Vice versa (Harry Potter)

"Potter, would you care to explain why you've caused yet another explosion?" Snape asked wearily.

"Of course, sir," Harry replied eagerly, tearing his eyes away from an engrossing monograph. "Although, strictly speaking, it wasn't an explosion. Well, a little mess, perhaps—someone might have gotten splashed a bit."

"And why did you do it?"

"To earn another month of detention with you, of course! I haven't finished reading yet, sir." Harry shook the book. "See? There's still so much left, and I read slowly because it's full of big words I don't know. And while you're explaining things, time flies by..."

The professor could only bury his head in his hands. What had he been thinking when he agreed to Potter's ridiculous request? Surely, he should have known what the father of this menace was like—and that the son might be even worse. True, Harry didn't commit outright atrocities or torment others (minor pranks didn't count), but his boundless enthusiasm was nothing short of horrifying.

Frankly, Snape had expected Potter's burst of laborious energy to fizzle out with the very first book he'd handed over—just to get rid of him. Clearly, no first-year could tackle it, and any normal child (except perhaps Granger) would have fallen asleep by the second page. Ha! Within half an hour, the endless barrage of, "Sir, what does this term mean? Sir, why does sublimation occur under these conditions? I can't quite grasp the logic... Sir, is there a difference between using fresh or preserved mandrake? If there is, what is it? And why?" had him ready to hang himself.

That's why he confiscated the first book and handed Potter something simpler—still far above the school level but at least covering the basics. For a while, the boy quieted down. He still asked questions, but far fewer. Surprisingly—Snape had to grudgingly admit—they were quite astute for his age. Apparently, Harry had inherited his mother's talent for Potions. And as much as Snape loathed to admit it, even the boy's father couldn't be called a complete idiot.

But then it escalated. First, the little pest began showing up ten minutes early. Then half an hour early. Finally, an hour ahead of schedule.

"Potter, do you think I have any free time at all? Time free from you?" the professor snapped when Harry turned up at six-thirty.

"But I'm not bothering you, sir!" Harry replied, genuinely puzzled. "You're marking essays or working in the lab, and I just sit quietly and read. You won't let me take these books with me, will you? Otherwise, I'd read them in the common room... Though it's not very comfortable there—too many people, and even if they're not loud, there's always some background noise. Same in the dormitory—someone's always moving around."

"Potter, are you accustomed to having private quarters?" Snape asked, narrowing his eyes. He'd heard intriguing tales from the headmaster about the boy's allegedly miserable home life.

"Actually, yes," Harry replied, looking at him in surprise.

"Your very own cupboard under the stairs?"

"Merlin's beard, why does everyone harp on about that cupboard!" Harry exclaimed. "Yes, they locked me in there! Once... twice... Okay, three times! Three! In my entire life! And Uncle Vernon gave me a thrashing a few times too! And yes, they sometimes didn't feed me!"

"Potter, lower your voice," the professor grimaced. "What's your point?"

"My point, sir," Harry said grimly, "is that I actually have my own room at home. Smaller than my cousin's, of course, but still mine. Aunt Petunia's an excellent cook and doesn't mind giving me seconds. Sure, she scolds me sometimes, but so what? And Uncle Vernon's just strict and gets tired from work, so he blows up easily and shouts a lot. And, well, he only thrashed me when I deserved it."

Snape frowned. Something didn't add up.

According to Dumbledore, the boy arriving at Hogwarts should have been timid, socially maladjusted, and underfed. Instead, here was a strapping lad—taller than most of his peers ("James was tall too," Snape recalled)—reasonably fit, with a hearty appetite, who enjoyed a good fight and could work with his hands and mind, even if he didn't want to learn. Correction: he didn't want to learn at Hogwarts. Snape had seen the boy's grades—mostly mediocre. Except in his own class, where Potter showed surprising enthusiasm. (Initially, he'd done so in Flitwick's and McGonagall's lessons too, but his interest had waned.) Harry also wrote home frequently, received responses, and clearly couldn't wait for the holidays.

