CHAPTER FOUR

THAT BOY

The Potter boy was pathetic.

Impulsive, reckless, and stubborn—just like his no-good father.

Upon returning to 11 Privet Drive, Snape had hoped the boy would keep his distance. His hopes were quickly dashed, and he had been furious to learn that Potter had burgled his house.

For a brief moment, he had been thrilled—though he would never let Potter know it.

Expulsion would have meant an end to this ridiculous arrangement.

Then, of course, he remembered Dumbledore's words.

"The Dark Lord will return, Severus. When he does, Harry must be ready."

Snape still couldn't understand how leaving Potter with these vile Muggles was supposed to prepare him for a confrontation with the Dark Lord.

From what Snape had seen, there was nothing remarkable about the boy—no indication that he would be of any use when the time came.

Still, after testing him on the stolen book, Snape had been annoyed to find that Potter had actually retained some of the knowledge from its pages.

For the briefest moment, he wondered if the boy might have something of Lily in him.

Then, one glance at his face banished the thought.

He was his father's son.

All that remained of Lily was in those eyes—eyes Snape avoided at all costs.

So, for the rest of the summer, Snape put the boy to work.

Ingredients to prepare, cauldrons to scrub, chores to complete.

And to ensure that awful Petunia Dursley did not interfere with this new arrangement, Snape had placed a charm on the household.

Technically, Dumbledore had forbidden tampering with the Dursleys, but a few modifications wouldn't hurt.

Snape had never liked Lily's elder sister. Jealous, bitter, and obsessed with normalcy, Petunia had always resented the magic her younger sister possessed.

For the first time, Snape felt the smallest—minuscule—amount of pity for the boy.

He had been forced to grow up with the most Muggle family in all of England—perhaps all of Europe.

Snape had no regrets about modifying Petunia's memories. Living across the street would have been impossible if she had recognized him.

And he had no doubt—if the Dursleys ever learned a wizard lived on Privet Drive, they would have packed up and run.

The last week of August came quickly.

Potter had realized that the end of summer meant months isolated from the small glimpse of the magical world that Snape had grudgingly provided.

To Snape's immense annoyance, the boy had taken to badgering him incessantly, asking for something to occupy himself with while Snape was away at Hogwarts.

Snape had been more than ready to tell him off—though he suspected that while it would be satisfying, leaving Potter to his own devices was not the wisest course of action.

So he gave the boy one book.

Then another.

Then a third.

By the time Snape left for Hogwarts, he had ensured Potter had enough reading material to keep him preoccupied.

When he finally departed, he caught a hint of sadness in the boy's expression.

Snape was disgusted by the idea and so made the last of Potter's summer tasks as tedious as he could manage.

"Severus."

Snape was pulled from his thoughts as he looked up, seeing Minerva sweeping into his office.

"Ah, to what do I owe this visit? If it's about the Weasley twins, I am quite firm on their detention," Snape said, setting aside the stack of papers he was grading.

"Fred and George Weasley do seem to be the troublemaking type—I agree, Severus," the head of Gryffindor sighed. "No, I've come to discuss the Potter boy with you."

Severus suppressed a groan. "The boy is safe—what more do you need to know?"

"I have more concerns than just his safety. Doubtless, if Potter were in danger, you or Albus would see to it," Minerva said, looking almost insulted. "No, I want to know how the boy is doing. His living conditions. How those… Muggles are treating him."

Snape steepled his fingers, frowning. "If you are so concerned, Minerva, why not see him yourself?"

"Albus has insisted that the boy have as little contact with our world as possible—to insulate him from… well, all the hysteria he will attract," Minerva admitted. "He is possibly the most famous and mysterious figure in our world, second only to You-Know-Who."

Snape could already picture Potter basking in the glory of his fame, basking in the attention. And yet, he wondered…

Perhaps it wasn't entirely expected.

The boy had been raised in complete isolation, so caged that it would likely be a shock to his system—to go from being a boy under the stairs to the famous Boy Who Lived.

"The Muggles are the worst sort," Snape said coolly, "though I suspect you already knew that."

Minerva's eyes darkened.

"I have made contact with the boy already," he continued, "to my deep regret."

Minerva's head snapped up. "When?!"

"Last summer," Snape said with a shrug. "The boy shows no exceptional ability—however, he is, understandably, starved for information. I found it necessary to inform him of the most basic facts. He knows nothing of You-Know-Who. Nothing of his fame."

"Does Albus—"

"The Headmaster is aware of all my comings and goings, I assure you," Snape cut in sharply. "While Dumbledore may disagree with my methods, he trusts me. For now, I've seen no harm in letting Potter catch a glimpse of our world." His dark eyes locked onto Minerva's. "Do you?"

Minerva hesitated, then sighed. "No… I am only surprised that you of all people have taken an interest in the boy."

