Burning Memories by Flooney
Summary: “What— What are you doing?” To his credit, he manages to pull the child to a full stop by yanking him back, bringing him in closer to hold his shoulders again and glare at him in the eyes, no matter the way he winces at their familiar colour. “You are aware that you have just undergone a panic attack, are you not?”


There’s something in Potter’s eyes that seems to flash at that, but it’s gone within the moment. Severus files that away for later ruminations.


“I know,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s just declared that the sky is blue.
Categories: Teacher Snape > Trusted Mentor Snape, Parental Snape > Guardian Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Draco, Dudley, Dumbledore, Flitwick, Fred George, Ginny, Hagrid, Hedwig, Hermione, McGonagall, Molly, Neville, Petunia, Pomfrey, Remus, Ron, Sirius, Vernon, Voldemort
Snape Flavour: Snape is Angry, Snape Comforts, Snape is Kind, Snape is Loving, Snape is Stern
Genres: Angst, Family, Fantasy, Fluff, General, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Media Type: None
Tags: Time Travel
Takes Place: 1st summer before Hogwarts, 1st Year
Warnings: Neglect, Violence
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 7 Completed: No Word count: 9515 Read: 10279 Published: 27 Jun 2022 Updated: 29 Nov 2022
Story Notes:
just something that came into my head and wouldn't go away; some scenes will probably be vague and short, others maybe not so much. i have other things i'm working on, nothing i'm committed to, but just experimenting with.

1. before dawn. by Flooney

2. honey and orange blossoms. by Flooney

3. rememberance and hope. by Flooney

4. of old things. by Flooney

5. happee birthdae harry. by Flooney

6. green like an enchanted forest. by Flooney

7. a smile of a thousand words. by Flooney

before dawn. by Flooney
There’s a sound coming from the kitchen downstairs in the early hours of the morning when Petunia first steps out from the shared bedroom between her and Vernon. She has to stop for the better half of a second before she cranes her head up to gaze at the clock hanging on the wall in the short hallway. Her throat still feels dry and the way her eyes are trying to tug down on themselves are a minor distraction other than the continued sores coming from inside the room behind her.

But it’s early, and she’s tired, and just who in the world is singing in her kitchen?

She uses the rail to support her on the way down the stairway, tucking the opening of her night robes closed to keep in what little warmth they have inside them.

The sound, she discovers, is humming. Once she reaches the bottom of the stairs, it’s clearer than before, but it carries the same melody as it did earlier; softer, if a little off-rhythm when the pitch changes abruptly. There’s a clearing of the throat, and her hand is just about to touch the knob of the door leading into the kitchen when—

“Morning, Aunt Tuney."

It happens in less than a second. The door is swinging open with a speed that she can’t yet decipher with her weary eyes, and there’s her nephew standing in the doorway with those damn eyes of his looking up at her with all the light in the world. There’s an eerily serene smile gracing his face by the time she composes herself enough that she’s certain she isn’t about to have a shock-induced heart attack.

She has a choppy reprimand doused with venom ready on the tip of her tongue, “Do you have any idea—”

“I made an early breakfast for everyone because I have to go somewhere today,” the boy rambles, words spewing from his mouth faster than her ears have time to register them. All she notices right then is how rude it was of him to interrupt her— “I made pancakes for Dudley and Uncle Vernon’s usual breakfast; the coffee’s all prepped and stuff, just heat up the kettle on the stove. It already has the water in it, don’t worry. I should be back before evening, I’ll get ready on dinner when I get back, 'kay? It shouldn’t take me too long, I don’t think. Guess it just depends on traffic and all that.”

There’s a dull throbbing that’s starting to build up behind her temples when the boy’s prattling is over, and she hears him trotting around her and opening the door to his cupboard while she has her eyes closed to process the information fully.

“Wait,” she sputters, pivoting on the heels of her feet to watch as her nephew delves the upper half of his body into the darkness of his cupboard while rummaging around for something inside. “What makes you think that you’re allowed to leave the house today?”

She’s regarding him with the coldest glare that she can muster when it’s still a whole hour before the sun cracks over the horizon. He looks at her from over his shoulder, and that stupid stupid stupid smile of his is still plastered across his lips as if it's carved into him like a knife to the cutting board.

There’s a slightly wrinkled and weathered letter that he’s holding in his hands when he removes himself from the cupboard now, along with that baseball hat of his that she’d given him on his last birthday and— oh.

It’s his birthday.

“I’m going out to get my supplies for school, and one of the professors from the school is taking me. Somewhere called Diagon Alley or some sort, I dunno. It sounds cool. The Headmaster is nice, too, he said that they have like this whole letter-sending system that uses owls, like they’re homing pigeons! It’s faster than postal, too, I guess.”

Petunia makes a quiet strangled noise, like she’d started to speak but the words decided to shrivel up and die in her throat instead. Her pallor is pallid enough for the boy to notice, but he either pretends not to notice it out of politeness or feigned ignorance. The way his eyes sparkle up with thinly-veiled playfulness at her says otherwise.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with him somewhere, though. And Professor Dumbledore — that’s the Headmaster, by the way, he has nice handwriting like yours — told me that Professor Snape is taking me. He’s supposed to be one of my teachers—”

There’s a coldness seeping into her blood now, and it’s a conflict between her anger and disbelief that are warring over each other in her head for dominance. She’s aware of the way her mouth is parted open, the way her fingers are scratching and shaking against the skin of her neck worriedly, but she does nothing to amend it.

Please, no, no, no, no.

“—at Hogwarts.”

