Darkness swirled as the young child stirred in his closet. The little one’s grime-covered face, gave testimony to the boy’s miserable existence. A child of nine, yet not a child, not where it mattered. Nine years of darkness, save for his one light; his mother. Soon his light would be extinguished forever. Coughing into his hand, he shuddered as the silence gave way to the loud boom of his tormentor.

“Boy, you get yourself in here right now!” If his room had windows, the child was sure that they would have broken in a desperate attempt to flee from the very sound. Sighing, he brushed off his jeans as best he could and tiptoed to the room where not only his tormentor was, but also his savior. The room, though the only one that had painted and fixed up reeked of a most foul substance, looming death.

“Yes sir?” he asked as he stared at his source of light, his savior in the midst of her own losing battle. He did not dare to look at the dark-haired man standing so close to him that that his breath tickled the back of his neck, sending an unwanted chill spiraling down his spine. His mother was the safe one, the one who loved him.

“Go down to the store and steal me a whiskey. You and the likes of you are going to be the death of me. Your witch of a mother didn’t tell me she was a freak and passed her freakiness to a child I sired. Now she’s going to die and leave me with you, probably even tonight.”

With each word, his father’s voice grew edgier, more and more dangerous. The child chanced one more look at his fading angel before he practically ran to his room. Sighing again, he tugged on his brown coat before pausing a moment and walking to his mattress and running his hand over it. Finding the slit of the fabric, he pulled out a small pouch, hiding it in the only intact pocket the jacket had. Wasting no more time, the slight black-haired child escaped his home. He hoped that this would not be the time that he would get caught stealing. He hated the whole business but valued his life more. He knew what would happen if he disobeyed.

The store was a couple miles from his house, a distance that normally did not matter to him as the constant work he was forced to endure kept him fit although the bruises he sustained did not help in the least. However, that day it had snowed. Big fat flakes swirled down, turning his dark hair a silvery white. It was almost impossible to continue on as the wind and mounds of snow worked their forces against him, but he knew he had to keep walking. If he stopped and turned back even his angel wouldn’t be able to save him from his father’s ire. An hour of diligent persistence was rewarded when he finally spied the sign proclaiming, “Dawson’s General.” The store carried practically everything, and he would be able to get the item of his father’s addiction if he was careful enough, maybe even buy that one final item that he had been saving up for weeks. During the few hours a day where he was not either taking care of his mother or spending so-called “quality time” with his father, he had completed odd jobs in the neighborhood, saving up a bit of money. He was a wizard, but as he lived in a non-magical residence, the muggle money would suffice.

Walking into the slightly old building, he noted that the alcohol section was crowded with customers no doubt stocking up on “Christmas cheer.” He perked up a bit as he decided to delay his task of sneaking a bottle or two into the insides of his coat, and instead found himself face-to-face with a pair of shiny scarlet dress shoes for a woman. His mother adored the color red and she would look so pretty. They were shoes fit to meet Jesus in. Obnoxious Christmas music filtered in from the background, hoping to entice the shopper into purchasing more, but the child grunted at the happiness the music implied.

Grabbing the correct size, he cradled them to his chest as he fought the crowd and stepped in line. He just had to get home soon and give his mother them. She would need them soon he feared. The line was long, and it would be a while before his turn. He found himself pacing around, nervously fingering the little pouch in his pocket. Unnoticed by the little child, a man with raven hair and his son stepped in line behind him. He did not see the impatient looks emitting from the man or the stark contrast between the clean-cut boy and himself.

Finally it was his turn; he set the shoes on the counter and pulled out his little pouch. He had visited the store before and knew the shoes would be nine pounds. They had been that price for a couple weeks, and he counted on it to be the same price. The cashier worked like a well-oiled machine, having had fallen into a monotonous routine that retail employees found themselves displaying during the hectic Christmas season. The slightly balding man bagged the precious gift.

“That will be twelve pounds, please,” the man announced. Gaping, the child stared up at the worker hoping that he had heard incorrectly. He gave an involuntary shudder as he began to speak, praying that it was simply a miscommunication.

“Sir…the price was nine pounds last week…” He bit his lip in shame, as he would never be able to afford his mother’s gift at the current price. He wanted to be strong but found that his bravery was wavering. He carefully dumped his bulging bag of pence. Almost panicking, he counted the coins, hoping that he had miscounted earlier and in fact would be able to buy the shoes.

“I’m sorry son, but you don’t have enough, the price changed two days ago. Got to make some money somehow, but perhaps you still have some coins that fell into your pocket?”

Despite having had a look of indifference only moments before, the shop worker found himself pitying the small refugee of a child. The lad was small for his age and not a spot was found on his face that wasn’t dirty. The way the child had acted hinted that the shoes were no ordinary Christmas gift. He silently hoped there would be at least this one small miracle for the boy; he looked as if he needed several. The little boy's chin trembled as thin fingers dug in his hopelessly empty pocket, praying to find something, he found nothing. Against his will, a tear began snaking down his cheek, the salty liquid mixing with the dirt from his face to create a polluted stream.

