Herein lies the last will and testament of Lilian “Lily” Anne Potter (nee Evans).

I hereby declare that if myself and my husband, James Alexander Potter, precede our son, Harry James Potter, in death before his 17th birthday, that his guardianship be transferred to Sirius Orion Black. If Sirius Black is unable or unwilling to care for Harry Potter, then his guardianship will pass to Frank and Alice Longbottom. If Frank and Alice Longbottom are unwilling or unable to care for Harry Potter, then his guardianship will pass to Severus Tobias Snape.

I decree that all individual and joint possessions and finances of Lily and James Potter be transferred to the sole ownership of Harry James Potter, and that their use and dissemination be overseen and administered by the discretion and wisdom of his guardian until Harry Potter reaches the age of 17, at which time, control of said assets will revert to his sole discretion and control.

Lilian Anne Potter             1 October 1981

 

 

Snape scowled at the shocked look on Potter’s face. It served the boy right for snooping. He reached out, intending to wrest the letter from the boy, but there had been no need. Potter’s fingers were numb; he put up no resistance.

“No.”

“No, what, Potter?”

“No you are not my guardian,” Potter exclaimed jumping to his feet. He ran his hands through his abominably messy black hair—James Potter’s hair—and shook his head. “Sirius. Sirius was my...” Potter swallowed and looked distraught. “This can’t be happening to me.”

“I assure you it is not a picnic for me, either,” Snape replied coldly.

“Why? Why would my mother pick you?”

Snape smirked coldly, ready and willing to deliver the blow. “Your mother and I were friends. We grew up together.” At Potter’s incredulous look, he decided to bait the boy further. “Right here in this very neighbourhood, in fact.”

“You’re joking.”

Snape shook his head and reached for the curtain on the window. Pulling it aside, he pointed to an old, ramshackle house, two doors down on the left side the street. “That was where your mother and your aunt were raised,” he said.

He watched with satisfaction as Potter took in the crumbling bricks and peeling paint, the door hanging off its hinges, the broken windows, the yard overgrown with bramble and weeds. Snape didn’t bother telling the boy that twenty-some years ago, this was a respectable, middle-class neighbourhood, nor that his grandfather had been a foreman at the mill. It wasn’t until the mill closed that the neighbourhood had fallen into disrepair as all of the former employees moved away and hooligans moved in and vandalized the place.

“Not everyone is as spoiled as you,” Snape said instead. He didn’t bother to enlighten the boy that he had the means to live elsewhere, but considering he only spent two months here a year, it hardly seemed necessary to relocate.

Potter whirled on him. “I want to leave. Now. The Burrow. Or Lupin’s. Or Headquarters.”

“Anywhere but here?” Snape implored silkily.

Potter’s gaze was stony, his lips a thin, insolent line.

“I assure you, Potter, I do not like this situation any more than you,” Snape said, returning the boy’s glare. “However, after speaking with the headmaster a moment ago, it seems that we will be forced to endure each other’s company until he returns.”

“Where is he?”

“That is neither your concern, nor your business, Potter.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Snape laughed without humour. “And whine to him about how unfair your life is?” Gesturing around the room, Snape said, “In case you haven’t noticed, Potter, you are not the only one whose life has been unfair.”

Feeling the crackling of energy in the room as Potter’s silent anger and frustration mounted, Snape needled, “Furthermore, your wants are not important to me. I have better things to do with my time than play nursemaid to an arrogant, disrespectful brat who can do nothing but complain about his lot in life.”

There was a beat of silence before Potter exploded. “You know nothing about my life. And I have never complained about it to anyone, outside of my friends.”

“Potter, the martyr,” Snape mocked. “Potter, the hero, wasn’t enough for you?”

Snape saw Potter’s arm twitch. Snape had his wand out and pointing at Potter before the boy could fully extract his wand from the waistband of his detestable sweat pants.

“Expelliarmus!” Catching Potter’s wand easily in his free hand, Snape seethed, “Don’t ever draw a wand against me in my own house again.” Stepping closer, he raged, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Potter hissed, eyeing his wand which Snape now held loosely in his hand.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” Potter replied, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his eyes blazing.

“Go to your room. Dinner is at 6pm. I don’t want to see you before then.”

“What about my wand?”

“You can have it back when I can trust that you won’t use it against me,” Snape replied, stashing both his wand and Potter’s up his sleeve. “As long as you are in my house and under my care—whether I am your guardian or not—you will follow my rules and you will show me respect. Is that understood?”

Snape watched Potter’s ragged breathing and marvelled at the amount of anger Potter was directing toward him.

“When is Dumbledore getting back?” Harry finally asked.

“Two weeks,” Snape replied.

Potter looked incredulous.

Snape rolled his eyes. “I am sure your relatives will be back long before then. Likely, they dropped you off here to teach you a lesson in appreciation.”

 Snape smirked at the outraged expression on Potter’s face as the boy turned on his heel, fuming. He almost laughed as the boy fumbled with the bookcase before finding the hidden door and stomping up the stairs.

“Potter,” Snape called. The boy froze mid-step, but did not turn around. “I expect you to wear something appropriate to dinner. A dress shirt and pants will do. I will not be having you walking around this house looking like some impoverished street urchin.”

Back inside the small bedroom, Harry slammed the door and kicked the wardrobe, which served only to give him a sore toe. Cursing loudly, he limped around the room, looking for a quill and parchment to write Ron and ask for help. He had never been so furious in his life. He was trapped in the dilapidated house of his vindictive potions master who’d probably poison him at dinner if he didn’t hand him over to Voldemort first. And without his wand, there was little he could about it.

He flung his belongings to the floor and flounced down on the bed, wincing in discomfort. His stomach rumbled loudly; he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. He comforted himself with visions of revenge against Snape, willing the anger to distract him from the pain in his stomach and his back.