The Truth
SNAPE - Investigates
Severus Snape did not waste time chasing shadows. If ten Aurors couldn’t find one small little boy in London, then clearly, they were looking in the wrong place—or in the wrong way. He hadn’t survived war, infiltrated the Dark Lord’s ranks, and carved out a life as a master spymaster by not knowing the importance of understanding his quarry. He hunted truth. And he knew where to begin - where it all started.
O|O
Privet Drive - neat, smug, and painfully ordinary. The kind of street that prided itself on being mundane. A place where nothing unusual ever happened. A place where a child could be brutally abused right under everyone’s noses. And no one would notice.
Severus Snape stood on the Dursleys’ former doorstep in silence, his expression unreadable beneath the flicker of a Disillusionment Charm. The house had been abandoned since the trial—Vernon in prison, Petunia in a secure facility.
With a whisper and a flick of his wand, the lock gave way. The house smelled faintly of bleach and dust. Police evidence tape littered the house, the house in complete disarray an obvious attempt by the muggle authorities in looking for the boy. But it was the cupboard under the stairs that stopped him. He crouched slowly, pushing the small door open. The space was small. Barely enough for a an adult to sit upright.
Dust clung to the walls, but traces remained. Stickers of strange space craft, curling at the edges, were pasted carefully on the wall: a faded man wielding a torch with a green like elf on his back. There were scraps of comic book pages tacked in place with blue-tack and worn tape. Inked next to them, in small, cramped handwriting, were words—tenets. Rules.
'A Jedi must be calm. A Jedi must not fear. A Jedi protects those who cannot protect themselves.' Snape stared at the lines for a long time in confusion.
In one corner sat a pile of broken plastic toys—broken white masked plastic men,, strange beasts. Snape’s brow rose, his expression unreadable. He reached out and ran his fingers along the wall, brushing dust from one last phrase: 'A Jedi never gives up'. For a moment, Snape’s hand lingered.
Then he rose, silently, his cloak settling around him like mourning robes. There was nothing else of use. No clue to where the boy had gone—only echoes of a lonely miserable existence. Snape stood in the middle of the empty hallway, staring down at the cupboard. A beat. Then he closed it with a soft click.
O|O
Wandsworth Prison - the guards saw nothing. Heard nothing. A subtle Confundus on the night rotation, a Disillusionment charm, and Snape stepped silently through the shadows like death itself apparating directly into the cell.
The stench was immediate—sweat, rotting cabbage, fetid and foul. Two cots. Two sleeping lumps under grey fleece blankets. With a flick of his wand, one of the men slumped into a dreamless sleep. The other—wide, heavy, and snoring—was Vernon Dursley.
Snape stood over him in silence, he had read the police reports, seen the cupboard. Anger bloomed almost uncontrollably. “Rennervate.”
Vernon woke with a wet snort and a gasp, eyes wide. Confused. Then frightened. “W-what—who—?” He didn’t finish the sentence. Snape had no patience for chit chat. “Silencio.”
Vernon’s mouth moved, but no sound came. He flailed, half sitting up, only to be yanked upright by invisible cords that bound his arms and legs to the cot. His panic bloomed as Snape stepped into the weak shaft of moonlight that bled through the bars.
“Hello Vernon,” Snape said silkily.“I’m here for Harry Potter, you must have known even in your pea sized brain that there would be a day of reckoning.”
Vernon’s eyes widened in recognition—and fear. Good. Vernon’s face contorted, his jowls trembling around a half-formed shout. Snape didn’t wait. He grabbed the man by the collar and poured the potion down his throat, ignoring the choking splutters that followed.
Then he began. Each answer scraped against his soul. Every bloated, futile evasive words from that meat-faced toad twisted something deep inside him—something ancient and furious that whispered of vengeance, of justice, of retribution.
And Vernon—deep under versiteneum—kept talking. By the time the truth was laid bare, when Snape was sure the man had revealed all he consciously knew, his knuckles were white around his wand.
He raised it slowly, deliberately, and pointed it at Vernon’s sweat-slicked face. “Legilimens,” he whispered. He had to see it. With his own eyes. Had to feel it. What Lily's son Harry had endured—what that boy had suffered behind closed doors in that godforsaken house—he would drag it out of Vernon’s mind. And then, maybe, he would finally understand just how deeply the damage ran.
The memories tore through like a storm—fragments, ugly and foul. A cupboard. Cold, dark, and small. Screams muffled through a locked door. A slap. A kick. A child curled up on concrete. Vernon’s voice—sneering, cruel, “You little freak—” A fist. A belt. More screaming. Food withheld. Locked out in the cold. Humiliation. Starvation. More bruises. Petunia turning away. Dudley laughing. A scared frightened abandoned child sobbing.
