Chapter 3 - An Intriguing Afternoon…

In the dimly lit office of Professor McGonagall, the soft scratching of a quill on parchment was the only sound, save for the crackling of the fireplace. The light flickered over the neatly arranged shelves of books, the polished oak desk, and the long windows that let in the late afternoon sun. Professor Minerva McGonagall sat straight-backed in her chair; her sharp green eyes focused intently on a document in front of her. Her appearance was as impeccable as always—her hair in its signature tight bun, her robes perfectly pressed.

The door creaked open, and Severus Snape entered with his usual dramatic sweep, his long black cloak swirling around him as though he were perpetually caught in a storm. He shot a sardonic look in McGonagall's direction as he closed the door behind him.

"Really, Minerva," Snape began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "one would think you were preparing for an inspection from the ministry tomorrow with how thoroughly you're organizing that paperwork."

McGonagall didn't look up but raised an eyebrow, lips pursed with dry amusement. "One must maintain a sense of order as deputy, Severus, especially when certain colleagues prefer to let chaos reign in their classrooms." Her voice was clipped, but the affection between them was unmistakable. She finished the last sentence on the page before setting the quill down and finally looking up at him. "Take a seat, Severus. We need to talk."

Snape huffed, folding his arms but making no move to sit. "Oh, I'm quite comfortable standing, thank you."

"Suit yourself." McGonagall leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes narrowing just a fraction as she regarded him. There was a tension in the air, one they both felt but hadn't addressed directly. "You know why you're here."

Snape's lip curled, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and reluctance. "Ah yes, the boy." His voice was colder now, the usual disdain he reserved for anything remotely connected to the past creeping into his tone. "How, exactly, are we to introduce him into this world, Minerva? Considering... well, you know."

"I know," McGonagall replied quietly, her voice softer now, her stern demeanour cracking just slightly. "We both knew this day would come eventually, Severus. We can't avoid it any longer."

Snape finally sat, though his posture remained stiff. His fingers drummed against the arm of the chair as he spoke. "Avoid it? No, we certainly can't. But we can control it, at least. This is going to stir up old wounds. Not just for us, but for a lot of people. You can't tell me you don't see the controversy this will cause." His words were biting, but there was a deep-rooted concern underneath them. The sarcasm was a mask.

McGonagall's lips pressed together in thought. "Controversy, yes. But I believe it's necessary. Harry... deserves to know. And frankly, he's more capable than we give him credit for. You know Severus, Albus has been monitoring him."

Snape rolled his eyes, his usual sneer returning. "Capable? He's a child. A smart one, perhaps, but far too curious for his own good. And let's not forget who his parents were." His voice dropped lower, more bitter. "We can't ignore what happened."

There it was—the unspoken truth hanging between them. The complicated past with Harry's parents, with James and Lily. Snape's expression hardened, a flash of pain crossing his face for the briefest of moments, gone as quickly as it appeared.

McGonagall looked down briefly, then met his eyes. "It's not going to be easy, but Harry deserves to know who he is. We've been preparing for this."

Snape's jaw clenched. "Preparing? Harry's return is going to dig up too much of the past. People are going to start asking questions—questions that we're not ready to answer."

McGonagall nodded slowly. "We won't lie to him, but we don't need to rush the truth either. Harry doesn't need to know everything right away."

"And when he finds out?" Snape's voice had an edge of bitterness. "About his parents, what they were involved in... How do we explain that?"

McGonagall's expression tightened. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we need to help him adjust. He's bright, capable... he's not James or Lily."

Snape's face twisted at the mention of their names. "And you think people will simply forget that his parents—"

"Severus," McGonagall interrupted, her voice gentle but firm, "Harry is not responsible for what they did. He's his own person. And he'll need us—both of us."

Snape's gaze flickered, a shadow of concern crossing his features. He looked away, unwilling to show it openly. "Perhaps," he muttered. "But you know how this world works. People will always see James and Lily first."

McGonagall watched him for a long moment, her voice softening. "He's not them, Severus. And he deserves a chance to find his own path."

Snape sighed, "Let's hope this doesn't blow up in our faces, Minerva. Because when it does..."