Snape's lip curled. "Interest? Far from it," he hissed. "The boy is simple—a hindrance more than anything."

Minerva crossed her arms. "I see."

"If there is nothing else?" Snape said, already picking up his quill, ready to mark Lee Jordan's paper with a failing grade.

"No, nothing else," Professor McGonagall said sharply. She paused at the door, fixing Snape with a pointed look. "But I will say this, Severus—I expect that if Potter arrives at Hogwarts in a sorry state, I will be holding you personally responsible."

Snape said nothing, merely watching as his colleague turned on her heel and swept from his office, leaving him alone with his stack of papers.

The rest of the year was, as expected, dull.

Snape did not particularly enjoy teaching. He had no real interest in the education of children. While he was a master of Potions, his true ambition lay elsewhere.

The position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor remained a burning desire, one that had eluded him for years.

Snape was well aware of the jinx on the position. No teacher had lasted longer than a year since Dumbledore had placed him at Hogwarts. Most left for mundane reasons—age, retirement, a job change—but still, the pattern remained.

Even knowing the risk, Snape applied every year. And every year, Dumbledore hired some new bumbling idiot to fill the post instead.

By the time the summer holiday arrived, Snape felt a deep, familiar irritation at the thought of returning to Privet Drive.

This would be the year Potter received his Hogwarts letter. Traditionally, the letter would be delivered by an owl. But this time, Minerva had placed Potter's letter firmly in Snape's hand.

"You give this to Potter," she had said firmly. "And you make sure those Muggles don't make a fuss. I won't have James and Lily's son kept from attending school. And Severus—remember what I told you."

Snape had not forgotten her warning.

Once back at 11 Privet Drive, he noted the absence of anything Potter-related.

Good.

Or so he thought—until the second week of July when Potter finally appeared on his doorstep, books clutched to his chest. Snape pulled open the door and glared at him.

"I was wondering when you would come, Potter," he said sharply.

Then, his gaze flicked over the boy's face.

A large bruise marred his cheek.

"Fall down a flight of stairs, did we?" Snape drawled.

"N-no," Potter said quickly, his voice evasive.

Snape frowned. "Enter," he said at last.

He watched as Harry lumbered inside, noting that he looked gaunter than last year—thinner, paler. Snape's mind flickered back to what Minerva had said.

Snape shut the door and turned to face the boy.

"Tell me, Potter—what did happen to your face?" His voice was cold.

"Nothing," Harry said quickly.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do not lie to me, Potter."

Without hesitation, he snatched the books from the boy's hands.

"If you haven't been tumbling down a flight of stairs, then perhaps you require a new pair of spectacles," he sneered. "I can only assume you've been running into trees. Regardless, you will explain the nature of your injury."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, staring down at his worn shoes. For a long moment, he hesitated. Then, at last, in a quiet voice, he muttered, "It was my… uncle."

A sharp, unbidden burst of rage flared in Snape's chest. He stifled it immediately, his expression unreadable as he studied the boy.

"I see," Snape replied dully. "Sit."

Harry obeyed without question, and a moment later, Snape shoved a small vial into his hand.

"Drink this," he ordered. "It's strong. Should you vomit it up, I'll have you scrubbing the floor until the stench is gone."

Potter sniffed at the potion and grimaced. The scent was foul, thick and cloying, but it would do what Snape intended—remove the bruises and dull any lingering pain.

"What is it?" the boy asked hesitantly.

Snape scoffed. "I'm surprised. All those books, and yet you still can't tell?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Truly, your academic prowess never ceases to astonish, Potter. However, if you must know, it is a potion to dull your pain and rid you of that unsightly blemish."

Potter frowned but didn't argue. Snape watched as the boy tilted his head back and gulped down the potion in one go.

A gag, followed by a cough, but—fortunately for Potter—he managed to keep it down.

Satisfied, Snape strode over to a nearby drawer, pulled it open, and retrieved the envelope Minerva had entrusted to him.

"Here, Potter," he said, tossing it onto the boy's lap.

The boy hesitated before picking it up.

"By some miracle, Hogwarts has indeed accepted you into its halls," Snape continued. "Though I must say, I am shocked they would entertain someone like you. Perhaps our standards are… slipping."

Potter didn't react to the insult.

For a moment, he simply stared at the envelope, fingers tracing the wax seal. Then, with brief hesitation, he broke the seal and read the contents.

Snape muttered under his breath as he watched the boy's face light up. It was bad enough having to tolerate Potter during the summers—now he would have to endure him year-round. The thought made him want to snatch the letter and tear it in two.

And yet…

Those damn eyes.

Snape turned on his heel, storming toward the cellar door. He had no intention of letting Potter remain in such cheery spirits for long.

"If I must see you at Hogwarts," he sneered, "I'll make sure you're properly caught up. Let's see what you've learned since last summer, Potter."

