A life rewritten.

The next three days were a blur of anxious anticipation and growing dread for Harry. Each morning, he woke with a tight knot of excitement in his chest, but as the hours dragged on, the heaviness of doubt settled over him like a cloud. Aunt Petunia seemed determined to keep him busy, piling on more chores than usual, as if she sensed that he had something to look forward to. From scrubbing the kitchen floor to wiping down the dusty walls in the hallway, Harry moved with a strange mix of energy and distraction. Every time he heard a creak or a rustle near the front door, his heart leapt, only to plummet when it was just Aunt Petunia’s thin, sharp voice calling him back to work. His eyes kept darting to the clock, counting down the hours until July 31st. Day two was when everything went wrong. Harry had been crouched in the hallway, wiping down the walls with a damp rag, his bucket of soapy water set beside him on the carpet. He was lost in his thoughts about the mysterious representative missing the heavy steps of his cousin. With a wicked grin, Dudley sent the bucket flying with a heavy kick., causing soapy water to splash across the carpet, soaking into the floor. Harry froze as Uncle Vernon’s furious roar filled the house. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, BOY?” he bellowed, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. Harry opened his mouth to protest, to explain that Dudley had done it, but the words stuck in his throat. He knew better than to blame Dudley, not when Uncle Vernon’s rage was already boiling over. “I-I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Harry stammered, reaching for the bucket with shaking hands. But it was too late. Uncle Vernon’s meaty hand shot out, grabbing Harry by the scruff of his neck and shoving him roughly against the wall. “You useless little freak!” he spat, his breath hot and foul. “You’ll clean this mess up and you’ll do it right, or I swear, you’ll be locked in that cupboard for a week without a scrap to eat!” Harry’s eyes burned, but he bit back the tears, ducking his head as he ran to grab old and dirty towels to begin sopping up the waterlogged carpet as best he could. As he worked to clean the mess, his mind churned with worry—what if the representative saw him like this? What if they came early and saw how the Dursleys treated him? What if this ruined everything? The third day passed in a haze of exhaustion and nervous anticipation. Harry barely slept, too afraid that he might miss something or that the Dursleys would discover the letter hidden beneath his mattress. His hands were raw from scrubbing, his face sore from being shoved into a wall (probably scraped up but he wasn’t sure) and his back ached from the extra chores Aunt Petunia had piled onto him. Yet, even as he worked, the thought of tomorrow—July 31st—kept him going. He replayed every line of the letter in his mind, imagining what the representative might be like. Would they understand what his life was really like here? Would they even show up at all? As he lay in bed that night, staring at the thin sliver of moonlight seeping through the crack in his cupboard door, Harry’s heart raced with a mix of hope and fear. Tomorrow, everything could change—or it could all come crashing down The morning of the fourth day arrived and Harry woke before the sun had fully risen, his nerves stretched thin from a restless night of barely any sleep. He crept out of his cupboard, careful not to make a sound, and headed straight for the kitchen to prepare breakfast. His stomach twisted with a mixture of hunger and anticipation, but he forced himself to focus on the routine—bacon in the pan, eggs sizzling, toast popping from the toaster. Aunt Petunia’s voice floated in from the hallway as she fussed over Dudley, who was grumbling about having to wake up so early during summer break. Harry kept his eyes down, silently setting the table and making sure everything was in perfect order. As Harry poured Uncle Vernon’s tea, the shrill ring of the phone cut through the morning clatter. Aunt Petunia snatched up the receiver quickly, holding it to her ear with a sharp, “Hello?” Her face tightened into a frown almost immediately. “What do you mean you can’t make it?” she hissed, turning her back on the kitchen and lowering her voice to a tense whisper. Harry strained to catch snippets of the muffled conversation—something about one of the ladies from her bridge club canceling at the last minute. Petunia’s voice grew clipped and frustrated. “Yes, I understand... no, of course not... fine, I’ll just have to miss it this time...” She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze flicking to Dudley, who was watching her intently from the kitchen table. “If you’re not going to Bridge Club,” Dudley whined, quickly seizing his opportunity as she ended the call with a sigh.His voice thick with entitlement as he shoved another piece of toast into his mouth, “you can take me and my friends to the cinema. There’s a new