Let’s not exhaust space and words describing Harry Potter, because you already know of his messy black hair --forever untamed-- you already know of his bright green eyes and his scrawny frame and you know of his cupboard and his dreams and his struggles. You already know most of what you need to know about Harry Potter, the boy who lives under the stairs. But this boy is just a little different than the one you might know so well. This one is more quiet, he’s not so brash or brave, and even without magic and wizardry he is a little odd.

Our little Harry Potter, mine, is not who everyone should like him to be. And you’ll find that that, has made all the difference.

The first thing to note, is that Mr. Potter, or just Harry, went by the last name of Dursley. A strange string of events lead to this. The Dursleys did not appreciate sharing their name, but circumstance pushed them towards it, that and the United Kingdom’s bureaucratic process was convoluted and involved the process of explaining to some woman on the phone that yes, your nephew was legally yours and no, he didn’t share the same name and, oh God did you just transfer me again. The process had a tendency to repeat itself and finally, the Dursleys gave it up and just settled on giving the boy their name. So by age ten, Mr. Potter was greatly disassociated from his name and instead went by Harry Dursley.

Harry also had a keen mind, one sharpened to a finer point by the fact that he was quiet. The ruminations of a silent person are not something to be taken lightly, either they are plotting grievous deeds or they are coming to some conclusions. So at nearly eleven years old, picking up the post, and then espying a letter addressed to himself, he did the sensible thing and slipped it in through the slots of his cupboard door, figuratively whistling as he entered the kitchen to hand out the rest of the post to his relatives.

It was in the privacy of his little cupboard, with tiny toys, broken crayons, and an old ragged blanket that he stared at the letter, barely legible in the light, and noted the curving letters and thick heavy parchment.

Opening it, Harry read it. He re-read it. Then he read it a third time. He frowned at the strange list of items required, the peculiar names of the books. What a funny sort of hoax, but it was addressed to him, Harry Dursley, and it specified that he lived under the stairs. Brow raised and a weird little sensation of hope in his chest, Harry knew that Dudley was nowhere near intelligent enough to construct this. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t waste their time. Nobody else knew that Harry lived in a cupboard under the stairs.

Harry folded the letter up and placed it under his pillow, imagining exactly what Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be like. In his mind there were dragons and great bubbling cauldrons with potions that could enchant anything. Harry Dursley fell asleep to dreams of potions and pointed hats.


XxX



The week passed and nothing happened, there were no more letters for Harry Dursley and his heart fell. The dreams were replaced with his usual nightmares and Harry’s little seed of hope wilted under the doldrum of inaction. On the eve of his eleventh birthday no celebrations were in place. He fell asleep at midnight, curled up on his bare little cot in the cupboard under the stairs, wondering if being eleven marked a maturity that would make any difference in his coming year.



XxX



Morning came and it started like so many others. Harry made breakfast, a hash with eggs and toast if one so chose, and Aunt Petunia pittered around the table, adjusting any placements she didn’t like which Harry had done. Harry wasn’t sure how many different ways one could arrange a square casserole dish, but apparently there were many, as Aunt Petunia had tried about five now.

Vernon was seated at the table with a newspaper and Dudley had yet to come down. Summer vacation wasn’t over yet and the boy was sleeping in. Harry didn’t mind, Vernon was less critical when there was no one to compare Harry to.

A knock came at the door. It was an innocuous sound, but Aunt Petunia stiffened and stared. She always knew when someone was coming over, no one surprised her. It must mean it was unexpected company. Harry peered with curiosity at his Aunt.

“Keep you eyes on the stove, boy,” Vernon spat out, eyeing Harry suspiciously.

Harry immediately looked back down at the hash he was mixing. No need to incur the man’s wrath.

Aunt Petunia meanwhile rubbed her hands on her apron in an anxious manner before untying it and setting it on the counter. She then left to answer the door. Harry strained to hear. It was a woman, a kind even toned voice that Harry had never heard before. She mentioned Harry’s name. Harry started and nearly dropped the spatula.

Uncle Vernon shot him a warning glare, no verbal abuse being mete due to their guest.

Aunt Petunia let out a horrible little gasp and the woman’s voice grew a little louder, but still sounded calm and soothing. Harry still couldn’t hear what they were saying. The conversation lasted a long time, allowing Harry time to finish making the hash and serve it to Uncle Vernon and then to sit on a chair and eat his own, less interesting breakfast of plain microwaved oatmeal.

