the girl who lived
Dumbledore had to admit that he was not the smartest player on the board. There were others better than him, and there would be others who would be. But everyone believed he was. Everyone believed in the great Professor Dumbledore. Everyone, except himself.
He wasn't the most morally correct, either. He had indirectly caused many deaths; the Potters, several fallen in war, aurors. The Potters. Children he had seen grow into teenagers and ultimately young adults. He had seen them become parents, and he had seen them die under the honour of giving everything for their daughter, little Harriet, the sweet, smiling creature they had brought into the world in the middle of the war.
A girl that Dumbledore had abandoned in the middle of the freezing night at her aunt's house. Girl who suffered because of him. Girl who knew nothing about her origin, about the bravery of her parents.
So, yes, Dumbledore had to admit that he wasn't the best person, although he didn't think he was the worst.
“Dumbledore,” Severus' voice brought him back to reality. “To what do I owe the call?”
Severus, another boy he had seen grow into an adult. He was already twenty-eight years old, and the Potions' professor at Hogwarts. Another child who had fallen into his saviour's net.
“Yes, my boy. A… problem has arisen. It concerns Harriet Potter.”
A grimace of disgust settled on Severus's face. His hatred for the Potters would never stop, Albus supposed: he had had a long-standing rivalry with James, and Harriet would probably be another poor victim of that foolish feud.
“What happened to Potter?”
“Normally, I would call McGonagall,” he said, “but I don't think she's the right one for this. She's a hot-headed woman and… And she's not the right one at the moment. There's been an alert from the squib sent for Harriet's watch.”
“An alert?” Snape questioned, frowning.
“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore sighed. “It seems like Ms. Potter has suffered from an attack.”
“And why am I here?”
Dumbledore looked at him, and Snape closed his eyes, releasing a deep sigh.
“You know her aunt, Petunia. It is better to send someone who she knows.”
“Petunia detested me all her life.”
“She is a grown woman now. She surely let that go by now.”
He surely had hope on her, Snape thought.
From as long as Snape had known Petunia —almost nineteen years—, she never liked him. He remembered her insults and looks full of disgust every time he was near her. He especially recalled the tantrum she threw when she couldn't go to Hogwarts, and how much satisfaction that it brought to him.
So, he didn't know exactly was he thinking in giving in onto Dumbledore's orders. But there he was, standing close to Petunia's house. Privet Drive. He looked around, noticing that every house in the neighbourhood looked just the same. Brick walls of an opaque yellow, a roof of dark and identical tiles, windows with bars, and a single door of antique cherry.
A movement in the garden, covered by a long oak door —but not taller than him— caught his attention. He moved surreptitiously, barely getting closer. A raven head appeared in his range of vision, kneeling before a magnolia orchard.
He wasn't there for the garden, he reminded himself. He approached the porch, knocking on the door with three simple but strong knocks. A voice growled from inside.
“Girl! Go get the door.”
“Going, uncle Vernon,” a soft, more delicate voice said.
Quick footsteps approached the door, opening it. Snape found nothing on par with him, but down, noticing Harriet Potter looking at him with big, familiar green eyes.
He felt his breath catch in his chest, looking into those innocent and curious green eyes. The eyes that had once belonged to Lily.
Yet, it was not only the eyes that made his heart drop.
The girl had a bruised eye. A yellow bruise reigned over her extremely pale skin, highlighting her swollen green eye. A cut rested on her cheekbone, and a thick hand mark spread across her neck.
She was wearing shabby clothes, not at all her size. An orange jumper —although it looked like it had been washed so many times that it could have been red— whose sleeve was about to fall off, a long black skirt with holes at the end, and poorly tied gray shoes.
“Good morrow, sir,” Potter talked.
“Who is it, girl?” The man roared from inside the house.
“Um- uh- is a man, uncle Vernon.”
She looked at him once more, waiting for an answer.
When Snape didn't answer, he heard heavy footsteps approaching.
A man —more walrus-like than human— with a wide moustache and short stature looked at the girl with furious eyes.
“What do you want, girl?” He exclaimed. “That someone rob us? Close that door!”
“But, uncle Vernon—”
“Didn't you hear me?”
“Vernon Dursley,” Severus spoke slowly, showing his complete displeasure. The walrus looking man turned towards him. He let out a frightened gasp, placing a hand against his chest as he leaned against the wall.
“You — you — you are one of them!” He stuttered. “Petunia! Petunia!”
“What's the matter, my love?”
She appeared from the kitchen, and the instant she noticed the abrupt constant of Severus's black clothing against the peach colour of the walls, a furious scowl settled on her face.