Snape's eyes flashed again, but this time there was no sarcasm, no sharp retort. Only a weary silence. He leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his gaze falling to the floor. "I've made my choices, Minerva. We both have. But he's going to ask questions. About them. About... us. And what am I supposed to tell him?" He cut himself off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

McGonagall softened, leaning forward herself, her voice gentle but firm. "You tell him the truth, Severus. He deserves that much."

Snape gave a low, humourless chuckle, shaking his head. "The truth... it's never as simple as that, is it?"

"No," McGonagall admitted, her eyes clouding with a mixture of regret and resolve. "But that's all we have."

They sat in silence for a moment, two old friends bound by the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. McGonagall was the first to speak again, her voice steady. "When we introduce Harry to this world, it won't be easy. But he's strong. He'll adapt."

Snape finally looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers for a moment before he sighed. "Let's hope you're right, Minerva. For his sake."

McGonagall gave a rare smile, a warm, knowing one. "I usually am, Severus."

Snape, ever the pessimist, stood and adjusted his cloak with a flourish. "Yes, well... let's just hope this isn't one of the rare occasions where you're wrong."

As he turned to leave, McGonagall's voice followed him, soft but firm. "We'll do what we've always done, Severus. We'll protect him. Just like we promised."

Snape paused for a moment, his back to her, before nodding curtly and sweeping out of the room. The door closed with a soft click, leaving McGonagall alone once more, her gaze lingering on the empty doorway. A heavy sigh escaped her as she turned back to the paperwork, her mind now far from the task at hand.

Whatever the future held for Harry, it was going to be complicated. But they would face it—together.

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As Snape stepped out of McGonagall's office, the cool evening air greeted him as he walked into the Transfiguration Courtyard. The dimming light cast long shadows, stretching out like the memories he tried so hard to suppress. The courtyard, usually filled with the vibrant energy of students during the day, was now quiet, its stone benches and old trees bathed in the fading orange of the sunset.

He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the familiar scene before settling on the ground in front of him. A frown creased his brow as his mind wandered into unfamiliar territory. What is life really about? He mused, a rare, almost foreign thought for him. People could change so drastically over time, he realized—shaped by events, responsibilities, and decisions—yet, at their core, they remained the same. He scoffed softly, shaking his head at his own momentary lapse into philosophy. That was not for him. His was the path of logic and pragmatism.

Potions, he thought bitterly. It was all he had left—his anchor in a world that felt increasingly alien. Teaching, brewing, repeating the same motions. Potions were reliable. People? Not so much. The loneliness that clung to him, like the ever-present black cloak he wore, felt more profound in the growing twilight.

His eyes fell on the folded letter in his hand, its edges slightly worn from being handled too much. A task that should've been simple enough—deliver the letter—but here he was, hesitating. He wondered whether delivering this letter, like so many moments in life, would mark another shift. Will this change things? he thought. Will it happen suddenly, or will it be like everything else—gradual, creeping, until one day you wake up and everything is different, and yet somehow exactly the same?

He snorted softly at the irony. For all his disdain for contemplation, here he was, tangled in it. Shaking his head, Snape tucked the letter into his cloak and straightened up. Philosophy was for fools, and he had no use for it. The world was logical, cold, and structured—at least it was supposed to be. But some things... some things still eluded even the sharpest of minds.

With one last look at the empty courtyard, Snape turned on his heel and continued walking, his footsteps echoing in the silence, leaving behind the weight of thoughts that, like the shadows, would inevitably return another day.

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As Snape walked through the Great Hall, the soft click of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the vast space. His eyes traced the long green banners of Slytherin hanging from the ceiling, fluttering slightly in the breeze from the high windows. For a moment, he allowed himself a brief feeling of pride. Since he had become the deputy head of Slytherin, he had seen marked improvements in the house's behaviour. The once notorious reputation had been softened by a sense of maturity and sportsmanship that had slowly taken root, particularly this year, when Slytherin had claimed the House Cup.

His hand instinctively brushed the stiff envelope in his pocket, a reminder of the task still at hand. But his mind couldn't help but wander again. What would Harry's return mean for this school? Snape thought grimly. The boy's reappearance would not just stir old ghosts; it would shake the very foundations of the school's political landscape. The Wizarding community at large—especially in Britain—would feel the tremors too.