Snape staggered back, his wand lowering, bile burning the back of his throat. He had seen many horrors. Caused some. But this—This was unforgivable. He turned away, chest heaving and for the first time in years, he could not speak., his mouth clenched in pure, incandescent rage. When he finally turned back to Vernon, the man was crying, grey sleep pants wet, a foul stench curling into the air. Snape looked down at him with utter contempt.
“You are filth,” he said softly. “Less than filth. A foul disease. I should reduce you to ash.”
Vernon whimpered, shaking violently.
“But no,” Snape continued, his tone cold. “You don’t get to escape. You’ll live, Vernon Dursley. You’ll live in here, surrounded by other monsters, pissing yourself in fear every time the lights go out.”
He leaned in close, lips barely moving as he whispered a spell only he knew, one he had only cast once before - an unbreakable - darkest of spells. Then “Enjoy your new life.” He turned, vanished into the dark, leaving Vernon weeping, broken, and ruined in his own piss and excrement.
Outside, Snape reappeared in the shadowed mouth of a dark alley. Petunia could wait, but she would face his wrath eventually. A mind-wipe for the son—perhaps. But not yet. He had what he needed.
Now, he understood why Harry had ran away to London: he was searching for a father. The boy knew nothing of the wizarding world, yet had somehow managed intricate, complex spells—wandlessly. His magic, raw and instinctive, had risen to shield him. That much made sense. But the rest didn’t.
Many children ran away to London. That was nothing remarkable. But Harry’s trail was different—strange in a way that set Snape’s teeth on edge. He had read and reread the Auror reports, each one more baffling than the last. Five times, Harry had slipped through their fingers. And not just any Aurors—skilled, highly trained, seasoned operatives. In one of the final reports, the boy had actually screamed at them, calling them “Dark Lords.” That… suggested something. A familiarity with the wizarding world, perhaps, but twisted—misunderstood.
Snape, who had scoffed at first of the idea of wandering aimlessly around London, had taken to the streets himself, tracing every step, every whisper of Harry’s presence. He had walked among the Muggles, silent and predatory. It was nothing more than a glance in a shop window that stopped him cold. Toys. Familiar ones. Starships, action figures. Just like the ones in the cupboard but these were better kept, displayed like something precious.
He crossed the street before he could stop himself, something tugging loose in his mind, snagging on memories Vernon had once let slip. He entered the shop, sealed the door with a flick of his wand, and strode up to the Muggle behind the counter—“Jonny,” the name tag read.
Snape slammed a finger against a box of action figures. “Explain to me this ‘Jedi.’”
Twelve hours later, he emerged at dawn. Jonny had been surprisingly helpful under a few spells including for motivation. Together on the shops Teeelivision, they had watched the entire original trilogy, Jonny helpfully explaining some of the deeper concepts. Then he had helpfully and enthusiastically explained everything he needed to know about the Jedi. Loading Snape up with a stack of other films, books, and comics tucked beneath one arm, a list of sequels under the other. And for the first time in decades, Snape didn’t know whether to laugh… or weep.
O|O
HARRY - THE STRAND
They kept finding him. It made no sense—Harry couldn’t understand it, couldn’t feel it through the Force. It was like they just… knew. No matter how far he ran, how well he hid, they came. Again and again.
The Sith. Or Inquisitors. Or… something darker. He wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that they had powers that twisted the world around them. Powers he didn’t understand—couldn’t match.
They could vanish in plain sight. Walk through crowds like phantoms, grim figures cloaked in black while Muggles passed by without so much as a glance. No one else ever saw them. Only Harry. Only Harry!
They could shift the weather—he’d seen it himself. One moment clear skies, the next, a roiling storm, lightning crawling across the clouds as if summoned by their will. And the way they moved… fast, too fast. They could appear with a crack of air splitting open, reality bending to their will.
He used to think it was luck—his escapes. That maybe the Force was still with him. That maybe his new trick—don’t see me, don’t see me—was enough. But lately, it felt more like desperation than power. He was running on fumes. And running out of time.
Yesterday, he checked into a new hotel—cheap, but clean enough. He hadn’t stayed more than a few hours before he slipped out to the library. He needed to study. Jedi needed knowledge. That was his mistake.
He had barely crossed the threshold when it happened—CRACK!—the sound of the sky tearing. Across the street, shadows rippled, warped. Two of them stepped into view—robes swirling, sticks drawn, eyes fixed on him like wolves spotting prey.
