The "lap of luxury" myth had lasted hardly a day. Oh, but how he had wanted to believe in it, to have a tangible, readily accessible reason (excuse, really) to hate the boy, the son of his dead tormentor. It was just another part of the facade he had begun to build years before the boy even entered Hogwarts. The spoiled, pompous, rich, arrogant celebrity who would waltz into Hogwarts as though he were the emperor of the school and all had better bow before his whim--

-- but that vision shattered altogether too quickly. Prince Potter did not stride confidently into the Great Hall on his first day as a first year. He did not belittle his yearmates, or shove to the front of the line. He did not attempt to ingratiate himself with the wealthiest and most influential of his year, did not preen at the fawning of his fans.

He was a scrawny little boy, with large green, fearful eyes, who cowered slightly behind the others, almost, perhaps, in an attempt to remain invisible. But that couldn't be right. At his side was a Weasley, his robes second-hand, frayed at the edges, with a strange protectiveness about him as he stood guard over his new friend. A small inkling that something was not right slowly began to make itself known, but was ruthlessly squashed.

Then -- Potions. His speech, honed to perfection due to years of practicing, meant little to most of the first years, who lost interest after 'You are here to learn.' But Potter, his eyes glowing with a strange fascination, his surface thoughts bubbling with thoughts about the possible correlation of potions to cooking, was entirely drawn in. This could not be -- the Gryffindor golden boy could not be a potions genius... it was... not. And he had borne down upon him, angry as the boy tried to scribble a note to one of his pathetic classmates, something clenching oddly in his gut as the boy scrambled away in fear--

He wouldn't find the paper until later, discarded upon the floor, his words recorded perfectly. He ignored the strange feeling -- was it regret? -- and threw the paper away.

Potions became a bit of a game. How much could he needle the boy? Breath down his back, peer over his shoulder, brush his mind with legillimency to make him believe that he was being watched--

There had been an idea growing in his mind, steadily solidifying with each observation and piece of evidence. The little flinches, the avoidance of touch; the clothing, oversized, torn, discolored, stained; the broken, second-hand belongings; the unrestrained joy at the littlest, most basic commodity... He only convinced himself that, perhaps, it might have a grain of truth, after he watched Harry wave goodbye to his friends and spend part of his Christmas alone before the fire, socked feet stretched out before the fire, an air of contentment. There was something there...

When he entered the boy's mind the following Potions class, he could not find that tiny spark of delighted inquisitiveness that had been there that first day. There was just a cold hatred and growing resentment towards the craft, an anger that bled into his magic and his potionswork and guaranteed the he could never score higher than an A. And Severus knew he had killed something beautiful.

That was when he knew, or thought he knew, the truth behind the Boy Who Lived. But the mystery would deepen, expand. He would see the ridicule Harry faced from his peers the following years, his deep sadness and loneliness as his friends turned from him at the unveiling of his 'Dark' talent. The utter longing he had for Black, Lupin, anyone who could be the father figure he so desperately wanted.

And when he saw the boy's memories of his childhood during the occlumency lessons in fifth year, he knew for certain. He tried to tell himself that this was a surprise: that he had believed that Harry Potter, Gryffindor God, had lived in luxury for his life, waited upon hand and foot by his adoring relatives... But though he could fool the Headmaster, the Dark Lord, and anyone else who cared to ask, he could not fool himself. He knew, he had known, and he had done nothing.

Had he even wanted to--?

He found that the desire to torment the boy dissipated quickly after that first realization, leaving behind a strange sort of compassionate pity. But he could not give in to the desire to help the boy, to give him the support he needed in the face of both cruel worlds he had been thrust into. His behavior was already decided for him, a carefully calculated dance of unfair cruelty to keep both of his masters appeased.

And with every biting word, every bit of scathing sarcasm, his heart clenched in commiseration even as his eyes burnt cold hatred, anger, resentment -- everything he was supposed to feel...

It was the memory of another boy, all but forgotten now, who still tried to reach out to his kindred spirit -- to Harry Potter, the small scared boy with old oversized clothing and holes in his socks who trusted and hoped in this strange new world.