Vice versa (Harry Potter)

"No, Harry," Terry said with his mouth full. "There must be a reason why Snape keeps picking on you!"

"He just doesn't like anyone," Harry mumbled, finishing off his hot pie. "I've heard he can't stand Longbottom. The guy's always blowing things up… even stuff that can't explode by definition."

"Exactly!" Terry raised a finger. "But he didn't hate him at first sight, right? He must've earned it! And you're saying he hated you right away?"

"True…" Harry swallowed the last bite of his portion and grabbed his glass. "Mmm, you have no idea how much I miss Coke in that damned Hogwarts!"

"Don't they have it?"

"Nope. They've got juices, mostly pumpkin… ugh…" He made a dramatic grimace. "Or you can beg for tea. And everyone's chugging butterbeer, but it makes me want to hurl!"

"I bet Coke would make them hurl," Terry snorted.

"Hey, now that's an idea!" Harry brightened up. "I'll bring a couple of bottles and treat the purebloods. Half-bloods must've tried it, but those guys…"

"Don't get sidetracked," his friend flicked him on the forehead. "We're talking about Snape's grudge. Focus!"

There was a pause.

"I've got nothing," Harry spread his hands. "Maybe he just doesn't like my face? I'm a real charmer, as my uncle says—just the kind you want to slap a brand on."

"Your face, you say…" Terry squinted his pale blue eyes. "Remember how your aunt used to scream that you're the spitting image of your dad, destined to follow in his footsteps and all that?"

"Was that when I accidentally sucked the cat into the vacuum? Or when I was spying on the neighbors from the roof? Or when I glued Dudley to a chair? Or…"

"Doesn't matter when! I definitely heard it a few times, and if even I did, she must've been saying it to you constantly!"

"Wait…" Harry paused, lowering his straw. "That's it."

"Told you!"

"No, listen! At Hogwarts, teachers keep saying how much I look like my dad and sigh about me not being in Gryffindor like he and my mom were!"

"Now we're getting somewhere," Terry rubbed his hands. "And Snape, this guy, he went there too, right?"

"Yeah. Seems like there's no other school around here. But he's a Slytherin."

"Maybe your dad gave him hell back in the day, just like you're doing now, and…"

"Nah, doesn't add up, Terry," Harry shook his head. "Snape's not that old. He looks like forty, but I think he's younger, just looks terrible."

"Aha!" Terry pointed a finger with the air of Sherlock Holmes cracking the case of the century. "Now it all fits! No idea what the age gap is between him and your dad, but they were in different houses and could've easily been at school together—give or take a couple of years. Plus, like you said, Gryffindor and Slytherin are always at each other's throats. So…"

"So Dad must've given him a hard time, or they drove each other crazy," Harry concluded. "Filch said my dad was quite the troublemaker. And now I'm the one paying for it!"

"Well… what can you do. I wonder what it was they clashed over?"

"Who knows! Could've been over a girl, we'll never figure it out now. You can't ask my dad, and Snape would incinerate me on the spot…"

"Hey! Hey! Why'd you zone out?" Terry snapped his fingers.

"Everyone keeps saying," Harry said thoughtfully, "that I've got my mom's eyes. So, you little detective, it was definitely over a girl. I mean, my mom! And I can't blame her, really… I've seen a photo of my dad—such a macho guy, everything on point. My mom was gorgeous, and Snape… Honestly, he's scary to look at. If he's like this now, then at fifteen… ugh…"

"See?" Terry sighed. "We'll probably never know what happened between them, but the gist is clear now! Imagine the guy looks into his class and sees a copy of his old rival, but with the eyes of his ex. And he has to teach him. That'd drive anyone mad!"

"I have a feeling it's not that simple," Harry said thoughtfully. "The headmaster keeps hinting at something, Snape gives me these suspicious looks, and the others definitely know something. Maybe they're waiting for me to start asking questions, but no way! I'll figure it out myself. And if I don't, then fine. Ignorance is bliss!"

"That's true," Terry chuckled. "Want another pie?"

"Sure," Harry agreed. "And I still need to tell you why I don't want to ask the headmaster anything…"

"Mmm?"

"Well, he summoned me for a talk once. Our prefect was surprised, like, why me? I hadn't done anything wrong… So, I went, of course," Harry bit off half of a rhubarb pie and continued with his mouth full. "So, he didn't scold me, sat me down in a chair, poured me some tea, and started stuffing me with lemon drops… disgusting…"

"You eat lemons by the pound!" Terry exclaimed.