He sighed under his breath. If only I had more sway over these matters, he thought darkly. For all his influence as deputy head of Slytherin, it was Slughorn who still held the reins. Professor Horace Slughorn had been the head of Slytherin for years, and his close friendship with the current headmaster only cemented his position. Snape's lip curled in mild frustration. Slughorn was comfortable, influential, and often oblivious—more interested in collecting talented students like trophies than steering them in the right direction. Power, Snape thought, in the wrong hands.

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He suddenly heard a jovial voice call out from behind him.

"Severus, my boy! A word?"

Snape slowed, his cloak billowing slightly as he turned, spotting Professor Slughorn waddling towards him with a broad grin. Slughorn's round face was flushed, his robes slightly askew, as though he had just hurried from a meeting—or perhaps more likely, from an afternoon indulgence.

"Professor Slughorn," Snape greeted coolly, inclining his head as the older man approached.

Slughorn came to a stop beside him, adjusting his robe's collar with a distracted hand. "I've been meaning to catch up with you, Severus. House business, you see," Slughorn said with a chuckle, his voice carrying through the empty hall. He gave a grand, sweeping gesture to the Slytherin banners. "Quite the achievement this year, isn't it? Slytherin, House Cup champions once more! Well done to you, my boy! Your guidance has certainly helped steer the students toward victory!"

Snape's expression remained neutral, though a hint of pride flickered in his eyes. "The students have worked hard this year," he replied, his tone measured. "Discipline and focus have done them well."

Slughorn clapped Snape lightly on the back, his smile broadening. "Quite right! Quite right! Though I dare say a bit of ambition never hurt anyone. We Slytherins do know how to aim high." He gave a chuckle, his belly shaking slightly as he did.

Snape, still standing tall and composed, allowed a brief pause before speaking again. "Any new... dramatic changes you'd like to implement this year, Professor?" he asked, his voice laced with subtle sarcasm, though his eyes remained cold.

"Dramatic changes? Me? Oh, goodness no, Severus! Steady as we go, that's my motto," Slughorn laughed, though his eyes darted to the side for a brief moment, as if his mind had wandered. "You've been doing a splendid job as deputy head. Why tamper with success, eh?"

Snape's lip curled ever so slightly. "Nothing yet, Professor," he said smoothly. "Anything I bring would be well thought out. And of course, as head of Slytherin, you would approve." The words were deliberate, a subtle reminder of Slughorn's seniority, but also of his increasing complacency.

Slughorn nodded absentmindedly, clearly distracted. "Oh yes, yes, of course, Severus. You've got a good head on your shoulders. But no need for anything drastic." His eyes flicked toward a nearby table laden with sweets leftover from lunch. "You know, consistency is key, especially in our house."

Snape's gaze narrowed as he watched Slughorn's attention drift. "Indeed," he replied, his voice clipped. There was a weight of unspoken frustration in his tone. For all the success Slytherin had seen, Snape knew that Slughorn's leadership was growing increasingly disconnected.

As the two of them walked slowly down the hall, Snape's fingers brushed the envelope in his pocket, the letter he still had to deliver. He remained silent for a moment, his mind circling back to his earlier thoughts about Harry. He felt the familiar tension tighten in his chest, but he couldn't shake the sense that Slughorn's distraction was more than just the usual indulgences.

Snape's eyes flicked to the older man beside him, who seemed more preoccupied with the sweets table than their conversation. Finally, Snape asked, his voice low and probing, "Professor... why are you so distracted?"

Slughorn, caught off guard by the sudden directness, blinked and glanced up at Snape, his jovial smile faltering slightly. His fingers twitched nervously at his robes as he opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn't come immediately. Snape's dark eyes bore into him, waiting, searching for something more than the surface-level chatter that had filled their exchange so far.

There was something Slughorn wasn't saying, and Snape was determined to find out what it was.

Slughorn shifted uncomfortably, his normally jovial face twitching with nervous energy as he cleared his throat. "Let's... let's continue this in my office, Severus," he said, his voice sounding far too casual for the tension that had quickly built between them.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed as he watched the older professor fidget. "Of course, Professor," Snape replied, his tone soft but edged with suspicion. Without a word, he followed Slughorn down the stone corridors, the echo of their footsteps the only sound as they made their way to the Potions Master's cluttered office.

