Hello there!

Thanks for the reviews to my usual readers, I'm glad you're still enjoying the story :)
Here's a new chapter where you'll get new POVs, I hope you'll find it interesting!

Someone told me some chapters were cut off or had bugs. Just letting you know I'm cross posting on archive of our own, where there's no such issue, in case you're encountering said issues ;)

Enjoy!

The old Headmaster was alone in his office that evening. His tired eyes could no longer bear to linger on the piles of paperwork cluttering the room, covering the tables in a cold snowfall of obligations, problems, and duties... He had done enough for today. With a flick of his hand, he extinguished the candles and took the small door in the corner of the room that led to his private quarters.

He slipped into a long yellow robe, its pink, red, and blue polka dots an insult to good taste, picked a lemon drop from a small Muggle tin, and finally allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. One person in particular occupied his mind—no, two. Minerva and the young Harry Potter.

Minerva... How long had he known her now? He had been her Transfiguration professor when she was a student at Hogwarts. He had found in her an ally, almost a devoted follower. She was reliable and had been ready to support him not just because he was the "hero" who had triumphed over Grindelwald. She was one of those people he would find it difficult to sacrifice. Even if, in the end, the greater good—the good of the majority—had to prevail.

And now, she was opposing his will. This was nothing new, no; and often, Minerva had been right in the past to challenge his judgement, to help him avoid mistakes. He had long lost count of how many times he had saved her life—and how many times she had saved his in return.

Harry Potter... Albus had never truly spoken to him, yet he knew almost everything about the boy. The parents of the Boy Who Lived had passed through Hogwarts and had been valiant members of the Order. They had gone to the very end for him. And it was Dumbledore himself who had ensured Harry's safety after that nightmarish night when both his parents had lost their lives. It was he who had cast the spells to ensure no one would find the child before he was due to enter Hogwarts, he who had asked Mrs Figg to settle in Privet Drive and report any strange occurrences.

It was true that what Minerva had told him about the treatment Harry suffered was not entirely unknown to him, though he had not imagined the situation could have escalated to such an extent... But they were the boy's family, after all.

No, the Headmaster was not heartless. But Harry only had a few months left to live with his guardians before finally arriving at the seat of his protective power—Hogwarts. He had survived ten years; he could survive a little longer. It was vital that his mother's protection be utilised to its full extent. Some rumours, ancient voices, were stirring, and the old hero could sense it. Events were unfolding in the shadows, with an unparalleled subtlety.

Thus, Minerva's intentions, however excellent, were extremely ill-timed. Without Lily's magical protection, it was obvious the Muggles would never have been allowed—or at the very least, permitted to remain—as the Boy Who Lived's guardians. But the fact remained that this protection did exist. And besides, as awful as the thought was, a Boy Who Lived who had grown up in solitude, mistreated, would attach himself all the more easily to the figure of benevolence that he, the Headmaster, could embody.

It was terrible—but necessary.

And yet, perhaps it would not be him who played the role of protector, but Minerva, since she had already formed a bond with the child. The identity of the figure to whom the child would cling was unimportant; what mattered was that he served the Light—and that Dumbledore had a way to guide the hero.

The old Headmaster sighed as he got into bed.

In another life, he would have been happy to help Minerva gain custody of the child.

In another world...

oOo

Night had fallen over Hogwarts. The Potions Master, exhausted, withdrew to his chambers—an old dungeon at the lowest level of one of the towers—to finally rest.

The holidays… Yes, it was the April holidays, but they were not holidays for everyone. While the students ran carelessly through the corridors, played Quidditch, sought love in the school of witchcraft, or revised, he could not afford to relax for a moment.

He, of course, had to carry out his duties as a Hogwarts professor—namely, marking the hundreds of essays written by students who considered Potions a waste of time, making the entire exercise utterly pointless. Only a few stood out—intelligent, genuinely curious children—and they alone gave him reason to persevere. He would have admitted it only under torture, but he was proud of Leila Monson, a former Hufflepuff who had just earned the title of Potions Master, just as he would never reveal the hopes he held for a select few of his third-year students…

So he had marked papers, but he had also had to brew Wolfsbane Potion in large quantities for Dumbledore and replenish his stores (how was it that he was always running out of Polyjuice Potion and other such draughts?). He had had to maintain his connections with certain former Death Eaters, crafting letters so saturated with hypocrisy and flattery that the recipients would believe him sincere—after all, no mere pretender would go to such lengths.

By the time he had finished, the afternoon was already drawing to a close. He had gone out, stopped by the kitchens for a quick meal, and then begun his rounds of the castle during the evening feast, ensuring that no student was taking advantage of the distraction to plot mischief or rifle through a professor's office for exam papers.

