“Aunt Petunia let me pick out the bows,” Harriet mentioned without turning around to motion at the string of excessively glittery red bows that lined the front door. He heeded them little mind and silently opened the door with one hand, balancing the girl in the other arm.
Continued…
The inside looked much like the outside; unintentionally gaudy and alarmingly ordinary. He set down the child, lingering until he was sure that she wouldn’t keel over.
She removed her shoes and pulled off her sweater and blazer to take everything to the hallway closet, where she shoved the items to the very back. She turned back to him, left in an equally shoddy looking white button down that looked as if it could fit a man of his size into it as opposed to a girl of hers. She had folded up the sleeves at least thrice just so they would only just end above her hands.
Finished with the task, she looked around the home, unsure of what she was to do now.
“Go sit in the living room,” he instructed. She hesitated at the threshold of the living room for only a moment before carefully making her way to sit on the couch. Severus followed behind, not bothering to take his winter clothes off. They were entirely dry anyways.
Harriet ran a hand over the couch’s upholstery as if she had only experienced it for the first time. Severus couldn’t help but ask, “Why were you sent home early?”
“I didn’t get sent home, I asked to go home,” Harriet replied, adjusting her damp sleeves so that they covered her hands, a habit it would seem.
“Was school not worth your precious time?” the Potion’s Master scoffed. He took in the state of her hands and he felt his annoyance get shadowed by concern and he felt the words leave his mouth before he could think of them, “Why are you wet?”
“My cousin Dudley and his friends were chasing me across the field,” she explained vaguely, “I tripped and fell into the ditch and I stayed under there until they left. By the time they left, the bell had gone off and I was covered in snow.”
“Why were they chasing you?” Snape asked.
“Dudley’s friend Piers dared him to cut off a piece of my hair so he started running after me with scissors,” she explained, “But Dudley is… he isn’t the fastest, he’s kind of big, so his friends were trying to help him.”
She was staring at the Christmas tree next to the windowsill as she spoke, eyes trailing across the never-ending piles of presents that lined the ground and the fireplace that Severus somehow knew were not meant for her. Her jaw was clenched in frustration more than sadness, and yet she spoke as if she were speaking on the weather and not on the brutal harassment she was facing at the hands of her cousin.
“Why did your teacher hit you if your cousin was the instigator?” indicating towards her frail hands, eyeing the layers of injuries that were inflicted upon them by someone who had forgotten the virtues of restraint.
“I… was late to class so I got 10 lashes and I made a mess because I was dirty so I got 10 more. So, I got 20 altogether,” she responded, with a hint of pride only when she explained the math of her abuse, “I was troublesome and then I didn’t say sorry.”
“Did she not ask why you were late and dirty?”
“No, she didn’t ask,” she said, picking at the peeling skin on one of her hands casually, “She gave me the lashes and then she made me stand in the corner for a long time and when my time was done, I didn’t want to be there anymore. I asked if I could go home because I was feeling sick, and Mrs. Martin said that it would be good riddance so I… just…I don’t think Mrs. Martin likes me very much.”
The silence aired in the room for what seemed to be forever as Severus held back the desire to hex “Mrs. Martin” straight into the cells of Azkaban. Instead, holding in a groan, the man kneeled down on one knee in front of her, forcing her to shuffle back from her position on the couch in surprise, “What are you…”
Severus did not allow her a chance to continue as he ruffled through his bottomless pockets, wincing as he felt some things get knocked over, though continued his search until he palmed what he was looking for and pulled it out: his healing kit. She looked at the sizable bag curiously, before letting her eyes drift to his pocket, clearly questioning where he could have possibly stored that bag though he did not provide an explanation.
“Your hands,” he demanded dryly, which she presented readily and with too much trust for someone she had just met less than one hour ago.
She didn’t seem the slightest bit scared of him, despite presenting her with glares and remarks that would have sent even his seventh-year students spiralling into a stay at St. Mungo’s. Severus knew what he looked like. Most days, it was a blessing to know that his batlike persona would defend him from unwelcome interaction but this seven-year-old seemed to have lost any sense of self-preservation and readily interacted with him instead of cowering away in fear. He could only imagine what would elicit a fearful response from her, if not him. Her perpetual demeanour of nervousness seemed only to be her steeling for the low likelihood that he would somehow make her injuries worse but was trusting of him regardless.