"Those are lemons; this was candy," Harry explained. "You know, shaped like lemon slices. Sickeningly sweet—I took one bite and almost glued myself shut… But never mind that. His office was cool, though. Moving portraits, all sorts of weird gizmos, a phoenix in a cage…"

"You're kidding!"

"I swear, a real phoenix! Burning and not burning up! But that's not the point…" Harry sipped his drink. "So, this kindly old man starts talking some nonsense, and at first, I couldn't even follow what he was on about. Like, 'Oh, dear Harry, it's so wonderful to have you with us,' blah-blah-blah… He's a master at sweet-talking, let me tell you! Then he asks how I'm finding things here. I tell him the truth: it sucks. I'm not used to living in a dorm, no electricity—can't play on a computer or even Tetris because electronics don't work there. We write with quills on parchment as if ballpoint pens and paper weren't invented yet. No football field. Boring as hell…"

"You didn't say it like that, I hope?" Terry asked, genuinely concerned.

"Of course not, I played the angel," Harry replied. "Like I don't know how…"

"You sure do. Half the teachers thought you were a saint!"

"Yeah, the half whose classrooms I didn't burn, windows I didn't break, boards I didn't soap up, and locks I didn't glue shut, right?"

"Just keep going," Terry said, ruffling his hair.

"So, he starts rambling about some prophecy. Apparently, there was this Dark Lord, like in the movies, and he was foretold I'd destroy him. But he decided to get me first. Ended up killing my parents, but couldn't get me—why, nobody knows. They say his spell bounced off me," Harry pointed at the scar on his forehead, "and hit him instead. Knocked him out. But not entirely—Dark Lords, you know how they are!"

"So, now you have to finish him off?" Terry guessed. "With your forehead? Looks like your toughest spot…"

"You'll get smacked on the forehead in a second! But yeah, I've got to take him down… Someday, somewhere, if he even shows up again. And as I'm sitting there, staring at the old man like he's lost his marbles, he says…" Harry cleared his throat and imitated a scratchy, sly voice: "Ah, Harry, my boy, we were forced to send you to those awful Muggles…"

"Who are Muggles?" asked Terry, ever eager for clarity.

"That's what they call regular people. Don't interrupt! Anyway, they had to send me to live with them because Aunt Petunia is my mom's sister. So, in her house, I'm under some kind of blood protection, and no evil stuff can get to me." Harry took another sip of his cola and continued, "'Your life was terrible, my boy, but at least you were completely safe!' I told him, 'Grandpa, come on, my life was fine!' But he wouldn't stop: 'Oh, poor boy, they mistreated you there, I just know it!' At that point, I was completely baffled."

"I'd be baffled too," Terry admitted.

"I said, 'Why are you picking on my aunt and uncle? They're normal people. Sure, I fought with my cousin, but who doesn't fight?' No, he says, they made you work, beat you, locked you in a cupboard under the stairs, and didn't feed you! I was already sitting there in total shock." Harry sighed. "Okay, yeah, they did spank me and lock me in the cupboard. But that was when I invented dynamite and blew up the gas stove — there's still a stain on the ceiling. And yes, they skipped my dinner sometimes, but like you've never been grounded?"

"Been there..." Terry nodded.

"As for work... What work is that? Washing dishes, mopping floors, vacuuming, weeding flowerbeds, mowing the lawn, running to the store, or making toast for breakfast? Big deal! Sure, it's annoying that Dudley does nothing, but then again, he can't do anything! Show him a toaster, and he won't figure out which button to press."

"Hey, calm down; people are starting to look," Terry warned.

"Right... I just feel bad for my aunt and uncle," Harry huffed. "Okay, they spoil Dudley, and I'm not their real son, but so what? Uncle Vernon even lets me drive sometimes when no one's looking. I can reach the pedals now. He calls me to help out in the garage, and I've got a bike. But when I told all that, the old guy didn't even hear me. He just rambled on: 'What awful hand-me-downs you wore!'"

Terry glanced at Harry's worn jeans with patches in strategic places, a garish sweater under an oversized jacket, and snickered.

"Clearly, your grandpa doesn't get modern fashion."

"Exactly! But I realized there was no convincing him. I just sat there nodding, thinking, 'Fine, old man, you're lucky I don't know much magic yet, or I'd set your beard on fire!' Though I did consider spilling tea on him..." Harry sighed. "I decided to wait and see where he was going with it."

"A rare sensible move," Terry said, impressed.

"In the end, I didn't learn much. He wrapped up by telling me to study well, make friends, and… go back to my relatives for the holidays. As if I was arguing! So he let me go, and I went to my room, thinking: how does he know all this? You get it, right?"

