin opened the vault, and Harry's breath caught. Piles of gold galleons, silver sickles, and bronze knuts gleamed under the torchlight. For the first time, the weight of what being a wizard—and a Potter—meant truly hit him.
"You'll need enough for your school supplies and some extra for the year," Snape said, breaking Harry's reverie.
Harry filled a pouch with coins under the professor's watchful eye, careful not to overdo it. As they headed back to the main hall, Snape turned to the goblin.
"I'll need to visit my own vault," he said smoothly.
The goblin led them to another cart, and Harry assumed Snape had business of his own. While Snape collected a small bag of coins, he glanced briefly at Harry, as though considering something.
When they returned to the street, their shopping began in earnest. Their first stop was Ollivanders.
"It is best to get your wand first as it is the most important." Said Snape as he opened the door and ushered Harry inside.
The small, dusty shop was cramped with boxes of wands piled high, and Harry felt a strange sense of anticipation.
An elderly man with silvery eyes appeared almost silently from the back. "Ah, Harry Potter," he said, his voice soft but carrying weight. "I was wondering when I'd see you."
The process of finding Harry's wand was long and involved, with wands flying off shelves and strange bursts of magic filling the air. Finally, a walnut wand with a dragon heartstring core chose him.
"Curious," Ollivander murmured, his gaze piercing.
"What's curious?" Harry asked.
"The dragon that gave the heartstring that resides in your wand had a mate that gave another… for a very different wizard….or perhaps not," he said enigmatically, but offered no further explanation.
Next came Flourish and Blotts for his textbooks. Harry marvelled at the towering shelves, filled with books on every magical subject imaginable. He carefully selected his required texts, while Snape added a few extra titles to the pile without explanation.
In the apothecary, the air was thick with the pungent aroma of herbs and strange ingredients. Harry picked up his potion supplies, listening intently as Snape offered occasional advice.
"This root," Snape said, holding up a shrivelled, grey specimen, "is wolfsbane. In small doses, it's used for advanced potion-making. You won't need it yet, but you should know the scent. Never mistake it for valerian root."
Harry nodded, filing away the information.
At the Magical Menagerie, Harry surprised Snape by choosing a snake as his pet—a sleek black serpent with intelligent, piercing yellow eyes.
"Most wizards choose owls," Snape observed, his tone neutral.
"I don't plan on being like most wizards," Harry replied, running a finger along the snake's scales. The serpent flicked its tongue, as though in agreement.
Snape smirked faintly, but said nothing.
As the afternoon wore on, Snape suggested they stop for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. They sat at a quiet corner table, where Harry devoured a hearty meal while asking Snape questions about Hogwarts.
"What's it like?" Harry asked between bites.
"Structured," Snape replied. "Each house has its own dormitories and common room. You'll attend classes with students from all houses, though you'll spend the most time with your own."
"Which house do you think I'll be in?"
Snape hesitated, then said, "You'll find out soon enough. Just know that the Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes."
After lunch, Snape treated Harry to ice cream from Florean Fortescue's. The cold, sweet treat was a new experience for Harry, who generally avoided sweets. He allowed himself a rare smile.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Snape escorted Harry back to Little Whinging. They apparated to a quiet park near Privet Drive and walked the rest of the way.
"Why can't you just take me straight home?" Harry asked.
"Apparating directly to muggle homes is… unwise," Snape explained. "It raises questions."
"How did you know where to take me?"
"Dumbledore told me you were taken in by Petunia when your parents died. This was the last place I knew her to live."
They walked in companionable silence for a while before Harry broke it.
"Did you really know my mother?"
Snape's expression softened, just slightly. "Yes. She….. was extraordinary. Formidable, cunning, and fiercely loyal to her family."
Harry absorbed this quietly, sensing the deep emotion behind the words.
As they reached Privet Drive, Snape stopped and turned to Harry.
"Take care, Potter," he said. "And remember, the wizarding world is not without its dangers. Be cautious, but don't let fear guide you."
Harry nodded. "Thank you, Professor."
Snape inclined his head and, with a swirl of his robes, disappeared into the night.