Snape had worn the boy down.

Hours of the dullest, most laborious tasks he could think of had been handed to Potter. It was as good as a detention, and Snape was keenly aware that the only reason he was putting the boy through his paces was because he had been far too cheerful for Snape's liking.

What infuriated him was the fact that, despite it all, Potter had retained information from the books he'd been given.

Snape had no doubt that the boy had been neglecting his Muggle schooling in favor of poring over the Potions texts he had left him.

On one hand, Snape did not disagree—studying the art of Potions was far more valuable than any Muggle subject.

On the other hand, the idea of Potter ignoring his less interesting courses was a nasty habit waiting to form.

The one upside to this was that it would likely land the boy in detention quite often.

Snape smirked at the thought.

"Professor?"

Potter's voice pulled him from his musings. The boy was hunched over the scrubbing basin, scouring a particularly stubborn set of glass vials. The old potion residue clung to the inside—nearly impossible to remove without a wand.

Snape barely looked up from his book on moonstones. "What is it, Potter?"

There was a pause.

"Well? Out with it!"

"It's just… that shopping list that came with my letter—where does one get all of that?"

Snape nearly told him off for being thick, but then he recalled—A History of Magic never actually mentioned Diagon Alley in any great detail.

Losing the opportunity to berate Potter for stupidity irritated him.

"Hagrid will be by at the end of July to take you to purchase your school supplies," Snape said coolly, narrowing his gaze. "Now scrub."

"Who's Hagrid?" Potter asked, still scrubbing.

"The school's groundskeeper."

"You're not— I mean…" Potter hesitated. "Why this Hagrid fellow?"

Snape snapped his book shut and strode over to loom over him.

"You have already wasted a great deal of my time, Potter," he said icily. "I have no intention of wasting more by dragging a snot-nosed brat around to buy school supplies." His voice dropped to a slow, deliberate tone. "As it so happens, every teacher at Hogwarts—including myself—is busy."

Potter opened his mouth, then thought better of it and shut it again.

Snape grunted in approval before pulling out his wand. With a flick, a clean cauldron and several ingredients slid across the room and neatly arranged themselves on the small worktable in the cellar.

Snape folded his arms. He'd had enough of Potter doing busy work, it was time to test the boy. If for no other reason that to prove to himself that he was nothing like Lily.

"You will brew your first potion, Potter," he said, his gaze sharp.

"This is a privilege," he warned. "Should you disappoint me, I will cease our interactions for the remainder of the summer holiday."

His eyes glinted with amusement.

"First, you will brew a Cure for Boils—as this will be covered in your first year. I fully expect you to fail on your first attempt… and I look forward to sending you off, Potter."

Snape hovered over Potter's shoulder, watching every step of his brewing process with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze.

The boy found the potion in his textbook easily enough and followed the instructions precisely.

Snape was mildly impressed that Potter had taken his preparation work seriously—though, after an entire summer under Snape's watch, the habit had been drilled into him.

The longer Potter brewed, the deeper Snape's frown became.

It appeared that an entire year of being left alone with nothing better to do than sit in a cupboard reading potions books had, by some miracle, put something useful into the boy's head.

When Potter reached the final step, he hesitated, looking up at Snape.

"Professor… I don't have a wand. Do you have one I could…?"

Snape snorted. "No, Potter. A wizard does not simply choose any wand, and I will not be lending you mine."

With a flick of his wand, Snape completed the last step himself, sending a thin trail of steam curling over the cauldron.

As pinkish smoke began to rise, Snape felt his hand twitch with reluctant acknowledgment.

Potter looked between the potion and Snape expectantly. "How is it?"

Snape clenched his jaw.

"It is… acceptable," he forced out.

There were flaws, of course. A perfect brew would have produced thicker smoke, and the hue of blue should have been darker.

But objectively, it was a working draft.

If a Slytherin had presented such a potion on their first attempt, he might have even awarded them house points.

Potter frowned and reread the textbook. "Just… acceptable?"

"Yes, Potter," Snape snapped. "There are brews far superior to yours. This would earn a passing grade in my class, but do not expect that such common work will get you anything more than common results. Do you understand?"

Potter glared but managed only a clipped, "Yes, sir," as he closed the book.

"Put the potion in a vial and place it on the rack," Snape ordered. "Then clean up—and see yourself out."

Without another word, he returned to his reading, ignoring Potter as the boy begrudgingly bottled his potion and began cleaning up—clearly in a huff.

For the next few days, Potter continued to show up at Snape's door, dutifully cleaning and completing whatever menial tasks Snape assigned him.

If Snape was feeling charitable, he would allow the boy to attempt another brew—but never anything beyond his current experience. To Snape's great displeasure, Potter was halfway decent at the subject.

He suspected this had nothing to do with natural talent and everything to do with the fact that the boy had nothing better to do with his time—a fact that made Snape boil a little more each day.

