Curious in spite of himself, he asked, "Does Albus visit the boy?"
A letter flew by, and Snape snorted at the address:
Draco Malfoy
The Green Room. (It's NOT Called the Nursery Anymore!)
Malfoy Manor
Wilts
"No," Minerva replied, with a disapproving scowl. "No one has been allowed to visit. I asked if I might, a few years back, and Albus told me he had promised the aunt to leave them alone. That did not speak well for her, as far as I was concerned."
"I quite agree." Another letter flew by, lazily spiraling in the fresh breeze from the window. Snape saw the name, and summoned it.
Harry Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
Number 4, Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey.
Snape's eyes widened. What's this?
With an attempt at unconcern, he asked, "Does the address reflect the child's current location at the moment the letter is addressed?"
"No," Minerva answered irritably. "That would be impossibly difficult. It's generally directed to the place where the child regularly sleeps. Now if you don't mind, I'm very busy, even if you're slacking off."
"Do you read the addresses as you work?"
"I hardly have time!"
Snape studied the heavy yellow parchment thoughtfully, and set it aside.
How very interesting. The Cupboard Under the Stairs. The words rattled about in his head, conjuring unpleasant visions, recalling ugly memories. As a child, he had been locked in a wardrobe on occasion and he disliked small spaces to this day. He thought more seriously about his memories of Petunia: how unpleasant she had been to him personally, and how bitter and jealous of Lily she became over the years.
She wouldn't dare—or would she? He snorted. Why not? A helpless child at her mercy with no one overseeing her…an opportunity to get a bit of her own back…Lily's parents long dead, of course... Dumbledore's promise of no interference…There's no one, absolutely no one to prevent her from treating the boy exactly as she likes.
"Do you simply send the letters out and hope for the best?"
"What? Of course not. I visit the muggleborn children personally." She jerked her chin, indicating a small stack of envelopes on the desk. "Otherwise we'd never hear from them. Where would they find an owl?"
He smirked. "Do you think Harry Potter has access to an owl?"
She saw the letter on the table beside him and glared at him. "Don't try to stop the letters going out, Severus. Unpleasant things would happen to you."
"The thought never crossed my mind."
It appeared that Minerva was nearing the bottom of the list of names. The Quill wrote the letters, Minerva signed them, the parchment fluttered itself dry, and the Quill addressed the letter. It gathered up a supply list from a waiting pile, and folded itself neatly. It was then passed under a glass globe filled with warm purple wax and promptly punched with a wet and hearty smack that resembled a kiss. If Minerva did not catch the letter to add to the muggleborn stack, the letter flew to the waiting owl and was gone in a moment.
The rhythm was almost hypnotic. Snape watched the process, thinking about the son of James Potter. Then he thought about the son of Lily Evans. Then he thought about the poor-relation nephew of Petunia. If only the child were a girl, he thought. I could think of a girl as Lily's more easily.
It was rather pleasing to imagine a young James Potter reduced to poverty and sleeping in a boot cupboard. It was not so pleasing to imagine Lily in the same situation. Petunia has a husband and a child of her own. Perhaps there is some rivalry? She wouldn't want her sister's child to outshine her son the way Lily always outshone Petunia herself. I wonder if the husband is a restraining influence. The address would seem to indicate otherwise. Perhaps this Mr Dursley is a weakling, dominated by Petunia. The girl was horribly shrill at times—and spiteful, too.
James Potter's son. The bully's son bullied in his turn. What had ten years with Petunia done to the child? Snape grimaced. Dumbledore behaved as if he had never heard of abused or traumatized children, and when told of cases, tended to dismiss them as exaggerations. It was a constant puzzlement to Snape. Dumbledore had known generations of students, many of whom arrived bearing mental and physical scars. Only a blind state of denial could explain the Headmaster's blithe optimism.
Perhaps Dumbledore's childhood was perfectly idyllic, and he cannot imagine anything else. Ten years in a cupboard? The boy may be half-mad. He may be neurotic, withdrawn, repressed, hopelessly damaged. So much for the Boy-Who-Lived. Does Dumbledore think of him only as a symbol?
It was time to say something, he decided. "I know Lily's sister rather well, actually. We grew up in the same town, the Evans girls and I. Petunia resented Lily from the day she got her Hogwarts letter. She may not like sending her nephew to Hogwarts. Perhaps I should pay a call on her and discuss it."
"Really, Severus," Minerva protested, "the responsibility is mine."
"But you have all the rest to attend to."
"They won't be allowed to refuse to send him to Hogwarts, you know."
Snape could imagine Dumbledore's response to anyone who tried it. "I would imagine not. I'm sure I can make it clear that that is not an option."
"Perhaps my appearance might be salutary."
"Oh, yes, I daresay," sneered Snape. "Mine, however, might be even more so."
She paused in her work, eyeing him narrowly. "You disliked her."
"I dislike everyone."
"Don't be too intimidating, Severus."
"I shall be exactly as intimidating as I need to be."
She laughed ruefully. "If she really is uncooperative, I expect you to take young Harry for his supplies yourself. Dumbledore has his Gringotts key. Do you think you're equal to giving the grand tour of Diagon Alley to Harry Potter?"