Harry ate slowly, straining to listen in but failing to hear anything. Finally Petunia entered the kitchen, pale faced and lips pursed to a thin line.

“Vernon,” she said, voice high and cracking, “I need you for a moment.”

Harry watched his Aunt and Uncle go and wondered what could be the matter. Now that Vernon was out of the room, Harry snuck a few bits of the hash, having finished his oatmeal a while ago. They were gone a long while and the voices rose up and down and Harry’s curiosity rose with each passing minute.

Finally both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon came back, a kind middle aged woman with blonde hair and blue eyes accompanying them. She was dressed in plain jeans and a modest blouse. Harry liked her just looking at her. When she saw him she gave him a warm smile.

“Here he is,” Aunt Petunia said gravely, glaring at Harry before quickly looking away as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Vernon just looked green and queasy, saying nothing and bumbling out of the room after his wife. Harry looked curiously at the woman standing in front of him.

“Hello Harry, my name is Charity Burbage, I’m a professor.”

Harry blinked, what would a professor want with him? And a professor of what?

“May I?” Professor Burbage asked, pointing to a chair.

Harry nodded his head. Professor Burbage took a seat.

“I believe you received a letter from us,” Charity said kindly, looking to Harry for confirmation.

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Harry said quietly.

Charity smiled broadly.

“Very good, you did receive it, though your,” Charity hesitated at the next word, “guardians, didn’t seem to know about it.”

Charity was sending him a probing look, one Harry had seen on other well meaning but ultimately erroneous teachers.

When Harry didn’t respond Professor Burbage gave a nod of her head.

“Well, raised by non-wizarding people it can be difficult to adjust to all of this, but first let me tell you that you are a very special boy. You, Harry, have magic,” Professor Burbage gave him a moment to process what she said.

“And when children, special children like yourself, turn eleven they are offered an invitation to receive tutelage at Hogwarts or other such schools. I’m here to help you with the transition and to take you to the school. Your guardians have kindly agreed.”

Harry blinked, head spinning. Magic was real, the letter had been real, his dreams of potions and magic were not so farfetched. With rising elation, Harry listened to Professor Burbage explain before then asking him if he was ready.

Harry was swept away then, headed to a place called Diagon Alley.



XxX


It wasn’t until Harry was on a train, wearing Dudley’s old clothing and clutching something called a wand, that it all hit home. He was a wizard. The trip in Diagon Alley had been astonishing. Harry had never experienced something quite like it and he’d spent the whole time slack mouthed and in awe. Professor Burbage, or Charity as she said he could call her outside of school, was very kind and explained things without him having to even ask questions.

She’d escorted him to the train and got him boarded before informing him that she had a few personal items of business to handle and hoped to see him at school.

Harry had wandered, speechless, down the train compartment aisles, until he reached the end and realized he needed to take a seat. Entering the nearest compartment he saw a large girl, broad shouldered and bushy browed with jet black hair. She was glaring out the window. No one else was in the compartment.

“Hello,” Harry tentatively offered.

The girl’s mulish glare turned to him and he resisted the urge to back away.

“I’m Harry Dursley,” Harry said, taking a seat across from her.

The girl’s face contorted. There was confusion, and she cast her eyes about as if searching for someone else whom Harry could be addressing. The confusion concluded with a small perplexed grunt.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked.

The girl now looked terribly upset. A shy apprehension filled her features, tinged with fear.

“I-I’m Millicent Bulstrode,” the girl shot it out as if she spoke fast enough whatever possible faux pas she might be committing would be overlooked.

“Millicent is a pretty name,” Harry replied honestly.

Millicent blushed a deep red, ducking her head. Harry smiled, but the girl seemed to shrink into herself, much like a turtle. The compartment fell into silence as Millicent looked out the window and Harry occupied himself with reading his very exciting potions book.

After an hour passed, a woman came by, she was pushing a trolley loaded with strange things and she peered into their apartment, a brilliant, if imperfect, smile on her face.

“Anything from the trolley dears?”

Harry watched as Millicent appeared actually happy about something for the first time. She said yes with fervor and approached the trolley, picking out certain items, skipping over others. Harry watched with keen interest and when the woman’s gaze turned to him he purchased the same items that Millicent had.