She tells herself that it’s not a breathy groan that leaves her mouth, tells herself that if this were real, real at all, it’d only be in the mindscape of her nightmares—

But the longer she listens to the boy blabber on and on about whatever drivel he has left to tell her makes her drag a hand down her face and sigh. Loudly. Loud enough that it makes the dratted menace snicker to himself behind the mask of his hand quietly to himself. She doesn’t even bother to rebuke him on his behaviour — he’s supposed to know better than showing that kind of attitude, what’s gotten into him? — and instead leads herself into the kitchen to brace herself somewhat against the counter, the platters of food settled on the table to the side going unnoticed.

The boy's leaning against the doorway, that smile having curved into something resembling a grin. There's an abnormal kind of softness in his eyes when he crinkles his eyes at her, though. It looks old, almost; ancient and tired.

It's terrifyingly similar to the gaze of someone else she knows.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Of course, she already knows why he didn't tell Vernon, lord knows how he would react to that piece of news. "Why didn't you tell me?"

It shouldn't be bothering her this much, she knows that, but it does and she doesn't like it. There's that vague sense of what she thinks is betrayal lingering in the back of her mind, and it feels so wrong for her to feel anything but rage and jealousy towards the boy in front of her. But it's there and there's nothing that she can do, say, or feel to change that fact.

He gives her a bland smile.

"I think you already know why, Aunt Tuney."

The old nickname rolls so easily off of his tongue that Petunia has half a mind to wash it out of his mouth with soap. On the other hand, he’s not wrong. And the grin is still there on his face, but it has a different quality to it that’s more solemn, almost. It looks odd along his boyish features, and it’s something that she’d expect to see on someone older— experienced.

And it’s guilt, she knows, that’s filling in her chest. It’s guilt-frustration-remorse. All of it building up, stacking. So when she looks down at her nephew and thinks again, it doesn’t seem so unusual anymore, knowing what she does.

Her mouth opens.

“I better go,” he says instead, and he backs out of the doorway and down the hall, the click of the front door ringing through the house. She doesn’t realize how she’d gotten herself from standing inside the kitchen to standing in the hallway, nor does she remember her legs ever moving from one place to another, but she’s there. He’s turned around again, and his smile is just as bright as it was when she first saw him.

“I’ll see you soon, bye!”

And then he’s gone, the door closed shut, the lock snapping back in place with an echoing click, and the beginnings of the day are dawning through the curtains, light trickling in from the open spaces. When she moves towards the windows and pushes the curtains to the side, the boy’s nowhere in sight.

It’s a lost feeling that consumes her then.

In all of eleven years, she’s never once seen the boy smile in such a way that makes her second guess herself in the short time span of not even five minutes. The cheerfulness he exhibited was so foreign, so new. She knows a genuine smile when she sees one, but when she looks at her nephew, she’s hit with the fact that she hadn’t even known what he looks like when he’s even remotely happy.

The cupboard stares at her from under the stairs, judging.

There’s a chill that crawls up her spine when she looks back.
To be continued...
End Notes:
just a short prologue into this mess.
honey and orange blossoms. by Flooney
He is smaller than he’d expected, with thinning wrists, and bony shoulders that protruded from his flannel shirt. It’s something that makes his stomach turn when he realises the direction that his thoughts are going down, and it’s with every continued second of staring the boy down from the other side of the pub that drives him to finally step in.

The Potter boy was conversing with Quirinus, using wild hand gestures that made the man’s flinches more frequent. The other party was staring at the child as if he was a dragon on the loose and was threatening him in sign language.

“—friends with him? Potions sound interesting… oh, but Defense sounds useful, too, sir! I can’t wait to get my wand, what’s your wand, sir?”

He’s delivering a breathless and effortless spiel by the time he reaches the two, and he makes a move to plant his hand on one of the boy’s shoulders, but recoils when the child turns around abruptly and directs an immediate handshake without preamble.

“Hello!”

Viridian green stares up at him, positively glowing, a smile of pearly white teeth glinting in the corners. Severus hesitates, brow furrowing. Quirinus is wringing his hands together behind the boy, stepping back and into a table by accident. The idiot stumbles before righting himself with a hand grasping onto a nearby chair, and Potter makes himself useful by completely ignoring the man in favour of taking Severus’ hand into his own, shaking fervently.

“You must be Professor Snape,” there’s enthusiasm in his voice, a shaky tremble accompanying it. “Headmaster Dumbledore has told me a lot about you! Well, not really. He just said that you teach Potions, but still! It’s nice to finally meet one of my professors in person rather than by parchment.”

Severus cringes at least two times throughout that vomit of words. The forced physical contact wasn’t appreciated, but he didn’t comment on it other than hiding his hands deeper into the folds of his robes. The fact that Potter was able to discern his identity was a little peculiar, if a bit eerie.

“And how are you so certain that I am who you think I am?” Severus asks.

The boy points towards his robes, just where his hands are hiding inside them, before raising a hand to his face and tapping the side of his nose. “You smell like honey and orange blossoms. And some of your fingers were a little stained.” There’s a moment where he seems to be thinking of anything else to add, and Severus desperately wants to stop him because he’s already said enough to make him alarmed. “Oh, and your hair is a little greasy as well. I dunno.”

He runs a hand down his face and breathes out a sigh. The action is more stressful than relieving.

Potter’s looking at him funny; something of a shaky smile of childish excitement, to one of anxious hesitation. There’s an insistent twitch that’s pulsing under his eye, and a tremble to his shoulders and— oh, Merlin, the horror, was he going to cry?

“You’re observant,” he asserts quickly. While improvised lectures weren’t only a pain to the student withstanding them, but to him as well, it was an effective way of distracting the boy in front of him, if only to escape the possibility of creating a scene with tears involved. “An important asset that is required for your future studies in Hogwarts; ensure that you utilize it wisely.”

