CHAPTER ONE

A STRANGE NEW NEIGHBOR

It was a bad day to be Harry James Potter.

Like most mornings during the summer holidays, the Dursley household fell into its predictable routine. Dudley would come barreling down the stairs as fast as his fat little legs could carry him, while Aunt Petunia busied herself in the kitchen, preparing what she called "a special breakfast for her precious little Dudders"—a towering plate of flapjacks, eggs, bacon, toast, and a large glass of orange juice.

Harry often wondered how someone like Dudley could eat so much. He didn't think it was possible—then again, he had never been fed nearly as much as Dudley, so he couldn't say for certain. All he knew was that the sound of his cousin stomping down the stairs for his morning feast was as good a wake-up call as any.

Harry lived under those stairs, in the cupboard. He had once imagined that, as he grew older, his aunt and uncle might finally give him a room of his own. But that day had yet to come. Harry suspected he might live in that cupboard until he was an old man—for all the Dursleys cared.

"Wake up, Potter!" Dudley shouted, pounding on the cupboard door. "Someone finally bought the place across the street!"

Harry groaned.

11 Privet Drive—the house directly across the road—had been up for sale for two whole months. Harry had never spoken to the previous owners; in truth, he rarely spoke to anyone on their street. The novelty of someone moving in or out didn't interest him in the slightest.

The Dursleys, however, were quite invested.

Uncle Vernon had spent weeks speculating about who might move in. He hoped for a perfectly normal family, preferably with a husband who worked as an accountant or a salesman—something respectable. Uncle Vernon himself was in the business of selling drills. Dudley, on the other hand, hoped for a new playmate. Harry dreaded the prospect. Most of Dudley's friends only helped him throw punches, a fact his round glasses—held together by scotch tape—proved all too well.

"The movers pulled in this morning," Uncle Vernon was saying as Harry entered the kitchen. "Boxes upon boxes. I saw a stack of books—perhaps a librarian or a professor of sorts?"

Harry secretly hoped that whoever moved in across the street would be as far from normal as possible—if only to annoy the Dursleys. If he was really lucky, they might have an older boy who could teach Dudley a lesson or two.

"I didn't see anything to suggest a woman would be living there," Aunt Petunia said, sounding disappointed. She had been hoping for a respectable housewife to move in across the street, but those hopes appeared to be dwindling.

"A bachelor? Disappointing. Maybe an old widower?" Uncle Vernon speculated from behind his morning newspaper.

Seizing the moment, Harry quickly grabbed a plate and helped himself to some eggs, bacon, and toast before Dudley and Uncle Vernon could devour everything. It was never a guarantee that a single scrap of bacon would remain once the Dursleys had had their fill.

"Mum! Harry's taking all my bacon!" Dudley whined, peering over the small mountain of flapjacks Aunt Petunia had stacked on his plate.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to take food until Dudley's gotten what he needs? He's a growing boy!" Aunt Petunia scolded.

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," Harry murmured, though he couldn't help but wonder how it was even possible for Dudley to eat ten pieces of bacon all on his own.

Dudley smirked triumphantly, proud to have thwarted Harry's attempt at getting any bacon, as he greedily piled nearly every slice onto a small plate.

"Save some for me now, my boy!" Uncle Vernon chuckled.

After breakfast, Harry cleaned the dishes, scrubbed the pots, and put everything away—just as he always did. Meanwhile, Dudley lounged in the living room, watching cartoons, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon took turns peering through the curtains, spying on the movers.

By mid-afternoon, Harry sat on the living room floor as Dudley whined to his parents about being bored. He hoped his cousin wouldn't take out that boredom on him. Aunt Petunia busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a small casserole for the new neighbor, while Uncle Vernon buttoned up his best weekend dress shirt.

The new neighbor had arrived just as the last of the movers left. Through the window, Harry spotted an old black Rover P6 parked in the driveway. Uncle Vernon, he noticed, seemed pleased—likely because his car was superior. His uncle never missed an opportunity to boast about his choice of vehicles.

"We're going to pop over and meet the new neighbors, so stay put!" Uncle Vernon said, jabbing one of his fat fingers in Harry's face.

Gathering up Dudley—who had already lost interest in the idea of meeting their new neighbor—the Dursleys left the house. Uncle Vernon shot Harry one last warning glance, silently reminding him not to get up to anything while they were gone.

Harry, however, was looking forward to being left alone. For once, he might get to pick what he wanted to watch on television. Maybe he could even play with Dudley's NES—the one his cousin never let him touch. Of course, that would be a dangerous risk if he got caught.

Harry waited a few long moments, ensuring the Dursleys were well out the door, before settling in to pick something to watch. No sooner had he found a program that seemed interesting than the front door burst open, and the Dursleys came rushing back inside.

Harry scrambled to turn off the television, disappointed at how short their visit with the new neighbor had been.

Then he saw their faces.

Dudley looked bewildered, Uncle Vernon was fuming, and Aunt Petunia was pale, visibly trembling. Harry had no idea what could have caused such a reaction, but there was only one explanation—whoever their new neighbor was, they must have been as far from normal as possible.