"The headmaster told you," Harry observed suddenly, watching Snape. "And he heard it from Miss Figg."

"How do you—" Snape started.

"Figured it out," Harry smirked. "Well, my friend and I did. Wasn't hard. She's a witch, isn't she? Keeping an eye on me?"

"She's a Squib," Snape replied darkly. Figured it out, indeed! So much for grand plans—two brats had uncovered the scheme in no time! "But yes, she was… watching over you."

"Spying, more like," Harry nodded. "And I know why you thought my life was so terrible."

"Go on, enlighten me!" Snape crossed his arms, not that he was particularly eager to hear the boy's deductions, but still…

"There's not much to explain, sir," Harry shrugged. "Like I said, Uncle Vernon's got a temper—he starts shouting and stomping around at the drop of a hat. Dudley screams bloody murder if he doesn't get his way. Aunt Petunia's always yelling, 'Harry, you're a disgrace!' even when nothing's happened. And if I've actually done something, then it's even louder. They're just noisy people… So your Miss Figg probably heard Uncle and Aunt yelling stuff like, 'To the cupboard under the stairs until you behave!' Or, 'No dinner for you, you little wretch!' And yeah, I did howl when Uncle whipped me—'Ow, ouch, let me go, I'm sorry, I won't do it again!' I always had bruises because I got into fights at school, and scratches—well, I'd fall out of a tree or off my bike. Normal stuff! I heal quickly anyway."

"Hmm," was all Snape could muster.

"Do I look like a victim of domestic abuse?" Harry asked in a deliberately annoying tone.

"No," the professor was forced to admit. "You look like an incorrigible troublemaker."

"A bit," the boy agreed. "But actually… If Ms. Figg was watching and reporting how badly I was treated at home, why didn't anyone intervene?"

Snape coughed. That question interested him as well.

"I already know about the blood protection, but as for the rest… well, they could have just scared my aunt and uncle a little or cast a spell on them," Potter continued relentlessly. "It'd take an adult wizard five minutes, I checked. And honestly, our town's small; everyone knows everyone. If the neighbors heard something suspicious or I complained at school about being mistreated, the police and… child welfare would be called in no time. You know, those people who handle minors' rights. Imagine what fun my aunt and uncle would have then! Do you think Muggles have it all that simple?"

"In my time, it wasn't like that," the professor replied grimly.

"Excuse me, were you…?" Harry stared at him. "Oh, no, don't answer that…"

"No, I will answer, or you'll start 'deducing' things again!" Snape snapped. "Yes, I grew up among Muggles, just like you! My mother was a witch. Satisfied?"

"Not really," Harry admitted honestly. "I don't understand why you so easily believed I was being beaten all the time. Although…"

"What are you figuring out now?!"

"You'll hit me, sir," Harry warned honestly. His guess was too simple.

"Say it and let's be done with this topic forever!"

"Alright… You said your mother was a witch, but you lived among Muggles," the boy said, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. "So, probably, your father was a Muggle and didn't like magic. And you believed it so easily because… um…"

"Well?!"

"Because he probably hit you…" Harry instinctively ducked his head into his shoulders. It was a dangerous moment: if Snape got angry now and threw him out, approaching him later would be impossible. And he wanted to—Potions was so fascinating, and the professor knew his stuff and could explain things well when in the mood. Besides, it was easier to do homework in peace than in the common room.

"Great Merlin, just what I needed—a budding detective," Snape muttered darkly, surprisingly calm. "You're right, Potter. My father drank and regularly beat me. Because he hated everything related to magic. Exactly like your aunt. And I was thrilled to finally get to Hogwarts! If only I could have avoided meeting your precious father there..."

"Oh, we figured that out too," Harry said cheerfully.

The professor looked at him as if the boy had grown a second head.

"What else have you 'figured out'?" he asked unpleasantly.

"That you and my father probably went to school at the same time," Harry reported, "and for some reason, you didn't like each other. I can imagine why."

"Did someone tell you something?" Snape frowned. Dumbledore might've said something!

"No, sir. That's the deductive method," Harry replied seriously, tapping his forehead. The sound was astonishing.