"They were spying on you," Terry concluded instantly. "Since you were little. You're the child of destiny, after all!"

"You're about to get smacked," Harry warned. "But yeah, I thought so too. Then I started figuring out who it could've been."

"Did you?"

"Of course! You can see our yard from the street, but only barely — there's a thick, evergreen hedge. From the other side, it's the same; otherwise, why would I climb the roof with binoculars? It's only fully visible from Mrs. Figg's house."

"Whoa! The old lady's a secret agent!" Terry laughed.

"It's gotta be her! Unless it's someone in the house, but that's unlikely. Dudley might have made up stuff out of spite, but who would trust him with such a mission?"

"True..."

"And her cats are weird," Harry added. "I've seen some like them at Hogwarts. When I asked, they said they're Kneazles, and Muggles aren't allowed to keep them. So, either Mrs. Figg's a witch or she's blatantly breaking the… what's it called… Statute of Secrecy! Either way, she knows about the wizarding world. And about me too."

"We should give her cats valerian," Terry suggested dreamily. "They'd love it, and the whole street would get a concert."

"Stop being ridiculous!" Harry jabbed him in the shoulder. "Can you imagine? Spied on my whole life! And they're expecting something from me — I just don't know what."

"You said it yourself: defeat that… Dark Overlord."

"Lord."

"Whatever. What does he want, anyway?"

"What else? Power over Britain to start with. So wizards rule, regular people stay in their place, and all that jazz. Same old Dark Lord stuff, no creativity." Harry snorted.

"Yeah, they're all like that," Terry said philosophically.

"Uh-huh... And I have no clue how I'm supposed to defeat him. Or if I even want to." Harry added spitefully, "Maybe I'll join him! Who says I don't want to rule the world too?"

"What about me? Do I count as one of those 'regular people' then?"

"Hmm… yeah, that wouldn't work." Harry sighed. "Well, we'll figure it out as we go. Shall we head home?"

"Nope!" Terry declared, pulling on his hat. "There's one more thing. Let's go, let's go, don't lag behind, glasses-boy!"

"Call me glasses-boy again, and you're dead," Harry promised, being dragged along by his small but surprisingly strong friend. "What's this about?"

"I owe you a birthday present," Terry said seriously.

"You gave me a slingshot!"

"That doesn't count. The slingshot was mine, so I just loaned it to you. This will be a proper gift."

"Where are you taking me, you lunatic?!"

"Here!"

"And why are we going there?" Harry asked hopelessly.

"Take a look at your glasses," Terry sighed. "How many times have you fixed them?"

"Too many," Harry admitted honestly. "Not my fault people aim for my face first. At least I know the spell now and don't need tape when I break an arm."

"Can't they fix your eyesight in your world?" Terry asked curiously. "You said they can regrow bones."

"Apparently not," Harry said sourly. "Since the greatest wizard in Britain still wears glasses."

"Exactly! So let's get you a new frame. You look like such a nerd in these, it makes people want to punch you!"

"Oh, so that's what this is about. And how are you paying?"

"I asked Mom for money for your gift," Terry said, surprised. "She's understanding, so don't argue. Let's go!"

"Fine," Harry grumbled, letting himself be dragged into an optician's shop.

It was bright, cool, and faintly smelled of medicine.

"Mr. Maguire!" Terry called. "I've brought a patient!"

"Coming!" a voice answered from somewhere in the back. "Hold him tight!"

"They're in on it..." Harry muttered.

"He's an old family friend."

"It feels like half the town is either your family or your family's friends!"

"What do you expect? I'm Jewish," Terry said with a smirk. "Good afternoon, Mr. Maguire! Could you take a look at these?"

The wiry old man with unexpectedly dark eyes glanced at Harry, then at his glasses, squinted, and said,

"These need to go."

He promptly disposed of them, carefully placing them on the table instead of throwing them in the trash.

"Hey, I can't see anything without those!" Harry protested.

"Here you go, young man," came an elderly voice, and Harry was pushed onto a hard chair. "Let's see what we have here!"

A heavy pair of frames landed on Harry's nose, and Mr. Maguire began swapping lenses at a furious pace, asking only, "Can you see now? How about now? Can you read the bottom row? You will in a moment..."

"Done," the old man finally said with satisfaction. "Now then, young man, you really need to take your eyesight seriously. You're still growing, and so are your eyes. Progressive myopia is no joke. Mind you, your right eye is weaker than your left, but I've accounted for that."

"He used to be an eye doctor," Terry whispered in Harry's ear. "He knows what he's talking about, so listen."

"I would, sir," Harry said politely, "but finances won't allow it." He jingled the coins in his pockets for emphasis.

