Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter fandom, all of it goes to J.K Rowling, I just own the contents of this fanfiction. This is my first upload; I'm open to any and all comments! Enjoy guys! -DD

Update from 24/11/2017: Hey guys, I'm really sorry to those that have been following and have read the previous editions of this chapter, I promise I am perfectly happy with it now, won't be changing it again, but instead will carry on with production as normal. All I can say is I hope you still love the story, and most of all, Mischief Managed! - DD

Synopsis: Dumbledore should have thought better about that night; when he made Harry's life hell. He should have thought not to infuriate a certain Potions Master. For the old man will sorely regret the day that he appointed himself the "ruler" of the Light; and to abandon one in such dire need of help as that of Harry Potter. Severus will mend the ties that are broken within the 'Boy-Who-Lived', and with the help of the Malfoy's, success may be possible.

Chapter 1: Prologue

The eleven year old Harry was huddled in the dark. The spider infested dingy corner of his cupboard because he had been bad again. His Uncle had said so and he hadn't understood what he had done to annoy him so much. He had cooked, cleaned, washed his relative's clothes, ironed them and he had done the weeding in the garden as well. That was all before noon.

He had been sent into his cupboard; his Uncle purple in the face and the veins pulsing in his temple. His small frame shook violently in fear as he remembered the feel of a large hand as it connected sharply with his cheek; the knuckles and the ring cutting into his skin. The pain didn't bother him, it was more the feel of the skin breaking and the blood as it began to well up from gash on his forehead. Since then it had changed somewhat. Leaving a partly healed milky scar behind, the result from him being able to sneak Aunt Petunia's medical supplies into the bathroom previously. There was still a visible line of skin that was taut and shiny that was left behind, Harry knew that it would never completely fade.

He remembered Dudley being there also. The fat blond boy had stood and screamed his delights at watching his father abuse who he had come to fear immensely; Harry. Harry himself couldn't comprehend why he was being treated this way. He was ordinary enough to fit into his relative's lives; into their perfect flowerbeds, pristine kitchen. He was small, quiet and easily unnoticeable when he wanted to be, so why did his relatives treat him with such disdain?

"Up! Get up, now Potter!"

Harry swam to consciousness, only to hear the shrill tones of his Aunt Petunia as she screeched at him.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia" Harry mumbled.

Scurrying from his position in his cot, which had been unceremoniously dumped upon the Dursley's doorstep as nothing more than a scant afterthought in his cupboard by Vernon's sister, his Aunt Marge as "You don't need the authorities asking questions if ever they were to come here after the brat", Harry rushed to do as asked of him.

"Get the bacon cooking before Vernon comes down, I want everything perfect for his special day. You will not ruin a thing; do you hear me, Boy?" His Aunt hissed at him.

"Yes, of course, Aunt Petunia." Harry muttered, anxious to escape the woman's poisonous glare.

Harry did as his Aunt had requested. Rushing towards the kitchen he quickly grabbed the frying pan from the rack above the stove and placed it on the hob carefully before getting the bacon out the fridge. He reached for the oil which was next to the chopping board, and drizzled some into the pan before lighting the stove. He then carefully arranged the rashers into the cooking utensil. He could feel his Aunt's gaze upon him, scrutinising his every move.

"Am I missing something, Aunt Petunia? Should I do eggs too?" Harry addressed his Aunt with caution, as she was often in a snippy mood. At least she was where he was concerned.

"No, just make sure you don't burn that bacon or I'll have you washing the entire household's clothes for the rest of the summer, Boy!" His Aunt glared at him, leaning down to criticize his cooking. As Harry moved from the stove with the hot pan, intending to set the pan down on the heatproof mat next to the stove, he failed to notice his Aunt still hadn't moved from her previous position, leant down, and his body failed to comply with the requests of his brain to step over his Aunt's feet. Instead, his body ended up tripping over his Aunt's; the frying pan and the bacon landing on the floor with a splattering clatter that resonated through the suddenly deafening silence in the room.