Harry watched the spot where he had stood for a moment before turning back to Number 4 and walking towards the house. The sight of the house brought no feelings of comfort or belonging. It was as neat and ordinary as always, the garden meticulously trimmed and the curtains drawn just so. But Harry knew the order was superficial—a fragile mask hiding the unease that his presence brought to the Dursleys.
He paused for a moment at the door, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder and glancing at the small snake coiled snugly in a carrier he had charmed to stay inconspicuous. The creature's amber eyes gleamed as it flicked its tongue lazily. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.
The faint hum of the television reached him from the living room, where Uncle Vernon's loud laughter was punctuating some overly enthusiastic commercial. Aunt Petunia's sharp voice followed soon after.
"I told you to keep the volume down, Vernon! It's bad enoughhewill be back any moment—"
Her words cut off as Harry stepped into the entryway. Petunia appeared in the doorway to the living room, her thin face pale and her bony hands twisting the hem of her apron.
"Oh," she said faintly, her eyes darting to the bag slung over Harry's shoulder. "You're back."
Harry's sharp blue eyes swept over her. "For now, I will be leaving for Hogwarts on the first of September, and then I will not return."
"Ever?" She asked uneasily, a hint of hope in her voice.
"Ever."
"Well, you'll be missed of course."
Before he could respond there was a loudthudfrom the stairs. Dudley, who had been creeping halfway down to eavesdrop, froze. His face turned an alarming shade of red as his eyes met Harry's.
"B-back already?" Dudley stammered, his wide frame blocking most of the staircase as he clutched the railing. His beady eyes flicked nervously to Harry's bag, as though expecting it to explode.
"Hello, Dudley," Harry said, his voice dangerously calm. Dudley gave a panicked squeak, his double chin quivering. Without another word, he scrambled up the stairs with surprising speed for someone his size, his heavy footfalls echoing overhead. A moment later, his bedroom door slammed shut.
Aunt Petunia flinched at the noise, her knuckles white as she gripped her apron. Harry shrugged, brushing past her into the living room. Uncle Vernon looked up from his armchair, the colour draining from his ruddy face.
"You're back," Vernon said, his voice gruff but uncertain. He eyed Harry warily, his gaze lingering on the polished snake carrier in Harry's hand.
"Yes," Harry said, dropping his bag onto the couch. He straightened and looked around, taking in the meticulously clean room.
Aunt Petunia lingered in the doorway, wringing her hands. "What—what's in that… bag?" she asked hesitantly, her eyes darting to the snake carrier.
"A pet," Harry replied simply, enjoying her discomfort.
"Awhat?" she squeaked, taking a step back.
"You won't even notice it," Harry said, brushing past her on his way to the stairs. "Unless, of course, you make me angry."
Petunia gasped softly, and Harry felt a flicker of satisfaction as he ascended the stairs.
When he reached his small room, he placed the snake carrier on the desk and opened it. The sleek black serpent uncoiled lazily, its tongue flicking out as it studied its new surroundings.
"Well," Harry said softly, leaning against the desk. "It's not much, but it's ours for now."
The snake let out a soft hiss of approval, and Harry smiled faintly.
For the first time in years, Harry felt a strange sense of power—not just over the Dursleys, but over his own life. The trip to Diagon Alley had opened a new chapter, one that promised freedom, knowledge, and perhaps even something resembling belonging.
O – o – o – o
To say that Severus Snape was surprised to see Harry Potter wandering Diagon Alley unaccompanied was an understatement. Questions swirled in his mind as he thought about the young boy with such sharp, calculating eyes, the same deep blue as Narcissa's. How had he convinced the Knight Bus to transport him without payment? How had he passed through the brick wall to Diagon Alley without a wand? But more than these questions, what lingered most was the impression Harry had left on him during their brief encounter.
The boy was powerful, there was no denying that. Yet it was not raw, uncontrolled magic that defined him—it was the deliberate, almost regal way he carried himself. There was a refinement to Harry's demeanour that defied his upbringing, one that reminded Snape of someone he had once known. Bellatrix.
The thought of her caused an ache to spread through Snape's chest. Bellatrix Black, fiery and unyielding, had been one of the few to truly understand him. She had trusted him with secrets, shared her ambitions, and once vowed to protect her soulmate, no matter the cost. But she had failed, imprisoned in Azkaban while Harry grew up under the care of the Dursleys.