“Harry!” one had called, voice creepily soft. Stranger Danger!
Harry froze.
“Harry, please. You’re not in danger—”
“No!” he screamed, fists clenched, fury hot in his chest. “I will not turn, you Dark Lord Sith-spawn!”
He felt something, something powerful push out like a wave, a tsunami. There were shouts, screams, sounds of breaking glass. He didn't look back - he ran. Out the library, through the streets, losing himself in twisty small lanes. The Force burned through him, igniting every muscle. He leapt a bin, darted down another street, mind shrieking move move move. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back. He knew they were behind him. Always behind him.
Now he was in another hotel. Fancier. Expensive sheets he hadn’t even dared to climb under. He lay curled on top, shoes on, still dressed, clutching his lightsaber to his chest like a lifeline. The curtains were drawn tight. The door was locked, barred. But none of it felt like enough.
His eyes burned. He was so tired. Not just in his body—in his bones, in his soul. The kind of tired that sleep wouldn’t touch. The kind of tired you got from running with nowhere to run to.
Harry sat up, back pressed to the headboard, and stared into the dark. His breath shook.
Maybe he should get on a train again. Go further. Manchester? Edinburgh? Try to get to America. He didn’t care. Somewhere he could lose them, where they couldn't follow.
But the Force whispered low in his ear. Something...was coming. Harry shivered. He had a bad feeling about this.
O|O
Snape’s fear—though he would never voice it—was very real. If a spooked Harry left London, their chances of finding him again would drop significantly. The boy could vanish across a border, into another jurisdiction. The Americans would love to get their hands on a raw magical talent with that much power and no ties. And if it wasn’t them, then someone darker. There were still plenty of Voldemort sympathisers who wouldn’t hesitate to steal the boy away and twist him into something monstrous.
So this had to work. No more Harry hunting. No more chasing shadows through dark streets only to find the boy had slipped through their fingers again. This time, Harry would come to them.
Snape exhaled slowly, then flicked his wand one last time, transmogrifying a chipped teacup into something vaguely cylindrical and metallic. With another flick, it gleamed—the illusion of brushed chrome and glowing blue light: a passable lightsaber.
He stepped back, surveying the hall. Around him, the other nine aurers were busy finishing similar conjurations and illusions. One, a charms specialist, was putting the final touches on a surprisingly accurate life sized model of the Millennium Falcon—hovering six inches off the ground, complete with flickering lights and whirring noises. Rows of display tables had been set up, now cluttered with “artifacts”: Jedi holocrons, helmets, blasters, even small interactive scenes mimicking key moments from the films.
To any unsuspecting child—or obsessed, delusional boy—this would look like heaven. The museum space had been sealed, charmed, and thoroughly warded. Posters had already been distributed across London—harmless to Muggles, nothing more than news of an upcoming 'film-inspired immersive experience.' But to magical eyes, they read differently:
STAR WARS: SECRET JEDI ARCHIVES. ONE DAY ONLY.
And that one day was today. Snape’s lip curled as he scanned the room. “A ridiculous circus,” he muttered. Still. If it caught the boy’s attention…
“Snape,” came a voice from the edge of the exhibit—young Auror Trewell, “We are as ready as we will ever be...if this works.” Trewell looked dubious but excited.
Snape nodded once. “Good. Everyone, take your positions. Change into costume.”
A few grumbles rose from the team, but wands were drawn. With a series of flashes and ripples, their black robes changed to —stormtroopers, smugglers, bounty hunters, and robed Jedi. The effect was unsettling, but strangely… effective.
Snape rolled his shoulders and cast his own transformation. His own black robes melted away, replaced by simple brown ones, worn and belted. The lightsaber clipped to his hip was purely cosmetic, of course, but disturbingly accurate. A Jedi master.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” Trewell teased, now dressed as some half-baked rebel pilot, twirling a blaster on her finger.
Snape gave her a flat look. She grinned unrepentantly.
Snape turned back to the others, voice rising. “Final sweep of wards. Activate anti-Apparition fields on my mark.”
A dozen nods. The mood shifted. Joking faded. All that remained was for the boy to walk into the trap.
O|O
Harry slipped through the front doors of the museum, pleased to find the entrance hall quiet and mostly empty. No lines. Perfect. He adjusted the hood of his jacket, tugged it low, and stepped inside. Immediately, his breath caught.
The light inside shimmered strangely, reflections dancing off surfaces that looked just a little too real. Staff in costume bustled around the room, dusting displays and adjusting props. But even through the haze of astonishment, Harry felt it—the soft hum in the air, the pulse beneath his skin.