"Look what you did you stupid brat! How could you be so careless you clumsy, idiotic beast of a human! Vernon's bacon is ruined because of you, you utter disgrace!" Petunia grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck before leaning him back, and striking him suddenly across the face, her bone like fingers akin to that of the snap of a bullwhip when the touch reached him. Harry flinched, however, muffling the cry of pain that wanted to emerge from him. He knew better than to alert his Uncle of such mistakes by now, if the sound of the pan clattering to the floor hadn't already accomplished this.

Unnatural things took place around Harry; unexplainable, extraordinary events. After he felt the stings from his Aunt's slap spread through him, the shock had resided, all he found that was left was a faint pain and an almost frightening amount of anger. A whisper faintly floated through his mind – gone in a heartbeat. It caressed his mind with the smoothest of touches.

Cold green eyes looked down at skeletal hands that held him, now startlingly similar to his own; he glared up at the woman who gripped the front of him so tightly, his countenance akin to the personification of black ice; promising that of danger but only once encountered and not a second before. He was lethal. The youth caught a glimpse of himself; his wiry slender frame was reflected in the glass inlaid into the cupboard door. He noted that Harry's once unruly hair was now sleek, shoulder length with appropriate bangs, and midnight black contrasting slightly to that of the dark brown tones of Harry's hair. Marvolo was awake. The boy smirked, looked directly at Harry's relative, who was now backed into the corner of the kitchen, cowering in fright, whimpering and murmuring at the look of death that she found in the boy's eyes.

"P..Please..B- Harry, please..Don't do this. I am sorry for hitting you, please.."

Marvolo glanced with disdain at the pathetic Muggle before him, wondering how she dare lay a finger on Harry in the first place.

"Muggle you do not deserve my sympathy and therefore you shall receive none. You struck Harry and having gained previous knowledge in this area, this incident is not the first. Instead it is one of many, something that has become a routine for the poor boy, whom you treat as lowly as a mule. It is time for you to pay, I have witnessed Harry's suffering for long enough..."


Marvolo let the words fly from his lips, the spells effects immediate. Flames surged outwards from where Marvolo was; racing towards the pitiful human that was lying on the floor. What had she ever done aside from treat Harry with abhorrence? She had stood by and let Vernon do as he would, a slap here and a kick there for little things such as leaving the tea towel unfolded or forgetting to preheat the oven. She would regret all of this, as Marvolo had observed it all, doing nothing, biding his time until now. As for Vernon, when the fat walrus of a man came downstairs, Marvolo would see that the two people who hurt Harry ended up unable to hurt anyone ever again.

Harry became aware of where he was; standing in the middle of what was once his Aunt's kitchen. Now, it was in ruin.

He swiftly became aware of his Uncle thundering down the stairs, and his Aunt groggily coming round from where she was.

From a young age all he could recall from his 'family' was abuse. His Uncle had greeted him with a customary clip of the ear every morning. Harry now had the addition of a shove into the wall from Dudley, with a comment of how he had destroyed the kitchen with his freakishness. Harry had abruptly woken up from his sleepy stupor after being struck on the back of his head. So sharp had it been that it felt as if his eyes had rattled in their sockets at one point.

Harry shifted slightly from the cramped position he was in and stretched his slender frame as much as he was able due to the restrictions of his sleeping place. Looking back on the events of the last few hours, which Harry only had a vague, somewhat cloudy recollection of,he could recall a strange feeling welling up inside him when Dudley had laughed at him; similar to that of the feeling of vertigo but it was more of a tugging sensation that felt as though it was expanding from his very soul. He had closed his eyes briefly and a swirl of what Harry could only describe as pure, raw, unadulterated power appeared in his mental landscape; it vacated his body with a sudden breeze. He opened his eyes and found his Uncle on the floor, not long after he had remembered the sounds of the man thundering down the stairs. He had left the room, terrified that his Uncle was going to be found unconscious by his Aunt and that he himself would be cast out on the streets of Surrey. And so the panicking boy bolted to his cupboard, not knowing what else to do aside from go to the one place he could find respite from the situation of this morning. He waited with bated breath from inside, scared to move and listening to his Aunt come around from her unconscious state upon the floor.

