Chapter 11 — Snape's Help
The air in Spinner's End smells faintly of smoke and damp stone — the sort of smell that clings to old buildings and secrets. I stand before Number Twelve again, heart steady but aware of what I'm about to do. Six years of waiting, watching, and preparing come down to this.
I knock.
The sound echoes dully down the narrow street. For a moment, there's only the creak of a loose shutter somewhere above. Then — footsteps. Slow, deliberate, each one sounding like a decision being made.
The door opens.
Professor Severus Snape stands there, tall and lean, wrapped in his usual gloom like a cloak. His eyes flick over me with irritation first, then confusion. He clearly doesn't recognise me. I suppose I've grown quite a bit since that last visit.
I'm almost ten now, though I look a bit older. At one fifty-four centimetres, I stand taller than most boys my age — something my father, Vernon, likes to grumble about when he has to tell me off. But he's proud to see me grow. My build's filled out too, firm and well-balanced from helping in the garden and chasing Harry and Dudley around the park. My hair's black, with a faint shimmer. My eyes, though, are a bright blue that Petunia says came from her side of the family, though I sometimes wonder if that's just her way of claiming credit for anything decent that shows up in me.
"Who are you," he says flatly, "and what business do you have here?"
I straighten up, trying to look both polite and confident — not easy when you're barely ten and standing in front of a man who could probably terrify thunderclouds.
"Good afternoon, Professor Snape. I'm Arthur Dursley," I say, standing straight at the doorway. "Petunia's eldest — Harry's cousin. We met once, years ago, just after… after everything happened. My parents had come to ask if you'd let them see Lily before the funeral."
Snape's expression flickers with recognition, disbelief, then something that might almost be amusement. Almost.
"Of course," he says softly, his eyes sharpening with memory. "I remember that visit. Your mother was insistent. Your father looked rather lost. You were only a child then."
"I still am," I say with a small smile, "though I think I've grown a bit since."
Snape gives a short, humourless huff that might almost be a laugh. "Quite."
For a few seconds, he studies me in silence. The weight of his gaze feels like it could peel paint. Finally, he steps back slightly, just enough for me to take it as permission.
"Come in," he says.
The house smells of old parchment and potions. There's a faint hiss from somewhere deeper inside — a kettle or a cauldron, I can't tell. The curtains are drawn tight, and the dim light makes the walls look like they're holding their breath.
Snape gestures to a worn chair near the fire. "Sit."
I do. My feet just slightly dangle above the floor, which rather ruins the effect of calm confidence I'm going for. He sits opposite, steepling his long fingers together, eyes still fixed on me.
At last, he says, "What brings you here, Mr Dursley?"
"I need your help, sir," I say simply.
That gets an eyebrow. "Help," he repeats. "From me."
"Yes," I reply, meeting his eyes. "I need to get into Diagon Alley."
Snape leans back, studying me. "And what," he asks quietly, "does a Muggle child want in Diagon Alley?"
"I'm not Muggle," I say. "Not exactly."
His eyes narrow, the faintest twitch of surprise crossing his face. "Do elaborate."
I take a breath. "My magic awakened a few years ago. I've been practising — carefully, quietly. I haven't told anyone outside my family. But tomorrow's my tenth birthday, and it's Harry's too. I wanted to visit the Alley, buy a few things for him — maybe some books or toys he can use when he's older."
Snape said in an almost smirking tone, ""Petunia's son is a wizard. Amusing."
Then, he continues, "And why, precisely, come to me?"
"Because," I answer, "you're the only one I trust who can make it happen without drawing attention. No one else knows about us — not even Professor Dumbledore."
That earns me a flicker of genuine surprise. "You would rather keep this from the Headmaster, again?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation. "He's… not the enemy, but he doesn't need to know everything yet. Some things are better handled quietly."
Snape regards me with an expression that's half intrigue, half suspicion. His eyes are sharper now, searching. "You speak like someone far older than you look," he murmurs. "And yet I sense no arrogance in it. Curious."
I shrug lightly. "Just practical."