He doesn’t know where that hogwash came from, but it accomplished its purpose in diverting the sheen of tears that had been glazing over Potter’s eyes. He’s grateful, if a little nonplussed by the reaction.

The boy hums an affirmative and offers a single nod, words unspoken. And while that may be a little odd, seeing as he’d been a regular chatty cathy prior seconds ago, Severus can’t be certain of it.

Quirinus has apparently made a bolt through the back, no doubt having slipped away during his impromptu — albeit short — monologue, the coward.

“Come along.” Severus says, motioning for the boy to follow by his side. Potter’s quick on his feet like a frog to the pond, rushing to the spot next to him with a different grin on his face. He looks up at him, the baseball cap he’s wearing tilting askew. It’s an unnerving sight, and it makes him pause when he feels something uncomfortable welling up in his chest, gritting his teeth as he pushes through the crowd and to the back.

(He full-heartedly pretends not to notice the way the boy turns around to face the barkeeper — Tom — and waves him goodbye.)

Potter’s reaction to the bricks of the wall parting into an orchestrated archway is an odd one, that’s for sure. At least he thinks so; he’s never been one for personally taking first-years to get their shopping lists done.

While there was anticipation and joy, in came what appeared like recognition and horror. It ended with him having to hold the boy’s shoulders down just to ground him, lest he loses himself into a panic-induced faint and leave Severus with an unresponsive body to carry back to his relatives. And while he’d rather not do the blasted shopping trip at all, he wasn’t too much of a heartless bastard to allow one of his future students — yes, this tiny thing of a child right here — have a near heart attack for his own benefit.

He takes him through the practice of breathing, not paying mind to the tiny hands that clench at his arms desperately. It crosses his mind that there’s most likely grime that’s beginning to stick to the ends of his robes, but it’s gone when he hears the boy’s breaths slowly down and into a more regulated pattern that’s good enough to put him at ease.

There’s a moment where Snape takes a second to stare dumbly at the child who’s hand was resting on his chest, just where his heart was located behind skin and bones.
And then there’s a wheezing laugh that’s spluttered out from Potter’s mouth. He seems surprised by the sound himself, which only makes him laugh harder until he finally coughs violently enough to almost make him gag. He’s quick to shake it off with another one of his grins, and Severus—

Severus is at a loss for words.

Because this child, this fool, this idiot—

“I haven’t done that in years!”

This goddamn Gryffindor has the nerve- the gall- the audacity to look back at him and— he’s grabbed his hand, captured it, really, and he’s dragging him into the streets of Diagon Alley like some overly energised child — which he is — high on sugar.

He staggers on the way, the differing flagstones beneath his feet uneven and unaccounted for.

“What— What are you doing?” To his credit, he manages to pull the child to a full stop by yanking him back, bringing him in closer to hold his shoulders again and glare at him in the eyes, no matter the way he winces at their familiar colour. “You are aware that you have just undergone a panic attack, are you not?”

There’s something in Potter’s eyes that seems to flash at that, but it’s gone within the moment. Severus files that away for later ruminations.

“I know,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s just declared that the sky is blue.

Severus waits.

The boy bounces on the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth, eyes drifting away to the stores and their products and merchandise with a renewed eagerness.

“...that’s it?”

Emerald eyes shoot back to his own, beguiling and guiltless. It makes his hold on the boy loosen for a second before he shakes him once, an indignant yelp and two hands holding onto his arms being the reaction he receives.

“That’s it?! Not only do you seem to have such an arrogant disregard for the overall well-being of yourself, but the fact that you’ve just gone through a panic attack isn’t in the least bit daunting for you, no less worrying?

Potter throws his hands up in front of himself in a defensive stance, “I didn’t say that! I didn’t mean it like that!” It’s said almost petulantly, and it only draws Severus in to eye him down with an iron gaze of stubborn will to prompt the boy to elaborate. It works.

“I just…” he sighs then, as though Severus is the one being problematic. “Can we just go shopping? I promise I won’t do anything like that again.”

Severus takes a moment to breathe, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly before running a hand down his face. It’s still early in the morning, and with the bustling crowd that’s just over the boy’s shoulder, he already feels as though he’s been thoroughly drained of energy.

“That isn’t what I was getting at, Potter.”

“Who cares?” The tone irks him, and he’s just about to open his mouth to say something about it when the boy speaks over him again. “I’m not going to faint if that’s what you’re worried about.”

And that is what he’s worried about, and it’s a difficult enough thing to admit to himself.

Later on, when the boy’s walking alongside him, peering curiously through the windows of the stores they passed with a keen eye, he’s ambivalent about his initial views of the boy close to him. Part of him isn’t sure whether it’s because there’s one side of him that’s consistently comparing the boy to his father, or with the other side interjecting with the damning forest eyes that remind him too much — too much, it’s too much — of the boy’s mother.

He wonders, distantly, what little room that left for the boy’s own independence. It’s close-minded, he knows— has always known.

There are questions; inane ones that remind him an awful lot of Albus’ own elderly babblings whenever he went on a particular tangent about anything. He gives out curt and short answers; single-worded answers if he could manage. The boy spews one question out and then onto another, soaking the information in like a sponge.

He’d be prideful if he was a decent teacher, but he isn’t, so he’s left feeling just annoyed and irritated with the constant onslaught of questions that’s rained down on him, simply ignoring Potter when he couldn’t be bothered to provide him with an answer.

The boy didn’t seem to mind, if anything, Severus had a feeling that the boy knew exactly what it was that he was doing to him, the menace.

