CHAPTER TWO

A BITTER MAN

It was, quite honestly, the angriest Severus Snape had been in years.

And it was entirely Minerva's fault.

By sheer chance, the head of Gryffindor House had stumbled upon a Muggle newspaper listing for 11 Privet Drive while passing a student reading in the courtyard. The moment she saw it, she had taken the matter straight to Dumbledore.

"The Potter boy should be closely watched," she had insisted. "Merlin knows, from the little I do know of those dreadful Muggles, that they are not suitable guardians for a young wizard, Albus!"

Snape had been standing in the middle of the Headmaster's office—midway through yet another attempt to secure the Defense Against the Dark Arts post—when Minerva had launched into her argument.

He wished she had waited until he had left.

"I understand your concerns, Minerva," Dumbledore had replied calmly, "but I believe having someone so… invested take up residence there would be a mistake."

Then, the old man had turned his twinkling blue eyes to him.

"Severus, a moment more."

At the time, Snape had assumed that once again being denied the Defense position would be the worst part of his day.

To his horror, it was not.

"I refuse!" Snape spat. "I want nothing to do with James Potter's son!"

"I am not asking you to care for the boy, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "Merely to watch over him. If, as Minerva suspects, the boy is indeed being mistreated, I believe you would handle the situation with a more delicate hand than she might."

"Meaning I will not be intervening, even if something underhanded is occurring," Snape snarled.

Dumbledore's expression didn't waver. "I would never wish harm upon Harry. However, it is vital that he remains with the Dursleys—and that they remain in their current dwelling."

Snape sneered. "I know the wife. She remembers me, certainly—awful girl, she was. If she recognized me, they would pack up and move in an instant. Choose someone else, Headmaster."

Dumbledore arched a single eyebrow. "It is not unheard of for Muggles to have their memories… altered, as I understand it."

Snape clenched his jaw. "I have a right to refuse. I do not want to live across from that boy!"

Dumbledore's voice softened. "I am asking, as a friend, that you ensure the son of Lily Evans is kept safe. That is all. I am not asking you to care for him."

Snape stiffened.

A dirty trick.

To invoke her—to twist the memory of his beloved Lily against him.

If not for her, he would have nothing to do with this boy. Nothing to do with Albus. Nothing to do with any of them.

He forced himself to remain composed. "And how am I to fulfill my other role while shouldering this one?"

Dumbledore's expression turned shrewd. "I imagine having someone so well-placed near the boy would be seen as a boon to those who wish him harm," he said smoothly. "I see this as an opportunity."

And so it was.

He had no intention of dealing with the Dursleys at all.

When that wretched Petunia and her oaf of a husband, along with their obnoxious offspring, had knocked on his door, he had intended to send them away as quickly as they had come.

Then he opened the door.

Recognition flashed across Petunia's face instantly.

From there, he saw no other option but to modify their memories.

The husband and son had been simple enough—their minds were easy to manipulate, their memories fresh. But Petunia had been more difficult.

Core memories affected too much of a person—altering them outright could have left noticeable gaps. Instead, he took a more delicate approach: she would forget his name and his face, but she would still remember that there had once been a boy in her past—nothing more.

While in their home, he had noted the small cupboard beneath the stairs.

To his momentary amusement, he realized it was Potter's living space.

A second later, he imagined Lily's accusing gaze, her fury at what he had seen.

He turned on his heel and fled, leaving the Dursleys to settle into their new memories.

That, he had hoped, would be the last he saw of them.

Soon, summer would end, and he would return to Hogwarts, where the boy would be out of sight and out of mind—at least until the next year's summer break.

Then Potter had knocked on his door.

The boy was thin—almost frail. His clothes hung off him, several sizes too large for his small frame.

Snape was mildly amused by the sight, but the fact that the boy had come to him was infuriating.

It would have been easy to ignore him, to let Potter stand there knocking for as long as he liked. The child would eventually wander back to his cupboard and leave him be.

And yet—he needed to know.

Not for the boy's sake—never for his sake.

He needed to know exactly what kind of child

Potter was. Was he his father's son? Or, by some miracle, was there a chance he was more like Lily?

He was nothing like her.

The boy was simple—ignorant of anything magical. That alone irritated him to no end.

It was obvious the Dursleys had told him nothing about magic. But the revelation that they had dared—had the audacity—to tell the boy that Lily Evans had died in a car crash?

Snape had nearly gone red with rage.

It was too much to bear.

So, he had corrected the boy—ignorant as he was.

Snape had neither the time nor the patience to spoon-feed him the facts of the wizarding world. If Potter wanted answers, he would have to earn them.

Let him work for the knowledge he so clearly sought.

Placing a book in the boy's hands might keep him occupied long enough to stay out of Snape's hair.

Of course, sending him home with it posed a risk.

Those fools across the street would undoubtedly find the book. Potter, being as careless as Snape expected him to be, would likely leave it lying around or, worse, read it openly in front of those dreadful Muggles.

The Muggle-Repelling Charm he had placed on the book wasn't just for precaution—it was to ensure that, once the boy was finished, the book would find its way back into Snape's hands where it belonged.

And when he had warned Potter that he would get detention for so much as a single crease on its pages—he had meant it.

Not only that, but Snape fully intended to inspect every inch of it, scrutinizing each page for even the smallest sign of damage.