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The room, usually filled with the comforting hum of bubbling potions and the rich scent of herbs, felt more oppressive than usual. Books and jars of strange ingredients lined the shelves, while Slughorn's desk, usually stacked with papers and sweets, was a disorganized mess.

Slughorn moved behind the desk and waved his wand, causing a tray of tea to materialize. His hands were shaking slightly as he poured, and a few drops of hot liquid splashed onto the desk. He chuckled nervously as he fumbled with the cups. "Tea, Severus?" he asked, his voice strained, beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

Snape declined with a curt shake of his head; his expression unchanging as he remained standing. His eyes flicked to the slight tremor in Slughorn's hands, to the nervous shuffle in his feet. Snape's suspicions deepened. He crossed his arms, watching Slughorn closely, his posture rigid and commanding.

Slughorn, clearly unsettled by Snape's gaze, finally sat down, the chair creaking under his weight. "You know Albus," he began with a nervous chuckle, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, "and his... grand plans for education. He's been talking about restarting a few electives again. New instruments, materials, guest lecturers... it's all been very stressful, you see."

Snape gave a slow nod, but his eyes never left Slughorn's face. "Minerva didn't mention anything of the sort to me," he said coldly. "Though, with certain... distractions, it's possible she forgot." His voice was pointed, and there was no mistaking the edge of suspicion that laced his words.

Slughorn's laughter came too quickly, too loudly, and it echoed awkwardly in the room. "Yes, yes, distractions indeed!" He dabbed at his forehead again, his fingers fumbling nervously with his cup. "Albus has been keeping us all quite busy. And with the need to arrange extra security—precious materials coming in, guest lecturers from all over—it's been a bit much, really. You know how Albus is... always full of energy, especially now that he's... well... reduced his workload." He forced a grin, but it was a poor attempt to mask his discomfort.

Snape didn't so much as blink, his piercing gaze cutting through Slughorn's flustered facade. "I see," he said, his voice low and measured, "but I suspect there's more to this than you're saying."

Slughorn's fingers tightened around his teacup, his face reddening as he let out another awkward laugh. "More? Oh no, Severus, it's just the usual... preparations, nothing more!"

Snape, unconvinced, watched as Slughorn nervously adjusted his robes, his hands shaking slightly. The older man was sweating now, despite the cool air in the room, and his eyes flicked around as though searching for something to distract from the conversation. It was clear that whatever he was truly concerned about, it wasn't Albus's educational plans.

Snape's mind worked quickly. Whatever was weighing on Slughorn, it wasn't something he could extract by direct questioning. The man would clam up, retreating into his shell like a tortoise, just as he always did when pressed too hard.

Snape leaned back slightly, his expression softening just a fraction. "Professor," he said slowly, his tone deceptively calm, "why are you so distracted? What is it that's really on your mind?"

Slughorn froze, his eyes flicking up to meet Snape's for a brief, panicked second. His lips parted, but no words came out. The room was suddenly filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall.

Just as the silence between Snape and Slughorn grew unbearably tense, a sharp knock echoed through the room. The door creaked open, revealing Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway, his piercing blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Horace, are you free?" he asked with his usual warm, yet knowing tone. "Oh, my apologies, I didn't mean to disturb anything."

Slughorn visibly jumped in his chair, his already sweaty brow dampening further. His nervous chuckle came out shakier than before. "N-Nothing at all, Albus, nothing to disturb, really," he stammered, dabbing furiously at his forehead with his handkerchief. His eyes darted toward Snape, clearly anxious for the conversation to end.

Snape, narrowing his eyes further in suspicion, stood up with an effortless grace, his black cloak trailing behind him as he turned toward Dumbledore. "If you'll excuse me, Headmaster," he said smoothly, his voice dark and measured, "it seems I've intruded upon something private." His gaze lingered on Slughorn for a fraction longer, silently conveying that this conversation was far from over.

Dumbledore, ever serene, nodded as Snape made his way to the door. "Not at all, Severus. Thank you for your time," Dumbledore said, peering over the rim of his spectacles, studying Snape with a knowing look. The air between them crackled with unspoken thoughts. Snape gave a curt nod before stepping out into the corridor, his cloak sweeping the floor with every step.