God. Oh god. Had he killed his Uncle Vernon? His Aunt was going to find his Uncle's corpse and then Harry would probably get sent to jail if not somewhere worse. He had to get out. He had to find a place to go, anywhere was better than here at the moment; he had to-

He moved from the confines of his cupboard, quietly settling to the side of it,breathing rapidly, Harry felt the panic beginning to set in. Glancing to his left – he froze.

A thick envelope lay alone on the doormat, which Harry considered to be odd, considering what day it was. It was a Sunday and Harry knew, through experience of his Uncle exclaiming the very phrase earlier in the week that post never came on a Sunday. He took note of the emerald green ink that glimmered under the light of the hallway.

Mr. H. Potter.

~Elsewhere in Britain~

And so, he stirred. He watched as the depths of the mug and its contents were distorted from the intrusion that the spoon gave when it connected with the surface of the liquid. The tranquil motion gave his mind temporary respite from the borderline hazardous students he had to endure the company of earlier that day.

Severus Snape sat in the dimly lit sitting room of Spinner's End, the fire to his left crackling and spitting, casting a warming glow and a pleasant heat throughout the room. The man was sat leisurely in a slightly worn, comfortably padded, cushioned leather armchair. Today had been particularly gruelling, more so than any other day. The explanation for this lay in the fact that it was the last day of term - the students were ruffians on this day; barely civilised at the best of times, utterly chaotic as of late. Severus himself was thankful that all he had to do over the summer was to grade the Second Year's papers, though that in itself had proved to be an exasperating event as the majority of the twelve year old's calligraphy resembled nothing more than chicken scratch, with the occasional student who could-

A knock resounded through the near silent abode. He sighed, barely restraining himself from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Severus could have sworn that he'd made an express point to Albus of emphasising his desire to be left alone for tonight. The old man should know that he needed at least a night to himself to recuperate once term had ended as the stress of the previous year had took its toll on everyone, especially him.

Severus got up from his exceptionally comfy armchair, grumbling somewhat quietly to himself about inconsiderate dunderheaded headmasters. He strode towards the door with long purposeful strides, interrupting the cacophony of sound that the largely unwelcome and, as of yet, unknown visitor was determined to play out upon the opposite side of the door. Pulling the door open swiftly he almost gaped in wonder as Minerva McGonagall stood there, looking mildly irritated.

"Severus! It is about time you opened the door for me - exactly what have you been doing for the past ten minutes? I need to speak to you about an urgent matter, the content of which Albus is oblivious to."

"Of course, Minerva, come in." Severus spoke softly, his countenance impassive save for a slight hint of curiosity hidden in the depths of his onyx iris'. Something that the Headmaster did not know of? This must be important. He swept past her, leading them into the sitting room that he had previously occupied.

As they settled with tea, she began to speak, "It has come to my attention that Albus is plotting something. And I believe he wishes to use Harry to aid in his schemes."

She withdrew her wand from amidst her robes.


Minerva waited the short amount of time before the object in question drifted over to where Severus and herself stood in the dining room.

"I also believe that once I provide you with the necessary memories, Severus, you will have the same viewpoint that I do", she stated, placing her wand to her temple and grimacing as the silvery strands of the past were sluggishly extracted, before being placed, twisting around one another, into the Pensieve below.

"When you are ready, Severus." Minerva spoke calmly.

Severus himself stood a mere two feet away, intrigued as to what he would discover within the memories McGonagall had presented him with. He walked slowly forward, somewhat apprehensive as to what he would find within the depths of the pale blue liquid he was centimetres from.

He leant forward, and was consumed by time.