Snape's lips thinned as he turned his attention back to Harry. The boy had been polite during their outing, even respectful—a rarity in Snape's experience with students. And though Harry's face remained guarded, Snape had caught glimpses of something deeper: loneliness. Pain. A yearning for something he could not name.
It was then that Snape resolved to investigate Harry's living conditions. He needed to know if the boy was safe—and if he wasn't, to do something about it.
A few days later, cloaked in shadows and hidden under a Disillusionment Charm, Snape stood outside Number 4 Privet Drive. From his vantage point, he could see through the windows, observing the household dynamics.
Harry spent most of the day in his small bedroom, surrounded by books and parchment. Occasionally, he would come downstairs for meals, and Snape noted with surprise that Petunia Dursley served him first, ensuring he was fed before the rest of the family. Yet there was an undercurrent of tension in every interaction. The Dursleys avoided Harry as much as possible, their movements stiff and their glances wary. When Harry left the room, they whispered about him, their expressions filled with a mixture of fear and resentment.
Snape's sharp eyes caught the smallest details: how Petunia flinched when Harry's gaze lingered on her for too long, how Vernon gripped his newspaper tighter whenever Harry entered the room, and how Dudley cowered whenever Harry passed by.
His heart clenched. Harry's life might have been devoid of physical abuse, but the emotional isolation was unmistakable. The boy had grown up surrounded by people who feared him, who saw him as something unnatural. Snape's mind churned with conflicting emotions: guilt for not intervening sooner, anger at the Dursleys, and an odd sense of protectiveness toward the boy.
He vowed then and there to ensure that Harry's time at Hogwarts would make up for the lonely childhood he had endured. The boy's potential was undeniable—he could change the world, Snape knew. But whether Harry would walk the path of light or darkness was still uncertain. Perhaps, Snape thought, he could guide him toward something worth fighting for.
The next morning, Snape made his way to Azkaban. The air grew colder as he approached the towering fortress, the very walls emanating despair. Inside, the presence of Dementors made every breath feel like a struggle. Yet Snape pressed on, his mind focused on one goal: to inform Bellatrix of her soulmate's progress.
When he entered her cell, Bellatrix Lestrange was a shadow of her former self. Her once-proud bearing was hunched, her raven hair streaked with waste, and her dark eyes wild with madness. She barely acknowledged his presence until he spoke.
"I've seen him," Snape said, his voice steady but soft. "Harry. He's going to Hogwarts in September."
Bellatrix froze, her hollow gaze snapping to his face. For a moment, it seemed as though she hadn't understood. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. The madness dimmed, replaced by something achingly human: hope.
"Harry?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to sit upright. "You've seen him? What—what is he like?"
Snape hesitated, then described the boy. "He's powerful. Intelligent. Determined. You would be proud of him."
Bellatrix wept, her tears cutting trails through the grime on her face. "I should have been there," she said, her voice breaking. "I should have protected him."
"You couldn't have known," Snape said quietly.
She clung to his words, nodding as though convincing herself. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes closing. "For telling me."
As Snape left Azkaban, he couldn't shake the weight of Bellatrix's grief.
The following day, Snape arrived at Privet Drive unannounced. He knocked sharply on the door, and Petunia answered, her face paling at the sight of him.
"Is Harry home?" Snape asked, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Petunia stepped aside, and Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression curious but wary.
"Professor," Harry said, descending the steps.
Once outside, Snape spoke plainly. "I've been observing you, Potter. It's clear that your Muggle upbringing has left you at a disadvantage. There is much you need to learn before September—Occlumency, wizarding etiquette, and magical theory, to name a few. I'm offering to tutor you. Personally."
Harry's eyes widened slightly. "You'd do that?"
"Yes," Snape said, his voice firm. "If you are willing to put in the effort."
Harry studied him for a moment, then nodded. "I'd like that. Thank you."
From that day on, Snape visited Privet Drive every afternoon. Their lessons were rigorous but rewarding. Snape was patient but demanding, pushing Harry to think critically and adapt quickly. As the weeks passed, a tentative camaraderie began to form between them.
Snape, for the first time in years, found himself looking forward to September—not for the routine of Hogwarts, but for the promise of seeing what Harry Potter would become.