movie we want to see!” His eyes widened, pleading, and Harry could see the familiar look of manipulation that Dudley always used when he wanted something. Aunt Petunia’s lips pursed, and she hesitated, clearly torn between the disappointment of missing her social engagement and the chance to indulge Dudley. After a brief moment of indecision, Petunia’s shoulders sagged slightly, and she gave a resigned nod. “Alright, Duddy,” she said, with a smile as she reached out to pat his chubby cheek. “I suppose I can take you and your friends to the cinema.” Her tone was tinged with a forced cheerfulness, but Harry could see the flicker of irritation in her eyes as she glanced his way, as if silently blaming him for her change in plans. Dudley, however, beamed in triumph, already rattling off the names of the friends he wanted to bring along. “Petunia, don’t forget,” Uncle Vernon suddenly said while eating his breakfast “we’re having my boss over for dinner this weekend. We need the house spotless, top to bottom. This is important. A promotion could depend on it!” “Oh yes of course Vernon! I couldn’t forget,” Aunt Petunia said, as she resumed her spot at the table. “I should start preparing the house and making a list. Do you know their favorite dessert? I’ll be sure to make a lovely pudding.” “I think a nice trifle or a sticky toffee pudding would be dedicant. I’ve heard his wife has been fond of the bread and butter pudding lately though.” Aunt Petunia's face twisted at the thought of making and serving such a simple dessert for an important guest. “I’ll go to the store after Dudley and I go to the cinema. See if I can get some inspiration. Roast beef as always dear?” “Of course!” Uncle Vernon replied, taking a drink of his tea. “What else would we serve them? Nothing but respectable food here, and it’s a classic. Who doesn’t enjoy a good roast?” “Only those who have no taste,” Petunia said as she finished the last of her food. “I don’t want to go shopping mummy,” Dudley spoke up. “It’s boring and I don’t like it!” Petunia was quick to quell the incoming tears, “Oh honey, I’ll get you and your friends some fizzy pops and ice cream for going to brave the store with me. How does that sound, hmm?” Dudley nodded, tears drying up and he shot Harry a victorious grin. As if being reminded of his presence, Auntpresence Aunt Petunia’s face hardened, “You!” she barked, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “There’s no time to waste. I want the silver polished, and you’ll need to take out the nice china from the cabinet and give it a good wash—no spots, mind you. Then you’ll dust and wipe down every piece of furniture in the house. And make sure the curtains are spotless! Friday, you’ll head outside and get the front yard hedged and mowed, make sure everything is uniformed and even. Everything must be perfect for Saturday.” “Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said quietly, his heart sinking under the weight of the new list of chores. He could already feel his muscles ache in anticipation of the long, grueling day ahead. As Dudley smirked at him over a plate piled high with food, Harry turned back to the stove, dutifully clearing away the dishes while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon continued to discuss the menu for the weekend. Just as Uncle Vernon drained the last of his tea and got up to leave for work, there was a sudden, firm knock at the front door. Harry froze, his hand halfway to the sink, eyes wide. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon exchanged a puzzled glance. “Who on earth could that be at this hour?” Uncle Vernon muttered, straightening his tie as he headed towards the door. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat as he wiped his damp hands on his oversized shirt, every nerve in his body alive with nervous energy. Could it be the representative? he wondered, panic bubbling up alongside the fragile hope. But it’s too early—they’re not supposed to come until ten, and the Dursleys are still here! He stood frozen in place as Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps thudded toward the entrance, his mind racing with fear about what might happen if the visitor really was from the wizarding world and the Dursleys got to them first. Uncle Vernon’s heavy hand grasped the doorknob, and he yanked the door open with an annoyed scowl, clearly irritated by the unexpected interruption. His expression shifted from irritation to confusion as he took in the sight of the man standing on the threshold. There, framed by the morning light, was a tall, thin figure dressed entirely in black. He wore an impeccably tailored three-piece suit—a sleek, buttoned waistcoat beneath a formal jacket, all black on black, the deep color absorbing the light. His shirt was crisp and dark, and his tie was a narrow ribbon of shadow, perfectly knotted at the throat. The way he carried himself made him seem almost regal. The man’s hair was long, with half of it pulled back into a sleek braid that fell