“These cuts need to be treated,” he determined.
He took both of her hands into his with the utmost caution, holding them up as he silently made a list of what he would need. Her arm brushed his coat as he pulled her closer, her tired eyes widening slightly as she realized something. One of her hands immediately left his hold and went to his shoulder in wonderment. As much as Severus wanted to shrug it away, he stilled himself while the small force got more excited as she confirmed her realization.
“I couldn’t feel it outside but… you’re dry,” she noted wondrously, a small, eager hand running over the wool of his coat, “How are you still dry?”
“You ask quite a few questions, Potter,” Severus remarked, not looking up from her injured hand. They were blue again, and the cuts were again an aggravated purple, but she seemed unperturbed by it.
She instantly pulled her hand away from its position on his shoulder, rolling it into a tight fist; a position he could imagine would extremely aggravate her injuries (and a brief flash of dread elicited the thought that perhaps that was the point), “I’m sorry. I can stop asking. I don’t know why I thought it was okay,” she said glumly. His long, spindly fingers ran over her tightly wound ones, encouraging her to stop, though she did not seem to notice in favour of tending to her anxiety around supposedly doing something wrong by simply being curious.
“I simply stated that you had many questions, I did not demand you stop asking. Though I will reserve to answer only what I choose.”
He could feel the fingers relax at his statement and when she spoke, it seemed lighter, if marginally so as they were returned to match the other one in his palm, “Right. So how did you stay so dry? And that pouch, where did it come from?”
Severus rolled his eyes, pulling out a small vial of wound-cleaning potion and dittany paste from his healing supplies. Harriet took in the bright, glittering purple of the potion with interest.
A penchant for glitter it would seem. Severus noted, remembering her choice of Christmas decoration outside.
“I don’t suppose you would believe me if I said magic,” he pitched sarcastically, ruffling around his pouch for gauze. Once he found some, he poured the wound-cleaner on it, murmuring a quick warning of it stinging before running it over the cuts whilst ignoring her half-hearted yelp in protest.
The entire atmosphere of the room darkened at Severus’ remark, “Don’t say that word,” she warned seriously, the stinging of the potion immediately forgotten. Severus paused his treatment at her reaction.
Her face looked grim and pale at the same time. Severus raised a brow at her demeanour, wordlessly waiting for her to elaborate yet when she failed to, he finally asked, “Why not?”
“That’s only for freaks and we don’t welcome them here,” she stated unsurely, though they didn’t seem to be her own thoughts. If Severus didn’t know any better, she was merely reciting something that she must have heard many times before. As much as Severus wished to contest her with angry rhetoric, he supposed there was a better way to address the words that so clearly were not hers.
“And who told you that?” he drawled. He ignored her whimper as he ran the potion over a particularly large cut on the back of her wrist. He gave her a moment to catch her breath before he continued his treatment, surprised that she maintained as much composure as she was.
“My Aunt Petunia and my Uncle Vernon,” she answered, “they say that my parents died because they were freaks, and that if I don’t want to join them then I should keep my freakishness to myself.”
“Your parents did not die because they were freaks,” Severus scowled. Harriet’s eyes snapped up to him in question but a look of warning from him must have been enough to let her know that this was one of the things that she was not to ask about it. She immediately shrunk away from her line of questioning; eyes apologetic as she realized that she probably hit a nerve. In an attempt to shift the conversation away from where it was heading, Severus wracked his brain for something to say.
“Besides,” he remarked in a hushed tone, “I am quite alright with being a freak if it means being nothing like that aunt of yours.”
He put down the potion and unscrewing the dittany tube with one hand as the other one occupied the both of hers. It was silent for a moment before she let out a single laugh, bright and jubilant, allowing what he could only assume was a rare smile to grace her face before she covered it behind her mane.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he glowered.
Despite the harsh words, Severus used gentle, skilled hands to dab the dittany over then wounds, pulling up her sweater to swipe some of it on her forearm, pointedly stopping at her scrawny elbow because he refused to see how far they go, because ignorance is bliss. The child leaned back on the couch, letting him work as he pleased.
“Where are you from?” she asked, closing her eyes to avoid making a noise at the stinging of the paste as it worked to close up her wounds. Tucking her legs underneath her, she fell onto the arm of the couch, opening a single eye to look up him and waiting for an answer.
“I come from a school,” he answered vaguely as he rubbed the paste into the last of her wounds; a small, infected one on the end of her elbow.
