Water Lily, pt. 2

Harry appeared in the middle of a field. He jumped in surprise; thunder rolled in the distance and he was immediately immersed in pounding rain. 

“Impervius,” he muttered, and immediately the rain around him was repelled. He had chosen to visit his mother’s home so he could see her as well as Snape. 

One thing that constantly ate up Harry was the relationship between Snape and his mother. How Snape loved Lily more than anything in the world, until the day he died, and was willing to give up everything he had for her. Not only that, but she’d never known. Harry wished he had not died, or at least had the opportunity to have died happy. 

Harry no longer trusted his character judgement. If he had been wrong about Snape, who else could he have misjudged? He wished he hadn’t been so quick to hate him. He wished things were different.

It had been strange seeing the house exactly as it had been in the pictures.

Harry Apparated to her front lawn, which was in an orderly, symmetrical neighborhood that reminded him strongly of Little Whinging. 

Harry stood in front of the house, considering his options. He cast a spell above him to block the rain as he thought. He had to find shelter, and soon. The nearest place was, of course, Lily’s home. It was pretty close to impossible for anyone to discover him if he was invisible, so he figured it would be safe to stay. Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak from Hermione’s purse and pulled it over. He walked up the front steps, unlocked the door with an effortless wave of his wand, and went inside. He was in his mother’s living room, which seemed pretty conventional. Only the fireplace was familiar to him—and a few of the pictures on the mantle. Harry quietly stepped over to pick one up. Immediately, he identified one as the very same picture that was in his album. 

It was a Muggle photo of a girl standing in a field of flowers. She looked about five from what he could tell, with dark red hair that flowed down her back. She was bending down to pick a flower that matched her white dress. Obviously, the bright, gentle girl he saw in the picture was his mother.

Harry dug around in his bag for the album that held the very same picture. Eventually, after overturning everything in the bag, he felt the smooth plastic cover of the book. He pulled it out and started searching for the picture. It was near the beginning of the album, among others of her laughing and smiling as a toddler. Harry slid it out of the cover and held it up to compare to the photo in the frame. He didn’t know if he had expected something strange to happen, but anyway, nothing did. His version remained the same yellowed piece of print it had been before. 

He tucked the picture back in its slot, and dropped the photo album into the bag. Harry stood, slowly surveying the simple living room. To his left there was a door, most likely a closet, ahead of him was the kitchen, and next to the kitchen a flight of stairs going upwards.

He remembered where the basement had been when he visited—just around the other side of the kitchen. Even now there was almost nothing down there, just a couch and a few boxes full of junk. Harry set a charm that would alert him if anyone came into the room and settled down in the couch. He pulled the cloak over him as a sort of blanket as well as a disguise. He felt his weariness immediately wash over him. Thoughts vied for his attention in his mind; he couldn’t concentrate on one long enough to be distracted. But before long, he found sleep overpowering them…

Harry woke up on his own. The summer sun illuminated the basement, rousing him, so he managed to get up and out before anyone else could do the same.

He decided the safest place he could go was the small forest near their house. As he walked under his cloak, he searched for a book he brought that would help him with an important part of his plan. Eventually, he found Deceiving the Eye: Charms and Transfigurations to Disguise Oneself, which changed colors as he looked at the cover. Harry flipped through it, trying to find spells he could use.

For him to safely meet anyone in his past, he would have to appear his parents’ age, (eleven years old). On top of that, he couldn’t look like his father.

Changing one’s appearance was easier than copying someone else’s. Although, it wasn’t exactly legal if one went overboard. Changing small things, a few at a time, like hair style or eye color wasn’t as deceptive. And since the spells weren’t permanent, they were easier to perform. But Harry doubted he could pull a disguise off well enough to be able to attend Hogwarts with his parent’s generation. He wasn’t ruling out, as the possibility had tugged at him since he saw the Time-Turner, but it seemed unlikely.

When a witch or wizard is born in the United Kingdom, a magical quill at Hogwarts detects their ability and writes their name down so they can later receive a letter inviting them to the school. Harry wouldn’t be on the list. As he came upon a river alongside the forest, he toyed with the idea of fixing the issue. He would either have to find a way to cheat the quill, or—well. That’s what he’d have to do. To see if he could go back in time to eleven years ago and enter his name. He didn’t know that much about it, but if he needed to write the address of somebody’s home, do what he needed to do to get the letter.

Harry crossed an old, rotting wooden bridge even though there was another, newer one about a hundred meters ahead. The wood creaked threateningly underneath his feet and he walked faster. Harry thought he heard it splinter by the time he made it safely to the other side, but he figured he had just imagined it. His thoughts quickly were redirected when he found a spell he could use. 

It was a simple one—he had to tap his wand against the color he wanted his hair, say, “Mutare Colorem,” and it would change to be the chosen color.

The book provided different shades for him, so he spent some time debating the various choices. Finally, Harry decided on dirty blond. He didn’t want something that would stand out, but not close to his natural color. He reread the spell and practiced muttering the incantation a few times. Then he took out his wand. On the first try, nothing. On the second, he felt a tingle, then a rush of warmth. He pulled out a mirror to see if his hair had transformed. It worked perfectly—it didn’t look fake at all, and his eyebrows had changed, too, which saved him some effort.

Harry continued looking through the book, changing his eyes to a flat gray and extending his eyelashes (this was easier than changing his eyes to a whole different shape). He changed the pitch of his voice to something more realistic for an eleven-year-old boy. He made his lips slightly larger (while still normal for a boy), his nose straighter (which was significantly harder than the other spells to do), and his hair shorter and more controlled. When he was satisfied with his new appearance, he prepared for the next step. 

