He looked to Parcae, ready for the next installment. He was now prepared to accept this as a better alternative, deciding to swallow his pride where the Slytherins were concerned. If Sirius could get over Snape, then why couldn’t he?
She raised her eyebrows in question, and he realised she was asking what he wanted to see next.
“Malfoy’s mother said I’d have to be trained, even at that age…”
Harry, six years old, was wrestled to the ground by a large black dog. They rolled in the grass, loud giggles escaping him in bursts. The dog barked a few times and bounced around him, then went in for the kill. Mercilessly, he nuzzled all the boy’s ticklish spots, never letting him recover. “Black, really,” Snape admonished from the deck chair. “He’ll get a stomach ache if you don’t let him breathe.” The big black dog morphed into a tall man with hair just as shaggy. “Aw, c’mon, Snape, he likes it!” Severus ingored the plea. “Harry? Let’s show Siruis what you’ve learnt.” “Okay!” Harry crowed. He loved this part. Every Saturday, Sirius would come and play, and then he would show him the different things he’d done with Daddy. Today’s trick was one they’d been working on for months. He stood up, motioned for his godfather to stay back, and scrunched up his face in the most adorable expression of concentration Sirius had ever seen. Sirius’ smile competely dropped from his face, however, when he saw a tiger cub sitting where his godson had been. “Merlin,” he breathed, glancing at Snape. The other man nodded slowly. “He’s six,” Sirius croaked, “how on earth has he manged to become an Animagus at six?” “Wait.” He turned back to the tiger cub, who was jumping up and playfully batting at Sirius’ hair where it swung past his chin. “Harry,” Snape called, and the cub bounded a few feet towards his father. “The other now.” The cub stopped and sat still for a minute. Then a few seconds later he was gone. Sirius looked around, and almost stood but Severus stopped him. “Stop, he’ll come to you.” Sure enough, a small black snake edged its way towards Siruis, hissing. The man, even a little scared, held completely still as the snake wound its way up his arm and onto his shoulders, then down his other arm. A second later a very cheeky giggle was heard from the grass, and Harry leapt back into his godfather’s arms. “Didja see, Siri? Didja see me? I was a tiger,” he made a growly face, “and then a black m- a, a black m…” he trailed off, looking at Severus. “Mamba, Harry.” “Mamba. Now I can play with Padfoot an’ Moony!” “You won’t be playing with Moony for a few years, young man,” Severus said firmly. “It’s afternoon tea time. Go and wash up.” The boy sprang up and dashed into the house. Severus walked up to Sirius and offered him a hand up off the ground. He was still in shock. “Two forms, Sev? Two? There’ve only been three people in history known to have two forms. And none of them could change between them without returning to human.” “Why does it always surprise you when he does great things? We all knew he’d have amazing power.” “He’s my little Harry, James’ boy.” At Severus’ glare, he held up his hands. “I know, sorry, your boy. But I knew him as a Potter for a year and a half… and that’s a while ago now… but I just…” He looked down helplessly. “I guess I always saw the four of us together, all our kids rough-housing on the grass and being worried about skinned knees and falls from brooms.” Severus merely nodded. Another thought struck Sirius. “You do know how big black mambas get?” Severus chuckled. “Yes, I do.”
Harry sat back, thinking. So he wasn’t insane. Every now and then, during his life, he’d felt like he was … moving through molasses, like his mind was telling his body to do things it wasn’t capable of. As if he had a potential that couldn’t be reached, even though his subconscious knew he should be able.
If he had been trained properly, he would be able to tap into that power that the prophecy was talking about. He thought the bedtime story was disturbingly cute, especially coming from one as acerbic as the professor.
He wondered how the story had evolved over time. Snape had told Sirius about gradually changing the details… When did he know? When did he fully realise what it meant?
“How did they tell me about the prophecy?”
She paused before answering. “It was hard for them, Harry. You know what it’s like to bear the information yourself, imagine knowing you must tell a child this, taking away their innocence long before it should be lost.”
He nodded, appreciating the struggle it must have been for them.
“Whenever you asked why you had to train more that Draco, you were told ‘because you have a special job to do’. This answer, as you got older, changed to ‘you are the only one who can do it’. Severus added more details to the story he told you at night, each time your young mind drew a parallel to it and asked questions, like the fact that you had two fathers.”