Millicent saw this and eyed Harry once again with open hostility. When the woman had pushed the trolley on and the compartment door had shut she turned on him.

“Are you making fun of me?” Millicent bit out, glaring at Harry.

Harry shook his head ‘no’, mind trying to figure out why the girl would take such offense. He remembered in school a certain child --Angelica was her name-- a very portly little girl who had been made fun of quite often. A favorite thing of the children’s to do was to buy popsicles Angelica liked quite a bit and to eat them in a manner meant to cruelly mimic the girl. Harry remembered how the girl had cried. Millicent wasn’t exactly a delicate or small girl, even if she’d been what people considered a healthy weight she was not a frail girl.

“I’d never seen any of those before, you seemed to know more about them than me,” Harry explained.

Millicent eyed him disbelievingly, but she gave a nod of hesitant assent.

It wasn’t until Harry was about to try a treat that he’d selected that Millicent hadn’t that the girl addressed Harry.

“Oh, you don’t want to eat that,” she said, once again pursing her lips as if she hadn’t meant to speak and the words had just popped out of their own accord.

Harry peered quizzically at the food and then at her. It looked like fudge and he couldn’t for the life of him think of what could be wrong with it.

“Why not?” He asked, absolutely puzzled.

“You really haven’t had these before? Are you muggle born?” The questions were said in a derisive tone, but Millicent nonetheless got up swiftly and sat down next to Harry.

“Yes, Professor Burbage mentioned the word ‘muggles’. And no, I haven’t, isn’t it just fudge?”

Millicent’s brows raised and he saw that the girl felt strongly on this subject.

“It’s got flies in it, and you must be muggle born to talk like that,” she expressed distaste, an expression which seemed to be learned rather than innate to her, she softened just so, “though I suppose it isn’t your fault.”

She settled a considering look on Harry and for once, Harry felt that the girl didn’t feel as though she were expecting him to attack.

“I’ll have to fix that, I can teach you everything you need to know.”

Millicent proceeded, in a matter of fact tone, to explain to Harry the nuances of wizard candy. Harry wondered if he’d made a friend.



XxX



Harry decided he liked Hogwarts when he saw it in the distance from the train. He decided he liked it quite a lot when they were on the boats, the white rock walls a ghostly projection atop a black mass surrounded by the gossamer fabric of a moonlit lake. Harry decided he loved it when they stepped through the courtyard and up the steps, the enchanting masonry stretching up and surrounding him.

His opinion of it was firmly settled for what he imagined would be the rest of his life when the grand arched doors seemed to float open at the flourish of Professor McGonagall’s wand and a hall beyond anything he could have ever imagined was revealed.

Professor McGonagall came across as a severe woman to Harry, with a straight unflinching posture, glasses poised on her face and supplanted by her thin pressed lips and a small round chin that was held with severe grace, yet there was something so indescribably magical about her, a small discreet shine in her eye which spoke to the austere and breathless sensation of the ethereal yet concrete, everything Harry was coming to see as magic. She was unlike anything Harry had ever perceived, the last detail to immortalize the effect that the castle had upon him.

Millicent had stuck by him, a sort of grudging ‘take under the wing’ attitude guiding her. She introduced him to a fair amount of students as Harry Dursley, muggle born boy whom she was going to teach everything. Harry didn’t mind, hair flattened against his scar to hide it and no one caring to ask anything more. Soon everyone on the train and now everyone who was a first year knew him as Harry Dursley, muggle born boy.

They stepped into the hall, the four rows of tables already nearly filled with students. Millicent shrank back, grasping Harry’s hand for courage. A hat sang to them, an old wizened man stood, beard and attire whimsically impressive, and finally they were called up one by one.

Millicent was one of the first and when the hat called the name ‘Slytherin’, Harry watched her go, wondering. Two pairs of eyes from the front table were on him. Harry had spent enough time working under his Aunt’s scrutinizing glare to know when someone was watching him. A man, too distant to be properly discerned beyond basic features, was peering intently at him with an air of cold distaste. He had long black hair, lanky and laid flat. The other man’s gaze was more unsettling, the intent imperceptible. Harry didn’t think he liked either the turbaned figure or the black cloaked man.

He was called, Millicent smiled encouragingly at him and Harry smiled back. The stool was appropriately sized for someone his age and he clambered on, nervous.