"Go to your room. Now!" his uncle hissed.

"What did I—"

"Your room!" Uncle Vernon snarled, marching over and grabbing Harry by the collar. Before he could protest, he was shoved into the cupboard under the stairs, and the latch clicked firmly into place.

From inside, Harry pressed his ear against the door, straining to catch whatever his aunt and uncle were whispering about in the kitchen. But their voices were too muffled to make out.

For a moment, he wondered if they were punishing him for using the television. But the idea was absurd—even the Dursleys wouldn't lock him up just for that. No, they only ever did this when something odd happened around him. Yet, as far as Harry could recall, nothing unusual had occurred lately.

For three days, he remained in his cupboard, only let out for brief moments to eat or use the loo. Through the thin walls, he could hear his aunt and uncle's hushed arguments, and Dudley loudly whining about "not wanting to move."

Whoever their new neighbor was, they must have been exceptionally peculiar to cause this kind of reaction.

On the fourth day, there was a knock at the door.

Moments later, the cupboard latch clicked open, and Harry was finally let out. His aunt and uncle carried on as if nothing in the world had ever been out of the ordinary.

It was weeks before Harry finally gathered the courage to ask, "Are we moving?"

"Moving? Who gave you that ridiculous notion!?" Uncle Vernon scoffed.

"But I heard Dudley say something about moving," Harry said, puzzled.

"That's a lie, Potter!" Dudley shouted. "I never said anything of the sort!"

"I heard you!" Harry shot back.

"Quit making up stories, or you'll be sorry, boy," Uncle Vernon threatened.

Harry was utterly confused but decided it was best to sit quietly and keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to risk being locked in his cupboard again.

For the rest of the summer, all he heard about the neighbor across the street was that he was an odd fellow. Beyond that, the Dursleys refused to speak of him. For once, Harry was curious about one of their neighbors. If his aunt and uncle had reacted that strongly, the man had to be interesting.

For weeks, Harry waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of this odd fellow. But he neither saw nor heard anything from the new neighbor.

Dudley's birthday came and went, meaning another long day spent at Mrs. Figg's house with her endless swarm of cats. After that, Harry's ninth birthday arrived—with as much fanfare as could be expected from the Dursleys, which was to say, none at all.

That was when Harry made a decision.

As a birthday present to himself, he was going to find out exactly what was so strange about the neighbor across the street.

The worst the Dursleys could do was lock him in his cupboard again—and, as far as he was concerned, it would be worth it.

So, once the Dursleys were preoccupied with their daily routine, Harry slipped out of the house as quietly as he could. If he was only gone for a few minutes, they'd never even notice.

Crossing the street, Harry approached 11 Privet Drive. As he passed the black Rover P6 in the driveway, he considered what he might say. For a brief moment, he hesitated, considering turning around and pretending he had never left—he could just go back inside, sit in the living room, and make himself as small as possible while he watched Dudley play on his NES.

But his curiosity won out.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to the door and pressed the doorbell.

A long moment of silence stretched out as Harry held his breath.

Part of him hoped no one would answer.

Then the door opened.

The man standing before him was as intimidating as he was unpleasant-looking. His dark, piercing eyes bore into Harry, and his hooked nose and sallow skin made him look almost sinister. His oily black hair fell to his shoulders, giving him the air of someone perpetually brooding.

For a long moment, the man simply studied him, as if trying to make up his mind about something.

Harry was already regretting letting his curiosity get the better of him.

"S-sorry, I should go," he stammered.

"And where would you be going, Potter?" the man asked, crossing his arms.

Harry froze. "How do you… you…"

"How do I know your name?" The man smirked, though there was no humor in it. "Silly question. I have had the displeasure of meeting your family, you know."

He studied Harry for another long moment before continuing. "To what do I owe this visit?"

"I…" Harry hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I just wanted to know why my aunt and uncle were so… angry when they came back."

The man arched an eyebrow. "I wouldn't possibly know. How much do you know?"

"Know?" Harry frowned. "I don't take your meaning."

The man's expression darkened slightly. "Come inside, Potter," he said firmly.

"I better—"

"I insist."

Before Harry could react, the man grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

Panic surged through Harry's chest as he sat in the dimly lit living room, his heart hammering. He had just been dragged into a stranger's house.

The stranger's living room had no television set. The walls were covered in dark green wallpaper, and towering bookshelves made of dark oak lined the room, filled with rows upon rows of strange books. Titles such as A Potion Master's Introduction to the Wonders of Billywig and Potions Through the Ages stood out among them.

As Harry sat on the leather sofa, a brief, terrifying thought crossed his mind—he could end up on the nightly news. Kidnapped, missing, or worse.

Would the Dursleys even care if he was gone?

They might actually be relieved.

The man disappeared into another room, returning a moment later with a cup of tea. Only one.

Harry got the distinct impression that this man disliked him—but why, he had no idea.

And somehow, it felt like things were only about to get worse.

"What… what's your name?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Severus Snape," the man said coolly. "But you may call me Professor Snape."

"Professor? You're a professor?" Harry repeated, confused.

"At Hogwarts, obviously," Snape replied.

Harry blinked. "Hogwarts?"