And then he said something that made him pause.
“Did you know that sunflower seeds have the ability to strengthen the Boils Potion?”

It’s an out-of-the-blue question that’s enough to throw him off slightly. While it’s all just a simple question, it holds a certain type of knowledge that the boy isn’t even supposed to know. It’s only until students reach their third year (depending on whether or not they decide on keeping Potions as their elective) that he introduces the concepts of fortifying their potions— sunflower seeds being the most commonly used enhancement.

The boy takes his silence as another round of him just ignoring him out of spite and begins to gallop away towards the front doors of Gringotts, unheeding to the warning sign by the doors.

Severus runs.
To be continued...
rememberance and hope. by Flooney
There’s a knitted furrow situated between his brows as he watches Potter walk around the piles of galleons and towards the back of the room.

The boy hadn’t seemed surprised, nor even disturbed at the appearance of Griphook — one of the many hundreds of Goblins that operated all of Gringotts — and had even bowed his head a few times at the creature. While the cart down was disorientating, they’d made it to the vault Potter’s parents had specifically saved for him in record time.

Although, Severus’ nausea was only now subsiding.

“Mr. Potter?” Griphook’s voice was a raggedy sort of sound, one that scraped on the ears like chalk to a board. “Is there something you’re looking for explicitly?”

There’s the sound of the boy rummaging through something in the far corner of the room, something of books and boxes being pushed aside. Severus is just about to confront the boy when he’s suddenly shooting up to his feet and heading back their way, a small ornate box made of polished rosewood with a simple pattern on top in the nook of his arm.

It’s a special kind of smile that’s gracing the boy’s features this time.

“I’ve got what I need,” he tells them, though his eyes are fixated on the box he holds. Then his smile turns sheepish once he looks at the pile of gold and then back at the box in his hands. “Or, uh, maybe not, actually.”

The box is being offered up to Severus before he’s able to process the movement, small hands gripping onto the sides with a delicate carefulness that makes it look as though Potter’s holding a box full of all of his worldly possessions resting inside it— all of which he is asking him, of all people, to hold.

“Can you hold onto this for me, please?”

Severus takes the box on auto-pilot, but he has enough awareness in him to be gentle in taking it into the palms of his hands. The boy takes the pouch Griphook gives him with a small nod of appreciation towards the Goblin before rushing to the pile of galleons and haphazardly shoving whatever he can scoop up in one hand into it.

Looking down at the box now, he examines it more closely, shifting it around in his hands while disregarding the raised eyebrow and sneer coming from the creature next to him.

It’s plain, really. There’s specks of dust and a bit of grime that’s lingering underneath the edges, but other than that, it looks well-preserved for something that’s been buried away beneath all of that clutter in the corner. Clutter that he hadn’t even noticed because of the utter dimness of the room.

The boy comes running back with the pouch in hand, a perturbed expression covering his face as he stares down at the small bag. Severus hands him back the ornate box hurriedly, shrinking it as an afterthought for the boy to stash it away into his pouch before stomping down any remaining curiosity about its contents. Griphook gives a small nod before leading them back to the entrance.

“I don’t know how to count wizarding money,” Potter starts, holding up one of the coins between his index finger and thumb to Severus. “But this looks like it’s made out of real gold— would I be considered as, uh, wealthy?”

“If you’re planning to go on a spontaneous shopping spree for redundant items that you don’t need, then I strongly suggest banishing that thought from your head immediately, Potter.”

The boy quickly recoils and backpedals from the harsh response, rearing back with a quiet, “That’s… not what I meant, sir.” Severus shoots him an incredulous stare, Griphook ignoring the both of them in the hopes of reaching the entrance faster while they trailed behind the creature.

“Then what do you mean, Potter?”

He opens his mouth, takes a second, then closes it thoughtfully. Then he makes a show of pointing to his shoes (weathered with time and speckled with dirt and grime), to his flannel jacket (holes and tears punctured in oddly placed spots), then to his glasses. He nearly trips over his feet as he does this process since they’re still walking, but he recovers within seconds.

Severus frowns the longer he watches, pieces he wished he couldn’t see coming together.

Potter takes that as confusion on his part, making a small spasming gesture in the air to point at his glasses again, telling him, “They’re not the correct prescription.”

When he asks why not, the boy gives him a look that tells him that he thinks the reason is obvious. “My aunt told me it’s too expensive, so we just got them from a charity bin.” Which it is not. The reason is not obvious because it’s a clear sign of negligence by his guardians and god fucking damn it, Petunia.

Griphook actually bows to the boy when they’re on their way out.

A headache blooms behind his temples and no amount of massaging carries it away.




A whirring and buzzing sound erupts from a cupboard under the stairs, the ticking of a neatly polished and preserved pocket watch with an hourglass ingrained on its other half ringing throughout the small, cluttered space. It hangs innocently above a weathered piece of paper with a scribbled drawing of green, all in different shades with no tangible shape or form.

The hands circle backwards, rapid and loud.

It promises change and whispers words of remembrance and hope.




“Oh, oh! Look!” The boy all but jabs a finger towards the front of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with a smile bright as diamonds. “Do you mind if we get some ice cream? I like vanilla, but I don’t mind settling for any other flavour. What flavour do you like?”

Severus drags a hand down the length of his face, exasperation clearer than the glass of a window. The action brings only a smidge of comfort to his person.

“No.”

“Please?”

“I said no,” he hissed.

“Just one?”

Potter.

“I’ll be quiet for the rest of the trip.”

Dear Merlin, the boy was actually trying to haggle with him here.

“Fine.”

“Oh, come on, I— wait, really?” Eyes of emerald sparkle up at him, idiotically hopeful.

