Finding Out the Truth
Severus Snape, who was a tall, brooding man, with long, black hair, always wore black, was a bitter man. He like everyone some time in their life, had loved someone once, and shown his good side to them. To him, she had betrayed him, but he could not be further from the truth if he tried. His lover had loved him so much that it had hurt her to leave him, but she had to. She had left people knowing the truth, for she knew she would not live to see her child's second birthday. Something inside her told her so, and she listened to it. The person Lily had told knew only to reveal the truth if and when the Dark Lord was dead. She did not want her son or husband in danger. She had a fake marriage, and not many people knew she married again in secret. She had been buried under her fake name. How she would hate that. She had loved her husband and wore the name proudly. To be buried under a fake name… well, no one wanted that.
And many months later, she had died so her child could live. James had also died, for the said child. No one knew that the father's child was alive, apart from the person sitting in a coma in saint Mungo's, who was still to wake up. That said person knew everything. Lily had told her all there was to know. That had been three years ago, and Harry was turning four and a half.
Severus Snape had turned even more bitter when Lily died. He hated the fact that she had a child with Potter, even more so for dying for it. To him, it was an it. He had never met the child. And he did not want to. It would only make the women he had loved, betrayed, all the more real. Something he did not want; he did not want proof that his wife had not loved him. He had always wanted children, and he would have given her twenty if she had wanted. Only after the Dark Lord was dead, of course. He would have rather died than see his wife hurt, or worse, killed.
To this day, he wondered silently what he had done wrong as he looked at the pictures of them together, and drank himself into a drunk-induced haze. What hurt him the most was the fact that he would never know why she left. She was gone! Dead to the world. His wife, the one he had loved. He did not think he could ever get over her death. To this day, he still wore their gold wedding ring around his neck.
The life Lily wanted for her son had not gone the way she wanted it. She had wanted Harry to end up in his father's care; she would never imagine the life she had left her son to. She did not realise that the person she told might not survive the war. The question was, would they ever find out?
Right now the Dursley's
"Pull out the weeds, boy!" yelled a woman. She had a horse face, bony, and the neck like a giraffe. She liked to spy on the neighbours, and she had no job. She was just a lazy house-wife with a rich husband. They had a son the same age as the child she was treating cruelly, and she did not care. That said son was an obese child who terrorised the neighbourhood. Beating children up, that was how spoiled he really was. Each day, he became more and more like his father, who would look at him proudly and say just like that.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said a small voice back. There was a sadness in his voice that had always been there. Harry was a small boy with black hair. Although, when he was two, it had been messy and untidy. The changes had been unnoticeable, thankfully, or the little four year old would have known all about it. His Uncle Vernon, for some reason, hated the four year old child. And did not need a reason to lash out, and Harry would hate to give his uncle a reason.
The little boy knew he was hated. He was not sure why - he just knew his cousin Dudley was loved and he wasn't. The little boy hardly knew his name. Here he was called boy, freak, and it. The only reason he knew was because when he had gone out with his aunt, someone had asked his name. She had said it was Harry. He had of course taken the name to heart.
The little boy in question started pulling the weeds from the garden. He looked more like a two year old rather than a four year old. But most just thought him two. It was, after all, how long he had been at the Dursley's. Harry kept the garden tidy, and his aunt did none of the work. Although little Harry hated doing it, he was proud of being able to look after the garden. It was the only chance he got to be outside. He had never had one friend, or one thing to call his own. He got hand-me-downs from his cousin, which were getting larger and larger every year, and Harry himself was getting smaller.
"I'm finished, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. He was hoping to get something to eat. He was starving, he had nothing yesterday at all. He felt weak and tired, and his back hurt. His uncle had used the belt on him again, and he had tried not to make a sound. He knew he would get more hits if he made a sound.
"Good, clean the dishes," she said. Looking down her ugly nose at the child she hated so much. No matter what she did, Harry was always nicer than her son. She hated that fact. Perfect Lily Potter and her Perfect Son - she hated Lily for her perfection as well as freakishness.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. His shoulders slumped, as he started getting the dishes done. He was small, so he had to stand on the stool to get it done. The plates were heavy, but he knew not to drop them or he knew his aunt could hurt him as good as his uncle.
His arms and back ached, but he knew not to complain. He had learned long ago not to complain, or things just got worse. He felt like passing out, but he willed himself not to. He was unconsciously using magic, when he had no idea that magic existed. He had no idea, that he was a very powerful young wizard.
"Boy, get cleaning the floor, and it better be spotless or I will have your uncle deal with you!" she said before getting Dudley into a buggy as he did not like walking short or long distances. It was of course special made, to fit Dudley Dursley, just as well as all the clothes he wore.
"It better be done by the time I get back!" she yelled.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. It was drowned out by her son yelling. He wanted sweets, and he wanted them now. He listened to her simpering over her son, calling him "sweet tum". When she finally left, Harry sighed softly. Trying to put the pain aside, he started scrubbing the floor. It took him three hours to clean it and dry it. He would get into trouble if he left it wet. Another lesson he learned was that his uncle slipped. The beating that night had been very painful and they had made him do his chores that day, too.
Harry looked at the sandwich longingly. It had been ages since he had something to eat. Just one look at it had his stomach rumbling. Going over to it, he shakily lifted it up, looking around. Scared in case he got caught, he bit into the lovely sandwich. How he longed to be able to eat something like this. It never tasted as nice as what Dudley got. He had once asked for what Dudley got, and he regretted it. He was yelled at, told he was a freak, and did not deserve good food. He bit into the sandwich again, he knew he could not eat any more, or otherwise his cousin would know. And his uncle would punish him, and he defiantly did not want to see that belt again. Putting it down, his stomach seemed to rumble louder, but he ignored it. Good job he did, for Petunia Evans-Dursley just stepped through the door.
"Are you finished yet, boy?" snarled Petunia. As she came in, Dudley was outside in the buggy, fast asleep. Chocolate spread across his fat face, and a chocolate bar squashed in his hand.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. Looking at his feet, he longed to know why he was not loved. Sometimes he wondered if his mum had loved him, or even his father. And sometimes wished he had not survived the car crash that had taken his mother and father's life.
"Good! Get in your room now," she said. There was nothing for him to do. Plus, she had visitors that afternoon. She did not want any of them to see Harry for they would all hound him, telling Petunia how cute he was and how good a guardian she was.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," said Harry. Close to tears, he opened his cupboard, and crawled inside. The cupboard was full of spiders, and very dusty. Harry had a picture of a flying bike drawn in his cupboard. Of course, he did not let his uncle see it. He knew it would be ripped, and he would be punished for having something freakish in the house. He did not understand why, but the Dursley's thought magic was freakish. He did not think magic freakish. He knew it was not real, but did not think it freakish. It gave him dreams, and hopes that he knew would never come true, but it was nice to dream. That is until he woke up and found himself back in his cupboard again and his uncle storming down the stairs with his big enormous feet, the pounding making the dust fall on him.
Getting himself comfortable as he could, which was impossible in a infested dusty cupboard, he did not complain. It was much better than the night he had spent outside. And in here, his uncle could not harm him. In here, he was safe. It was his safe haven. Wishing once more that someone, anyone, would come and take him from the Dursley's.
A shooting star made itself known in day light, swooping across the rooftops of the houses in Surrey. Children and adults alike quickly wished for something as it went by. But it was already answering one child's wish, and far away in St Mungo's a hand started to twitch...
As they say even the smallest person can change the course of the future. This is what Little Harry Potter had done this night.