"Spit it out," Snape ordered, pouring himself a calming draught and downing it in one gulp.

"You started picking on me from the very first day, as soon as you saw me. My aunt says I'm the spitting image of my dad, so you must've known him and disliked him. And people keep saying I have my mother's eyes… So, I guess he stole my mom from you or something…" Harry trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

"Ghm…" Snape choked on his second drink. "Are you trying to kill me, Potter?"

"No!" Harry quickly replied. "Who would teach me then?"

"Exactly, you are trying…" Snape concluded. "Alright. Your precocious mind could lead you into such thickets you won't find your way out… Potter, can you keep your mouth shut?"

"Of course," Harry looked at him in surprise.

"Meaning I can trust that what's said here stays between us?"

Harry scratched his head.

"No," he admitted honestly. "I'll still tell Terry. We came up with it together. But don't worry, he's a Muggle."

"Fine…" Snape ground his teeth audibly. "I'll survive your Terry somehow. Now, briefly. Your mother and I knew each other before Hogwarts; we lived nearby and… were friends. Then we ended up in different Houses—I in Slytherin, she in Gryffindor. Your father and his friends liked to… hm… 'joke.' Usually at my expense. She managed to rein them in somehow. But after one nasty incident—no, don't look at me like that, Potter! I can only say it was extremely humiliating—I insulted her in a fit of anger. After that, we never spoke again, and after school, she married your father. Then you were born, and later, your parents died. That's all."

"Doesn't seem like that's all, sir…" Harry murmured, processing the new information.

Snape tapped the table with his fingers.

"Potter, what are you even busy with all day?"

Harry glanced aside, scratching his nose.

"Sir, are you good at keeping secrets?" he finally asked.

"Oh yes," the professor smirked grimly. "I've been doing that a lot lately, it seems! What is it, Potter?"

Harry lifted his bag off the floor and dumped its contents onto the desk.

"See for yourself, sir."

"Math?!" Snape squinted at the textbook. "English, history… Potter, have you gone mad?!"

"No," the boy replied with dignity. "I'm learning. Normal things. Terry sends me assignments, teachers give advice… I think I'll manage to get a diploma."

"If you don't drop dead from exhaustion first!" Snape barked.

"I don't overwork myself," Harry chuckled. "As you said, sir: I don't play that stupid Quidditch, I don't fool around with friends, and it doesn't take much effort to get 'Acceptable' grades from everyone… except you, of course."

"It will get harder," the professor said for some reason.

"I'll manage," Harry replied confidently, and it was clear he really would. "Er… sir?"

"What now?!"

"I mostly come here because it's quiet, and I can actually focus on my regular school subjects," Harry said seriously. "In the library, someone will definitely pester me, asking what strange stuff I'm studying. The common room, well, it's too noisy for me, I'm not used to that… So, um, can I blow something up again?"

"Blow it up, Potter," Snape replied wearily. "Just no injuries."

"Of course, sir, what do you take me for, some kind of monster?"

"Yes," the professor answered honestly. "You're a juvenile monster. And what you'll grow into, I don't even want to imagine."

Harry puffed up with pride.

"Will you lend me something else to read?" he asked quickly.

"I will," Snape replied, resigned. "But really, Potter, it's time for you to leave. Lights out is soon."

"No worries, sir," Harry smirked. "Mrs. Norris won't snitch on me, even if she sees me. You know how much she loves those cat biscuits? Not magical ones, just regular."

"Merlin help me, this will be worse than the Marauders," Snape thought with a sense of doom.

"And, sir, please don't tell the headmaster about this…" Harry shook the math textbook for emphasis. "Otherwise, he'll call me in again, force that awful sticky candy on me, and start his 'Harry, my boy, how could you, the magical world needs you, and here you are wasting time on Muggle nonsense…' "

Snape barely suppressed a chuckle; the boy had nailed the imitation perfectly.

"Fine, I won't tell," he replied. "Now get out, Potter. You've already guaranteed I won't sleep tonight…"

"Goodnight, sir," Harry said with complete sincerity before vanishing.