In the weeks that followed, Severus Snape saw rather more of the Potter spawn than he would have liked.

For some reason unbeknownst to the potions master, the boy had formed some sort of strange attachment to him. Whilst the other first years practically shook in his presence, Potter did not seem to in the least bit frightened of him. In fact, the child frequently sought his company.

Every Friday, as the professor was packing away and preparing for the weekend, the little brat appeared at his classroom door. Snape’s scholastic support, it would seem, had begun to stretch beyond that of the potion’s world, and he had somehow found himself helping with Transfiguration, Herbology and even Defence Against the Dark Arts assignments.

Those Friday evenings consisted of Severus’ guidance around whatever piece of work the boy had brought with him, followed by the scratching sound of the tip of Potter’s quill against the parchment. Aside from this, the two often found themselves sitting in comfortable silence, Severus attending to his own work whilst the young Gryffindor focused on his assignments, his handwriting much improved since the time he had first attended.

Often, the boy would be so engrossed in the latest assignment that time would slip away from them and dinner in the Great Hall would be missed. On such occasions, Severus found himself calling for one of the elves from Hogwarts kitchens, who would promptly see to it that the boy was fed, thus ensuring that he did not find himself in front of the school board on charges of starving the scrawny eleven year old.

Of course, the boy didn’t need much help when it came to getting into scrapes. He’d nearly killed himself during his first week, hopping aboard a broom he barely knew how to fly and chasing the Malfoy boy to the top of the castle. Such a feat would have gotten most first year students expelled and yet remarkably, it landed the brat a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.  Just like his father.

That particular Friday evening, the 31st October, was of course one of the biggest celebrations in the wizarding calendar year. That hadn’t deterred Potter, however, and he had appeared right on time.

 “What is it this evening then, Potter?” Professor Snape asked when they were seated in their usual position on the front bench of the classroom.

 “Defence, sir. Boggarts,” Harry told him, taking out his text book.

The potions master rose a brow. “Boggarts? Surely that topic is better reserved for third year…”

 “Yeah, I think it is. But Professor Quirrell said it’s a Halloween special,” Harry said, sniggering a little.

It was all Severus could do not to smirk. So even this little whelp could see what a pathetic specimen his DADA professor really was.

He composed himself, however – it would not do for the boy to see anything but his sternest side.

 “What do you know about Boggarts, Potter?”

 “Not much, sir… I know they like to hang out in musty old wardrobes and stuff…” Harry began.

 “If by ‘hang out’, you mean reside, then you are correct Mr Potter – boggarts are nuisance creatures that tend to dwell in the lesser-frequented corners of one’s home,” Snape told him, evenly. “Tell me, how would you recognise one?”

 “Well… Quirrell said that they turn into whatever you’re most scared of.”

 “Professor Quirrell,” Snape reminded him. “Am I to assume that this assignment is to detail such things? Where one might find a boggart, how one might recognise it, how one might… put an end to it?”  

Harry shook his head now. “No, sir. The assignment is to write about the thing we’re most scared of.”

Snape frowned. What sort of blithering idiot gave such an assignment to a group of first years?

A pause.

 “Ron’s writing about spiders, and Seamus is writing about goblins. Weird, I know, but he said his parents took him to Gringotts once and he’s never recovered since,” Harry told him.

Severus Snape was just about to interject and tell the boy to stop babbling when the next question was fired.

 “What do you think I should write about sir?”

The professor glanced down at him. “What? I believe the instructions of the assignment are… clear.”

The boy nodded, watching him closely. “But, what do you think I should be most afraid of?”

Me! – Severus wanted to say – You should be very afraid of me if you do not desist at once with this ridiculous conversation!

But instead:-

 “I’m not sure I am best placed to answer that question, Mr Potter. Potions assignments and even Herbology I can do, but surely even your pea-sized brain can work out that the only person who knows what you are most afraid of, is you.”

Harry smiled faintly, shuffling his papers.

 “I don’t know, sir. Sometimes I think everyone else knows me better than I know myself.”  

Snape didn’t respond to that, purely because he wasn’t sure how to.

 “Malfoy was telling everyone that I was going to write about Voldemort,” the boy said, after a pause.

The professor winced. “Don’t say that name.”

 “Sorry, sir.”

Closing the book he was looking over and clearing his throat, Severus composed himself. “From the way you just spoke, am I to conclude that You-Know-Who is not your greatest fear?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember anything. Everyone says I should be afraid of him but… I don’t know. Perhaps I could just make something up? I don’t know, snakes... or… or cockroaches, maybe?”

 “You cannot simply ‘make something up’, Potter. The assignment, despite being largely pointless, should be completed correctly,” Snape told him, standing up and moving to a darker corner of the room to put away the cauldrons. “I’m sure that if you put your mind to it, you will be able to come up with something. What is it that keeps you awake at night? That makes your blood run cold?”

 “It’s not that I don’t know, sir. I just think it might be easier to write about snakes or cockroaches,” Harry said.

 “As opposed to what?”

 “Being alone.”

Severus turned sharply to look at the boy, wondering if he had heard that last part incorrectly.

 “I think that’s what I’m most afraid of, sir. Of always being alone,” the boy said, softly.

The silence that followed felt heavy, and the boy’s comments only served to remind Severus of everything that was lost on this very night, eleven years earlier.

 “What about you, sir?” Harry broke the silence again.

 “What about me?”

 “What are you most afraid of?”

 “I’m not afraid of anything,” the potions master snapped, thoroughly put out by the brat’s attempted invasion of his privacy. “And it is with regret that I must inform you that this is all we have time for tonight. You have a Halloween celebration to attend and I will not allow you to miss it on account of this abomination dubbed a ‘homework assignment.’”

 Harry nodded eagerly, starting to pack his things away.

 “I can’t wait! It’s going to be great! I never got to celebrate Halloween before. Ron said there’ll be candy apples and chocolate frogs and sugared mice. Shame Hermione’s going to miss it but apparently she’s been in the toilets all day because Ron was doing impressions of her after Transfiguration–” Harry waffled.

 “Enough, Mr Potter. How about instead of talking about the feast, you run along and attend it?” he suggested, dourly.

 “Right,” the boy nodded, standing up. “Are you coming, sir?”

 “What?” Snape asked, thrown off guard by the child’s latest question.

 “To the feast? Are you coming to the feast?” he asked.

 “I shall be along shortly. Now don’t dawdle on the corridors, and as for the essay… I do not think it requires significant length, Mr Potter, simply write what comes to mind and pay it no more thought. It is, after all, not part of the standard Defence curriculum,” the professor said.

 “Thank you, sir. And thanks for your help, like always. I know it’s not a real assignment, but you’ve still helped me think of what to write,” Harry told him, heading for the door. “See you at the feast, sir!”

And with that the boy was gone, leaving Severus in his wake, several questions floating around in his mind. The reasons why Dumbledore had hired that nitwit Quirrell in the first place was close to the top of his list, followed swiftly by a faint curiosity as to why said nitwit was setting such ridiculous assignments for wizards that were barely out of nappies.

But as the potions master packed away his own things and prepared himself to part for the Great Hall, his biggest question of all remained unanswered. At what point had he come to the realisation that the thing he was most afraid of – his deepest, darkest fear – mirrored that of an eleven year old boy’s?

OOOOOOO