Petunia dropped her most expensive perfume in shock, shattering the bottle. She didn’t even notice. Dudley, on the other hand, had gaped in shock when he had come running out of his first bedroom. He knew firsthand how expensive that stuff was; it was hard not to when all his mom could do was brag to her friends about it. Of course, Petunia Dursley had every reason to be shocked: everything in Dudley’s second bedroom was floating. At first, she thought that everything had been strung up by the ceiling, but even the mattress was floating. As the initial shock fled, she screamed, “HARRY POTTTER!!!!”

She stormed down the stairs, and her badly shaking hands could barely get the lock opened. She slammed the door open, and Harry whimpered in fear. Not even noticing this, she grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him upstairs.

“WHA-WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU FREAK?!?”

The tone in his aunt’s voice was definitely not good. But he hadn’t strung everything up, had he? He hadn’t even been in this room before. But his aunt’s voice brooked no argument. When Harry finally spoke, Petunia didn’t even listen. She dragged him down the stairs, and threw him out of the house.

Dudley had finally gotten around to seeing his other room’s state of being. He, literally, was amazed: his jaw dropped, and his eyes glazed over. His mother, seeing this, mistook his body language as a sign of shock, and propped him up on her lap—once they left the room.

Unfortunately for Harry, he didn’t enjoy the luxury Dudley was enjoying; no, he was outside in the pouring rain, sitting in the mud. At first, it wasn’t too bad. But as the hours passed, he was drenched and cold. Petunia had forgotten all about the boy; his cousin, though, hadn’t. When Petunia picked up the phone to call her friend, Dudley knew she’d take a while, so he ran out, but not before grabbing two raincoats.

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And that was how Severus found them. To him, it looked like two little boys playing in the rain, splashing around and making a general mess of things. Of course, the over-large raincoat Harry was wearing didn’t help either, as it completely covered all of his bruises. His face twisted. Abused? THIS is what you call ABUSE? Well, that’s rich. Just because his little saviour isn’t pampered to the extent that he wants, he sends me on a useless errand.

He growled and turned. Dumbledore would be facing his wrath quite soon. But first he had to talk that squib woman. Bet she adored the Boy-Who-Lived, too. There was no end to his fans, it seemed. Of course, it would be James Potter’s son who got all the attention. At this rate, his head would be even more inflated than his dear dead dad.

As his mind was swirling with these murderous, dark thoughts, he suddenly saw the boy’s eyes again. He stopped abruptly, and gasped. Lily’s eyes. Well, no matter…the boy was nothing like Lily. His conscience nudged again, but again, he ignored it. As if, really. Potter ruined it forever, and not even Lily’s eyes could change that fact.

He huffed. Never mind, that talk with Mrs. Figg could wait. It’s not as if she was going anywhere, is she. He disapparated.

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Harry had the worst luck. If Severus hadn’t been so concentrated on quieting his conscience, he would’ve noticed that the very pair of green eyes that would haunt him that night were focused—right on Severus. And of course, naturally, as he was still very young, his mouth tended to shoot off. Unfortunately, his aunt was in the vicinity, looking for Dudley.

“Dudley, you see da man go whoosh? Like magic!” he giggled gleefully. “I wanna go whoosh—“

“I’ll show you “whoosh,” young man! What have I told you have saying that word?” Petunia asked angrily. “Let’s see how you like it when your uncle comes home!”

Harry wasn’t too scared, until she brought up his uncle. He knew what his uncle was capable of. One time, he had to go to the hospital because he’d had a concussion. Of course, the nurses and doctors had asked him how he’d gotten it, but his uncle had already told him to say, “I fell down the stairs,” or else. He didn’t want to find what “or else” actually meant, given the glare he’d been given, but the doctor gave him a strange look anyways. That night, he’d had the worst beating of his life—with a long wooden spoon.

By the time he finished thinking about it, he was already in the cupboard, too late to run.

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It was too bad for Arabella Figg that Severus changed his mind. After disapparating to Hogsmeade, he realized Dumbledore would want to know why Arabella Figg had lied to them. So he disapparated back to Privet Drive, and stormed into the house without knocking. Within minutes, Arabella Figg was cowering in a corner of her house. Ridiculous, really. She was, after all, in her own house and many, many, many years older than the young man giving her the lecture. It wasn’t really her fault; after all, Severus Snape was a known former Death Eater. Sure, Albus Dumbledore said he’d reformed, but really, you never quite knew whether or not it was true.