Holocrons lined the tables, glowing faintly with a shifting iridescence that made his stomach twist with excitement. He knew this was fake—just a theatre, another elaborate exhibition—but it didn’t matter. His heart soared anyway. He walked slowly at first, then faster, picking up speed as the next room opened up around him.
And then he saw it. The Millennium Falcon. Not a toy. Not a replica. Not some foam-and-paint model. The thing was hovering. This was the best so far!
Harry stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide, the Force fluttering around him like startled wings. Slowly, his trembling fingers reached out and brushed the cool metal of the ship. It vibrated beneath his touch—static, alive.
The Force shuddered. Uneasy.
Behind him, a voice broke the stillness. “Harry.” Soft. Careful. Too careful.
He spun ready to face this new threat. A man stood behind him, cloaked in Jedi robes, hair dark and lank, eyes sharp and wary. His hands were raised, palms open. And now Harry realised—too late—that the others in the room had shifted, subtly, perfectly. A stormtrooper at the door. A Wookiee by the hallway. Someone in flowing white robes—Leia, maybe—moved to block another exit.
Every doorway. Covered. Harry’s heart slammed against his ribs. He was surrounded. They weren’t the same as the Inquisitors—these ones looked different—but that meant nothing. A trap was still a trap. He backed up until his back hit the ship. His fingers tightened around his toy lightsaber.
“Harry,” the man said again, his voice calm but firm. “Please. Listen to me. I know this is confusing, but you’re not alone. You’re not in danger. We’ve been looking for you. You are safe now.”
Harry’s eyes darted around, calculating distance. He might be able to Force-jump past the bounty hunter-looking one near the back. Or slip behind the fake Leia. But his gaze snapped back to the dark-haired Jedi. Something about him…something familiar, something that felt like home, The way he looked at Harry. Like he knew him. Like someone who cared. Harry’s lips moved before he could stop them.
“…Are you my father?”
The man blinked. “What—what? No. NO! Do I look like your father, you dunderhead?”
Harry actually relaxed at that. The scorn was oddly comforting—realer than any honeyed lie.
Self-conscious, Harry pulled at his own rather long dark hair that looked very similar to the man in front of him. He caught the man’s eyes tracking the motion, and to his surprise, the older man snorted.
“No. I’m not your father, Potter,” he said, his voice quieter. “But I did know your mother. Very well. She was my only friend when we were your age.”
Harry froze. “Really?”
“Yes,” the man said, and something in his expression softened. “She was brilliant. Kind. And she loved you more than anything.”
Harry swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “Are they alive?”
The man closed his eyes briefly. A flicker of pain crossed his face—and that, more than anything else, made Harry believe him.
“No,” the man said. “I’m sorry, Harry. They both died protecting you. They were brave. And they loved you.”
Harry blinked quickly and rubbed his sleeve across his nose. “It’s okay,” he muttered. “I… I kind of always knew. My aunt said they died in a car crash. Said they were drunk.”
A storm gathered in the man’s face before he forced his expression into something masked and composed.
“No. That’s a lie. They were murdered by a very dark man named Voldemort. But they died fighting him. Not running. Not ashamed. They died to save you.”
“Really?” Harry whispered.
“Yes,” the man said again, slower this time. “Really Harry. My name is Severus Snape. I’m… something like a teacher. I didn’t know what the Dursleys had done. I didn’t know where you had been hidden after your mother died. But I’ve been trying to find you. So I can take you somewhere safe. Somewhere your mother would have wanted you to be.”
Harry’s muscles, slowly, began to loosen. He exhaled. “…Are you a Jedi?” he asked intently.
Snape tilted his head, considering. “I suppose…that yes. I have powers. Like you, Harry. You’re not the only one.”
But then, one of the Jedi—behind Snape—stepped forward, drawing that strange stick.
Harry’s heart lurched. The stick. The kind the Inquisitors used. Just like theirs. “You’re lying,” Harry breathed, stumbling back. “You are with them! The Sith—!”
“No!” Snape snapped, whirling on the man behind him. “Put that away, idiot!”
Then to Harry, more gently, desperate now: “Now Harry. Calm down Please. I’m not your enemy. I am here to rescue you.”
Harry shook his head, trembling.
Snape looked up to the ceiling muttering under his breath before he stepped forward, arms open. “Search your feelings. You know it to be true.”
And in that moment—torn between instincts and longing, between fear and a flicker of hope—Harry hesitated.
Then it all went to hell.