If Potter couldn't follow a simple instruction, he would learn soon enough that Severus Snape would not tolerate the same careless disregard for rules that his cursed father and those Marauders had inflicted upon him.

Snape remained at 11 Privet Drive, preparing for the upcoming semester. There were multiple years of students to plan for, tests to draft, and supplies to procure. More often than not, he simply Apparated to and from Diagon Alley to gather what he needed.

To maintain appearances, however, he made use of the Muggle car, purchasing Muggle groceries as expected. He had learned to drive many years ago, but he found Muggle transportation unbearably tedious. A broom would have been far more efficient, but, unfortunately, expectations had to be upheld.

It was two weeks before his departure for Hogwarts when the inevitable happened—Potter appeared at his door.

Snape, muttering a curse under his breath, yanked the door open and glared down at the boy.

"What do you want now, Potter!?" he snapped.

The boy flinched—a little—but, regrettably, did not scurry away as hoped.

"I-I've finished the book," Potter said sheepishly.

Snape's eyes narrowed.

It had been a few weeks, yes, but he had expected the book to preoccupy the boy for longer. The only explanation was that he had nothing better to do with his time.

Snape had read A History of Magic himself—a dry read, but informative. The idea that a nine-year-old boy had been captivated enough to read through the entire text was… unbelievable.

"Oh? Have you now, Potter?" Snape drawled. "Tell me, then—when was the International Statute of Secrecy signed?"

"I—um…"

"1689, Potter," Snape said sharply. "And what creatures were accepted into the Wizards' Council, and who presided over it?"

"Uh… anything with two legs?"

"And the head of the Council?"

Potter hesitated. "I… can't remember."

Snape's eyes flashed. "Then I take it you haven't read the book properly. Skimming is not reading, Potter—you're lazy."

He began to shut the door in the boy's face.

Before he could slam it closed, however, Potter stuck his foot in the doorframe.

"Ouch!" he yelped.

"Go away, Potter!" Snape commanded.

"I need to know more!" Potter insisted, his voice straining as he pushed against the door.

Snape groaned internally.

He knew this would happen.

Curse Dumbledore for saddling him with this idiotic child.

"Very well, Potter—come in," he said, begrudgingly pulling the door open.

Potter stumbled in, shaking his foot.

Snape walked ahead, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder at the boy.

"You will not be staying long, Potter. As much as I enjoy our chats"— his voice dripped with sarcasm—"I cannot be seen dragging a child into my house once a week. You can only alter someone's memory so many times before their minds begin to unravel. Do you comprehend what I am saying?"

The boy nodded. "I… I wanted to know more about my mother. You said I had her eyes. That's… not much."

Snape stiffened. He had no intention of indulging in such a conversation.

One look at the boy, and all he could see was James Potter.

He would have tossed the boy straight back onto the porch if it weren't for those eyes.

Those eyes.

"Damn you, Potter," Snape muttered under his breath.

"I will answer one question—one—and then you will leave me be!"

The boy hesitated, clearly agonizing over his choice. "What was she like?"

Snape froze.

For a long moment, he considered the question. How could he possibly answer that? How could he tell this boy—James Potter's son—anything about Lily? It wasn't a conversation he could even fathom having with someone like him.

"I have no desire to discuss her with you," Snape snapped. "Ask me something else, Potter, or you may leave!"

The boy's face fell, the light in his eyes dimming as if a rare and fragile hope had been crushed.

Snape felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sight—the embodiment of James sulking before him.

Then, to his dismay, the boy began to cry.

It wasn't the image of a child crying that gave Snape pause. He had made plenty of students cry in his years as a professor—most of them Gryffindors.

No, it wasn't the sight of tears on a child's face.

It was the sight of tears in those eyes.

For a moment, all he could see was a young Lily Evans crying. The memory pulled him back to a time when he himself had felt small and helpless.

A pang of pity struck him, sharp and sudden, leaving him momentarily unsteady.

Only for a moment.

"Stop your sniveling, Potter!" Snape barked, his voice cracking. "Fine. I will tell you about your father instead."

The boy sniffled, hastily wiping at his red, puffy eyes. "My father? You knew him too?"

Snape leaned forward, his expression cold and sharp. "Oh yes," he said with venom. "Allow me to illuminate you—all about your father."

"James Potter," Snape spat the name with well-earned venom, "was a schoolyard bully. A lazy, rule-breaking, upstart swine who never lacked creative ways to humiliate those he detested."

His dark eyes bore into the boy.

"And you, Potter—in my estimation—are every bit the same."

"That is who your father was."

The boy wilted.

Snape could see it happening—his shoulders sagging, his face falling, his breath hitching—before his feet even moved.

Then, with one flick of Snape's wand, the front door flew open.

Potter bolted.

He ran straight back to the Dursleys' house, disappearing inside without so much as a glance back.

Snape exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening into fists.

With any luck, that would be the last time he had to put up with Potter. At the very least, it should keep him away until the boy left for Hogwarts.

And yet—

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he could picture Lily Evans.

Disappointed.

If she were here, she most certainly would have smacked him.

For now, though, he shoved the thought aside.

Instead, he pictured James Potter—running away.

Running away, crying.

And that, at least, gave him some satisfaction.