Contrary to a popular belief, Severus disliked multitasking; yet it was essential in his line of work.

First of all, he was sitting on a park bench and trying to inconspicuously relax all of the stiff muscles in his back. Besides, he had gritted his teeth so hard that he could feel it now in his neck and in a line of numbness that went all the way down to the fingers of his wand arm.

Secondly, he was eating a sandwich. He only had coffee for breakfast and would readily admit that this particular sandwich was the best thing happening to him so far in the day.

His third task was composing an enormous rant to Minerva that didn't begin with him shouting “They tried to nail the door shut in my face!” and her laughing uncontrollably at his expense. He had been unsuccessful, so far.

He'd seen a few families of newly-appointed wizards: it was physically impossible to compound his house of purebloods exclusively, year after year, — but those were in a league of their own. If an unknown retribution hadn't loomed so ominously on the horizon, he would have run to stomp his foot at Dumbledore this very instant — not the least because he, Snape the bat, had been able to go through the Dursleys like a knife through butter, without using his wand once, and had emerged victorious. Or would have emerged victorious had he been anyone else in the wide wizarding world; as it was, he felt mentally exhausted and suddenly burdened with a student-to-be.

Harry sat on the same bench, turning his face towards the sun, chewing on his half of the sandwich, and thinking that his day was getting progressively better, if weirder. He honestly tried to eat more slowly, heeding the snappish instructions not to inhale his food, for Morgana's sake, but the tomatoes were good, the cheese was perfect, and he suspected that lunch didn't wait for him anywhere else, after today's mess.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon (upon being able to make sound again) had made it perfectly clear, in succession, whether they wanted to pay for the school (“He is not going!”), for the requisite school supplies (“No!”), see him for holidays (“He goes there, he stays there!”), or ever at all (inarticulate growl from Uncle Vernon, as the Professor narrowed his eyes and said, “We can't all have what we want, Mr Dursley, especially you.”).

Well, that had hurt. It still did. Even if he had kindof expected it to come up sooner or later, and even if his home wasn't the best place in the world. The sandwich did wonders for his mood, though. He glanced at the man next to him and started a bit, finding out he was looking straight at Harry. His gaze was pretty intense.

“As we discussed earlier,” he said, “I will accompany you on your, ah, shopping trip.”

The fourth thing Severus did was to constantly remind himself it was a bloody Potter offspring, not a mishandled Muggleborn. Normally, a Ministry official out of the Muggle Relations Department was dispatched to instruct the child and his or her caretakers and to guide them through to Diagon Alley. He was many things, but not insane to hand off the brat to the Ministry alone, or in the company of his birdbrained relations, even if it could be arranged. How it had happened that Severus went himself, he wasn't exactly sure, but he supposed it had to do with reluctance to leave matters hanging.

“But before that,” he continued, “you need to be aware of some facts that are extremely important in understanding of what you are about to encounter. Listen well.”

Reacting to the tone of his voice, the boy's face looked solemn and intent, as if he were to recite this speech word-for-word afterwards. Severus juggled the words in his mind, arranging them compactly and clearly. Indeed, he had half a thought to make Potter repeat the key points.

“The world you are about to enter — ultimately, by becoming a wizard,” the professor kept his face blank, “and, currently, by acquiring the necessities for school, — exists alongside the one you recognize as your own; for the most part, lacking any physical borders separating the two. The society of wizards is vastly different, however.”

The boy gave him a dubious look-over. “You don't seem so vastly different, sir.”

“What do you expect, a second head?” Severus asked, irritated with the interruption, even if the implied question was somewhat valid. “'Society' means the culture in general, the customs, food, clothing, even thought patterns. Education, occupation, monetary system, health care, government. Infrastructure, what there is of it.”

“I'm sorry, Professor,” Harry rushed to explain over the cascade of long words, “I only meant, for what you've said, your clothes are very normal.”