Snape's glare intensified. Harry suddenly felt very foolish. He wasn't exactly knowledgeable about universities, but he had heard of Cambridge. That was about the only one he could name.

"No—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Snape corrected him, his tone slow and deliberate, as though speaking to someone particularly dim-witted.

Harry stared. "Witchcraft and wizardry? I don't understand."

Snape's nostrils flared slightly. "That fool Petunia didn't tell you anything?"

"Excuse me, sir, but… what exactly are you talking about?" Harry asked, bewildered.

Snape regarded him with an unreadable expression. "How much do you know about your mother?"

Harry frowned. "My mother? Why do you want to know about my mother?"

Snape hesitated for a brief moment before answering. "I… I was once classmates with your mother. At Hogwarts. Many years ago."

"You knew my mother?" Harry's fear instantly vanished, replaced by a surge of excitement. The idea that their mysterious new neighbor had once known one of his parents was the most thrilling thing he had ever heard. "Please, tell me more!"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "More? Well, as I said—first, what do you know, Potter?"

"Oh, sorry," Harry said quickly. "I don't know much. Just that my parents died in a car crash when I was a baby. That's how I got my scar."

He lifted his fringe, revealing the lightning bolt etched onto his forehead.

"A car crash?!" Snape's voice was sharp with outrage. He looked positively offended.

"Who put such a ridiculous notion in that head of yours, Potter?!"

"That's all the Dursleys ever tell me when I ask," Harry said, shrinking back into the couch.

"Muggles," Snape muttered darkly.

Harry had never heard the word before, but from the way Snape said it, he suspected it was some sort of insult.

"Lily was not killed in some… some car crash! The very notion is an insult," Snape spat, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry hesitated. "If… if my mother wasn't killed in a car crash—" He was almost afraid to ask.

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his expression shifting between disdain and something far angrier. The longer he looked, the more Harry felt fear creeping back in.

Finally, Snape spoke. "Lily Evans… was a witch. She was killed by You-Know-Who."

Harry blinked. "You-Know-Who?"

Snape's nostrils flared. "Am I to assume you are completely ignorant, Potter, or are you simply stupid?"

"I… I don't—"

"Perhaps it is a mixture of the two!" Snape snapped before inhaling sharply, as if forcing himself to be patient. "I take it these filthy Muggles told you nothing about the wizarding world?"

Harry shook his head quickly. The longer Snape spoke, the more Harry began to wonder if the man was mad.

Snape's scowl deepened. "And I assume you have no idea that you are a wizard?"

Harry shook his head again.

Snape exhaled, clearly torn between frustration and resignation. "So be it, Potter."

With a swift motion, he pulled out a long black stick and gave it a sharp wave.

Harry's eyes widened in shock. The curtains pulled themselves closed, and the fireplace roared to life, crackling with bright flames.

He stared, his mind struggling to process what he had just seen.

Fear warred with fascination.

What had he just witnessed?

And—more importantly—what did it mean?

"Magic is real. There is an entire world beyond what Muggles—non-magic folk—are aware of. Do you comprehend what I am telling you so far, Potter?" Snape said sharply.

"Y-yes, sir," Harry replied quickly.

"Very well."

With another flick of his wand, Snape performed yet another impossible feat—a book flew off the shelf and landed squarely in Harry's lap. For a moment, Harry wondered if he might be dreaming all of this.

He glanced down at the title. "A History of Magic," he read aloud.

"Read that," Snape ordered, picking up his cup of tea once more.

Harry nodded quickly. He had never been particularly interested in history books, but the revelation that magic was real—and that he was a wizard—made the prospect of learning more thrilling.

After a moment of hesitation, he gathered the courage to ask, "Um… might I ask more about my mother?"

Snape froze. He stared at Harry for a long moment, looking almost… torn.

Finally, he gave a stiff nod. "Go on, Potter."

"What did she look like?"

Snape flinched. His fists clenched. For a long moment, he simply glared at Harry as though struggling with something unspoken.

At last, he muttered, "You have her eyes."

Before Harry could ask anything else, Snape abruptly set his tea aside with a sharp clink.

"It's time you left, Potter. Read the book—but if you so much as crease a single page, I will see to it that you serve detention the moment you set foot in Hogwarts!"

"But I have so many questions!" Harry protested.

"I have made myself clear. Now—off with you, Potter!"

Snape stood, marched Harry to the front door, and shoved him out just as unceremoniously as he had dragged him in.

The door slammed shut in his face.

For the first time in his young life, Harry felt like there was more to the world than Dudley's punches or his aunt and uncle locking him under the stairs.

Even if the stranger across the road was rude and mean, he wasn't the Dursleys.

And for Harry, that was good enough.

Author's Note:

I'm a fan of both the Harry Potter books and movies. For some insane reason, I've decided to post a story in the most saturated section of this site.

For those who follow my regular content, this won't be a story that gets frequent updates. I wrote this on a whim after re-listening to the audiobooks. However, if—by some miracle—this story gains traction, I might consider posting more regularly.

As it stands, consider this a pilot chapter, and set your expectations for updates accordingly.

Thanks for reading!