to his shoulders, while the rest hung loose and bone-straight, framing a pale, angular face. His dark eyes glittered coldly from beneath sharply defined brows, and he looked utterly unimpressed as he stared down his hooked nose at Uncle Vernon. The combination of the braid and loose hair gave him an air of precise elegance mixed with danger, making him seem both composed and imposing. Harry thought. “Good morning,” the stranger said, his voice low and silky, yet with a hint of danger that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up. His eyes flicked past Vernon for a fraction of a second, catching sight of Harry standing frozen in the kitchen doorway, before returning to Vernon’s ruddy face with a look of disdain. The man’s lips curled slightly, but it wasn’t a smile—it was more like the shadow of one, the kind that made it clear he wasn’t amused in the slightest. He radiated an air of authority, there was something undeniably otherworldly about him. “Who are you?” Vernon barked, trying to regain his bluster but unable to mask the unease that flickered in his eyes. He straightened, puffing out his chest as if to make himself appear larger, but it was clear that the man at the door was not in the least bit intimidated. “My name,” the stranger replied with icy precision, “is Severus Snape. I am here on official business concerning Harry Potter.” His voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that filled the room, and Harry’s stomach dropped at the mention of his name. Vernon’s face twisted into a mix of confusion and anger, his eyes darting back to Harry, who stood frozen in place, unable to move or speak. He felt a cold sweat break out across his skin, his earlier excitement now mingled with a paralyzing dread. Snape’s dark gaze never wavered, and he remained still as a statue, waiting with the patience of someone who was not used to being kept waiting. The next sound that registered to Harry, was a sharp gasp from Aunt Petunia, He snapped his head just in time to see her frozen form in the kitchen doorway, her face drained of color and tea cup slipping from her hand.Shattering glass filled the hallway with a crash as all eyes turned to her. Aunt Petunia eyes were wide with shock, but it was the hatred and fear that twisted her features that made Harry’s breath catch. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost—one that she both despised and dreaded—her gaze fixed on the tall, imposing figure standing in the doorway, dark and unmovable. Her expression spoke of something more than surprise; it was as if she had hoped never to see this man again. “What—what are you doing here?” Petunia hissed, her voice shaking as she stepped forward, her face twisted with fury and terror. She kept glancing from Snape to the floor, as if she couldn’t decide whether to face him or run. “How did you find us? How dare you come here!” She raised her chin defiantly, but her hands were trembling, and Harry could see her knuckles turning white as she clenched them at her sides. Harry instinctively backed away, pressing himself against the edge of the kitchen doorway, half-hidden by the pantry cupboard. His thin frame made it easy to disappear into the shadows, and he clung to the worn wood for support, barely daring to breathe. His oversized, faded clothes hung off him like rags, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone and the hollows beneath his eyes. A bruise was just visible along his wrist where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him two days before, and his cheeks were gaunt, making him look far younger than his eleven years. His heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in the hallway. Snape’s cold eyes flicked over Petunia with barely concealed disdain. He stepped forward, just enough for the morning light to catch the sharp angles of his face. “Believe me, Petunia,” he said smoothly, his voice a low, dangerous drawl, “I have no desire to be in this... place any longer than necessary. But I am here on official business regarding Harry Potter.” He said Harry’s name slowly, as if testing the weight of it in the air, and Harry shrank back further behind the cupboard, his fingers gripping the doorframe so tightly they ached. Petunia’s face twisted, and she took another step back, bumping against the side of the kitchen door. “You have no right!” she spat, her voice rising in pitch. Uncle Vernon stood rigid in the doorway, still holding it wide open, his face a mixture of confusion and fury, but too stunned to move. His grip on the door’s edge was so tight his knuckles had gone bone-white. Behind him, Dudley was perched on the living room sofa, eyes wide and round as saucers. He watched the scene unfold with a kind of fascinated horror, his mouth hanging open and a half-eaten chocolate bar frozen halfway to his lips. There was no sound from him, only a blank, uncomprehending stare as if he couldn't quite process what he was seeing. “You people... you stay away from my family. We don’t want anything