McGonagall placed the hat upon his head.

‘How odd,’ a voice said.

Harry surmised it to be the hat.

‘What do you think child, who would you sit with?’

Harry blinked, surveying the colored tables, the sea of students, his new friend; he thought nothing specific, merely brought to mind his outcasted existence in primary school, his unwanted presence at home, and the deep loneliness and desire to be with something the world needed more of, simple kindness and acceptance.

‘Quite right, what are the rest without that but meaningless?’ The hat spoke as if it could see his thought process.

Then out loud the hat announced the word ‘Hufflepuff’. Harry got up, looked to Millicent who seemed worried, Harry smiled and her worry flickered away and was replaced with a smile. The crowd of students at the table cheered and Harry sat down.



XxX


Severus Snape had not expected the name Dursley to ever be said in Hogwarts. It reminded him distantly of Lily mentioning her sister’s marriage and her paltry, offhand attempt to sound happy about her sister’s joyous entrance into matrimony. It brought forth old memories and it seemed to ring in a strange dichotomy to the child he knew to be born ‘Harry Potter’.

He’d known the child was coming to Hogwarts this year, he’d tried to convince himself it was a trifle when compared to the temporary holding of the Philosopher’s stone. The conference held during the summer with certain ministry figures and much of the Hogwarts staff had been a heated battle. Hogwarts was an old castle, property held by the ministry and deep magical ties making it of infinite value. To sequester it away for mere use as a school was economically inconceivable by the ministry’s eyes. Deals brokered, Nicholas Flamel’s paper thin voice edging in at the behest of Dumbledore, and it had finally been settled. Temporary storage would be allowed, a year at the most, until the ministry could better secure the sudden gift from the aging wizard.

Dumbledore had spoken with Severus at the start of the year, speaking of this and that, in a manner of how he often did, before mentioning Harry Potter, now Harry Dursley. The old fool was convinced not only of the Dark Lord’s continued existence but also of his inevitable rise. Poppycock, yet Severus was bound by promise and knowledge. He’d acquiesced to the headmaster’s implorations to keep an eye on the child as danger may be waiting for him.

Seeing the boy now aroused Severus’ ever lurking nature of petty embitterment, nursed under the terrible afflictions of his past. But the name Dursley, how odd.



XxX



The first class Harry had was something called Charms. The professor’s name was Filius Flitwick, a name which made Harry laugh with the thought of whimsy being so commonplace. It was held jointly with the Gryffindor first years.

Harry hadn’t had much luck making friends, he’d spoken somewhat to a boy named Ernie MacMillan, and another named Justin. Harry was quiet though and kept to himself, and just a bit odd, the kind of odd which caused the boys to eye him speculatively and then keep to themselves. The last boy Wayne Hopkins didn’t even speak to Harry, merely eyeing him strangely as they chose their beds in the first year dorm room.

So at Charms he seated himself next to the only person without a partner, a bushy haired girl with a rather severe and serious look on her face.

“Hello, I’m Hermione Granger,” she extended her hand, voice clipped and steady as though she wished to sound like an adult.

“I’m Harry Dursley,” Harry replied, taking her hand and giving it a firm shake.

A delighted smile sprang onto the girl’s face at being taken seriously, it didn’t last though as she needed to maintain her carefully managed calm of maturity.

“I’ve read the textbook already, today we should begin with learning about the basics of charms and then start on the most rudimentary spell of levitation,” she informed him, carefully arranging her three quills, pot of ink and perfectly ordered parchment.

“I’ve only read part of it,” Harry admitted.

Hermione eyed him, apparently she’d been expecting a different response.

“That’s better than most, I suppose,” she started the comment hesitantly, not quite condoning his less than admirable efforts (by her standards that is) but noting that they were beyond what she’d come to expect after inquiring after other students.

“I did finish the Potions book, I liked that one,” Harry said, mind recalling with fascination the compelling read.

“Yes, it was very enlightening,” Hermione brightened considerably, looking at Harry with renewed zeal.

Maybe, just maybe, she would find someone equal to her in scholastic fervor.