Snape noticed how she was still blonde, tall and with the same giraffe neck as always. He almost wanted to laugh at the totally irritated expression she wore.
“What are you doing here?” She exclaimed. “We have taken the girl in! We don't want your freakiness in here!”
“Move, child,” he said softly, pulling Harriet away from the door with a hand on her shoulder, feeling her tense.
He made his way into the house, looking at the paintings of an obese blonde boy hanging around the living room. A large family photo, where Dursley —also blonde and obese—, the boy and Petunia posed. Not a single picture about the girl in his sight.
“There has been an alert,” he said slowly. “I have been sent to check the girl's well-being.”
“Well, you have seen her!” Petunia replied. “Now, out.”
Severus rolled his eyes, finding the stairs to the side. It wasn't the staircase that caught his attention, but the cupboard beneath it. It had about three locks, a small grate to see through.
Something too unusual for a cupboard, however, even more unusual was the smell of blood and the magical air around it.
He frowned, approaching undisguisedly. Harriet watched him carefully, wondering what he wanted from her bedroom. Petunia became desperate, and then the blonde ball went down.
“What is he doing in the freak's room?”
And hell went down too.
A dog bed— no, not even that. It was an old and small mattress, but one that the girl probably fit perfectly on, since her height did not exceed Severus's hips.
There was a whole electrical system inside. Many boxes, accumulated rubbish, jar of steel nails, buckets of paint. A pair of loose socks. Broken toys. Thin and large spiders walking through the cobwebs. A torn blanket stained with blood.
A baby blanket. Her baby blanket.
Snape's eyes read once and twice the end of the blanket.
H.L.P.
The P was a little torn away, the strings bloody. But it was hers. Harriet Lily Potter.
He straightened slowly, finding a drawing on the side of the interior wall: Harriet's room.
And the desire to vomit filled him.
He turned angrily to Petunia, who was staring at him with her jaw held high, trying to hide her fear of him.
“How dare you?” He mumbled with horror. “How dare you do that to her?”
“She deserved it! The girl had the same freakiness as your kind!”
“Of course she would be like her parents, you stupid woman! She is the daughter of two wizards.” Severus felt the rage in him rise like the waves of an aggressive sea. “How dare you hurt her? She is your niece!”
“Don't you dare scream at my wife for that strange child!” The ground hog shouted, pointing his finger at him as he stood in front of his wife. His face turned red as he screamed. “That child is weird, just like you and your kind. Nothing that a beating or two can't get out.”
And more angered than ever, Severus got his wand out, pointing it towards them. The man let out a horrified gasp, nothing compared to Petunia's scream.
“Give me a reason” he said, “to not kill you in this instant.”
“Lily wouldn't approve this!”
“But she would approve you — you hurting her daughter?” Snape shot back. “You could have killed her! She is a child, your niece, Lily's daughter. Can you not see it?”
“Sir,” Harriet called, and he looked at her, “did you know my mother?”
“… I did.”
Her face illuminated like someone had gifted her the biggest coin in the world. But that only enraged him worse.
“Did you not tell her about Lily? About Potter, at least?”
Petunia did not answer, but that answered his question. He let the wand down, looking at the child with the green eyes.
“What do you know about your parents, Potter?”
“That they died in a car crash, sir.”
Car crash. A car crash. Lily and James, who didn't even own a car. Car crash, when they had been killed for a stupid prophecy Pettigrew heard and told to the Dark Lord. A prophecy that he had never seen. A car crash, when their bodies had lied on their house for almost a day, with a screaming babe, a scared, lost one.
“Car crash,” Snape mumbled. “You lied to her. What kind of person are you?”
“And you? You, who called Lily that stupid word! You, the one that went with the… with those killers!”
“Look,” he turned to look at the child, getting down to her level, “your parents did not die in a car crash. They were… They were killed by a mad man.”
“… So they weren't drunks?”
“No, Harriet. They were not drunks… Grab your stuff,” he ordered her. “We're leaving. Now.”
“You cannot do that!” said Dursley. “That old man left her here for a reason.”
“And she is being taken away for the same reason,” Severus said bitterly.
The girl did not have much stuff, so she didn't take long. As soon as she came back from the cupboard, they left. And Severus made sure to left a mark in there: boiling blisters on both of them… and a pig tail on the kid.
“Sir.”
“Yes?”
“What is your name?”
Snape looked down at the child that held his sleeve to not get lost. She looked right back at him, full of curiosity and sadness.
“Severus Snape. That is my name.”
“Thank you, sir.”