Chapter 2
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Harry perched on the edge of the bed, watching helplessly as little Snape adjusted his miniature Hogwarts uniform. He looked every bit the four-year-old wizard-in-training rather than the intimidating Potions professor he once was.
"So..." Harry cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence, "do you remember anything? Anything at all?"
Little Snape didn't answer right away. He sat in the chair opposite, legs dangling in the air, too short to reach the floor. His eyes methodically scanned every detail of the room, lingering on Harry's face, his gestures, and the way he nervously fidgeted with his hair.
That calculating observation was so... Snape-like. It made Harry's skin crawl.
"I remember fragments," Little Snape finally spoke, his voice childish but his tone carrying that familiar deliberateness. "Dark places. Many bottles. And... smells. Strange smells."
Harry nodded. "That's the potions classroom. You... uh, that's where you worked."
"Work?" Little Snape tilted his head, confusion flashing in his eyes before he abruptly changed topics. "You're nervous."
The blunt observation caught Harry off guard. "What?"
"Your hands are trembling. Your voice shakes. And you've been avoiding eye contact." Young Snape's voice remained childlike, but his razor-sharp analysis made Harry feel like he was back in Potions class. "Are you afraid of me, or something else?"
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. How could he explain? The person before him was Professor Snape—their relationship too complicated, too fraught with history. He had no idea how to navigate this bizarre situation.
"I'm not afraid of you," Harry finally managed, though even he heard the uncertainty in his voice. "I just... don't know how to act around you."
Young Snape nodded, as if he'd expected this answer. "Because I'm different from who I was before."
Not a question. A statement.
Harry stared at him, taken aback.
"You said 'that's where you worked'—past tense." Little Snape swung his legs, unnervingly calm. "And the way you look at me... it's both familiar and complex. Fear, yes, but also... admiration? And guilt. That girl, Hermione, mentioned 'trouble you caused.'"
"You're scarily perceptive," Harry said sincerely.
Little Snape shrugged, the gesture making his uniform bunch up comically around his shoulders. "Observation comes naturally. It's like..." he paused, confusion crossing his small face, "it's as automatic as breathing. I don't know why, but I just see things others miss."
He studied Harry again. "You want me to like you. That matters to you. Why?"
Harry's cheeks flushed. Being psychoanalyzed by someone who looked like a preschooler was disconcerting, to say the least.
"Because..." Harry hesitated, then decided on honesty, "you've looked after me before, and now I need to look after you. If you hate me, that's going to be pretty miserable for both of us."
Little Snape considered this, nodding thoughtfully.
"I understand," he said. "Here's to a pleasant coexistence, Mr. Potter."