“You live at a school?” she started, opening one confused eye before realization dawned her face, “It must be a boarding school.”
Severus nodded, “Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
“My Uncle Vernon wants to send me to a boarding school for troubled children,” she murmured, somewhat upset, “but I think that I’m too small to go now, so I have to wait until I’m older.”
“Unfortunately, your uncle may be disappointed. When you come of age, I will have the displeasure of seeing you at Hogwarts. Your name has been on the list since the day you were born,” he whispered to match the new atmosphere of the room.
Her head immediately shot up, both eyes wide and Severus had to lean away slightly to avoid getting hit in the head, “I get to go?”
“Unfortunately,” he agreed dryly, “When you turn 11.”
“I get to go,” she repeated, ignorant of his contempt at the notion, “I get to be a wizard.”
“A witch, you imbecile,” he grumbled, “And you already are one, you will just get to learn how to control your magic,” she flinched at the word, but he ignored it.
“What do you teach?” she inquired, settling back further into the couch hesitantly as if this were her first time sitting on it.
She seemed to have latched onto the idea of magic rather quickly, Severus was almost impressed. Still, Severus was becoming wearisome of all the questions, but he maintained his composure and rattled off impatiently, “Potions,” he motioned towards the vials lying next to him, hoping that the dismissiveness in his voice carried.
Though, apparently not.
“Do you have a wand?” He monitored the arm, satisfied as the welts started to heal themselves before looking up at her to nod briefly and dropping her hands as his task came to an end.
“Would you show me mag-” she started, before bristling at the forbidden word, “Would you use your wand? Please?”
Contemplating it for a second, Severus almost said no and announcing his leave. However, when she stared at him with those wide, green eyes, he felt himself reaching for his wand before he could even think to stop. Allowing her a moment to regard it, he pointed it in her direction. Her eyes in alarm before they screwed shut and she moved to cover her face, as if anticipating a blow. Undeterred, the potions master watched as the tendrils of coloured magic took form from the tip of his wand and wandered towards the small girl. He saw her crack open and gasp as she realized the harmless nature of the magic. Her eyes widened as the soft yellow magic took form of a herd of safari animals, which lazily circled her.
Nudging her arm until it was parallel to the floor, he continued manipulating the magic into the form of a giraffe to walk along the skinny forearm noting intently as she took her other hand to lightly run over it and letting out a weak but delighted laugh as it dissipated into a cloud of glitter before reforming and seemingly huffed at her. Her green eyes then wandered to the lion and her cub as they floated around her rolling around in invisible grass and as a several birds floated around her head.
“Magic is so pretty” she murmured, no longer tense as she voiced the previously forbidden word while a rhino stood in her small, injured palm. She quietly nudged it, the action prompting it to continue its lethargic run along her pale forearm before it came into contact with a galloping gazelle, and both dissipated into a bout of glitter. She ran one of her hands along her healed arms, marvelling as all that was left was the worst of her bruises as all of the cuts had faded away, not even a scar to indicate that they were ever even there.
Severus watched her as she preoccupied herself with the display, looking at her frostbitten, bleeding hands and baggy, damp clothing, out of place in the picturesque suburban living room. The same clothes which he knew hid a plethora of additional injuries which he was too unwilling to take a look at. He looked at her, taking in her scuffed shoes as well as her frizzy, roughly chopped hair and he knew the signs when he saw it.
“How can Aunt Petunia think it’s bad when this is what it is?”
Severus eyed her famous scar, knowing just how bad magic can be though choosing not to bring it up in this moment.
“I accidentally do freaky things sometimes,” she admitted distractedly, “I don’t mean to but I can do things that I know others can’t do,” she seemed to realize what she was saying and immediately stopped, opting to wordlessly focus on the animals that Severus was channeling instead.
He suddenly understood why she wasn’t surprised; while she was seemingly forbidden from mentioning magic, it wasn’t at all a new idea to her for she had been using it, albeit accidentally, for quite a while now. As the illusion disappeared, he watched her hand curl around the last of the glitter with her mouth twisted in a small, sad smile as her eyes met his, “you brought me home. Do you have to go now?”