Just as the door clicked shut behind him, Snape caught Dumbledore's voice. "Horace, I was just reading a fascinating article in Potions Fortnightly... they've made some interesting claims about the usage of dragon's blood in—" The rest of the conversation faded as Snape continued down the hallway, his mind already racing with questions. Whatever was going on, Slughorn was clearly hiding something—and Dumbledore knew more than he was letting on.

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Snape's footsteps echoed quietly as he walked down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, his dark cloak sweeping the ground behind him. His fingers brushed the envelope in his pocket, a reminder of the urgency now driving him toward his next destination. The late afternoon sun was already beginning its descent, casting long shadows across the alley as the day bled into evening. Snape's mind, however, was sharp, unyielding, and focused on the task at hand.

Once he reached the Ministry, the towering atrium seemed more oppressive than usual. He moved swiftly, his black boots tapping against the polished floors as he approached the Auror office. After confirming his identity, Snape was handed a thin, unimpressive file marked with cryptic letters: H.J.P. – J.P.P. – L.?.E. A-A.D.F.. His lips curled into a sneer. He opened the file, only to find one short, unhelpful line: Apparition location: 11 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Ward location: 4 Privet Drive.

He glanced up at the Auror who had given him the file. "This is all there is?" Snape asked, his voice cold, but contained.

The Auror, who had been watching him warily, straightened, a note of authority in his tone. "That's all you'll get, Professor. Now, unless you've got more clearance, it's time for you to leave."

Snape's expression remained impassive, though his mind was roiling with contempt. Without another word, he snapped the file shut and turned on his heel, exiting the office with his usual controlled grace, though his jaw tightened as he walked. Time was slipping away.

At the designated Apparition point in Diagon Alley, he took one last glance around before vanishing with a sharp crack, reappearing moments later in a quiet, suburban neighbourhood. The sky had darkened further, the golden hue of late afternoon giving way to the dusky blue of early evening. The air was still, with the scent of freshly cut grass lingering faintly. Rows of nearly identical houses stood in neat formation along the street, each with perfectly manicured lawns, precisely trimmed hedges, and pristine white fences. Every home looked like a replica of the next—each facade painted a safe, inoffensive shade, with identical curtains drawn in each window, as if their occupants had agreed to live in a world scrubbed clean of any personality or individuality.

Snape sneered at the sterile conformity of the place as he walked. Muggles, he thought disdainfully, his lip curling. Even their homes were devoid of any charm. No sign of life or magic here. It was exactly the kind of place where one would expect Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, to be hidden. It was clear, however, that no one lived at Number 11, the address he had been given. The house was still, lifeless, and cold. His black eyes scanned the empty building, wondering if this was some kind of ruse or simply another example of bureaucratic incompetence. He dismissed it with a quiet grunt, turning his attention across the street.

Number 4 Privet Drive loomed ahead of him, looking much the same as the others, with its dull brick exterior and spotless windows. The narrow, immaculate driveway led to a well-maintained garden, the hedges trimmed to the point of obsession. Snape's eyes flicked over the scene with a flicker of sarcasm. Perfectly ordinary in every way, he mused. This is where Harry Potter is being raised. How utterly… mundane.

As he approached the door, the faint sound of voices could be heard inside, and he glanced toward the curtained windows. There was a flicker of movement, perhaps a family gathering for dinner. Snape's lip curled again. How quaint, he thought, stepping onto the porch. He imagined that inside the house, the Dursleys were likely seated around their pristine dining table, shoveling food into their mouths. Wouldn't want to interrupt their precious dinner, he thought sarcastically as his hand hovered over the door.

The evening air was cooler now, and Snape paused for a moment, letting the sounds of this Muggle neighbourhood wash over him—the distant hum of a passing car, the faint murmur of televisions from other homes, the occasional bark of a dog. It was a world that was painfully, almost aggressively, normal. He could practically smell the Muggle pretension seeping from the cracks of these houses. With one last contemptuous glance at the uniform surroundings, Snape's fingers closed into a fist, and he rapped sharply on the door of Number 4 Privet Drive.