to do with your kind, especially not you!” Petunia’s voice trembled with barely suppressed rage, but the frantic, almost pleading look in her eyes betrayed her fear. She wasn’t looking at Harry—There was no concern, no acknowledgment of the boy hiding just a bit out of sight—only the desperate need to protect her own from the world she so vehemently despised. Harry felt it as a sharp pang in his chest, a reminder that to her, he was nothing but an intruder, a stain on her perfect family Her attention was fixated on the imposing figure of Severus Snape and what his presence might mean for the comfortable life she had built. It was as if Harry didn’t exist, his thin form blending into the shadows of the kitchen “Oh, I am well aware of your feelings, Petunia,” Snape replied with a sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “And yet, here we are. The boy has reached the age where his true education must begin, and I have been sent to ensure that he receives what was promised.” His gaze flicked briefly to Harry’s thin, half-hidden form, and something unreadable passed through his eyes. “As for finding you,” he added, his lip curling in a mocking smile, “you should know by now that there are ways to track down what should never have been hidden in the first place.” Petunia’s face flushed an ugly shade of red, her lips trembling with words she couldn’t seem to force out. She looked both furious and defeated, and Harry could see the panic rising in her eyes like a trapped animal. “We’ve kept him safe,” she snapped desperately, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “We did what we had to do. He’s... he’s better off here than with your lot.” There was a raw, almost frantic edge to her tone, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as Snape. “Safe?” Snape’s voice cut through the air like a blade, His eyes darkened with sudden fury as they moved from Petunia to Harry. He looked at the boy with an intensity that made Harry’s breath catch, his gaze sweeping over the too-large, threadbare clothes hanging off Harry’s bony frame, the way the fabric barely hid the bruises peeking out along his wrists and arms. His eyes lingered on Harry’s thin shoulders, the unnatural hollows of his cheeks, and the dull, lifeless cast to his eyes. The weight of that look made Harry want to shrink back, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to move. “Is that what you call it?” Snape demanded, each syllable precise and sharp. his voice cold and unforgiving, cutting through the air like a whip. His eyes burned with a fury that Harry had never seen before, and his hand gestured sharply toward the boy, trembling with barely restrained rage. “I see no safety here—only neglect, only abuse.” His gaze lingered on Harry’s skeletal frame, the too-large, ragged clothes, the visible bruises, and the haunted look in his eyes. For a brief moment, there was a flicker of something almost like pity mingled with his anger, but Snape’s face remained hard, unyielding. “You may despise our world, Petunia,” Snape spat, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper that dripped with contempt, “but to treat any child this way is beyond cruelty. And to do it to Lily’s child—” He broke off, his voice shaking with fury. “You hated magic, you resented everything about it, but Lily was your sister! Your blood. And this—this is how you repay her memory? By treating her son like he’s less than human? Like he’s some worthless creature you can toss aside?” The anger in his voice was fierce and raw, each word cutting deeper than the last. His eyes blazed with a rage that seemed to echo off the very walls of the house. Snape’s fury only intensified as he took a step closer to Petunia, his dark eyes glittering with disgust. “Lily trusted that he would be safe—her son, your nephew. Yet you let your hatred, your bitterness, poison everything she stood for, everything she hoped for when she gave her life to protect him!” His voice rose with the weight of unspoken grief and anger, and he jabbed a finger toward Harry, who stood frozen in the doorway, barely able to comprehend the fury swirling around him. “You failed him, Petunia—utterly and completely. You failed Lily.” Petunia’s face was ashen, her eyes wide with shock and anger, but she still refused to look at Harry, her gaze fixed stubbornly on Snape as if denying Harry’s very existence would somehow shield her from the harsh truth in his words. She opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out—her lips quivered, and she seemed to shrink beneath Snape’s withering glare, her defiance withering under the weight of his righteous fury. The tension was a living thing in the air, suffocating and unbearable, as Snape stood there like a dark avenger, judgment and fury mingling in every rigid line of his posture. Harry’s mouth was dry, but he forced himself to speak, his voice small and hesitant. “You... you knew my mum?” he asked, looking up at Snape with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. It