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Chapter 7 — Reflections of a Saint
Darren, oblivious to whatever was going on in Snape's head, was thinking about something else entirely.
Harry Potter.
The famous "Boy Who Lived."
The main character.
And apparently… his brother.
That was something he never would've expected — not in eight lifetimes.
At the same time, he couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the original Darren Potter.
Look at Harry: born with everything. Parents who loved him, even if they died when he was a year old. Lily's sacrifice had left him a blood protection so powerful it made Voldemort self-destruct.
As long as Harry thought of Petunia's house as "home," no one could hurt him.
He had a name, fame, protection — even three meals a day, no matter how awful Aunt Petunia was.
Meanwhile, the original Darren?
He starved in an orphanage, forgotten, hungry for days at a time.
"Wow," Darren sighed aloud. "That's tragic."
Then he looked at Snape again.
He wondered if Snape had ever actually seen Harry.
In the fanfics Darren remembered, plenty of people shipped those two.
Did Snape have a crush on Harry?
He coughed, shaking that thought away before he accidentally summoned an aneurysm.
> "Professor Snape," Darren asked with wide-eyed curiosity, "I read the letter. It says I have a brother — Harry Potter. Can I meet him?"
The protagonist, after all! He couldn't not meet the protagonist.
> "You'll meet after term begins," Snape said flatly, his tone empty.
Darren nodded in disappointment.
Still, he couldn't help admiring Snape's sheer mental discipline. The man had practically locked up his emotions with Occlumency-level precision.
Or maybe… he couldn't block Darren out because of his "Lily-like aura"?
The thought amused Darren even more. He wondered what he looked like now.
The original body had been all bones and bruises — red hair dulled from neglect, pale skin, deep eye sockets, and constant malnutrition.
Darren had spent the last few days doing everything he could to fix that: eating well, resting more, feeding the "system's Holy Father buff" with every good deed he could manage.
He hadn't looked in a mirror since then.
Now he was dying to know what kind of glow-up the system had given him.
But obviously, he couldn't just say, "Hey, I wanna check how hot I am now."
So he stood there beside Snape, fidgeting like a kid with ants in his shoes.
> "If you're idle," Snape snapped, "you can use those hands of yours for something useful — like packing. Instead of standing there thinking foolish thoughts."
Ah. So the Professor had noticed.
"Good idea, Professor!" Darren said cheerfully, and ran off to his room, leaving Snape staring after him — his expression unreadable.
---
Lily.
The thought came unbidden. And for a moment, the ever-cold Potions Master softened.
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Darren's room was neat, but only because there wasn't much to clean.
A small bed.
A tiny cupboard.
A worn table and chair beside it.
When visitors came, Mrs. Linda would throw a cheap tablecloth over the furniture to make it look presentable. But now it was bare — as shabby as ever.
Darren didn't mind. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a shard of a mirror — a piece of one Mrs. Linda had broken and handed to the children as if it were a gift.
He wiped the dust off and held it up.
Then froze.
"Whoa."
No wonder Snape had looked at him like that.
His reflection was… adorable.
Still boyish, but with the faint charm of someone on the edge of growing up.
His emerald-green eyes shimmered with light, bright and deep at once — the kind of eyes that made people want to believe in something.
His red hair was soft, falling messily over his forehead, with one stubborn strand sticking up like a piece of "anime protagonist hair."
His face was pale but fine-featured, and even the small bruise and faint scar near his temple gave him a fragile, pitiful beauty.
> "System, you're incredible," Darren muttered admiringly.
He put the mirror back. No need to bring it — better to leave it behind as "evidence of hardship."
After all, what better way to earn sympathy than to look like a boy who'd had nothing — and yet never complained?
Even Snape had softened around him.
That was the power of pity.
Still, it would be wrong to throw away all of the original boy's things. It wouldn't fit his "Holy Father" image to act that heartless.
Darren sighed and began packing.
He took out his other patched outfit, a pair of underwear with a hole so large it barely qualified as clothing, two stale biscuits that were on the verge of molding, and a pencil that still had some life left in it — the kind Mrs. Linda let them use only when visitors came, to make the orphanage look "educational."
He looked down at the pile and felt genuine pity.
If it weren't for the system, he'd still be trapped here, starving, until someone "found" a use for him.
And in this place, "being found" was rarely a good thing.
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> "Oh, my dear child," Dumbledore's voice came from behind him, gentle as ever, "are you finished packing?"
Darren turned, startled, clutching the worn biscuit like it was treasure.
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