Apparating to the location now firmly affixed in his head was the easy part. Dusk came early at this time of year and it was a simple task to study the house from the shadows, eyes narrowed against the sleet. Snape shook his head in dismay. He knew there were a lot of them, but really! Was it necessary for them to live this way? Houses laid out like gravestones, each identical to the one before. Tiny lawns groomed to within an inch of their lives, all life and spontaneity ruthlessly pruned away.

"Muggles," he whispered under his breath, pitying any magical child forced to live in such sterility. Magic needed disorder and chaos to survive, Snape reminded himself, ignoring the fact that this was one of the things he hated about his own world. It was what had driven him to potions after all, where exactness and precision could be valuable, even to a wizard.

A tug at his pocket pulled out the fine fabric of the invisibility cloak that Dumbledore had handed over.

"I've been holding it for a friend," the headmaster had said with a twinkle. "I don't think he'd mind you using it for a good cause."

With a swirl it was about his shoulders, and wand in hand, Snape unlocked the door and quietly entered the boxy house. It was the heat he felt first, artificial and coarse against his skin, uncomfortably making him aware of the heavy weight of his thick coat. He shrugged off the petty discomfort and took in the narrow hall and staircase. Pictures graced the wall and something deep within him clenched.

So. There he was.

Progress down the hall followed the course of this short life, a round baby swaddled in knitted dainties, a toddler with a fierce glare, pudgy face and soft fair hair. First day of school, satchel on his back, soft blonde hair ruthlessly slicked down, face rounder still, sullen and frowning.

Fair hair?

Snape frowned at the assembly line of photographs, wishing that Muggles could at least get the damn things to move a little. It was hard to read faces when they were so waxy and still. No one else was pictured on these walls, and here, some sort of sitting room and more of the same. Round face, fair hair, pale blue eyes.

I expected Lily's eyes, Snape thought. Why did I expect Lily's eyes?

And then it hit him. The scar, famous throughout the wizarding world. Lightening bolt shaped, or some such nonsense. And the blonde pudding pictured so abundantly in the overheated clutter of this house had no such marking.

Not Harry then.

It was almost a relief when a door opened behind him and he turned to see everything he had been expecting peep out at him.

Lily's eyes. Pale red scar. And... Snape's stomach clenched again. Hair as black as his own laying in soft tousled waves.

The boy peered around the room and emerged from what Snape realised was a cupboard under the stairs. With a deep breath the child skipped across the room and stopped directly in front of Snape, staring upwards through over large wide glasses. Heart pounding hard the wizard wondered how on earth this boy could see him through the powerful magic of the cloak, and then he realised with a start that the child's attention was focused through him, not on him. He stepped aside and turned a little, realising it was the bright shiny lights of the Christmas tree that drew such rapt consideration.

Presents were piled underneath it, wrapped in shiny paper and bedecked with bows and ribbons. Harry reached out one hand and reverently touched a shiny red object, obviously some form of Muggle transportation with its black rubber wheels and pedals.

A thin hand stroked over the shining metal and then drew back swiftly as something rumbled down the staircase, and thudded down the hall.

"You better not be touchin' my bike, Harry," the blonde tornado yelled. It was the star of every picture in the house and his scowl was still firmly in place.

"I was just lookin'," Harry said defiantly, hands behind his back.

"You better be," the boy threatened. Then Snape jumped as he opened his mouth and yelled even louder than before, something the wizard would have deemed impossible if asked.

"Mum! Can I open one present now!"

"Oh, Dudders." A woman appeared from another room, wiping her hands on an apron she then stroked over her hips with bony hands. "You know Daddy likes to open them all Christmas morning."

"But just my bike, mum, please," the boy whined. Snape felt his hand itching with the desire to slap the child around his ear hole. The round child shot Harry a poisonous glance. "I'm afraid Harry will try to ride it in the night, and I don't want him spoiling it for me."

"I don't want to ride your poxy bike," Harry muttered and the dark haired woman frowned at him.

"You'd better not," she said sharply. "Oh, all right, sweetums. But only up and down the hall. Daddy will be home soon, and then we'll have a lovely Christmas Eve supper."

"Why doesn't Harry open one of his?" the boy said maliciously. Then he widened his piggy little eyes. "Oh, that's right! He doesn't have any presents. He doesn't have a mummy or daddy to buy him anything."