was hard to believe that this dark, intimidating man had any connection to his mother—someone he had only ever seen in a single photograph, hidden away like a secret treasure. Harry had stolen the picture years ago, slipping it from Aunt Petunia’s old album. He had carefully tucked it behind a loose corner in the wall of his cupboard, the only place he knew the Dursleys would never look. In the photo, his mother was smiling—a bright, kind smile that lit up her eyes, her hair catching the sunlight in a way that made her seem almost otherworldly. It was the only image he had of her, and he had spent countless nights staring at it in the dim light of his tiny cupboard, wondering what she had been like, wondering if she would have cared about him. But now, standing in the living room with Severus Snape towering over him, Harry found it nearly impossible to connect the memory of that warm, smiling woman with this cold, imposing figure. How could this man have known her, been her friend? He looked nothing like the mother in his hidden photograph, and yet there was something in his eyes, a flicker of sadness and intensity, that made Harry hesitate. Maybe, just maybe, there was a connection after all—something he had never known but had always longed to understand. Snape’s eyes softened ever so slightly as he looked at Harry, and he gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still firm. “I knew your mother. We were childhood friends, and we went to Hogwarts together.” As Harry listened to Snape’s words, the hidden photograph seemed to grow heavier in his mind, a symbol of everything he had lost and never known.There was a weight to his words, a sorrow that seemed to shadow his dark gaze. “Friends?” Petunia sneered from the kitchen, her expression twisting with disgust. “If you were her friend, then she clearly didn’t have much sense.” Her eyes were cold and spiteful as she glared at Snape, all her old bitterness resurfacing with a vengeance. Snape’s jaw tightened, “If you were friends with her,” Harry said cautiously, “why haven’t I ever seen you? Why haven’t you ever come here? I never knew anyone who knew my mum...” His voice trailed off, and he stared up at Snape with wide, searching eyes. Before Snape could answer, Uncle Vernon’s booming voice interrupted, filled with anger and outrage. “He’s not going anywhere with you!” Vernon blustered, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he moved to block Snape’s path. “You have no right to come into my home and make demands! The boy isn’t going to some—some freak school! He’s staying right here, where he belongs!” Snape’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to face Uncle Vernon, his expression icy and unyielding. “No,” he said with a quiet intensity that made Vernon take a step back despite himself. “Harry will be leaving with me today, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. He will go to Hogwarts, as he was always meant to, and he will complete his school year there.” Snape’s voice was calm but carried the weight of absolute authority, brooking no argument. “When the school year ends, he will return here for two days each summer—with me present—to maintain the protective blood magic created by Lily’s sacrifice. That is the arrangement, and it is not up for discussion.” Vernon’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, his eyes bulging with fury, but no words came out. He looked to Petunia for support, but she had gone pale, her eyes fixed on Snape’s unyielding figure with a mixture of fear and hatred. There was a sense of finality in the air, as if Snape’s words had sealed some ancient pact, and Harry felt his heart flutter with a strange mixture of relief and apprehension. For the first time, someone was standing up to the Dursleys on his behalf, and it felt like a door had opened that he hadn’t even known was there. “Harry,” Snape said, his voice softening as he turned back to the boy, “go upstairs and gather your things. You won’t need much—just what’s yours. We’ll be leaving shortly.” His tone left no room for debate, and Harry nodded, a flicker of hope lighting in his chest. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to understand, but for now, he did as he was told. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t running from something—he was running toward it. Harry moved quickly, his heart thudding in his chest as he headed toward the cupboard under the stairs. The familiar squeak of the small door was like a signal, and Aunt Petunia winced visibly as he knelt down to reach inside. Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing, her eyes darting nervously to Severus, who was watching every move with a sharp, calculating gaze. Harry’s hands shook slightly as he grabbed the few things he owned—worn clothes, a couple of broken toys, a battered old sock he used to store small treasures, and his most prized possession: a single black king chess piece. He could feel Snape’s eyes on him as he worked, but he kept his head down, not wanting to see the man’s reaction. “Why are you in there?” Snape’s voice cut through the tense silence, cold and sharp as a blade. Harry froze, his fingers hovering over the loose corner in the wall where the photograph was hidden. He swallowed hard and turned, meeting Snape’s gaze. There was a flicker of something in those dark eyes—something intense, like a storm barely held in check. Harry’s mouth felt dry, but he forced himself to answer. “This... this is my room,” he said quietly, his voice small and uncertain. “I’ve always slept here.” He could see Snape’s expression shift, a tightening around his eyes and a dangerous spark in his gaze. There was a strange, cold fury that seemed to darken the air around him, but Snape said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line. “You sleep in there?” Snape repeated, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He turned his head slowly to face Petunia and Vernon, his expression like a thundercloud about to break. “In a cupboard? Beneath the stairs?” His voice was deadly calm, but the icy anger in his tone was unmistakable. Petunia flinched, her face paling as if she expected a blow, but Vernon’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his eyes narrowing with stubborn defiance. “It’s all he deserved,” Vernon muttered under his breath, but Snape’s sharp intake of breath cut him off. The man’s dark eyes were filled with a quiet, controlled rage, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he turned back to Harry, his expression softening just a fraction. “Finish grabbing your things,” Snape said quietly, the anger still simmering beneath the surface of his voice. “We’ll be leaving soon.” Harry nodded quickly and turned back to the cupboard, his movements hurried. He reached into the loose corner and carefully pulled out the photograph of his mother, the edges worn from years of secret handling. Without looking up, he shoved it deep into his pocket, hiding it before Petunia could see. He knew she would snatch it away if she realized he had taken it. His fingers closed around the black king chess piece, a small comfort in his palm, before he quickly packed away the rest of his belongings. Harry straightened, feeling the weight of Snape’s gaze on him. He stepped out of the cupboard, his arms full of the only possessions he had, and tried not to look at the horrified expression on Snape’s face as he took in the tiny, cramped space that had been Harry’s home for so many years. It was a look that seemed to cut deeper than any words ever could, and Harry felt the sting of shame and longing twist painfully inside him. Harry stood just outside the cupboard, clutching the sack containing all his meager possessions in his thin arms. The bag was heavy, not because it was full, but because it held the weight of his entire life—the small, broken remnants of years spent in the shadows beneath the Dursleys’ stairs. His heart pounded as he looked up at Severus Snape, who was now towering over him, a storm of fury still simmering behind his dark eyes. The tension in the air was thick and suffocating, but there was a strange sense of finality as well, as if some unspoken decision had already been made. “Harry,” Snape said, his voice low but steady, a calm authority that seemed to make the room stand still. “You will be leaving with me today. From now on, you will no longer stay here. You will be under my care, and you will be living with me.” He paused, his eyes locking onto Harry’s, as if searching for some sign of fear or hesitation. “You will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as your mother intended. This is not up for negotiation—but I need to know if you agree.” His words were firm, but there was something almost gentle in his tone, as if he understood that Harry needed to make this choice for himself. Harry’s fingers tightened around the sack, and he glanced back at the open cupboard door, the dim, dusty interior that had been his world for so long. He thought of the countless nights he had spent curled up in the dark, the sound of the Dursleys’ laughter echoing around him while he lay cold and hungry. He remembered the sting of Vernon’s meaty hand when he’d done something wrong, the way Aunt Petunia’s eyes narrowed with disgust whenever she looked at him, and the endless taunts from Dudley. The years of loneliness, of surviving on scraps and silent resilience, weighed heavily on his mind. It was all he had ever known—this life of hiding, of shrinking away and enduring. But now, standing here with Snape’s intense gaze on him, he realized that he had a choice. He could stay and continue to survive, always beneath the Dursleys' cruelty, always the unwanted burden shoved aside. Or he could step into the unknown with this stranger, who spoke of a world where magic was real, where he might find a place he belonged. Harry didn’t know Snape, and there was something about him that felt dangerous, like a coiled snake ready to strike, but there was also a sense of