At the Owlery, he encountered Professor McGonagall, who was sending a letter. Though her presence there was unusual, he made no comment.

Professor McGonagall… Though they were colleagues, he could never bring himself to call her Minerva. The memory of his own school years was still too vivid.

Unlike usual, the old witch did not confront him over the points he had unfairly deducted from Gryffindor that very day. She merely inclined her head in greeting. He had the distinct impression that something was on her mind, but he did not ask. They had only spoken seriously on rare occasions—the first of which had been that fateful night, the night of Voldemort's fall… He let the memory slip away and, after a few moments, left the room in silence, offering her a final nod.

He hoped she would be all right. He would keep an eye on her in the days to come. For all that they pretended to loathe each other before the students and the rest of the world, their relationship was far more complex. For now, in any case, he had work to do. He returned to his office, put away his notes, carefully locked his potions cabinet, and was about to leave when a piece of parchment caught his eye—its garish colours standing out against the other scrolls.

"Voucher for unlimited supply of 'Special Greasy Hair Shampoo', redeemable at S (Sorcerer & Sexy, a subsidiary of G. Lockhart). Compliments of Messrs Weasley and Weasley."

Snape sniffed, reining in his irritation, resisting the urge to incinerate the insolent scrap of parchment. Instead, he folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket. A childhood spent in the backstreets of London had taught him not to waste an opportunity, and it was undeniable that the fumes from potions gave his hair a rather too greasy sheen—more slick than sleek.

It was pathetic, really, that even now, as a grown man, people still mocked his appearance—but he had endured worse. And in any case, while he was not in dire straits, he was hardly swimming in gold. He might as well take advantage of what had been so generously offered. After all, any money the Weasley twins spent on his shampoo was money not spent on more disgraceful endeavours.

At last, Severus made his way towards the Slytherin dormitories for his usual patrol. This was not a duty imposed upon him by the school—only by himself. People could say what they liked about Snape—about the unfair points he deducted, about the tyranny he imposed in his classroom—but if the Slytherins were fiercely loyal to him, it was not merely due to his ties with the Death Eaters. Not only that.

No, Snape was respected within his own House for his efforts to unite them, for looking after Slytherins who often stood alone against the other Houses, and for the help and support he offered to any who needed it—even if they did not ask. The students did not know why their professor took such an interest in bullying, mistreatment, and intimidation within the school. But they did know that he was someone they could trust—however unapproachable he might seem. And Severus…

Severus was, in some ways, still the boy someone had once tried to save, even if, in the end, he had ruined everything. And someone had to save those who needed saving. It was not generosity. It was simply giving a chance to those who would never have had one otherwise. And it was selfish, too. After all, he did it to save himself, in some small way.

oOo

Awake at dawn, Petunia rose and carried out the daily household tasks necessary for the smooth running of her home—alone, since Harry, Lily's son, was sitting on the front step, waiting for McGonagall, his personal Hogwarts professor, or whoever the woman was to the child. From the window, Petunia watched as he spotted the woman and as they left together, barely daring to admit to herself that what she saw was painful.

Why, after all these years, did it still hurt so much to see others have what she never would? Why Lily and not her? Why had magic taken her sister away from her, and why, after that, had Lily become even more marvellous, while she, Petunia, could do everything right—get the best grades, behave like an angel at home, never cause trouble—and yet, to her parents, it was nothing more than what was expected? Would her parents have loved her if she had been a witch too?

Perhaps not. In truth, she couldn't really blame Lily. Lily had always been extraordinary, no matter what. But Lily had abandoned her. With magic, Petunia could have followed her, and even if she had lost everything else, she would have had something. Instead, all her years of being the perfect child had led to this: a suburban house, a husband, and a son.

Of course, that was already more than many people had. She adored her son, and she sincerely loved her husband. But knowing that another world existed—something more—left her unsatisfied. Or was it regret? Why had she treated Lily that way? Did she treat Harry as she did only out of jealousy—because he had been given a chance she had been denied?

No. She mustn't think like that. Harry was a monster, just like his mother, James, and that spotty little thing Lily had called "Sevie." And she, Petunia, had never wanted to be like them. The old witch in emerald robes, McGonagall, just reminded her of too many painful memories. The expression on her nephew's face when the woman had come to fetch him… Was she really such a terrible aunt?

No. She was fair, and the monster was ungrateful. To think otherwise would mean questionning everything.

Petunia shook her head and returned to preparing breakfast for her son, smiling as she thought of his healthy appetite.

So, any thoughts on those POVs? Maybe they helped you understand a bit what's going on in Dumby's mind, for instance^^

Reviews? Please :)

See you soon!