Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Author's Chapter Notes:
Wand information came from the tumblr site, "Wandmore" - with permission.
Real names

He dreamed of his first wand.  How it had sung to him!  How easy it would have been to give into the dream that it represented.  But he couldn’t.  Choosing the easy path was impossible.  

In his dream, it had attacked him after he turned away from him.  And when he had looked back, it had grown to gargantuan sizes until it loomed over him like Dumbledore.  

He awoke with a gasp and fought the urge to cry out.  Pressing the balls of hands to his eyes, he rubbed them until the tears dried, and the dream was nothing more than a dead weight in the pit of his stomach.  

He opened his curtains a hair and took a look out the nearest window.  It was still dark.  He lay back down and curled up in a fetal position.  

Slowly he forced himself to relax, going through each of the muscle groups until he could feel his mind begin to drift.  Without much thought, his thoughts meandered into a long held daydream.

He imagined what the real Potter’s world looked like.  The real Potter would have a room within a home , complete with parents.   Someone who would tuck him in, and someone who would ask him how his day had been.  

His fingers rose to pet the back of his head in a self-soothing motion as he imagined the kind touch of a mother or father.  His other arm went across his chest, and he gave himself a half-hug as he fell deeper into his dreamworld.  

Someone to touch his cheek and pet his hair.  Someone who would know not to scare him with the idea of Voldemort.  Someone to step up and rescue him from the Dursleys.  Someone who would care .

Tears dripped into his ears, but he didn’t mind.  

Potter would have all of that and more, and he wouldn’t appreciate any of it.  

The thought turned his stomach and the hand that had been petting his hair dropped down to cover his mouth, lest he cry aloud.

Petunia’s dullard was no more than an existence, and a paltry one at that.   He didn’t know that there was supposed to be more beyond a cupboard, morebeyond the back of a hand and the sound of a raised voice.  He didn’t know what a full belly felt like or a friendly face looked like.  

He didn’t know .

But the Freak could dream.  The Freak could want.  

And he did.  Gods, did he want.

More tears slipped from tightly closed eyelids.   He was the freak.  So aware of what he didn’t have and what he couldn’t have.  

The dullard could be happy.  Harry the dullard, Harry the dummy, Harry the nothing.  

He wasn’t that.  But he also wasn’t Potter.  He wasn’t the hero.  He wasn’t the prize.

Just the Freak.  And no one loved a Freak.  

“And they shouldn’t be made to,” He whispered to himself, throat full of tears.

That was Potter’s wand there in Ollivander’s shop.  Once he had realised that, it had been easy to let it go.  

Freaks didn’t take what wasn’t theirs.  They had to earn their things.  They had to fight for them.  Nothing was ever easy for a Freak.  

It was how the world worked.  If he knew nothing else, then he at least knew that.  

. . .

Albus was . . . puzzled over Filius’ reaction to Harry’s wand.  Wandlore not exactly being one of his many talents--aside from one particular wand--he had been forced to do some reading that evening to keep from further embarrassing himself the next day.  

He pulled his old copy of, “An Independent Wandmaker's Guide for the Magical World” out of his bookcase and began to rapidly skim it.  

“Australian Blackwood (Acacia melanoxylon) - This wood makes for a remarkably hardy wand.  Able to go through vast amounts of danger, and cast extremely complex and difficult spells over and over. Rather like Fir in other Wandmaker’s lore, Australian Blackwood is considered something of a Survivor’s wand, retaining Acacia’s tendency for subtler magics, alongside a strong desire to survive. Australian Blackwood wands tend to be some of the most battered wands seen, usually due to long years of heavy, regular use.”

“A survivor?”  Albus mused aloud.  “I could see why you gravitated to that wand, my boy.  But what of Malham feathers?  I seem to remember the Malham bird being called a different name,” He murmured, tapping his lips as he thought.

Fawkes trilled from across the room.  

“Yes, I know it’s a fire bird, dear boy.  But what of the other name?”

More trilling.