No.




She can hear her husband grumble as he makes his way down the staircase, the structure groaning in harsh protest at the man’s weight. It makes her hide a strained wince while she takes a long, heavy sip from her mug, hiding it from view when the man finally stumbles on through the doorway and into the kitchen.

“Morning, love,” she ventured, allowing a gentle smile to grace her features. Vernon turns, the sleep in his eyes evident as he made his way to the chair beside her, settling himself down with a gruff grunt.

“Morning, Pet,” came the murmured reply. He glanced around with squinted eyes, leaning over the dining table as if to peer into the living room before pulling back. “Where’s the boy?”

Petunia swallowed hard at that.

Shaking her head and releasing a stuttering sigh from her lips, she tells him, “He’s gone out, left early when it was still dark out.” And she spots the exact moment when the man’s face reddens, the way the hairs of his moustache bristle with barely contained anger. Anger that, while it might be understandable from a certain viewpoint, is just too much too fast.

“So he’s finally run away, huh?” He lets the question linger in the air with a flourish of his hand before letting it fall down with a loud thump against the wood of the table. “After all this time,” he goes on to say. “Unbelievable.”

Petunia takes her chance to intercept with a firm, “No, Vernon. He hasn’t left us, not yet.” And she sees the irritated look that overtakes his face, but ignores it and continues. “He’s… shopping.”

Vernon pauses visibly, turning in his seat to face her properly, frowning. “Shopping? Shopping for what? You said he’d left before dawn—”

“I know what I said, love. He’s gone to the city; said that someone was picking him up from there and taking him shopping for his supplies for school. He’s… god… Vernon, I…”

A much larger hand envelops her own, and she looks up to see Vernon’s rapidly deteriorating expression of alarm, no longer painted a crimson red, but instead a pale paper white. “You can’t be saying that…”

Petunia nods, eyes glassy.

“They’ve found him.”




“I never knew you were the pistachio type of ice cream person!”

Severus arches an eyebrow, unamused, before lightly pushing the boy back into his seat across from him. “Seeing as I’ve only just recently made your acquaintance a mere two hours ago, not to mention that I am your professor and such topics are greatly unlikely — as well as discouraged — to ever be included in any informative conversation relating between the two of us as teacher and student, it’s clearly understandable that you’d not be aware of my personal preferences. As such, you seem to have the unfortunate penchant of tearing down such barriers with little to no regards.”

When he scoops a small proportion of ice cream from his own cup and looks back at the boy, he’s gifted with a rather entertaining nonplussed look from him. One that, while slightly amusing for the better half of five goddamn seconds, morphs into a terrifyingly endearing toothy grin that has him bordering a tired groan inside.

“You sure do talk a lot when you want to,” the boy says, snickering quietly as if sharing an inside joke with himself. Severus is just about to snap a scathing remark back when Potter full-out laughs at him. Loudly. There are more than a few heads that turn their way at the sudden burst of noise. “You should do it more often! Maybe not when you’re being mean to people, but y’know.”

No, actually. He did not know.
To be continued...
of old things. by Flooney
He finds the boy at last, seated with his legs crossed on the carpet floor, with the book Hogwarts, A History pushed to the front of his face while five others are strewn around him. There’s a muffled muttering coming from within the pages, and Severus has half a mind to shout at him for sneaking off.

As it was, he yanks the scruff of the boy’s shirt back and practically drags him to a more secluded section of the book shop where they were less likely to be seen by prying eyes. He’s on his feet now, which is an improvement, but he’s still got that damn book in his hands with a finger inserted between the pages as a pseudo bookmark.

“You will not leave my sight again,” he warns lowly, voice velvet soft. “Must I remind you to stay with me like an insolent child unable to comprehend simple instructions? Or do I have to hold your hand?!

“I wouldn’t actually mind that, if you’re offering, y'know.”

“Potter!”

The boy brings his hands up in the air as the universal sign of backing down, “Okay!” He shuffles back, away from Severus, absently folding one of the upper corners of the page he has marked down before shifting his eyes to the ground. “Sorry.”

Severus tells himself that it isn’t regret that’s pulling at his heart; he’s spent years, even through childhood, fortifying walls upon various types of barriers around it. Lily may have melted her way through to him way back then, but those were times best long forgotten.

(He remembers being eleven and looking at the world through inked lenses, seeing only black and grey, bad and worse, and never at what could have possibly been something good, something worthy of calling a memory. To be young but experienced in some aspects and none; where memories were tainted with self-loathing and fear.)

(Then came Lily, all roses and colour; colours so vibrant and new, redefining his world in ways he never thought possible before snatching that all back— gone.)

And despite what most of the Hogwarts population thought of him, Severus wasn’t emotionless, he was human.

So he did the next best thing: took his feelings and shoved them down so far they may have been lost forever.




Be strong. Be fierce. Life is more than a small cage.

That is what the animals here say, from the slithering reptiles with the shiny scales, to the hairy creatures that scratch against the metallic wires that keep them prisoners from their ever-craving freedom into the open world.

It is loud and it always reeks of so-many-too-many smells inside this cluttered building that holds all of them. The owl hates it hates it hates it. She tries and tries to stretch her wings far and wide, but the cage restricts them and it makes her wings curl and bend and hurt.

Be strong. Be fierce. Life is more—

The bell that hangs above the door (her escape, their escape, all of them) blares, only adding fuel to the fire of whispers and whimpers from the others. But it isn’t the sound that draws her away from gawking out through the window, it isn’t the quiet chittering of take me, take me, take me please that comes from the fat rat residing in the cage highest to the wall (it’s nearly his time to be thrown to the bin because he is too old, too invisible to the long-legs that enter and leave with one of them).