XxX



Harry was determined to never be lost in the castle, so he’d been spending his free time wandering, well, wandering was a free term. It was a more coordinated effort, starting at the top and working his way down as best as he could. He’d been able to peek into a few classrooms and had made acquaintance with several professors. Sybill Trelawney was actually quite kind once you worked past her fanatic interest in obscure points of divination. She offered him tea and after rambling for a bit had just sat back, curtains pulled to the side to look down and out upon the beautiful highland country side. There’d been a lovely silence, and Sybill had calmed so that a strangely permeating sense of peace settled over the two. She’d sent him on his way with a biscuit.

He also met Professor Sinistra, she was kind and allowed him to explore the astronomy tower while class was, quite obviously, not in attendance.

It was on the seventh floor, after having passed the Gryffindor common room that he espied a familiar figure in a little niche. Cedric Diggory was a kindly third year in his house who had gone out of his way to explain a few things that Harry, as a muggle born, hadn’t a clue about. The boy was ensconced in the niche with another boy and the conversation seemed intimate. Harry frowned as he watched Cedric brush the other boy’s face with a tender motion before suddenly jerking his hand back. Cedric tore away from the boy and began rushing down the hall, not even seeing Harry.

The boy, a Gryffindor, turned, face collapsed in the aspect of one wholly dejected. The boy saw Harry, and Harry, feeling that he had experienced something he shouldn’t have been privy to, ducked his head and kept walking.

The excitement of exploring the castle was rather ruined after the experience and Harry, feeling melancholy and thoughtful, wandered out onto the grounds.



XxX


Potions class was next and Harry greatly anticipated it. Cooking had, in very strange ways, been a certain form of respite. It was the only activity in the house where Harry could express himself in anyway, aside from gardening. Aunt Petunia wasn’t particular about every meal and he found that once he’d gotten his feet under him --by age of eight-- he was able to experiment successfully and with great joy. Potions was basically magical cooking, a simplistic view for sure, but to Harry it was the easiest to connect with. Potions didn’t require incantations or wand work, all he needed was his hands and a decent workspace. At least he imagined it to be that way based off of the book.

The dungeons were pleasantly cool and the classroom had a unique smell, off putting to some but to Harry the means of exciting his imagination to greater heights.

The teacher wasn’t there yet, but a few students were and Harry realized some were from the other house, the one called Ravenclaw. Harry peered curiously at them and spotted a girl with long straggly hair, dirty blonde and reaching an inch or so above her waist. She turned, robes rumpling and their gazes meeting.

It was a long held stare, the girl’s blue eyes seeming to be both surprised and serenely content. They were enchanting. Harry moved over to her and sat down.

“Have you ever seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?” The girl’s voice was airy and soft.

“I may have, but I wouldn’t have known it if I did,” Harry answered honestly.

You could never be sure what sort of thing you would run into, especially if you didn’t know what it was you were running into.

“Hmm, I haven’t, but you’re right, maybe you have, you look like you might have,” she mused.

Harry decided that he quite liked this girl.

The door slammed open, there was a flash of black and an image of billowing robes, for a moment Harry thought magic had been wrought. Instead it was just the teacher, a tall thin man, sallow faced with lanky black hair. Harry recognized him. One of the teachers who’d been peering at him so intently.

The man said nothing, face drawn.

“Open your books to page 13, read the first three paragraphs and then summarize the simple instructions contained within. If we are to survive this year without death or other needless injury you will all follow my every word and instruction.”

The man was silent a moment, watching them with hands clasped behind his back as books were pulled out and items procured to follow the directions. Then he began to pace.

“The subtle art of brewing is not for the weak minded, the idle, the boorish class of witches and wizards which I expect most of you make up,” the man cast his eye about the room before settling on Harry.

Harry shivered, unconsciously shrinking. He knew that look, it was one of attuned malevolence, a look which he was familiar enough with to have the prescient thought that Potions might not be all he’d hoped it to be.

“I will not tolerate laziness or belligerence, though I have no doubt many of you will test me.”

Another pause, the man continuing his pacing.

“Today we will see which among you, if any, have any merit. If you can prove your potential, I will foster your skills. Perhaps one day one of you, though most doubtfully, will be competent in the art.”

Harry was already reading the page. It was the passage on Hiccoughing Potion. He smiled, he was quite familiar with the instructions. Professor Snape, as he introduced himself, ordered them to work individually in creating the potion. Harry, feeling the man’s gaze lingering on him more than the other students, was uncomfortable. But he’d cooked enough with Aunt Petunia staring him down that he was soon able to tune the man out, preparing the ingredients with efficiency and following the instructions quite easily.