His eyes narrowed in abrupt focus.  

“Ah, yes!  The Hoyl bird.  You’re quite right, Fawkes.  How silly of me to forget your cousin in Mesopotamia,” He said with an indulgent smile.

Fawkes squawked disgruntledly, and then flipped his tail feathers up as he turned his back on the barmy old wizard.  

Albus snorted and then turned back to his book.  He turned a few more pages before finding what he was looking for.  His eyes narrowed as he read and the grin fell from his lips.

“Wands cored with the feathers of Malham birds have a tendency to select those with some measure of depression, though why has not yet been ascertained. In use, they are graceful casters, and incredibly adept at working with their wixes intent to create something unexpected.”

“I think I see what Filius meant, my dear boy,” Albus murmured to Fawkes.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as Fawkes flew over to perch on the back of his chair.  A mournful trill made him turn toward his phoenix and sigh.  

“I do plan to keep an eye on him, of course, Fawkes,” He said, stroking his friend’s feathers gently.  

Fawkes trilled a question and he shook his head.  

“I doubt Minerva will be much help in this.  Harry needs someone a bit more reactive.”

Fawkes chirped and then began kneading his beard a bit too forcefully.

“Ow!  Fine then!  He needs someone more proactive!  Now get off me,” He huffed, pulling himself up to a stand.  “I am going to bed, and you are going to let me,” He announced, looking Fawkes in the eye with a serious expression.  

Another trill.

“Oh, very well.  I’ll go to bed after I feed you, but no later!  I am getting a bit old for this, don’t you think?  One of these days you are going to have to learn how to find food for yourself.”

. . .

The next day was hell on Harry’s nerves.

He quickly ditched the other Ravenclaw first years, even Ron, who spent most of breakfast trying to start a conversation with him.

Getting to classes wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been alone.  Unfortunately for him, Potter was a big deal and they all seemed to expect his behavior to follow.  The portraits could give him directions, but they couldn’t make the other students hush or stop trying to touch him.  Thankfully, he finally found the DADA classroom and slipped into the back, on the side that was closest to the exit.  

He had guessed--rightly--that the other Ravenclaws would be eager to sit at the front of the room, and for the most part he was left alone by his housemates as they trickled in.

Ron, of course, was late, and barely made it into the room before the bell.   

A round faced boy with a Gryffindor tie, who had arrived only seconds before him, was slowly drifting in the direction of the open seat next to him.

“Is this seat taken?”  The boy asked him in a tremulous voice, blinking wet eyed at him.

“Sit,” He offered, waving his hand at the seat.  

In front of them, Ron pouted and flopped into an open chair near the front.

“What’s your name?”  He asked softly, keeping his eyes firmly on the odd looking man now standing in front of the classroom.

“L-L-Longbottom,” The other boy stuttered.

“What’s your given name?”  He pressed, not caring if it was polite or not.

“Neville,” He whispered, looking terrified when the man-- Quirrell --stared directly at them with a look of warning.

He waited until Quirrell turned to look at the other side of the classroom--mostly Gryffindors--before speaking again.

“S’nice to meet you,” He said, offering Neville a hand.  

Neville’s hand was warm and sweaty, but his handshake was firm, and he felt his estimation of the other boy rise slightly.

“And you’re Potter, right?”  

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  

“Technically.”

“Harry?”  Neville tried again.

“Technically.”

“What do you call yourself?”  Neville asked, half-pleadingly.

“Nobody,” He answered with a shrug, carefully not looking at the other boy.  

A pause, as they scrambled to take the notes that Quirrell was putting onto the chalkboard.

“That’s . . . that’s my real name too,” Neville whispered hesitantly.

He blinked hard and looked at the other boy.  

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Neville’s chin quivered slightly.  “Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m sure of.”

He nodded, maybe a bit too quickly, and swallowed hard.  

“Even nicer to meet you then, I guess,” He said, patting Neville’s shoulder gently.

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  

Chapter End Notes:
Snape coming soon, I swear!

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