This was by far the most difficult part. The charm was toward the back of the book, with the more advanced spells. It basically took age-reversal transfigurations and combined them to alter one’s appearance as a whole. It didn’t extend life, and more difficult, permanent adaptions were as plastic surgery would be to Muggles: It was frowned upon for wizards to do, and overuse could make it obvious the person had gone through it. Also, it was similar to the Polyjuice Potion in the way that it changed only the outside of the person, leaving health issues intact, or in Harry’s case, his poor vision. 

Harry could still perform spells outside of school because he would still be technically seventeen—the spell wouldn’t reinstate the Trace. It also wouldn’t make him immature; his maturity could give him away. But he figured if Barty Crouch, Jr. could pass as Mad-Eye for a whole year with no one noticing, he could pretend to be a kid for just as long.

Another risk with de-aging himself was that if he made even the slightest mistake, he could be permanently disfigured. As he glanced at the risks, he saw that even the incorrect emphasis on a syllable could affect the outcome of the spell.

After studying the multiple steps, Harry prepared to perform the enchantment. He would need to do it six times, one for each year he’d de-age himself. Harry dug through his purse and pulled out a mirror, then took a long, steadying breath.

“Aetas recipere,” he murmured, making complicated movements with his wand. Instantly, he began to change. His face gained a little more baby fat, and his skin cleared slightly. Harry felt himself lose some muscle, and the ground lurched a bit closer. “Aetas recipere,” he repeated, then over and over until he looked like a typical eleven year old. He felt sore all over, as his skin had been pinched and bruised. He had a rounded face with a simple expression, smooth skin, and young, sparkling eyes. He felt he must have shrunk about a tenth of a meter, though it was hard to tell. 

And finally, he could remove his cloak. He looked down at his now ill-fitting clothes. At least now he didn’t look too well-to-do. He wanted to appear as if he could relate to Snape, even his parents, but not trashy to others. Though Jacob Walker’s (the name he decided for his remodeled self) moderately good looks should make up for his clothes. Harry also decided to be a Mudblood (after the war, Mudblood became a two-sided term: wholly offensive or inoffensive and more casual. It definitely depended on the person and the context).

He didn’t have a choice, really; any wizarding family could be easily traced and he wouldn’t stand a chance of fooling anyone. He’d wait to tell Snape about his bloodline until he was directly asked; otherwise they probably wouldn’t be able to form a solid friendship. Harry decided if it worked out well enough between them, he should go to Hogwarts.

If he wanted to do that though, he’d have to figure out how to deal with Dumbledore, the Sorting Hat, and Apparating. Dumbledore’s magic was far more advanced than his; he’d probably be able to tell if Harry had been altered by a spell. The Sorting Hat could read his thoughts, so who knew what would happen if it announced that he was an impostor. And if something life-threatening happened he wouldn’t be able to easily escape. 

Harry at least knew he’d be able to get to the Hogwarts grounds through Hogsmeade; it was mostly how he’d get into the castle itself.

But he’d have all the time he needed to plan it—he had to focus what he’d do about his mother and Snape.

He wanted them to at least die as friends. Not the broken dislike-versus-obsession it became. At the same time, if his mum didn’t end up with James, too much would be different. Harry would’ve never been born, or he’d at least look different. He probably wouldn’t have been born on the same day, so the prophecy might be about someone else, and—it was just too complicated. Harry cursed himself for having the desperate hope that it would’ve been the same if they had been together. Harry couldn’t kill Voldemort, either, especially not before 1980. The only way everything might still work would be to kill Voldemort before his parents were killed. It would be difficult and time-consuming, even knowing about all of the Horcruxes. Although, if he did it quietly, it might be worth it. Still, though, too much of time could change, and he knew too little about time travel to assume everything would work out. 

Harry decided it would be easiest if he just figured it out as he went along, the way he seemed to go through the rest of his exploits.

He reached the small river that would eventually lead to Snape’s house on Spinner’s End. Harry just wanted to see it; he wasn’t going to see him, he’d wait until the right time to do that. 

He walked alongside the water, occasionally glancing at his reflection. It was strange—each time he saw his unfamiliar face his adrenaline rushed, as if someone else was right behind him. This distraction delayed his realization that he had reached the town. 

Harry saw the sign that read Spinner’s End from where he stood, across the street. He knew Severus’ house was on the end, so he walked quickly down the road until he reached recognized it. It was lucky the he had some significant detail about Snape’s house—all of the homes were identical. This part of town was worn-in, obviously lower class, and the smog from the factory hung in the air. On their particular house, the chimney was worn down at the top, and the window at the top level of the house was dark and cracked. The whole house had a dusty, abandoned look. The only signs of occupancy were the barely audible sounds of arguing and the dim light coming through the blinds of the front windows. Maybe he would’ve been surprised this was the place Snape had grown up before the fateful night of the 2nd, when he thought Snape was as cold and unfeeling as any other Death Eater. Now he understood how this place could’ve corrupted Snape.

That was the difference between his mother’s death and Snape’s death. He hadn’t known his mum at all. He had fragments of knowledge of her, and had met her spectral form before he sacrificed himself to Voldemort. Whereas Harry had met Snape, and knew him. Or at least he had thought he had. Both deaths shared the question, “What if…?” 

Harry was so immersed in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice that an eleven-year-old Severus had run out of the house’s side door. He just had barely enough time to pull on his cloak before Snape glanced back in his direction. Harry instinctively held his breath, even though he knew Snape couldn’t have spotted him. After watching the skinny, poorly dressed boy awkwardly run along down the cracked sidewalk, Harry started after him.