“Miss-ter Potter!” Snape hissed, earning himself a glower from his eleven-year-old student. Taking the child firmly, though carefully, by the arm, he furiously marched across the courtyard and up the steps leading into the entrance hall. Behind them, Professor McGonagall tutted as she saw to one of her own house, who was currently vomiting out through his nose.

“Weasley started it!” Harry protested defiantly, trotting along to keep up with the professor's pace, wand still dangling from one hand. “Well, actually, Malfoy started it, but freckle-face thought I was to blame for his ruddy shoelaces tying themselves together and came after me. Bloody prats...”

“Language, Mister Potter,” the Potions Master chastised, once more emphasizing the first syllable. This was hardly the first time Harry Potter had been caught fighting with a peer and Snape was not compelled to be exceptionally lenient – even if he did almost wish to award points for his first-year's masterful modification of a simple emetic hex.

The child shot a look around them, searching for anyone else around. “You can't keep doing that!” Harry protested hotly. They were in the dungeon and after a few more steps, they arrived at Snape's office.

“Keep doing what?” Snape drawled, opening the door and maneuvering his snake inside. Harry twisted out of the man's hold.

“Stressing the 'miss' part!” he exclaimed, indignant. “It's not even true. You do it every time you're mad with me. Keep it up and people will get suspicious!”

The man arched a brow at the child. “Of the truth?” he asked silkily.

“It's not the truth – I'm a boy! I've always been a boy!” Harry fairly shouted. Honestly, the child could be quite insolent; Snape wondered that he gave the brat as much leniency as he did. “Just because I've got different... bits down there than other blokes, doesn't change anything. I was raised a boy. I like being a boy! And you promised you wouldn't tell anyone 'cept the Headmaster!”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, partially at the child's borderline crassness and partially because his indignation was reminding him most strongly of Lily. It was true that, biologically speaking, Harry Potter was a girl. Apparently, dear Petunia had never seen fit to make the child aware of this fact, reasoning that since the note Dumbledore had left with the child when Harry had been placed on the Dursleys doorstep stated that the child was her nephew that she had no reason to remedy this misconception.

And that was merely one of the wrongs committed against this child. It wasn't that there were no witches or wizards whose genders did not match their biological sex. In fact, there were some cases where a child's magic would correct this disparity before they reached school age, although, more often, a witch or wizard would have to undergo a procedure later in life, if they so desired.

It just felt different in Harry's case. Harry, who was by biology female, had been raised a boy simply because the child's relatives couldn't be bothered to buy a separate set of clothes for the young orphan. Granted, everyone in the magical world has assumed the child was male. With the name Harry Evan Potter, it was an easy assumption to make.

Now, despite learning otherwise, Harry chose to continue identifying as male. In fact, the child zealously guarded his right to do so. Snape found himself slipping, sometimes. In small ways, true, but Harry always seemed to catch him at it. He supposed it was easier for him to think of the brat as Lily's daughter than James' son.

“You are right, of course. If you say you are a boy, you are indeed a boy. I apologize,” Snape told the child.

Mollified, Harry took the seat his Head of House directed him to. The boy proceeded to play with his wand until the professor sent him a reproving glare and he put it away.

“Now,” Snape proceeded, “on to this business of fighting with your classmates. Again.”

Harry ducked his head, black hair flopping down into his eyes, contrite now that his irritation with the man was past. That's more like it. “But I told you, sir, I didn't start it!” he protested to the edge of the professor's desk.

Snape suppressed a sigh. “Best start at the beginning, Potter. And it would be best if you do not bother trying to prevaricate, this time.” Harry didn't quite manage to suppress a groan, but commenced his tale. Not for the first time, Snape reflected that it was just his luck that he would be saddled with a Slytherin Potter who was aggravatingly just like both his parents simultaneously while at the same time being remarkably like himself, as well.

It was karma, he thought dourly to himself as Harry related how he came to be hexing Ron Weasley in the courtyard. He was fairly confident a certain Transfiguration professor would agree.