Professor Snape was easily the least liked teacher at Hogwarts. With the way he openly favoured his own house – Slytherin – and positively hated the others, especially Gryffindor. It was common knowledge that he detested Harry and did everything in his power to make Harry’s life a living hell; of all the teachers at Hogwarts, Harry had to get stuck with the one that was most likely to kill him.
Harry threw the letter to the floor and slumped down onto his bed. He grabbed his pillow and gave it a good wallop, savouring the relief it brought.
A thought came to him and he immediately reached for a quill and a spare bit of parchment – he would write to Sirius and explain, and Sirius would be able to come and sort it out.
He tapped the feathered end of the quill quickly against his temple, deciding what to write. He could hear the muffled sounds of the Dursleys waking up around him as his thoughts turned to Dumbledore.
He cursed and threw the quill and parchment to the floor. He had promised; promised not to tell anyone about the plans to move him – and that promise included Sirius. What if his letter was intercepted? What if someone read about the plans to move him? He couldn’t risk it.
He ran his fingers through his trademark mop of messy, black hair. Why was it always him? A week at Hogwarts with the most hated … Harry couldn’t even think of a word that would do the foul bat justice.
He glanced at his clock and saw that an hour had passed. He hissed and gave his trunk a kick, now dreading the evening that was to come.
Hedwig was watching him, her big amber eyes intrigued.
“Sorry girl, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered, as he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room to her cage. “It’s not that bad, right? He’s just got to come get us, take us to Hogwarts, and then we can stay out of his way. We’ll be perfectly happy in the common room.” Harry chuckled weakly and Hedwig tilted her head at the sound. He stuck his hand through the open door of Hedwig’s cage and scratched her gently behind the ear. She hooted contentedly and nipped his finger affectionately as he withdrew his hand.
He looked around at his possessions.
“Better get packing,” he said as he began picking things up and shoving them into his trunk, praying that, by some miracle, it would all fit.
Soon enough Harry was heaving his trunk – full to bursting – down the stairs and into the hallway, which was proving to be a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. He had somehow got it wedged in a corner of the staircase and was now struggling to get it any further. He gave it one enormous push, throwing his whole weight against the side of the stubborn case; he felt it lurch away from him and Harry made a mad grab for it, but too late. It hit the floor with an almighty crash that made Harry grimace.
The kitchen door burst open and out charged his Uncle, his face a classic shade of Dursley purple,
“What on earth do you think you are doing, boy?” spat his Uncle. “We’re trying to eat our breakfast in peaceand you’re out here tearing the place down. What is the meaning of it?” his Uncle finished, a little hysterically.
Harry, now wiping small specks of spittle off his glasses, replied.
“I was just bringing my case down for when Professor Snape arrives.” Harry paused – he just called Snape ‘Professor’ without even meaning to. He grimaced, chastising himself.
“Snape? Who’s this Snape? I thought that nutter with the beard was taking you? Bumble-whatsit-”
“Dumbledore. His name’s Dumbledore,” said Harry, defensively, “and yes, he was coming to get me, but he can’t anymore, so Snape is.”
“Snape?” snapped his Aunt, appearing behind Uncle Vernon. She was wearing a hideously patterned floral dress that made her look like an old, bony curtain that had grown legs.
“Yes, Snape,” nodded Harry, thoroughly fed up of this conversation.
His Aunt’s eyes sparked dangerously and Harry stared at her in confusion; the expression on her face was foreign to Harry – he’d seen her angry plenty of times, of course, but this was different – she looked livid, like Harry had just uttered the most disgusting word in the world.
“What a hideous name,” she hissed, before turning stiffly and disappearing back into the kitchen.
Harry’s eyebrows drew together and he watched his Aunt leave. Meanwhile, his Uncle was still processing the information, his piggy face scrunched up unpleasantly as his brain tried to connect all the dots.
Eventually, he retorted.
“What time’s he getting here? We’re going out for a meal, so don’t you expect us to wait around for –”
“He’s coming at five, so you’ll be fine,” said Harry shortly. Patience wearing thin with his moody Uncle, Harry righted his trunk, pushed it to the side, and headed back upstairs. He heard his Uncle muttering something about “freaks” and “wasting my time” before he shut his bedroom door with a quiet snap.
He let his eyes wander over his now empty bedroom, the only things left for him to take where his Firebolt and Hedwig’s cage, along with Hedwig of course.
He let out a sigh as his stomach rumbled, not wanting to venture downstairs again and face his Aunt or her excuse for a breakfast – a few scraps of dried fruit and seeds if he was lucky. Instead, he headed to the trusty loose floorboard under his bed and pulled out the last of his birthday cake – a present from Mrs Weasley; considering he had received the cake almost a month ago, it was still lusciously moist and tasted superb.
Stuffing the last few tasty morsels into his mouth, he felt the empty feeling in his stomach start to disappear and he glanced out of the window, noting with a faint smile that the sun was still shining – he would escape his last day with the Dursleys by going to the park.