Lately, he had found himself watching the Dursleys more closely. He had always held a deep-seated dislike for that woman. No matter how long he studied Petunia, he could not see even the faintest trace of Lily in her.

She was a Muggle through and through—and the worst kind at that. Her fat husband and pig-like offspring were equally insufferable.

The image of Potter's bruised face surfaced in his mind.

For a moment, it was a sight he almost enjoyed picturing—until those damn green eyes of Lily Evans looked up at him.

He could see James Potter almost every time he looked at the boy.

But in brief moments, he could see her. That accusing look—as if she was haunting him from the grave. He told himself it was just his imagination. He was sworn to protect the boy—he would do so for her—but he would never, never care for the son of James Potter.

And yet…

As the end of July drew nearer, Potter finally had to show his Hogwarts letter to his Muggle relatives. Snape had inquired about this and found that the boy had been delaying. So, the week before Hagrid was scheduled to collect him, Snape sent him across the road to complete a simple task.

Snape hadn't flinched when the fat Muggle snatched the Hogwarts letter, ripping it apart without a second thought. He watched, mildly amused—that was, until the man smacked Potter across the face.

Snape was moving before he even understood why.

With a sharp motion, he slid his wand from his robes, pointing it at the lock.

"Alohomora," he said crisply.

The door unlatched with a click, and Snape swept into the Dursleys' living room, his black robes billowing behind him.

The fat man turned to him, tomato-red, his expression furious.

"Who the bloody hell—"

"Stupefy," Snape said coolly.

The man went rigid, then collapsed face-first onto the carpet with a heavy thud.

A squeal escaped Petunia as she clutched her pig-like son, pushing him behind her in terror.

"Who are—"

Before she could utter another word, Snape flicked his wand and cast a memory-repairing charm. If he was going to put this Muggle in her place, he would do it properly.

Petunia gasped, her eyes going wide.

"Y-you—" she stammered, stepping back in horror. Her grip on Dudley tightened as if she could shield him. "You!"

"Silence," Snape hissed.

His gaze flicked to Potter, who was still sitting on the floor, stunned, a fresh busted lip marring his face.

"On your feet, Potter," Snape ordered in a bored drawl.

The boy scrambled upright, wiping at his lip with the back of his hand.

Petunia, however, was still staring at Snape, her expression wild.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice shaky. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened further. "I—I remember now! You're the one living across the street! You're that boy! Why… why did I forget?"

She looked horrified, her pale face taking on a sickly color.

"M-mum, what's going on?" Dudley stammered.

"Shhh!" Petunia clamped a hand over his mouth, her fingers trembling.

Likely afraid of what Snape might do if he noticed the boy. Snape let the moment stretch, watching her with cold amusement before finally speaking.

"I modified your memories for this exact reason," he said smoothly, crossing his arms.

He turned his gaze toward Harry, then back to the trembling woman before him.

"Albus Dumbledore has requested this child's presence at Hogwarts this coming term," Snape continued, his tone crisp and clipped. "For what reason, I cannot possibly understand."

His wand tapped against his palm, a deliberate motion as his black eyes burned into hers.

"However," he continued, voice low and dangerous, "I will not have Muggles interfering with the business of witches and wizards."

Petunia swallowed hard but said nothing.

"As I recall," Snape added, tilting his head, "you were given a letter by the Headmaster all those years ago explaining… everything."

Petunia nodded rapidly, her eyes darting between her unconscious husband and Snape.

"Good," Snape said sharply. "Then you will explain everything to this oaf when he wakes, won't you?"

She nodded again, quicker this time, as if the very act might keep Snape from coming any closer.

Snape took a slow, deliberate step forward.

"Should you attempt to abscond," he said smoothly, "note that it would give me no greater pleasure than to personally pay you another visit."

Petunia pressed herself into the wall, her back flattening as though she hoped she might disappear into the wallpaper.

Snape lowered his voice to a whisper, so only she could hear.

"Should I see another mark on the face of Lily Evans' son," he murmured, "I will show you a side of magic reserved for only the most unfortunate souls."

To drive the point home, he glanced downward at the little piglet of a boy still trembling at his mother's side.

Petunia let out a frightened squeal, clutching Dudley even tighter.

Satisfied, Snape turned away, flicked his wand toward the shredded letter, and muttered, "Papyrus Reparo."

The torn pieces lifted into the air, sealing themselves back together in perfect form.

Behind him, Potter called after him.

Snape ignored him.

He swept past the boy, pushing through the front door and out of the house.

His blood was boiling.

He had helped Potter.

The very thought was infuriating.

And while putting the fear of God into the Muggles had been satisfying—particularly where Petunia was concerned—the fact that he had been forced to intervene at all made him want to scream.

Those damned eyes.

Damn you, Potter.

Damn you.