protection in his words, a promise that felt real in a way nothing else had before. He took a deep breath, weighing the terror of the unknown against the certainty of the cupboard and the life that lay behind it. And, for the first time, the unknown seemed like a better option. Harry looked up at Snape, his heart hammering in his chest, and he nodded slowly. “I—I agree,” he said, his voice wavering but determined. “I want to go with you.” A flicker of something passed across Snape’s face—relief, perhaps, or approval. He gave a short, sharp nod, and Harry felt the knot of fear in his stomach loosen just a fraction. There was no going back now, no retreating to the dark and familiar comfort of the cupboard. He was leaving, stepping into a world he didn’t understand, with a man who had known his mother—a man who, despite his coldness, had seen the truth of the Dursleys and had offered him an escape. Harry’s fingers relaxed their grip on the sack, and he stood a little taller, feeling the first stirrings of hope amid the overwhelming uncertainty. Severus watched as Harry clutched the sack to his chest. “Follow me,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned Harry toward the front door. Harry moved quickly, barely daring to glance back at the Dursleys, who remained frozen in the living room, their faces masks of shock and fury. As they reached the threshold, Snape paused, turning back to face the Dursleys with a cold, calculating gaze. “Before I leave,” Severus said, his voice low and deadly calm, “understand this. Harry’s safety is tied to the blood magic, not to this house.” His words were sharp, each one slicing through the tense silence like a razor. “It is the blood protection from Lily’s sacrifice that keeps him safe, and that magic will remain so long as Harry can return to the home of his blood relatives—even if you were to move elsewhere.” Petunia’s face drained of color, her eyes wide and panicked, but Vernon’s expression was twisted with anger, his lips pressed into a tight, furious line. Snape’s gaze didn’t waver, and he took a deliberate step closer, his presence filling the room with a quiet menace that made both of them shrink back instinctively. “If you try to run,” Snape said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “if you attempt to move or hide, know that I will find you. You cannot escape the protection tied to Lily’s blood, and you cannot escape me.” He let the words linger, heavy and unyielding, watching as the weight of his threat settled over the Dursleys. Petunia’s lips quivered, and she averted her gaze, unable to meet his piercing eyes, while Vernon’s face flushed an angry, blotchy red. Despite the fury that twisted his features, he remained silent, too stunned to respond. With one last, cold look of contempt at them both, Snape turned back to Harry, his movements deliberate and controlled. He placed a hand lightly on Harry’s thin shoulder, and Harry flinched at the unexpected touch. Snape’s expression remained impassive, his eyes fixed forward as if he hadn’t noticed. “I will send word,” Snape continued, his eyes still cold and unfeeling, “one week before Harry and I return each summer for his two days here. Those two days will be sufficient to renew the blood protection.” His tone was icy and precise, leaving no room for questions or arguments. “You will ensure that you are prepared.” Without another word, Snape guided Harry toward the door. Harry’s heart raced, his stomach churning with a mixture of relief and terror as he stepped out of the house for what felt like the first time in his life. The sack in his arms felt strangely lighter, and the oppressive weight that had always pressed down on him in that house seemed to lift as he crossed the threshold. Severus paused for a final moment, looking back at the Dursleys with a look of pure disdain. Then, with a sudden, sharp flick of his Wrist there was a wand in his hand, He moved it in a motion and the door slammed shut behind them with a resounding thud. Harry’s eyes went wide, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the slender piece of wood in Snape’s hand, realization crashing over him like a wave. It was real—magic was real. He had seen it, right there in front of him, without any tricks or illusions. Snape had barely moved, and yet the heavy door had closed as if by command. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of shock and awe making his hands tremble around the sack he clutched. For a moment, he was frozen, unable to move as he looked from the door to Snape, then back again, his mind racing. This wasn’t a dream or a prank—this was real. Everything the letter had said, everything he had dared to hope for—it was true. Magic existed, and he was a part of it. The world he had always imagined, the one he had longed for during those lonely nights in the cupboard, was real. And it was happening, right now. A rush of emotions flooded him—joy, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of wonder that made his throat tighten. He wasn’t trapped anymore; he was leaving, and magic was taking him away. The cool morning air hit his face, and for the first time, he felt the weight of the house—the weight of the Dursleys and all the years of neglect—lift from his shoulders. He turned to Snape, who was already watching him with an expression that Harry couldn’t quite read. There was something softer there, a flicker of understanding amid the man’s hard, cold gaze, and Harry felt a strange sense of security he had never known before. “Come, Harry,” Snape said simply, his voice calm and unwavering. “There is much to be done, and your new life begins now.” Harry nodded, the reality of it all finally settling into his bones, and he followed without hesitation. As they walked away from Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry felt the unfamiliar sensation of hope stirring inside him. The house with its dark memories faded into the background, and with every step he took, the world seemed to open up, full of possibilities he had never dared to believe in before. Harry walked beside Snape, his steps uncertain and hurried as they moved farther away. The house grew smaller behind them with each step, and Harry kept glancing back over his shoulder, half-expecting Aunt Petunia to come storming down the street or Uncle Vernon to bellow after them. But nothing happened. The Dursleys stayed behind, trapped in their silent house, and the quiet, tree-lined street opened up before him. By the time they reached the corner, Harry’s heartbeat had begun to slow, though the thrill of freedom still buzzed in his veins. Snape didn’t say a word as they reached a small patch of trees at the edge of the street, their branches arching overhead like a secret passage. He stopped abruptly, turning to face Harry with a look of cold determination. “We’re going to Diagon Alley,” he said, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather. “To get there, we will Apparate.” Harry frowned, confused, and Snape’s sharp gaze softened just a fraction. “Apparition is a method of magical transportation,” Snape explained. “It allows a witch or wizard to travel instantly from one place to another. The experience can be... unsettling if you’ve never done it before, but it’s the quickest way for us to get where we need to go.” He paused, letting Harry take in the words. “When we Apparate, you will need to hold onto my forearm—firmly,” he emphasized, his eyes boring into Harry’s with an intensity that left no room for argument. “Do not let go, no matter what you feel. Do you understand?” Harry nodded slowly, a nervous flutter in his stomach. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The idea of traveling instantly seemed too fantastic to be real, but then, so had magic, and he had already seen that with his own eyes. He took a deep breath, steeling himself as he reached out and grasped Snape’s forearm, his small fingers digging into the black fabric of the man's sleeve. “Good,” Snape said, and without another word, There was a sharp crack—a sound like a whip snapping through the air—and suddenly, everything around them was gone. Harry’s stomach lurched as if he’d been yanked by an invisible hook lodged just behind his navel. His breath caught, and the world blurred around him, collapsing inward as if he were being squeezed through a too-tight tube. There was a sensation of crushing pressure on all sides, as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs, and his ears roared with a rushing noise that drowned out everything else. His grip tightened instinctively on Snape’s arm, his knuckles turning white as he felt himself spinning, disoriented and weightless, with no sense of up or down. Just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer—when the pressure became almost unbearable—there was another sharp crack, and the world snapped back into focus. Harry stumbled, the ground solid beneath his feet once more, but his legs wobbled unsteadily. He felt dizzy and off-balance, his head spinning as he fought to catch his breath. The cool breeze of a different street hit his face, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to make sense of the new surroundings. The pressure was gone, but the strange sensation lingered, a phantom echo that made his stomach churn. “You did well,” Snape said, his tone surprisingly calm, and Harry realized he was still gripping the man’s forearm, his fingers numb from the tight hold. He quickly let go, feeling a rush of embarrassment, but Snape didn’t seem to mind. The older wizard’s expression remained impassive as he took a step back, allowing Harry a moment to steady himself. Harry looked up, his eyes widening as he took in the sight before him—a narrow, cobblestone alley buzzing with people dressed in robes of every color, shop windows displaying strange and wondrous objects, and a sign that read, Diagon Alley. A thrill of excitement shot through him, mingling with the fading disorientation. This was it. It was real. His new life had truly begun.