Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a cupboard under the stairs. There lived Freak.
It was a nasty, dirty, wet cupboard filled with spiders and oozy smells; a dank cupboard filled to the very edges with darkness, where the dingy bulb overhead provided only the most reluctant illumination. But it was Freak's! The tiniest, coziest room in all the house—just for him! His safe space! So wonderfully small that grown-ups had to fold themselves in half to peek inside, which made it extra special, extra his.
To him, it was an actual house! Or, when he felt particularly fantastical (which was often), it transformed into a castle! A magnificent castle! Buttresses here, gargoyles there, stairs spiraling up—up, up, and away!—until his feet turned all prickly, as if he were dancing across a bed of roses. He commanded royal knights, possessed horses aplenty, and ruled an imagination bursting with joy and merriment.
Freak was almost five whole years old, and he was the skinniest boy you ever did see! His tummy sang the most curious songs—rumbling like a baby dragon's purr, especially when Aunt Petunia forgot to call him for meals! But Freak didn't mind so terribly much—he simply ignored the sensation, wondering if perhaps the dragon was quite comfortable in his stomach. Though he harbored this delightful suspicion that when the world pirouetted around him, he was transforming into a feather, and soon—oh, soon!—he could ride upon the wind itself! Such a thrilling prospect!
So he truly didn't mind when they forgot to feed him. He'd always yearned to fly.
His wardrobe was positively whimsical! Originally belonging to his cousin Dudley—a robust young gentleman who enjoyed lobbing stones at little Freak—the clothes were so magnificently oversized that when he walked, he resembled a tiny sailing vessel! Perhaps even a wizard! The sleeves cascaded past his hands like proper wizard robes. The garments displayed the most vibrant palette—brilliant purples and sunny yellows, occasionally adorned with crimson accents that mysteriously appeared after Uncle Vernon bestowed those special hugs that squeezed rather too enthusiastically.
His hair defied all logic and gravity, black as midnight, having never encountered a hairbrush it could befriend! It erupted and curled in every conceivable direction, as though he'd been soaring through tempests, which made Freak giggle with secret delight—because maybe, just maybe, he had been flying in his dreams. But shh! He mustn't tell Uncle or Aunt! They harbored no fondness for the wonders Freak witnessed. These remained his precious, private secrets!
Speaking of seeing—Freak's eyes were extraordinary. The most exquisite emerald green, like precious stones or sea-tumbled glass, sparkling with such vitality and imagination that it threatened to swallow the world whole. They peered through circular glass windows that had acquired interesting crack patterns during Uncle Vernon's enthusiastic games of catch. Uncle Vernon always played rather vigorously.
Nevertheless, each night, Freak would nestle into his little bed (he'd long pretended it was a cloud—a rather chilly cloud), and listen to the symphony of fascinating sounds. The thump-thump-thump of Uncle Vernon descending the stairs—surely the footfalls of a proper giant! And sometimes, in the velvet depths of night, Aunt Petunia's whispers would float through: "freaky things" and "just like his parents." Freak didn't quite grasp these mysterious words, but his parents sounded like absolutely marvelous people!
The crowning glory of cupboard living was his spider companions. They wove the most enchanting webs in every corner of the cupbaord, each design utterly unique! Freak could swear—though his vision might be playing tricks—that once they'd crafted a perfect silken horse, identical to the toy Dudley had (accidentally) abandoned by his door! Uncle Vernon insisted it was a dream—or was it nightmare?—but mercifully, the belt stayed put that time. The spiders weren't merely artists; they were Freak's dearest friends! Each night, they'd spin constellations around his humble bulb, and he could only dream of how the real stars must look, scattered across heavens.
"Soon," he'd whisper to them, gleefully and excitedly. "Soon!"
Sometimes Freak felt impossibly light and floaty, particularly on days when breakfast and lunch had escaped him (he'd cooked too little for his family again). He was certain he might simply drift away like thistledown. His bones felt hollow as a sparrow's, primed for flight. And during Uncle Vernon's "throwing games"—those occasions when Freak found himself intimately acquainted with various walls—he pretended he was mastering the art of aviation. He simply hadn't perfected the landing yet!
Today sparkled with promise. Freak's tummy had ceased its dragon-songs, which struck him as peculiar, and the world had gone soft around its edges, like peering through gauze. Courage swelled in his chest—braver than ever! Like those gallant knights of his imagination! With trembling fingers thin as twigs, he pushed open his cupboard door and ventured into the hallway.
The house seemed... expanded somehow, and the air tasted peculiar—like licking the sink! (He'd tried it once, purely for scientific purposes.) Freak's bare feet whispered silence across the floor (the quiet game had become second nature), and he felt himself floating, floating, floating toward something miraculous.
Perhaps today marked the first day of his true adventure!