"Parents?" Mr. Maguire asked pointedly.

"Orphan," Harry replied succinctly.

"Relatives?"

Harry thought about how Uncle Vernon could probably pay for surgery, but he chose to remain silent, merely shrugging. If Vernon hadn't thought of it himself, Harry wasn't about to push. Who knows what's really going on with his uncle's job? Things might not be so great, and surgery was bound to be expensive.

"Got it," Mr. Maguire said grimly. "Alright, how do these lenses feel?"

"I can see the world," Harry admitted honestly. "And wow, it's so clear!"

"Which frames do you want?"

"Doesn't matter, as long as they're sturdy."

"Planning to get into fights, are you?" the old man chuckled. "Well... something like this might suit your face. Take a look."

Harry had to lean close to the mirror, but he had to admit rectangular glasses suited him far better than his old round ones. His reflection felt foreign but way more interesting than before.

"Mr. Maguire, could you add a light tint?" Harry asked impulsively. If his green eyes annoyed certain people so much, it made sense to hide them.

"Trying to be stylish?" the man smirked.

"No, sir," Harry shook his head. "Personal reasons."

"No problem. Brown won't work for you, but gray should do the trick," the old man nodded thoughtfully. "Terry, weren't you planning to pay? Off to the register! The order will be ready..." He paused to think. "In a week."

"A week?!" Terry exclaimed, turning around. "Harry leaves in three days!"

"You can pay extra for a rush order," Mr. Maguire agreed magnanimously, and Terry started emptying his pockets of change. "In the meantime, take these glasses, young man. A rarity, I'd say! How long have you been wearing them?"

"I can't even remember..." Harry answered awkwardly. "A long time."

"Well, no wonder your eyesight's so bad! The distance between your pupils has changed... though there's no point explaining; you wouldn't understand anyway. Just make sure to deal with this properly at the first opportunity," the old man instructed sternly.

"I certainly will, Mr. Maguire," Harry said, backing toward the door. "Thank you, Mr. Maguire!"

"Thank you, Mr. Maguire," Terry echoed, and once they were outside, he exhaled, "What a terrifying old man! How are you?"

"Fine," Harry replied darkly. "Thanks for the gift. But..."

"But what?"

"No, no, not about the money!" Terry waved his hands. "It's nothing!"

"It's not nothing, Terry! I just realized..." Harry rubbed his forehead. "I have money. A lot of money, by our standards—a fortune, really. My dad was a wealthy man, an heir to an ancient family. I've seen the vault—it's overflowing! But I'm not allowed to touch it! They let me withdraw enough for school supplies, clothes, and stuff like that, and that's it! I could've easily exchanged some of that gold for pounds and gotten the surgery!"

"Calm down," Terry said firmly. "I've heard a bit about your inheritance, but aren't you restricted until you're of age?"

"Just the main vault; that's obvious. But I also have a personal vault. They set one up for every kid, and there's enough in there for ten surgeries—in Britain, Germany, or Japan! But they didn't give me the key. They think I'll get spoiled or something..."

"Harry, you're an idiot," Terry said. "If someone loses their card, they go to the bank with ID, and the bank issues a new one while canceling the old one. Ever tried that?"

"I am an idiot," Harry admitted after a moment. "But I don't have any documents. I have no idea where they are—or if they even exist—and as for my birth certificate..."

"You said goblins verify ownership by blood," Terry reminded him, and Harry nearly smashed his battered glasses as he slapped his forehead. "See? Problem solved. Now let's head home; dinner's soon, and your aunt's going to start nagging!"

"Right," Harry said, and a mischievous gleam lit up his green eyes. "But first, let's stop by a barbershop!"

"What for?"

"I'm getting a stylish haircut and dyeing my hair," Harry said vengefully.

"And your aunt?"

"What can she do? Yell? Let her. Mrs. Figg will be thrilled. Worst case, she'll make me shave it all off—but it'll grow back by morning. Happened before!"

"Oh, boy. Watch out, world, Harry Potter's going rogue," Terry grinned, following behind to give advice.

...

"Not bad, lively even," Terry said an hour later, eyeing Harry. The former raven-haired boy was now a brunette with a trendy haircut: trimmed sides and a high, swept-up fringe. "You look like Elvis."

"That's the idea," Harry sighed, staring at his reflection in a shop window.

"When the dye fades and your hair grows out, what then?"

"At Hogwarts, we can use magic, can't we? Surely the girls know spells for haircuts and dye jobs," Harry laughed. "Alright, let's run, or Aunt Petunia really will kill me!"

"Let's go!"