“You’d also been told the story of your mother. That she and the ‘nice man’ had been taken away by Voldemort. The details of this story also grew, until you were around eight, and the two stories had compelely merged to become, as Draco called you, ‘Angel Harry’. Eventually, just before your tenth birthday, they filled in the blanks, explaining how serious it was and what the prophecy really meant.”
He knew very well what it meant, and had no intention of getting into it now. He wanted to see something completely unrelated to his fate. “I don’t suppose I’m any good at Potions, given who my father is?”
Snape glanced at the time. “Harry, are you finished?” “Almost, Dad. There’s one step left,” he answered, stirring his cauldron anti-clockwise and counting the strokes. “There,” he said triumphantly when it turned from off-white to yellow and chalky. “All done.” He waited for his father’s inspection and interrogation. “Why must you stir fifteen times and not eighteen like the other potions in its class?” “Because the dragonfly wings will break down the chemicals in the elm sap too much.” “And why is that bad?” “Really, Dad,” Harry smirked, “That’s a first-year question!” Snape narrowed his eyes. “Therefore, you should be able to answer it correctly and succinctly, despite the fact that you are not yet in first year.” Harry slouched and answered with the air of one humouring a doddering aunt. “Elm sap is the active ingredient in the potion. The chemical compounds need to be separated just enough for the armadillo bile to react with the proteins in the sap, but not enough for the crushed scarabs to make it acidic. It is therefore balanced just between four and five on the pH scale,” he recited, clearly bored with its simplicity. Snape nodded, indicating he was correct. He was never given more than that, but a wrong answer would have him scrubbing the benchtops for a week. “An adequate attempt, I suppose, Potter,” came a drawl from the doorway. “Malfoy! When did you get here?” The blond’s ‘public face’ dropped and he shifted off the door frame, beckoning to his friend. “Just now. C’mon, got something to show you!” and he dashed off, with Harry on his heels. “Must you let them run in the house?” Draco’s mother admonished gently, walking up to Snape as he greeted her with a kiss to her hand. “They’re eight-year-old boys, Cissa. Must you let him call my son ‘Potter’?” She smiled. “You know he only does it to annoy you. What will they be doing today, Severus?” “We’ll work on Occlumency and Legillimency.” She nodded her approval. “Draco brought Harry something,” she began with a warning note in her voice. “I’ll bet he did,” Severus muttered. “What is it this time?” “Some sort of relic from Lucius’ study. But,” she stopped him before he could yell at her or run to the boys, “it’s been checked. The Aurors went over that room thoroughly, as you know.” “Very well,” he said, still not happy. “But I will be inspecting it myself.” “Of that I had no doubt.”
Harry sat back, amazed at the simple but fundamental difference it was for him to be good – really good – at potions. His smile faded as he thought back over it.
“Why did Dra-Malfoy call me ‘Potter’? I thought I was Harry Snape in this…” he gestured in an attempt to name it, “there.”
“You were a Potter for over a year, before Voldemort marked you. People know that the famous and powerful Harry Snape was once called ‘Potter’, which is the name they use to recite the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived. They also know that you were retrieved by your true father after the incident, who changed your name to his.”
She smiled conspiritorially. “I think the two of you love stirring up the rivalry that your father and godfather share from their schooldays. Draco calls you that to fan the flame.”
Harry closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like. Family rivalry. To have someone close enough to know how to push your buttons. Sort of like himself with Ron and Hermione, he guessed, but moreso. He tried to put his finger on what it was, the difference between friends and family, but couldn’t quite grasp the idea.
What he and Dudley had shared was indefinable. It wasn’t really fighting, as that suggested momentary disorder within a caring relationship, as well as two equal participants. They were antagonistic, but Harry rarely spared the effort to care, only escaping when necessary, and occasionally teasing the lump with comments that went way over his head, a rather pointless exercise.
He’d been stunned, on several occasions, watching Ron and his brothers almost tear each other limb from limb, then twenty minutes later pass each other their favourite food along the dinner table. That the twins would prank their mother as much as Percy. How exactly that worked, he hadn’t a clue.
He wanted to know.
“Do Malfoy and I ever fight?”
She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “All the time, whenever you weren’t terrorising or conspiring against your parents.”
He smiled. He would have hated to give up sparring with Malfoy. It was almost as much a part of him as his friendship with other Gryffindors.
“So I grow up with Malfoy, learning all sorts of cool stuff, training.. and then we go to Hogwarts, right?” Struck by a sudden horrifying thought, he said again, desperately, “Right?”