"Dear Merlin. Sweet child, you don't need to be sorted, you need a therapist." The funny, singing hat said the moment it had been placed on Harry's head. The rest of the hall was silent. Could they all hear the Sorting Hat cursing up a storm? It was rather awkward.
"It's alright, Mr. Hat. I know it looks a bit iffy but I'm very happy with my mama."
"Yes, I see that and that's good, but - dear heavens you must realize this is not normal? You are eleven years old and you have a horcrux of your repressed childhood trauma!"
"I don't mind. I like learning all sorts of magic."
"I see. Well, damn. Ravenclaw, I guess? How long have we been sitting here? I was so disturbed by the contents of your head I haven't even begun to sort you!"
"I am getting rather hungry, Mr. Hat." The Hat sighed. Ignoring all the pesky Black magic, Mr. Potter was a perfectly normal young lad. A bit smart, a bit ambitious, a bit hard-working - but honestly he was mostly rather stupid and daring to let himself get raised by a necromancer. The Hat really could not get over the necromancy thing. The gall of this child to roll with such a scenario.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
There was a very enthusiastic smattering of applause. This was because the students had long edged from excited to bored and people didn't care which house he went into, they were just glad to move on. Harry had baffled the Sorting Hat for almost twenty minutes - the Hat had spent about seventeen of those minutes cursing.
...
Professor Snape was having a terrible day. It was a terrible day because he was still alive and teaching students and Harry Potter was still alive and now he had to attend a meeting to meet Potter's elusive 'mama' instead of attempting to drink himself to death as any sane man would do on a Friday evening.
That the Boy-Who-Lived had been missing for four years had been a closely guarded secret among the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Albus had burst open the door to his office one summer day, his twinkling eyes un-twinkled and instead blazing with panic. Two nights later, the Order gathered in the Weasley's home and crowded around a muggle newspaper clipping. "WILD ANIMAL ATTACK LEAVES DOZENS DEAD - DETECTIVES STUMPED!" The deaths of Petunia and Dudley Dursley had been confirmed with the remains of Vernon Dursley hesitantly assumed to be some of the many pieces of flesh so mangled that the muggles could not accurately identify who was who anymore. There had been no sign of Harry Potter. Arabella Figg had felt strongly that they would not have brought Harry - but the first place Dumbledore had checked had been Harry's house. Nothing but a cramped cupboard under the stairs and the spiders and memories it housed. Snape had never seen Albus Dumbledore cry before, and he would pay a lot of money to never witness it again.
Snape had privately hoped the boy had not gone on that holiday but had instead taken advantage of the situation and ran from those horrible muggles.
Then he'd pulled a James and appeared among the group of first years. No note, no apologies, no "sorry I made you watch the headmaster cry," and all of Snape's sympathy disappeared.
And now his 'mama' kept him from his drink.
"Why do I have to be here?" He groaned.
Minerva showed up first with the Potter brat. He certainly looked fine and untraumatized - healthy and with that impish smile on his face! His shirt was tucked sloppily into his pants which were hemmed with dirt stains. His hair was as wild as his father's and his eyes - well Hagrid had always said when he'd carted the boy away to his relatives that his eyes had shone brightly in the night and looked just like Lily's. But Harry's eyes did not remind Snape of the soft blue-green of his mother - they looked rather like a radioactive glow, dangerous and wild. It unsettled him.
When the floo flared up, everyone leaned in a bit closer. The woman that popped through was both nothing and everything like he had expected. Her body was boxy, and she was dressed plainly (and rather muggle) in dragonhide boots, denim pants, and a black sweater. Her hair was straight and choppy around her waist as though she cut it herself. In contrast, her face, however, screamed pureblood - her pointed brow, thick lashes, and sculpted cheekbones left her looking rather like a Black. The only thing that stood out to contrast was the dainty pentagram inked under one acid-green eye. No, the tattoo matched her dangerous aura, a veil of darkness hidden under delicate features. She was an old photograph, captured in nothing but black and white (except those eyes she somehow shared with Potter). Her age was indeterminable - although her appearance implied she was in her late thirties, it felt like it was a guise, a snapshot of a singular moment captured in time. There was a weight and wisdom to her person that hinted at an age and history far surpassing her looks. Snape felt a foreboding sense of cold and darkness he'd not seen achieved in a person besides the Dark Lord.
Snape was impressed. One strived to achieve such an intimidating aura.
"Greetings, thank you for coming on short notice," Albus said, offering her a chair. "I don't believe we have met, I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore."
"Alabasandria Adams," she said. Her voice purred like car exhaust. "And no, we have not met. I did not have the privilege of attending Hogwarts in my youth."
"Ah, Beauxbatons, perhaps?"
"No, I was homeschooled. Harry, how are you, how are your lessons?" It was obvious she was not impressed with the Headmaster, ignoring them all entirely to focus on Potter, who had a manic grin at her attention.
"They are under the impression that you've kidnapped me or something, mama. Apparently, I have been missing for four years." The boy said flatly. His eyes were sparkling with mischief. Not an ounce of concern or surprise lined his face; the boy looked pleased with the whole situation. His guardian raised a sculpted brow and turned to Dumbledore calmly.
"Missing? Seriously?"
"Harry," Albus chided. "We are not accusing your guardian of kidnapping you. We were uncertain of your whereabouts after the tragic accident with your relatives and we are simply making sure you are safe. Are you aware of the fate of your relatives?"
"They're dead." Potter said. "A tragic camping accident, yeah. Very sad." His voice was emotionless. The both of them acted as though this conversation was boring chit-chat about the weather.
"And you were not present at said accident?"