“—pampered, cosseted brat! And don’t you damn well tell me he’s abused,” Severus hissed, then his voice dropped. “I know when children are abused.  And Harry blasted Potter is not one of them. You made that up, didn’t you,” he smirked. “You just want Dumbledore to pay you more, spineless fool that he is.”

At this, Arabella Figg sputtered. `Now, look here, young man. You may insult me—”

“And precisely what do you think I’ve been doing for the last half an hour?” he drawled sarcastically. “In any case, I don’t have any time for this.”

He tossed Floo powder into the fireplace, and he called, “Prince House!”

As he came through his fireplace, the chimney decided to dump a whole ton of soot on his head. He shook his head. That was a brand new cloak, too. No matter. He quickly performed a Scourgify on himself, and tossed the cloak onto the couch.

Really fantastic luck he’d had lately. He went into his room to change into more comfortable clothes: a pair of blue jeans, a white polo shirt, and a black-and-grey-checkered vest. Tying his hair back, he went to work, moving appliances into the various areas of the house. By mid-afternoon, he decided it was about time to cook something for lunch, but before he even stepped into the kitchen, someone knocked at the door.

He opened the door. A sheepish mailman stood on the front porch, looking quite disoriented.

“Yes,” Severus said impatiently. “I don’t have all day. Get about your business or I’ll escort you off my property.”

“Ah, you see, sir,” here, he blushed quite profusely. “We recently found a letter that had gotten lost. This is from three years ago, sir. We’d just like you to sign here, and I’ll be gone.” He extended his clipboard to Severus.

Muggles, really. Mail lost for three years? Severus signed the paper, and the mailman tossed the letter into his hands, then ran for his life. He needn’t had to, since Severus suddenly felt quite overwhelmed.

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Dudley was confused. His cousin hadn’t done anything, had he? But his mom had given him one of those talks. The ones where she insisted Harry was a bad influence and that Duddlykins should not play with him if he could help it. His teacher said that it was best that everyone be friends with everyone else, or people would get hurt. Was his mom telling him to hurt Harry? But mommy would never tell me something like that, thought Dudley. Maybe there was something wrong with Harry.

“Duddlykins! Your friend Piers is at the door!” his mom shouted from the front. Harry could wait. After all, it wasn’t as if he was actually hurt, right?

For a while, Dudley was right. But as day turned to night, Harry began to shiver uncontrollably in his cupboard, and finally put the blanket around him. He hadn’t done so before, because he didn’t want to get it dirty. As the hours ticked by, he wrapped towels around himself. He couldn’t stop shivering. Needless to say, he didn’t know he was running a high fever, and definitely didn’t know how dangerously close he was to getting pneumonia. As he faded into unconsciousness, his magic kicked in.

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Petunia Dursley, had she known, wouldn’t have cared less. After all, what was a freak like him worth? He had tried to bewitch Dudley, and he’d tried to kill him too, never mind that he wasn’t in that room at the time. She was fully expecting to rant to her husband that night about her horrible day. Funny thing was, he hadn’t come home yet, and it was coming close to 9 already. She hadn’t panicked yet, since sometimes he did work late, but every time he did, he had called home. So she placed dinner in the stove, and made sure it stayed warm.

Ten went by, then eleven. Finally, she took out a portion of the meal and gave it to Dudley, so he could go to bed. By twelve, she was panicky. Where the hell was he?

Finally, at twelve thirty, Vernon Dursley drove up the driveway. Petunia rushed out of the house, unsure whether her response should be to greet or scold him. She managed both.

“Vernon!” She cried, then her voice hardened. “Where the hell have you been?!? I waited all night for you, and don’t you dare tell me you were working. That freak—” Here she cut off, remembering she was outside. Her tone changed. “Vernon, why don’t we talk over dinner? I’m just going to go in and take out the casserole.”

“Err, y-yes, Petunia. I’ll be right there. J-just let me park the car,” Vernon stuttered, no longer sure whether or not his wife was sane anymore.