"Of course he has a present," the woman said irritably.

Harry looked up, surprise on his narrow face. The too large glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up. "I have a present?" he said breathlessly.

"In the bag," the woman said, pointing at a paper satchel behind the tree. "Oh! My potatoes!" She rushed from the room and Snape watched narrow eyed as Harry pulled out the sack with shaking hands. So, this was what Dumbledore meant then. These ridiculous Muggles favoured their own loathsome offspring over the orphan in their midst. Hardly surprising really.

Dudley was laughing and Harry's mouth trembled a little before he bit his lip.

"Old clothes," the bigger boy crowed. "My old clothes! She would have given them to you anyway."

"Shut up," Harry said lowly, narrow shoulders slumped.

Dudley pulled the bow off his bike and stroked the smooth leather seat. "If you're gonna be rude then you won't get to ride my bike," he said with a sneer.

"Who wants to ride your poxy bike!" Harry shouted. "I have a better present coming, you'll see! Tomorrow, at Christmas."

"Yeah yeah," Dudley sneered again, throwing one leg over the three wheeled contraption and sitting down with a pleased grunt. "That's what you said last year. Only then the big baby thought Santa was gonna show up. Which one, Harryhead? The one from the store in the High Street, or the one begging for coins on the corner?" With that he pumped the pedals with fat little legs and careened down the hall, ringing the shiny bell stridently.

Harry was looking up at the tree again, but no expression of wonder was on his face now. Snape forced himself to turn away from the sight and follow the brat down the hall. A quick look confirmed his suspicions, a narrow old mattress on the floor and a box of tattered garments indicated this was where the boy slept. He sighed and shook his head. And people wondered why he used to torture Muggles for sport? The hideous creatures didn't even have it in them to be decent to an orphaned child in their care.

Still, he told himself as he left the overheated house and breathed gratefully of the cold wet air outside. The boy wasn't being starved or beaten. He had a warm place and food on the table. All those ignorant Muggles needed was a bit of a reminder of who they had in their midst and that they had a certain duty to live up to.

After all, just because he personally didn't want the boy it didn't mean someone else had the right to mistreat him.

888

The toy shop in Diagon Alley was open late on Christmas Eve and doing a booming trade. Snape pushed past the simpering fairy dolls singing in annoyingly high voices (accessories sold separately) and the tiny gruesome figures who shrieked in agony as they transformed into werewolves, complete with drooling fangs.

"Brilliant," a breathless child said, nose pressed against the glass case leaving a greasy smear. Beside him a harried clerk was dealing with a customer.

"No, madam, we don't stock the self drumming kits any more. Because of the curses from the parents of children who received them, madam. Last year I spent most of January with a drumstick jammed in each ear."

"Excuse me," Snape said, as politely as he could manage over the singing and the screaming. "I need a toy."

The clerk gave him a stare a basilisk would be proud of and obviously bit back a rude retort. "Boy or girl?"

"A boy. But I don't want a magical one."

The clerk opened his mouth and closed it again. "What?" he finally said.

Snape looked around irritably. "Everything in here seems to do something. I want a toy that does nothing."

"A toy that does nothing," the middle aged clerk repeated. "That's a new one on me. May one ask sir why he wants a toy that does nothing?"

"One may ask," Snape allowed, then closed his mouth and stared at the man defiantly.

Another clerk leaned over the counter, she'd obviously been listening to this exchange with interest. "Is it for a Muggle born?" she said helpfully. Then she nudged the other clerk. "You know, Bingley, sometimes folk want toys for little'uns what live with Muggles."

"Then they should go buy them from Muggle shops," the man muttered. "Look, sir, I'm sorry. But toys that do nothing aren't what's popular these days." He gestured at the busy store, where toddlers pranced on stick ponies that tossed their heads and whinnied convincingly and building blocks whipped themselves into towering edifices and then tumbled back into their box, giggling madly. "If it doesn't fly or sing or transform then the kiddies just aren't interested."

Snape bit back an irritated curse, wishing he'd never had this insane idea to begin with. Then the sales clerk's face changed and he put a finger to his lips. "I wonder," he said thoughtfully. He pushed his way through the crowd to the back of the shop and Snape followed, telling himself there had to be an easier way to do this.