He was able to exchange a few more odd words with the girl, conversation being continued on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack and then going into each other’s names.

Harry’s potion turned out perfectly. Luna’s did not.

The class nearly over, Professor Snape inspected everyone’s cauldrons. When he came to Luna and Harry’s table he paused and looked down into the cauldrons.

“It seems already we face one of the worst and most detrimental traits by far,” his voice carried and all the students were looking over in mild interest.

“Cheating is one of the most reprehensible qualities an individual may possess, stealing just as bad. Would you be kind enough to explain, Mr. Dursley, why you have stolen Ms. Lovegood’s hard work and forced her to take responsibility for your own sub par work?” Professor Snape’s voice was a cold sneer.

Harry was stunned, glancing down at his cauldron. Stolen? Luna looked just as perplexed.

“That’s Harry’s cauldron, Professor,” she replied frankly, looking up at Professor Snape with a gentle and innocent expression on her face.

“It seems that Dursley has even convinced Ms. Lovegood to lie for him, ten points from Hufflepuff and another five from Ravenclaw. I should’ve expected no less from degenerates such as these.”

Luna cocked her head, a frown marring her face. A look of understanding flashed across it and the open look was disarming. Harry watched the man shuffle a little and wondered if the man was uncomfortable with Luna’s look. Harry however didn’t consider it for long, still struggling under the enormity of what had just happened. Cheating? Stealing? The accusation was so far-fetched that he could scarcely fathom it.

Professor Snape began to walk away, the classroom in a hushed fearful silence.

“Professor,” Luna was speaking again, voice completely inoffensive, “you’re wrong.”

A terrible, thick cloud of tension descended. Professor Snape turned slightly, cold fury aimed at the girl.

“You may stop in your lies, Ms. Lovegood, they will do you no good. For the continued charade I expect both of you to report to detention. You will stay after class to speak further on it.”

Luna made no appearance of anger or indignation, only a small perturbed look graced her face. She turned to Harry, pressing his hand with her own in a small comfort. Harry was still pale with shock. Aside from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, he’d never been so outlandishly condemned by an adult. In this case he’d done nothing to elicit a response so harsh and spectacular. Had he offended the man?

Class ended soon and students were quickly shuffling out, most making an effort to avoid Luna and Harry. Harry felt nervous, the man scared him. The two made their way to the front of the room.

“Your detentions will be served tomorrow evening, six o’clock,” Professor Snape didn’t even look up as he addressed them, looking over papers.

Harry blinked, unwanted tears rising. What had he done? Swallowing he blinked them back. A few moments passed and Professor Snape looked up, a cruel glare on his face.

“Do not loiter,” he snapped.

Luna and Harry turned around and left the room. Once outside, Luna turned to Harry.

“I’m sorry,” she said, again pressing his hand with her own.

Harry shrugged feeling downcast. He’d had high hopes for Hogwarts, it was away from his family, in a world nigh unbelievable and wonderous. Maybe he hadn’t made many friends, and maybe a few students had said things about him, this was a world without Dudley, a world he’d been born to be a part of. This sudden, unexpected rejection hurt.

“Why’re you sorry?” Harry asked, “it’s my fault.”

Luna cocked her head, a sad look on her face.

“I know it isn’t, that’s why I’m sorry,” she replied.

Harry gave a nod.

“We can look for a Blibbering Humdinger after lunch, I looked at your schedule. They say they can be found near lakes. They like to bathe in still water.”

With that Luna was walking away. Harry felt just a bit better.



XxX


Harry hadn’t expected to make too many friends, but he’d also hoped that people would just ignore him. It seemed though that news of Professor Snape’s outburst had spread. His fellow first year Hufflepuffs avoided him like the plague and most of the Ravenclaws did as well. It hurt, he’d say just a bit, but he would be lying if he did.

A few whispers were already being said and it spread within a day.

On the eve of the first Friday, Harry, who’d been trying to continue with his discovery of the castle had finished exploring the fifth floor. Hermione Granger, hearing of his intentions in Transfiguration where they paired together again, along with a nice boy named Neville, had insisted she join him. Such an effort was of the greatest importance and Harry found that the girl made a wonderful running commentary, some familiar from the Hogwarts a History and some not.