It is the smell of— of old things and treats and, and—

She turns in her cage to face the opened wires, to face the source of what’s making her feel all jittery with hope and love and—

Harry.

It is a single word that comes unbidden to her mind, a word— a name.

Wild, emerald eyes that are as green as the leaves from the pine trees she remembers once venturing through meet her own large golden ones. They hold light and so much love in them, a love that is so so so powerful that it’s too hard to let go of once you have it in your hands.

He offers out his scrawny little stick-like limb to her, and she lunges, claws sinking as gently as she can manage into the cloth of his feathers. She thinks it’s his feathers, at least. There’s no hurt in his eyes when she looks back at him though, so she takes it that he’s fine.

Be strong. Be fierce.

His eyes make those words all the more significant, but there’s a definitive promise in them that makes her heart — is that what it is? — soar like she’s a newborn all over again.

His touch reminds her of the beak of her mother’s preening back her feathers, with nubbling nuzzles, with soft cuddles. She leans into the stick of his finger, leans into the warmth his body seems to radiate as though he’s lavishing her with gifts that keep on giving.

There’s another long-leg creature that’s standing over this boy— her boy — just over his shoulder. He’s tall and reminds her of dark nights and starry skies, and he looks mean, but smells nice.

Do you really require an owl, Potter?

Her boy doesn’t look back at the other long-leg creature behind him, but he does show his teeth, shiny and happy.

What I require doesn’t really matter here, sir. She’s looking for a family, just like the rest of these animals. And I can offer that. I can offer to make her a part of my family, can’t I?

He strokes the top of her head softly, carefully. The long-leg creature that imitates the dark of night gives a tired sort of sigh.

All right.

Thank you, Professor.

Her boy looks back at her, grin wider and eyes all but full of unadulterated joy that she can’t help but find herself cherishing the expression.

Hello, Hedwig.

She straightens at the name, and the way her heart roars throughout her body makes her shuffle closer along the arm that holds her. It’s something fulfilling, something that makes her feel so utterly complete to hear. She wants to hear him say it again.

Oh? Hedwig? You like that? Yes, hello. Hi. Oh, you haven’t changed at all.

She nips at his fingers affectionately, barely taking notice of the long-leg creature of starry nights that’s talking with the other one standing behind a counter.

Be strong. Be fierce. Life is more than a small cage.




The scent in the air is strong but vague. Remus knows nothing of the reason for why his senses have been going haywire for the past three days; the full moon has passed and he knows that he’s more than capable of mustering enough strength to build himself back up together again.

(He isn’t a small pup anymore, no longer fearful. Just worn-down and so, so tired. The thought of the next full moon makes the bones in his body ache, the muscles under his skin tense.)

Dumbledore’s requested his presence at Hogwarts, most likely the first time in— in— Merlin. He can’t even remember the last time he was able to just sit down and relax with someone. But there’s something else that’s telling him that the Headmaster’s invitation is about something more. And while he doesn’t think that he could possibly handle anything more, he’s curious enough to throw himself into it.

For tea, the letter that one of the Hogwarts school owls had delivered him had said, the script looped in a long-practised manner. Remus knew that it was anything but.

He sniffs the air, the tip of what would have been his snout under the full-force of moonlight tilted up to the sky. And there it is again.

It smells of old things and decay.

But he opens his eyes and all he sees is the starry night sky that looms above.




He stares long and hard at the ceiling above him, scratching bloodied nails along the wall beside him, clenched teeth chattering amongst the coldness of the atmosphere. Whimpers and frenzied cackles from the other inmates overwhelm his hearing, whispers that threaten to eat at the edges of his soul crawling into his ears from the creatures of darkness that saunter aimlessly through the air.

There’s a loud clanging noise where someone’s banging their head against the bars, no doubt coming from one of the more freshly picked idiots that had just gotten dropped into their cell.

Sirius almost laughs— no wait.

He does laugh.

It’s a stupid thing to do; but it’s a thing that almost everyone here has at least attempted once to do, if only to stave off the feeling of cold hands latch onto the last embers of being they have left inside them. But the only thing that it promises is a faster way to disintegrate yourself to ashes, as many have found out by witnessing it being carried out in front of them.

The Dementors — the fucking demons — have been more frenetic as of late, some coming in packs of unwavering floods of terrors that had more than a few inmates dropping dead like flies from too much stress on their bodies. Even Bellatrix had cowered into the corner of her cell, snarling and crying when she watched them ravage the corpses and wander too close into what was pathetically her safe haven.

The bars and magic barriers kept them inside, but it allowed any and all other parties free reign to invade their cells.

He can’t remember what year it is, how long it’s been.

He looks down at his hands, wondering, so very briefly with what little warmth that he still has buried deep inside him, how old Little Harry would be now. Would his small head still fit the palm of his hand? Where was he? Was he—

Sirius clutches the sides of his head and recoils when a pale, grey-ish hand ghosts across the front of his face, turning sharply and curling into himself on the ground.

“GET HIM! GET HIM!”

He’d rip Bella’s throat out the first chance he got when — if — he got out of this hell hole. The hands retreat, thank Merlin, and they melt back into the walls, away from him. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and trembles, biting down on the inside of his cheek hard enough for him to taste copper slipping down his throat.

He’ll get out, one day. Soon.

He won’t let those demons get a hold of the last vestiges of hope he has yet to relinquish, he won’t let them. They’re his and not theirs, never. Never. And he’ll keep trying, he’ll keep living, even if it takes him another decade, another two, another three—

(“I love you, you know that, right? Your Uncle Padfoot loves you so, so much!”)

