Chapter Text
Aunt Petunia was looking at Harry with reluctant admiration as he entered the Dursley kitchen.
Harry paused mid-step, suspicious. This wasn’t the usual drill. His aunt's usual method of greeting was flinching, ignoring, or glaring at him with the kind of restrained horror one might reserve for unwashed laundry crawling with beetles.
But now, as he pushed open the door to the kitchen, she was eyeing him over her cup of tea like she was seeing something she almost, sort of, didn’t mind being related to.
Hermione—bless her—had, luckily before their departure from the Hogwarts Express, given Ron a crash course in how to operate a ‘fellytone’ after realizing he had no idea how it worked. Ron had blinked at the receiver like it might bite him at first, but thanks to Hermione’s firm coaching, he managed to smoothly introduce himself as “Arnold, from Manchester," when Uncle Vernon picked up.
It was only natural, of course, that for the last hour, they'd spend the whole phone call debating whether Snape's hair was naturally greasy or the result of a botched potion accident, and repeating, "my father will hear about this!" in increasingly high-pitched squeaks.
In the present moment, Aunt Petunia sniffed delicately. "Well," she said crisply, "at least we agree on something."
Harry blinked with confusion.
“I was passing near the staircase,” she said with a lofty shrug, like that explained everything. “Hard not to hear when you’re practically shouting to the great heavens in that contraption.”
Harry flushed. He had been a bit loud, responding eagerly in shouts of laughter to Ron, mimicking the drawls of the two people they detested the most at Hogwarts.
Petunia took a delicate sip of tea, then added with a surprising flicker of smugness, “You described Severus Snape perfectly, by the way. That man was certainly something dreadful. Hair like he washed it with fryer oil. Nose as hooked and sharp as a medieval torture device. Positively slithered about the place, didn’t he?"
Harry stared at her.
“You knew Snape?”