“See you later, Hedwig,” he whispered to his sleeping friend as he grabbed his wand and stuffed it up his sleeve; he wouldn’t use it, of course, but better to be safe than sorry. The way his luck was going he could just imagine Voldemort appearing atop the climbing frame or sliding menacingly down the spiral slide.
A short walk later – and after a quick Voldemort check – Harry was perched lazily on one of the swings, kicking the gravel beneath his feet as he thought about Hogwarts; he missed the castle terribly, along with all of his friends and professors, he’d even go so far as to say he missed Mrs Norris – at least when she was around it meant he was away from the Dursleys.
“What are you doing, Harry? C’mon, we’ve got to go.”
Harry’s head snapped up as a woman’s voice sounded from across the park. She was looking in his direction, her hand beckoning him to come to her.
He looked around in confusion and felt his cheeks start to burn as a young boy, no older than seven, ran past his spot on the swings and towards the woman.
“Please mummy I want to stay,” he whined as he got closer to his mother. She laughed as she ruffled his dusty blonde hair.
“No silly, we can’t stay, we’ve got to go and see Grandma and Grampy, remember?” The little boy – evidently called Harry – looked up at his mum sadly.
“Do I get an ice cream at Grampy’s?” he looked hopeful, all thoughts of the park forgotten.
“Of course,” smiled his mother.
He slipped his small hand into hers and began to skip alongside her, his feet kicking up small dusts of dirt as he went. The woman glanced back, perhaps checking they hadn’t left anything behind. Her eyes fell on Harry and she gave him a polite smile, before turning around and disappearing over the hill.
Harry watched them go glumly, the little boy holding onto his mother’s hand tightly.
He pushed himself gently on the swing as his thoughts drifted to someone he’d not thought about for a while.
His mum.
He missed her terribly, too. Had she ever taken him to the park? Sat him on her knee and swung him gently on the swings until he laughed? Had his father ever taken him down a slide? The two of them careering around the slippery corners before emerging into the sunshine, Lily’s smiling face waiting to greet them. Had they ever eaten ice cream together? His parents were practically strangers to him, he thought, mournfully.
He sighed miserably as he looked up at the sky; the sun had travelled a significant amount across the blue canvas. He should head back to the Dursley’s soon.
He watched a bird, probably a seagull judging by its white colouring, picking at a forgotten sandwich crust; he wondered what a seagull was doing so far from home.
The bird stopped pecking and looked at the old climbing frame that had once been the pride and joy of the park. Harry followed its gaze and felt a sudden cold wash over him – he had the strangest feeling that something was watching him.
Despite the empty frame, he could tell something was over there, and the seagull could too. Harry noted that the sun had disappeared behind a cloud and the air was suddenly a lot cooler. His mind turned to dementors and he gripped his wand tightly, ready to draw it should he need to.
He stood up quickly and began to back away, his nervous steps turning into a hurried scramble as the seagull began to caw and screech, its wings flapping anxiously.
The seagull took to the sky and Harry watched it ascend, wincing as the sun appeared from behind the cloud once more, his hand shooting up to cover his eyes.
As the warmth slapped his skin, he felt the feeling of dread vanish. His grip on his wand loosened slightly and he blinked towards the spot; the climbing frame was just a climbing frame once more.
He let out a shaky sigh and began a hasty journey home, making his way quickly out of the park. The seagull was still visible in the sky overhead, flying around in lazy circles, looking for its companions. He appreciated the company.
Once back at the Dursley’s his nerves had returned to normal, and his empty bedroom was a welcome sight for once. He closed his door and placed his wand absently on his bed. He glanced at his bedside clock and began to blink furiously, his vision blurring.
He placed his hands on his bedframe to steady himself, the rickety metal rods shaking violently under his weight. His legs began to feel heavy before giving way all together. He tumbled to the floor, grasping at his duvet helplessly. He felt his breathing slow as his bedroom tilted dangerously, the floor coming up to meet him and his glasses slipping uselessly from his face.
Someone had turned down the volume of the world, and soon all Harry could hear were his own steady breaths as he lay on the floor.
He felt like he should go to sleep, but fought against his heavy eyelids, afraid of what he might see in the darkness.
He could hear someone whispering.
He moved his head in slow motion, looking for the source of the noise. His vision began to vignette, the blackness creeping in from all sides until he felt himself falling down into the dark, the whispering still ringing in his ears.
Harry stirred; the movement making his head throb painfully.
“Potter.”
A deep voice sounded from far away. It felt familiar but Harry couldn’t quite place it
“Potter, I know you are awake, so would you kindly open your eyes?”
The voice was growing louder in his head, he wanted it to shut up – he was in a relative amount of pain and wanted to go back to the peace and quiet he’d been enjoying before.
“Potter, open your eyes now, or I will be forced to do it for you.”