He’ll live to see his little Prongslet again.
To be continued...
happee birthdae harry. by Flooney
“That’s one beautiful snowy owl you’ve got there, Harry,” Hagrid cooed, wiggling a tempted finger over Hedwig’s beak gently, stroking the feathers of her wings with a large, cupping hand. “Surprised you’ve got her hanging on your shoulder rather than inside her cage.”

Harry chuckles breathlessly at the way the feathered creature nips her beak at the giant’s finger, melting beneath his touch. She’s got her claws gripping onto his shoulder, and while Snape had been vehement about keeping her put in her cage while they were still out and about, he’d managed to mollify the man into letting him keep her out.

“I don’t think she’d like that; her wings must’ve been getting a bit bruised being all cooped up like she was,” he makes a show of spreading one wing open, taking care as to not ruffle it or put strain on it any further than necessary. “Professor Snape brought her for me!”

The man in question glares daggers into the back of Harry’s head, but he steadfastly ignores it in return for eyeing the unassuming white box that Hagrid’s holding in his other hand. There’s a swell in his heart that makes him feel weightless, a wave of nostalgia sweeping over him.

“Really, now? That’s mighty thoughtful of you, Professor.” There’s no undercurrent of sass or sarcasm as the giant says this; it’s genuine, just like everything else he says. He’s all-too-innocent if a bit naive in his lack of wisdom and character of judgement, but Harry loves him in that special place he has in his heart for him.

Hagrid lowers himself down to a kneel, though it doesn’t much change how overwhelming his height really is, Harry appreciates it. He offers up the boxed package, a small bashful smile gracing his features as he makes to open the flap.

Harry can already hear the inevitable face palm and exhausted sigh that comes from Snape behind him when he peers inside.

Happee Birthdae Harry

A birthday cake with rose-coloured frosting decorated with shaky letters in green enters his vision, the spelling errors going straight over his head the longer he stares. Hedwig’s hooting her presumed approval, probably saying something like yes, yes, good, very kind! But he’s too busy trying to keep his leaking tears away from getting onto the cake.

“Oh, Harry, you all right there? I didn’t mean to upset you, lad.”

The cover closes back over the top, and Hagrid’s lowered the box to the floor with his hands hovering around Harry’s face worriedly, settling for patting his back awkwardly. Snape has a hand enclosed on his shoulder, tugging him around a little, likely trying to gauge the reaction he’d given to cause the giant stress.

“I’m okay, I just—” He’s balled up the fabric of his jacket up to swipe away at the wetness staining his cheeks, giving the giant his best smile before launching himself forward and wrapping his small twig-like arms around his torso. Hedwig lets out a startled squawk from being jostled so roughly and abruptly, flapping her wings to escape the embrace and land on Snape’s shoulder.

The man spares her a cursory glance, wincing at the claws that dig through his robes.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. Large, warm hands rest against the flat of his back comfortably. There’s the subtle sensation of Hagrid’s coarse beard tickling the tip of his nose, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it much. When he pulls away, he can tell that his glasses have gone askew by the way his vision falters. Hagrid pushes them lightly back onto his face without prompt, his watery eyes and broad shaky smile coming into view when Harry looks up at him.

“You’re very much welcome, Harry. Happy Birthday, lad.”
To be continued...
End Notes:
so short, oops.
green like an enchanted forest. by Flooney
Remus stares down at his hands, worn from time and littered with scars, and wonders, not for the first time or the last, what the purpose is for his continued existence.

He’s never truly had a real proper grip on his emotions; Sirius had always told him straight to his face that Remus was always so sentimental, so serious and all that ‘annoying stuff’. James had always teased him on it, but it was always in good-natured banter, he knew. But with two of them gone and the other thrown in Azkaban — he still can’t believe it, he doesn’t want to believe it — it leaves him with nothing else but himself.

There are so few details in Remus’ life that aren’t vague or mundane or just downright depressing, and it leaves him sitting there feeling so small and insignificant under the overwhelming analysis of it all. He sees things as it is; how he’s the only standing marauder that’s graduated from Hogwarts and is still free and alive.

(And sometimes that can be all it takes to make him want to settle in the nearest corner and just die.)

But his musings are cut short by the opening of the door to his side; Dumbledore comes ambling in with Fawkes soaring past him and to the perch coloured in a molten gold shade that’s stationed behind his desk.

“Ah, Remus,” the elder wizard begins in a jovial manner, spreading his arms out wide in welcome. “It has been a great many years since I’ve last seen you, just a little over a decade, I should think. Have you been keeping up with those monthly potions I’ve asked Poppy to send you?”

He has, in fact, and it’s difficult to restrain a wane smile when all he can feel for this man at this moment is the immense amount of gratitude (and guilt, always guilt) for his continuous generosity. The Wolfsbane Potions, Remus knew, were all being procured by Severus Snape himself. He’d have to extend his thanks to the man again when he returned home.

Dumbledore’s pleased by the nod he gives, reaching for a bronze tin that sits just to the side by the quills on his desk. He unscrews the lid, plucking something yellow from it before flicking it into his opened mouth before turning and offering Remus a look at what he can see is—

“Lemon drop?” There’s an amused kind of grin that Dumbledore’s sporting when he sees the look that Remus is wearing.

One decade.

He looks up to gauge any other expression than amusement on the Headmaster’s face. He finds none, then sighs and settles back into his chair, wordlessly declining the offer.

One decade and the wizard’s still fixated on lemon drops.

There’s a large part of him that’s wondering how Harry has changed over the years; he’s just gotten out of his first decade of life and isn’t that just amazing? James and Lily would be over the moon, he’s sure— he knows. And in just a few short months, he’ll be walking through these very halls. Young, and alive.