"This has been here as long as I have," the man said, pulling a faded old box from a top shelf. The surface had once been ornate but was now faded with time, the fancy scrollwork and designs obscured by dust. Blowing a cloud away the man lifted the lid and Snape reached in and pulled the toy out.

"A doll?" he said doubtfully, but his fingers were already stroking over the fine velvet and gold thread.

"A figurine!" the clerk corrected indignantly. "That's Merlin, that is."

Merlin it was, all swirling black cape and golden stars. He held a wand tipped with a clear crystal and his tall pointed hat was topped by a silver sickle moon.

"I'm not sure what it used to do," the clerk admitted. "The charms have long since faded. But he's beautifully made, look-"

"I'll take it," Snape decided. He had no idea whether a five and a half year old boy would value such a gift, but he was convinced he was going to do no better here. Besides, there was something about this doll, his white porcelain face calm and wise, his white hair and beard feather soft.

It would do.

The clerk was so happy to be rid of a troublesome customer and an old bit of stock that he sold Snape the toy for a song, which he luckily did not break out into, as the noise in the store was annoying enough already. He even threw in a thick white gift card and a bow.

888

Harry woke when Dudley thumped down the stairs but he stayed inside the closet for another half an hour after that, listening dully to the other boy's raptures over his loot. There were an equal amount of complaints too, over colours and sizes and what not, but Harry tuned them out too, well used to it. He had nothing and was expected to be happy with it, Dudley had everything and nobody seemed surprised that it was never enough. It had always been so, but at times like these Harry had to wonder why.

Until he'd attended school for the first time a few months ago he'd thought this was the way everybody lived. That there were good people who got what they wanted and bad people who didn't get anything at all. At school he just figured there were a lot more good people than bad, perhaps they all went to another school, he thought, where everyone had hand me down clothes that didn't fit, and walked into things because they didn't have glasses.

But then he started to realise that in this, like everything else, he was just doomed to be different. Everybody else had someone who loved them but Harry.

Breakfast smelled good and Harry finally got up and pulled on his clothes, knowing Aunt Petunia wouldn't save him any if he was late. As it was Dudley had probably scoffed all the bacon and fry bread.

The doorbell rang and his uncle's voice echoed down the hall. "Open the door, boy! Who could be ringing at this time of the morning on Christmas Day?"

Praying it wasn't Aunt Marge six hours early, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and struggled with the locks on the big door. Finally he pulled it open, seeing only a box on the top step, an odd purple bow leaning drunkenly on its lid.

Harry lifted it with a sigh. Great, another present for Dudley.

"A present!" Dudley squealed as Harry put it on an empty chair, quite as if he hadn't just opened twenty presents a few minutes earlier. "Who could it be from? Ouch!"

He jumped back away from the box, sucking his fingers. "It bit me!" he accused, pointing at the box with fat tears leaking from his eyes.

"Pinched your fingers, Duddy?" Uncle Vernon chuckled, leaning over and pulling at the lid. "Bugger!"

"Language, Vernon," Aunt petunia scolded automatically. She reached for the white square of card next to the lopsided bow. "What happened?"

"Bloody thing has a sharp edge I think," Vernon mumbled around the fingers he was sucking on. "Probably some Japanese rubbish, if people would only stop buying that foreign trash..."

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia's voice was hollow and her eyes seemed to swallow up her face. "Look at this."

Vernon squinted at her and then took the card gingerly. At once his red face went pale. "Throw it out!" he squeaked. "Throw out the whole ruddy thing!"

"What does it say?" Harry asked curiously, backing up a step as his Uncle rounded on him furiously.

"This is your fault, you unnatural little beggar. I-"

"Vernon!" Petunia clutched his clenched fist. "Remember what it says," she hissed. "We're being watched."

The two of them stared at one another, then looked goggle eyed around the room. Harry looked at Dudley, who shrugged and followed their gaze, eyes probing into every corner of the painfully clean kitchen.

"Ahem, well then," Vernon said, fingers twitching irritably as if he were resisting the urge to wrap them around Harry's neck. "I suppose, er, Petunia, you'd better let him have it then."

"Have what?" Harry said, then he blinked. "You mean the present? It's for me?"

"But, mum!" Dudley wailed. His mother shushed him.