Severus opened his mouth to confirm but the front door opened before he could. Harriet tensed and she promptly sprung off of the couch, standing with her now-healed hands wringing anxiously in front of her as she let her hair curtain her face, concealing him to discerning what exact she was feeling in that moment. As she did, Severus glanced down at her by his side, catching sight of the back of her neck. From under the collar of her shirt, he could see a single red lash peeking out from where she had made clear efforts to conceal it with her blazer and Severus suddenly felt sick.
“Girl!” Severus heard her stern, loud voice before he could witness her withered face. Tuney only briefly glanced at the child before her face screwed into fury at her childhood enemy, “You. I never said you could enter my house.”
“Hello to you too, Tuney,” Severus started, catching Harriet’s confusion from the corner of his eye though she remained silent, “I see suburbia has failed to suit you.”
“Shut up, Severus,” she snarled viciously. She then turned back to Harriet, her demeanour stiff as she addressed the child though this time she included an inflection of more contained disdain, “You’re lucky I didn’t let you rot at school. You will find a way to clean up in there or Vernon will be more than happy to show you the consequences,” she told her coldly, referring to the specks of melted snow she had unintentionally left all over the couch and floor.
Petunia’s hand was held to her side, hidden in a dark brown leather glove which matched the shade of her fur lined parka near perfectly, making her look like a large bear rug. Her other hand clutched a set of shopping bags, giving away where the woman was when she claimed that she was supposedly unavailable to pick up the child from school.
Harriet winced uncomfortably as she looked back at the mess but nodded and whispered obediently, maintaining her composure through her shaky response, “Yes, Aunt Petunia.”
“She would be heartbroken if she saw the way you treated her daughter,” he remarked. Her face screwed into agony and sheer fury at his meaningful implication.
“You do not get to say that to me, traitor. You don’t,” she snarled in contained rage. She almost took a step towards them, pausing only when Harriet flinched, and Severus made the point to take a small step in front of the child before turning back to the older woman in warning. Harriet was trembling more violently now, Severus could hear her breath pick up as the atmosphere of the room became sinister, “you don’t.”
They glared at each other for a long moment of tension before she finally broke the connection. Not giving Harriet or Severus another word, the older woman whirled around and silently made her way up the stairs, out of sight, not pausing to rid herself of her ridiculous winter attire. As she did, she gave the cupboard under the stairs a brief look and alarm brushed her face only briefly before she let indifference take over again. Harriet kept her head down as she went, Severus on the other hand maintained his glare on her form until she disappeared. It took a moment for Harriet’s breathing to return to normal, but she did not look any less scared.
Something about his demeanour must have indicated that the child not ask what that was about because when Harriet leaned back to look at the much taller man again she repeated instead, “Do you have to go now?”
“I do,” he acquiesced, ignoring the part of him that screamed at him to not leave her alone here again.
His only job was to get her home, he reminded himself.
Harriet nodded, unsurprised, and watched as he took a few steps back, not a word spoken between them.
Regarding him for a moment, she finally spoke quietly, “will you remember my name?”
Severus nodded confused as she continued, “I don’t get to hear it very often. No one ever calls me by my name… so, will you?”
Finally understanding, he ignored the pit in his stomach and waved a hand carelessly as he scoffed, “As if anyone could forget the great Harriet Potter.”
She frowned at that, “I am not the great anything.”
“One day, you will come to realize what it means,” he told her, placing his wand in front of him. He hesitated for a moment, staring pointedly at the collar of her shirt.
He did what he needed to do; he got her back to her residence in on piece as he was required to. However, something about the desolate look on her face reminded him of what Dumbledore had suggested before he left, and he had readily grimaced at the idea of.
“If you need something… anything,” he started, clearing his throat, “where I come from, owls are trained to relay messages. If you write a letter with my name on the front and leave it under the mat on the front porch, it will reach me.”
“Can I write to you tomorrow?” she posed. He rolled his eyes but nodded. He cast a quick drying spell on her clothing, followed by a warming charm which evoked a sigh of pleasure, before deciding to clear up the dirtied carpet and sofa also. He tried not to look much into a sigh of relief that was emitted from the girl at the now-clean furniture.
She hesitantly reached out a hand, almost letting it grasp onto his before she paused and pulled away, looking apologetic, “I- thank you. For everything.”
“Goodbye, Potter,” he called, releasing a breath he did not know he was holding.
“Goodbye, Professor Snape,” she replied softly and the last thing he saw before he apparated to Arabella Figg’s home was her face turning away as he had apparated away, looking so incredibly sad.