For several heartbeats, the man gave him a stare devoid of any emotion, which was really unnerving, then said slowly, “Because I came to talk to you and your relatives, Mr Potter.”

Harry dropped his gaze to his lap and muttered, “But it didn't —-”

“—- help, yes. I don't expect anything could.” Severus' lips twitched between distaste and bitter amusement. “But back to the point, because clothing is not the most significant topic on our list.”

“I should guess that you are not aware of this, but your parents were wizards as well, both of them. Magic ability is not necessarily hereditary, not always; but the fact helped you on a few levels.”

Severus paused to sort the list in his head according to immediate priority. The boy was back to listening intently yet calmly, with no discernible change in attitude upon hearing the words, a tale of times long past and buried for him.

“The first reason is, your father came from a relatively wealthy family, and you are his sole heir. As far as I've been informed, it has been arranged that your school fees will be paid out of this account. If I'm any judge, the same account should provide you well enough through the school until you are able to work, if the tides never turn with regards to your... guardians.” Severus desperately wanted to rub at his neck, because the pain of clenched teeth returned in full force, even as he was talking. “I don't advise you to inform them of it, however.”

Potter Jr nodded, not looking happier, either. “Oh. I know. I'll think something up.”

“With this worry out of the way, some more ancient history, Mr Potter. Please, pay attention."

Harry nodded again, “I'm listening, sir.” The man couldn't stop instructing for thirty seconds in a row, it seemed, but it was somehow grounding. Harry didn't have any time to be at a loss in the flow of strangeness.

"You are aware that your parents died at young age. They didn't die naturally."

"I know; a car crash."

"You don't know." Severus held up a hand, forestalling a response. "Don't interrupt me while I'm speaking; you may ask your questions later. For one, wizards hardly ever use cars." He immediately noticed an opening left, and cursed himself. I should stop all this sidetracking or I'll never get back to Hogwarts in this century.

"There was an organisation at the time — a brainchild of a very powerful wizard — which was born for political reasons, but ended up committing numerous crimes and waging a discriminatory civil war among the wizardfolk. The government tried to suppress it for several years, but were unsuccessful. Their leader was fearsome, and indeed, feared. Your parents opposed him and, ultimately, were killed one day by the leader himself; your house was almost completely destroyed. He tried to kill you, as well, but you survived. That scar on your forehead is a curse mark from that day." Harry, a bit dazed, touched the scar, but felt nothing, like always.

"And as if that wasn't enough, in the same moment, the powerful wizard vanished not to be seen again; presumably killed by his curse rebounding. So you are publicly known as his vanquisher."

Potter blinked and looked at him incredulously. "Sir, are those the... um, thought patterns you were talking about? Because it doesn't make much sense. It sounds like he buggered something up, and I was there. I'm really glad it got him back for my parents and stuff, but that's called karma, I think."

"Abandoning the ways of public mind and your crude language, for now," Severus told him pointedly, "the implications are: first, while not entitled to a special treatment, you are very well known; and second, you may very well be hunted by scattered followers of the Dark Lord even ten years later, because their logic isn't significantly better. Where we are heading now, a lot of people will recognise you, but not all of them can be trusted. Keep close to me and be careful."

Every time he starts talking, he ends up with some sort of an order; now that's a talent, Harry pondered, muttering "Yes, sir." Yet, Uncle Vernon ordered around all the time and didn't bother talking first, and never told him to be careful, unless it meant "don't break stuff"...

The professor stood up, and suddenly there was a stick in his right hand. Harry almost missed a small gesture, and then the man was dressed in a long grey coat, and then he was dressed in a shirt that fit. "The transformation is temporary in nature," Harry heard as he touched it in wonder. "But it should give us enough time."

"Can I learn to do it myself?"

"I should hope so, as it's included in the general school course," Snape smirked. "Now, come here and hold on to my arm, Mr Potter. You're about to understand why wizards don't use cars."