"The card says..." Her voice trembled. "Er, I don't quite understand it. But it says it's from your father."

Harry's breath caught and he gazed down at the box in wonder. "You said my father's dead," he whispered.

"He is!" Vernon said loudly.

"I, I suppose he must have told someone to send it to you," Petunia said, a sickly smile on her face. "Before he died. Go on, um, open it."

"Hope it bites you," Dudley said sulkily, lower lip sticking out. He was not used to being shushed by his mother.

But Harry knew it wouldn't bite him, not a present from his father, his dad. He lifted the lid easily, revealing a mass of yellowing tissue paper. Pushing it aside he gasped in reverence at the smooth white face.

"A doll," Dudley was saying scornfully, but Harry barely heard him. Never in his life had he seen such a doll, dressed more richly than any real person he had ever seen, a smooth black cloak around its shoulders, a soft pointed hat on its head.

"It's a wizard," Harry breathed in delight, and Aunt Petunia squeaked in distress.

"Take it upstairs, boy," Vernon said hoarsely. "Right now. I never want to see the bloody thing again."

"Upstairs!" Harry repeated in dismay, clutching the soft cloth body of the doll  to his chest. "But it's mine! I want to put it in my cupboard with me!"

"Cupboard?" Vernon said loudly, drowning out Harry's words. "What cupboard? You sleep in Dudley's second bedroom from now on."

"Mum!" Dudley wailed again, but Harry could feel a smile starting that not even the prospect of his larger cousin angry with him could dim. The present from his father was a wizard, and maybe even a magic one! He'd only just got it and already he didn't have to sleep in the cupboard with the spiders any more. Before his uncle could change his mind he hurried to the cupboard, pulling out his box of clothes and carrying it and his wizard up the stairs.

On the dusty bed in Dudley's second bedroom Harry hugged the wizard close and breathed in the scent of the old fabric. It even smelled magical.

"Thank you, daddy," he murmured.

888

"So you're satisfied he's well cared for then?" Dumbledore probed.

"Physically," Snape said, staring back out the window, It was afternoon now, sunlight glinted on the snow, the leaden sky promising more before nightfall.

"And these Muggles? Do they care for him?"

Snape humpfed a laugh. "Are Muggles capable of caring?" he said bitterly. "They love their own child, but have none to spare for m-. For someone else's."

"And yet you tell me he's fine there."

"He's alive," Snape said bleakly. "He'll survive. Adversity makes us strong."

"Do you really think so?" Dumbledore said curiously. "It makes us hard, perhaps. But strong?"

Snape frowned and slanted him a glance.

"In my experience a child who is not valued will seek approval even into his adult life. It's far too easy for such children to be lead astray, in their search for the love that was withheld from them when they so desperately needed it."

"You're the one who put him there," Snape pointed out evenly, determined not to give into the swirling anger that had filled his belly since his visits to that horrid little house.

Dumbledore sighed. "I hoped," he said quietly. "That their hearts could open to an orphaned child."

"And how long did it take you to figure out that they hadn't?" Snape asked ruthlessly. "You've let him grow up there, Professor, when there must have been a hundred wizarding families who would have been glad to take him in."

"I told you about the blood magic that protects him-"

"Bah," Snape spat. "There are other protections."

"So I thought too, once. When Frank and Alice Longbottom came to me, and asked to raise their friends child."

Snape froze at the names.

"After all, I reasoned as they asked me. These were two powerful Aurors, who'd faced Voldemort himself and survived. They had a boy Harry's age, they could grow up as brothers. Alice herself pointed this out to me, her eyes as tender when she spoke of her son as Lily's had been that day, that last day I saw her..."

Snape swallowed hard and turned back to the window, staring sightlessly now at the familiar view.

"How if I had listened to my heart rather than my head, Severus. How if I had given them Harry to raise..."

"So he stays with the Muggles," Snape said dully. "I expected as much."

"There are only two places on earth the boy will be safe," Dumbledore said softly. "With his aunt, or here at Hogwarts. And he cannot live here without a parent to take care of him."

Snape pulled the cloak from his pocket and tossed it on the windowsill, where it lay in a silken heap for a moment before slipping over the edge and swirling to the floor. "I hate this place," he whispered under his breath, then he stumbled blindly for the door and left.