And as Freak took another weightless step, free as any bird, he thought he detected the most melodious sound—bells perhaps, or laughter, or someone calling his name with genuine affection. Probably just imagination, but then again, in Freak's experience, imaginary things were invariably the very best things of all.
He drifted down the hallway, everything seemed mystical, sparkly even. The wall portraits seemed to wave—though their expressions appeared rather melancholy (Aunt Petunia always insisted pictures were motionless, but what could she possibly know?). Even the umbrella stand appeared to be executing a mournful jig.
Whatever that meant! But Freak knew he would understand soon!
"I'm going on an adventure!" he announced to a particularly inquisitive painting.
The painting's sadness deepened. Freak found himself rather puzzled by this reaction.
He continued his expedition down the seemingly endless, serpentine hallway. His legs had gone wobbly-wobbly, gelatinous, transforming walking into a game! Left foot, right foot, left foot—whoops! The floor rushed up in greeting! But something felt peculiar, sharp? He couldn't quite identify it, nor could he persuade his arms to cooperate! They'd transformed into limp noodles. Clearly participating in the sleeping game.
Eventually, Freak's gaze traveled upward to discover Uncle Vernon looming above, his face a spectacular shade of purple. Like a grape! An enormous, mustachioed, furious grape.
"Vernon! What did you do?!" Aunt Petunia's voice sliced through the air, sharp as scissors.
"Taught the Freak a lesson, Pet," Uncle Vernon's words tumbled out muddled and thick. Was that his belt dangling there? Oh... Freak hadn't realized they were playing the belt game today! "Get up, you ungrateful Freak! Get up!"
No. He didn't wish to rise. Freak had never experienced such warmth, such comfort, as if wrapped in the softest blanket imaginable. His tummy had stopped its complaints, and all those colorful decorations—purple, yellow, red—adorning his arms and body and legs had ceased their throbbing. Pure magic! He felt so weightless that surely, upon standing, he would finally achieve flight!
The anticipation was overwhelming. Though he couldn't quite share it with Aunt or Uncle. He tried! Nothing came out, but he swore he did try!
Then suddenly, the memory of Freak Potter dissolved into smoke.
Severus Snape felt his stomach revolt.
His body convulsed forward as the memory concluded. What had seemed like decades compressed into mere moments of the child's abbreviated existence.
Harry Potter had died at five years old.
Snape emerged in a maelstrom of fury. His lungs seared like burning coals, vision swimming with incandescent rage. His hands, trembling violently, clutched the pensieve's rim until his knuckles bleached white, joints cracking in protest. Sharp, electric pain shot through his veins. His mind struggled to process the memories melding together into this sickly, twisted monster—sorting through colors and visions he could never unsee. The phantom sensations of white-hot agony intertwined with gnawing hunger pangs as Harry endured beating after beating after beating after beating until blessed unconsciousness claimed him.
All to purge the "Freak" from an innocent child who'd believed them family.
Snape's entire being went numb as understanding crystallized:
He had failed Lily.
He had failed Lily's son.
The dungeon walls seemed to press inward, suffocating him with their weight. How many times had he stood in these very chambers, sneering at the memory of James Potter’s spawn? How many nights had he convinced himself that the boy was pampered, spoiled, drowning in adoration like his insufferable father?
Freak.
The word echoed in his mind, spoken in Vernon Dursley’s meaty voice, but it could have been his own. How many opportunities had he squandered to simply ask, to check, to see?
Snape’s fingers released the pensieve as if it had burned him. The metal bowl continued to swirl everlasting memories; Harry’s memories. A child’s memories, filtered through imagination and hope so desperate it had transformed starvation into adventure, beatings into games, a cupboard into a castle.
Spider friends.
The words hit him like a physical blow. The boy had befriended spiders because they were the only living things that showed him kindness.
Snape’s legs gave away. He knees found the cold stone floor, robes pooling around him as he looked up at the darkened ceiling. His mind ruthlessly catalogued every interaction, every sneer, every cutting remark he’d prepared for the day when Potter’s spawn would darken Hogwarts’ doors.
… but there would be no first day…
The child had died believing his family was playing a game and he was on a grand adventure…
“Lily,” those same violent hands cradled his damning face. “Lily, I’m so sorry…”
But Lily wasn’t there to grant him absolution. She’d died trusting the wizarding world to protect her son. Trusting him , perhaps, in some small measure to honour her memory.
The boy died believing his name to be Freak; believing that all of these things happening to him, those hunger pangs, those beatings, and throwings were normal...
The boy had died at five. Five. Before he could even learn he was a wizard. Before he could know that he possessed all of these beautiful, magnificent powers; before he could discover that his fantasies weren’t ridiculed or shamed, but valued and real . Before he could discover that his parents hadn’t abandoned him but had died as heroes, as warriors, as the brightest lights of their generation, in a world all-consumed by darkness, extinguished too soon.
Before…
Before he could truly know that he was loved.