That voice really was quite annoying. Why couldn’t Harry just stay where he was? He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He heard something that sounded like footsteps near his feet; they were fading away into the distance.
Good, thought Harry, some peace at last.
Harry’s emerald eyes flew open as a large amount of ice-cold water hit him directly in the face, drenching him quite effectively and making him gasp for breath. His head instantly began to pound.
He searched the room frantically for the offender, but found that his glasses had been removed, making everything annoyingly blurry.
As he heaved himself up gingerly onto his elbows, a large, black shape loomed over him, slowly coming into an irritatingly fuzzy focus – Harry wished it wouldn’t.
Long curtains of greasy, black hair fell in front of a pale, sallow face. Dark, obsidian eyes flashed dangerously as Harry made contact with them. Harry wanted to shrink away from the glare as a thin mouth curled into an amused sneer.
Severus Snape, Potions Master, was glaring down at Harry, who was currently sprawled on the floor, his legs tangled in his bedsheets, his hair dripping with water.
Harry caught sight of his glasses, clenched in one of Snape’s pale hands, and began to protest.
“Hey! They’re mine!” Harry’s voice was dry in his throat. He glared vaguely towards Snape, still partially blind; he hoped he was glaring in the right direction.
“Potter, your powers of observation never cease to amaze me,” Snape’s words dripped with sarcasm.
He thrust his hand towards Harry and Harry snatched his glasses out of Snape’s greasy grip, ramming the frames onto his face. Snape’s smirking face snapped into focus and Harry scowled.
“I would have thought even you could understand that glasses need to be in front of your eyes for them to work successfully,” droned Snape, sneering down at Harry, “or do you make a habit of leaving them on the floor?”
“Obviously they fell off my face when I – when I ...”
“When you what, Potter?”
Harry paused, his head still thudding.
“I don’t know what happened,” he murmured, glancing around his room for inspiration. How had he ended up on the floor? A thick fog was circling his head, jumbling his thoughts and hiding any memories that might be useful to him. “I fell down?” he half answered, half asked.
“Clearly,” Snape quirked an eyebrow and continued to stare at him, his lips turned down remorselessly.
Harry clenched his jaw and heaved himself off the floor, using his bed as leverage. He manoeuvred himself into a slightly undignified crouch, perching himself on the edge of his bed. Anything was better than the floor.
“You remember nothing?” pressed Snape, his attention turned to the empty glass he was holding. Wordlessly he tapped it with his wand and it began to fill with water.
“I remember you throwing water in my face,” Harry mumbled to himself, searching for his own wand.
“Since you refused to get off the floor, I felt it necessary,” smirked Snape, holding out the now full glass of water. “Drink.”
Harry stared at the glass.
“What is it?”
“Poison, Mr Potter, I wish to watch you fall down again.”
Harry held back a growl and took the water reluctantly. He took a sip and felt the cool water quench his dried throat. He tried not to gulp down the rest too quickly, but judging by the expression on Snape’s face, he didn’t succeed.
“Thanks,” muttered Harry, placing the empty glass on his bedside cabinet. He pushed himself up off the bed and into a half dignified standing position; he still didn’t match the height of the Potions Professor, but then, who did?
His legs trembled slightly as he stretched out his back. The throbbing in his head was blissfully beginning to fade. Snape was watching Harry closely.
“Stay there, I shall be back shortly.”
With a lot of cloak billowing and dramatic music – the music was in Harry’s head, of course – Snape left the room.
Harry – a Gryffindor and never one to follow the rules – grabbed his wand and immediately went to follow Snape. He noted with some annoyance that Hedwig’s cage was gone, along with his Firebolt.
Wand in hand, Harry crept down the stairs as quietly as he could – years of practice meant he could move through the house practically unnoticed. He could hear Snape’s voice coming from the kitchen, so Harry tiptoed to the door and gently pressed his ear to the wood.
The door flew open instantly and Harry found himself face-to-face, or more accurately, face-to-chest, with the Potions Master once more.
“Still not able to follow the simplest of instructions I see, Mr Potter,” came Snape’s cold drawl.
Realising he had been caught in the act, Harry felt he might as well be honest.
“You were talking to someone, I heard you.”
“Congratulations, Potter, do you want an award?”
“Who was it?” asked Harry, “there’s no one there?” Harry peered around Snape to gaze into the definitely empty kitchen.
“Whom I talk to and how I choose to do it is none of your business, Potter. Now, seeing as you’re no longer sprawled across the floor, can we finally make our way to Hogwarts?”
“Where’s all my stuff? And Hedwig –”
“Your bird, broomstick, and luggage are already up at the school,” interrupted Snape impatiently. “As I said in my letter, Mr Potter, I will not hesitate to leave you behind. You have delayed me long enough. Now let us go.”
Harry felt a hand land tightly on his shoulder. It gripped him like a vice and Harry felt all the breath leave his lungs. He was engulfed in a darkness that felt like he was being squished down a very long, very thin tube, and he didn’t like it at all.