He leans forward slightly. "And what makes you think I won't simply report this conversation to Dumbledore the moment you leave?"
I meet his eyes again. "Because you won't," I say, calm and certain. "You'd rather see how this plays out."
The tiniest curve tugs at his mouth — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. "You think you understand me."
"I think you prefer facts to sentiment," I say. "And you know I'm telling the truth."
He tilts his head, and for a moment, I can feel it — the push of his mind against mine. Legilimency. Subtle but deliberate.
I steady my breathing and meet his gaze head-on. My mind has always been… ordered. Clear. Six years of quiet training and control have built strong walls around it. Whatever he's looking for, he won't find it. He'll only find what I want him to see.
After a few seconds, he blinks and leans back again, expression unreadable. "Interesting," he murmurs. "You have quite the will, Mr Dursley."
"I try," I say mildly.
There's another pause, then: "And if I were to agree — hypothetically — to take you into Diagon Alley, what do you intend to do there, besides buy gifts?"
"I want to prepare," I admit. "To learn. You know what the magical world's like — complicated, dangerous. I want to be ready before the letter comes."
He studies me for a long time, eyes half-lidded but sharp as glass. "You're serious," he finally says.
"Yes, sir."
Another silence. The clock on the mantel ticks once, twice. Snape exhales through his nose, sounding faintly like he regrets having a conscience.
"I'll consider it," he says at last. "If I decide you're not wasting my time, we'll go tomorrow morning."
Relief stirs quietly in me, though I keep my expression steady. "Thank you, Professor."
"Don't thank me yet," he says dryly. "You may find the Alley less welcoming than you imagine."
I nod, standing. "One more thing, sir. Could you… maybe suggest some reading? Books that might help me prepare for what's ahead — basic magical theory, wizarding customs, anything useful. Books, knowledge, anything that helps me understand it better. For myself. For Harry too."
He arches a brow. "Planning to study before you even arrive at Hogwarts?"
"Yes," I say. "Knowledge never hurts."
That earns me a long, assessing stare. "Very well," he says eventually. "I'll prepare a list. You may collect it tomorrow."
"Thank you," I say again, more quietly this time.
He doesn't answer. His gaze drifts briefly toward the window, then back to me. "You're far from an ordinary child, Mr Dursley," he says. "I can't decide if that's admirable… or concerning."
"Maybe both," I say with a small grin.
To my astonishment, that gets the faintest huff of what might be laughter. "You may go," he says. "And do not wander here again without reason. Spinner's End is not kind to the uninvited."
I nod. "Understood."
As I reach the door, his voice stops me once more.
"Dursley."
I turn. "Sir?"
He looks at me, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Petunia," he says after a pause. "She knows what you are?"
"She does," I say. "And she's proud."
Something flickers behind his eyes — a quick, hidden emotion — and then it's gone.
"Good day," he says quietly.
Outside, the sun is starting to lower, casting long shadows down the narrow street. I breathe in the cool air and start walking, the cobblestones uneven underfoot. For all his sharp edges, Snape isn't quite as cold as he pretends. He's wary, yes — but not cruel. Not when it comes to those he once cared about.
Tomorrow, we'd go to Diagon Alley. Tomorrow, I'd get the books I needed — and maybe a little more. Tomorrow would also be the day Harry turned seven, and I'd finally be able to give him something more than words or protection.
But there's another purpose, one I haven't spoken aloud. Something darker. Something I've waited six years to do.
The nearest trace of the Horcrux still lingers — faint, malignant, and tied to Harry's scar. I can feel it, like a stain in the air whenever he's upset. And I know now what needs to be done. I've grown stronger — in mind, body, and soul. The magic in my blood hums with purpose.
Tomorrow, I'll begin. Quietly. Carefully. The first step toward freeing him.
The evening wind picks up as I reach the corner of Spinner's End, ruffling my hair. Somewhere behind me, a door shuts softly, and I imagine Snape watching from the window, still trying to decide what to make of me.
I grin to myself and keep walking.
Tomorrow is going to be a big day.
End of Chapter 11 — Snape's Help