Merlin, he misses him.




The boy had run off again, the stupid idiot, and he’d found him gawking at one of the brooms up on the front display of the Broom Shop, muttering “Blimey,” under his breath with reverence.

He’d steered the boy into Ollivanders by the collar of his shirt, again, only to stop when he heard the boy choking with his hands scratching at his neck. He pulled away almost immediately, hands flying to the boy’s shoulders as he pulled down the front part of his shirt forward to air out the pressure.

The snowy owl squawks in his ear at the jostling from where she's perched upon his shoulder.

Potter, meanwhile, hacked out a loud cough into the palm of his hand that soon twisted into a series of other ones that nearly made him throw up his ice cream.

Severus winced.

He hadn’t meant to pull him that hard.

(That was a lie.)

He hadn’t meant to hurt the child.

“I’m okay,” Potter gasps, thumping a hand against his chest with a sniffle. He gives it a moment to settle before shooting Severus a comical thumbs up, though the grin he tries to draw comes out shaky at best. Severus feels his stomach churn slightly at the sight. “Sorry.”

(That is the boy’s 8th time apologising, Severus notes.)




He knows where his wand resides among the rest on the shelves (Case 77, located between Cases 43, 55, and 68 on the very bottom shelf), because he feels something pulling the tips of his fingertips, feels the way he has to flex them when they begin closing and opening by themselves, as if there’s something he’s supposed to be holding.

But Snape is there, hand grasping his shoulder as if to keep him grounded to the spot.

Ollivander can be seen in the backroom, shuffling boxes that look too heavy to carry for a man of his structure into one pile to the next. Harry reaches up to tap the counter bell, inwardly cursing his height and how his head barely pokes out from above the counter. When he peers back into the backroom, he can see the Wand Maker's back pause and stiffen, slowly lowering the crate he's holding to the side.

"Harry Potter?" It's a reverent whisper, barely a breath, and there's a silent moment where the man tilts his head up to the ceiling.

Behind him, Snape rolls his eyes and parrots Harry's previous actions of ringing the counter bell once more, a tad harder than strictly necessary.

Ollivander startles at the sound, whirling around with his mouth slightly ajar. It's a funny sight, Harry admits, but it doesn't stop him from furrowing his brows at Snape.
He earns an unimpressed look in return.

"My, you've certainly grown over the years; looking much like your father in regards. A very… spirited young lad when he was your age, yes," he folds his hands over each other in front of his chest with the beginnings of a soft smile spreading across his lips, eyes crinkling. "Though your eyes… no, they sparkle with your mother's hope and fiery defiance. Green like an enchanted forest, wouldn't you say Professor Snape?"

Silver eyes flicker up to meet cold obsidian. Snape narrows his eyes through a grimace, holding his head up high as if to look down at the man opposite him.

"Indeed."
To be continued...
a smile of a thousand words. by Flooney
"This?" Ollivander moves to pass on the wand he has between his fingers before quickly backtracking and shoving it back into the box he retrieved it from, gliding a finger along the shelves and picking three new boxes for testing.

Snape runs a hand down his face from where he's sitting, having grown tired of the continued standing in one spot for too long. Though Harry thinks it's more of everything they've done in the past few hours taking its toll on the man. Hedwig's still perched on his shoulder, nipping at strands of black hair every now and then.

Snape's learnt to ignore it rather than fight it.

Harry lets his gaze scour the shop, books and dust that may very well have been present since a decade ago scattered along the shelves or in cluttered piles on the wooden floorboards. There's a multitude of broken lamps with pieces of parchment littered around; some appear to be burnt, which Harry can only assume to be the aftermath of other people testing out their wands only for it to backlash horrendously.

And it's funny— anywhere else, the place would've seemed dull because of its overall lack of colour, lack of vibrancy. But it has its own kind of magic that's sunken into it, its own history. And there's certainly nothing dull in that.

"Harry boy, if you'd please?"

He turns around to come face to face with Ollivander, who's suddenly almost nose-to-nose with him. There's a new wand that he’s brandishing in front of him, pearly white with a thick handle. It makes him recoil when he realises the similarity it has with Voldemort’s own wand, but he takes it in stride and wraps his fingers around the base of it, flicking his wrist experimentally.

Which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the wisest of choices that he’s made today.

It sends a party of bubbling firecrackers hurling towards one of the bookshelves that are situated to the opposite side of the room, knocking over a table lamp that pulls an unlit lantern down with it crashing to the floor.

Harry’s making a face that looks like he’d just swallowed something sour while Snape massages his temples testily. Hedwig, whose continued residence on the Potion Master’s shoulder has now officially become her most favoured perch, hoots as a reasonable contribution to the event that has transpired.

“Ah, no worries,” Ollivander chimes in enthusiastically, holding four new wand cases that he’s presumably conjured out of thin air in front of himself. “We still have plenty of options for you to choose from! Let’s get to it now, shall we?”




“Thank you,” Potter says, eyes soft, voice kind. “For taking me shopping when my relatives couldn't.” There’s a smile of a thousand words that he wears like a gift, words that while left unsaid, got across by expression and expression alone. There’s that same feeling of something chipping away at the walls of Snape’s barriers; it feels like lava, he notes, a lava so hot and burning that it feels like it’s melting him from the inside.

He displays none of its effects. But he doesn’t respond to Potter’s appreciation, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Just pushes the boy through the rest of the street, casts a swift disillusionment charm on the both of them, and then apparates them both to the suburban streets of Privet Drive.

Severus can't help but feel that Potter already knows that his words have gotten through to him.
To be continued...


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