They’d parted afterwards, she heading up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room to get back before first year curfew and Harry headed to his own common room by the kitchens.

It was going well until the second floor.

Several boys, Slytherins, were walking and as soon as they saw him one of them said something to the others. Harry’s heart sped up as they stopped and followed him, a predatory ease in their walk.

“First year,” a boy called out.

Harry froze, turning around. The tone was ever familiar, and he knew that the situation was not ideal.

A slender, delicately handsome boy headed the small party, his chestnut curls framing a fragile face. The cold, cruel look marred it.

“What are you doing up here?” He said, voice lilting mockingly.

Harry shrunk back, knowing that there was no option of escape nor of fighting. The situation seemed hopeless.



XxX




Severus was headed back to the Slytherin common room from posting a letter to a potions supplier. He meant to go to his quarters afterwards, no interest in spending more than the necessary minutes chewing out the Slytherin head girl for being caught more than snogging her boyfriend in the fourth floor lavatory. God, teenagers were disgusting creatures. They were less than a week into the school year and already the monstrosities were running completely amok.

He rounded the corner of the hallway to come upon a surprising scene. Three older students were watching another student kick a small child on the ground. Severus surmised it was a case of bullying a first year gone much too far and stepped forward to intervene. He recognized the assailant as Bartholomew Welch, one of his seventh year students. The boy had always been overtly cruel and unnecessarily violent. The victim however was Harry Dursley.

Severus froze. The boy let out a pathetic cry of pain and Severus started forward. No matter his feelings on the subject, Welch had been known to be a tad too violent.

“Mr. Welch,” Severus snapped.

The boy froze, drawing away from the small body curled up on the floor.

“Professor,” Welch said, eyeing Severus warily.

The tall thin boy had curly brown hair and light hazel eyes. He would’ve been seen as whispish and handsome if not for the faint of cruelty in his eyes and countless misdeeds he'd performed. The beating was overt, and generally Mr. Welch was too careful be caught in such a compromising psoition.

“No matter the offence, violence is not tolerated as a means of dispute. Please return to your dormitory,” Severus’ voice was cold, but the lack of punishment betrayed his obvious favoritism

He turned his gaze to the three students. They were all seventh year Slytherins.

“I suggest you three do the same,” Severus bit out.

Severus then turned to the boy on the ground. Dursley was just starting to uncurl from his defensive posture and there was blood pouring out of his obviously broken nose. His glasses were on the ground next to him, broken.

“Get up, Dursley!” Severus sneered.

The boy, with shaking arms, pushed himself to a standing position, swaying slightly as he tried to focus his eyes.

“Ten points for fighting,” Severus snapped out.

The boy said nothing, green eyes falling to the floor. Severus felt a small bit of pity and pulled his wand out. He would hear no end of it if he left the child like this.

“Episkey,” Severus said clearly, fixing Dursley’s nose.

The boy flinched, it most no doubt a painful fix as Severus had not meant the spell kindly.

“Another ten points for being out past first year curfew,” Severus added, watching the boy’s gaze grow hopeless and his shoulders slump, “return to your dormitory before I see fit to have you expelled for general idiocy.”

He watched the boy limp down the hall in the wrong direction.

“The kitchens are in the other direction, Dursley,” Severus said.

The boy halted, turning around with his eyes straining to see. Severus let out a growl, marching over to the boy. He threw an arm out and the boy flinched back, cowering. Severus sneered at the pathetic act the boy was performing. He would not pity him.

“Your glasses, Dursley,” Severus snapped.

The boy held them out and Severus pointed his wand at them.

“Reparo,” he said, the glasses returning to a less broken state.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry whispered, sliding them onto his bloody face.

Severus hesitated, for a moment he saw himself, bloody after a beating from his father and Lily’s concerned frown as she helped him in through her window and got him a wet rag. The boy even had the forlorn look, knowing no kindness was to be given by Severus.

Severus shook off the vestiges of sentiment like snapping water from an umbrella. This was Potter’s child, the boy even looked it, and Severus had no pity for Potter.

“If I catch you out after first year hours I will do more than just take points, Dursley.”

Harry nodded his head and began walking in the right direction. Severus’ gaze lingered and for some reason he felt a small worm of guilt stir in him.