“I’m such a loser, can’t even afford a simple present for my mum. Dad’s right, I am a freak. I just got to get these shoes. She needs them. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

A slight cough interrupted his rambling. Frowning, he turned and noticed for the first time, the tall man with spiky black hair and his son. Any other time he would have been disgusted at the identical looks of pity they wore. He almost hated himself, but he forced out the words he never thought he’d say as cast his eyes to the floor.

“Sir, I don’t know what to do! I gotta buy these shoes for my mum! I had enough money, but then they went off sale and now I don’t and my mum needs them! She’s really sick and Father says she’ll die really soon. She used to be beautiful, but then she got ill and with these shoes, she’ll look so pretty for Jesus! What am I going to do?”

To his embarrassment the lone tear became the first of many as both strangers looked on. The man’s face grew soft as he gave the lad a reassuring squeeze on the shoulders and quickly handed the clerk the rest of the money. A peculiar feeling came over the boy as his normally somber face lit up, and he smiled through his tears. He took the shoes from the clerk and looked back at his rescuer. “Thank you…so much.”

He turned and practically ran out of the store. Neither the snow nor the biting wind, not even the bruises upon his back could stop him as he skipped the distance to the shack his family lived in. Not until he was half-way home did he realize that he had not lifted the whisky.

Severus Snape hated Christmas. The entire staff at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knew this. The students knew it, too, but not even the Gryffindors were brave enough to mention it, as they knew from experience what angering the snide professor would do, using their small brains for once to decide that it wasn’t worth the risk.

He hated everything to do with Christmas, aside from the color green. He despised the carols, the gaudy decorations displayed on the hundreds of trees found in the castle; he hated the laughter of children. Most of all, he hated the color red. Presents also found their way on his loathe list along with stores near the Christmas holiday. So when he found himself at a muggle store upon the request of Albus Dumbledore, it was safe to say that it would not be a pleasant day for him, nor for the employees who had the misfortune of working that shift.

Professor Dumbledore had asked him to buy a battery-run television set of all things. The Headmaster claimed that it was to aid the Muggle Studies professor when explaining such muggle novelties. However, Snape was of the opinion that like most everything the Headmaster did, it was only a cover story. He would bet his last galleon that he would find Albus merrily watching some inane television show, perhaps knowing the headmaster, a children’s cartoon. Why he, Severus, was assigned to the task, he did not know, but rather than question his employer’s motives, he agreed having hoped that the errand would not take all day.

Christmas 1989 was quickly approaching; the last of the brilliant autumn leaves having dulled to a mere brown. The stores bustled with harried customers trying to find the perfect gifts for their darling families. After a bit of walking, the Potions’ Master a rundown building that self-proclaimed to have the best prices in Britain. The snarky man highly doubted the slogan was truthful, but as he did not care about the cost, seeing as the money would come out of the school fund he settled for the store.

Like most mum-and-pop stores, this establishment carried a bit of everything that a person could possibly want or need. Severus paused only a moment before he walked to an aisle that looked to have electronics. He found a small selection of battery-operated televisions, dubbed “camp tellys,” and selected a random one that boasted that it was “in color.” He did not know what the big deal of that was; the boxes that consumed so many families’ attention had been in color since before he had been born. Severus dared not question the Headmaster though. After all, Dumbledore had saved him from a horrid fate.

Having picked up the lightweight telly, he headed to the front of the store to where the registers were located. With Christmas coming soon, this was a difficult task, as an overabundance of customers combined with much more merchandise than normal crowded the walkway. He was almost to the registers when he nearly fell to the ground. Severus prided himself on being attentive to details and could only blame his momentary lack as being blinded by the overwhelming red. Red, always red, how he hated it. Looking down he saw what he had stumbled over. A little boy who seemed to swim in his clothes was looking at Snape with a look he knew all-too well from his students. Fear.

“I’m sorry sir! I’ll get out of your way. Sorry!” the child muttered as he stared with wide eyes at the professor. The little boy stood up and picked up the lone item he had been clutching, a pair of emerald green mittens, which had come from a display not a foot away. Severus stood watching as the child longingly replaced the mittens on the rack. The Potions’ Master stared at the child’s reddened, sore hands. Cuts adorned them as well as dried, caked blood. In a rare display of curiosity, he spoke to the waif.

“Why are you putting them back? It looks like your hands could use them to fight off the chill.” There was something odd about this boy, something that Severus could not quite place. The little boy reminded him of another child from long ago. Sniffling a bit into the fold of his arm, the child seemed reluctant to answer. Finally after nearly a minute, a tiny voice spoke.

“Freaks don’t earn any money, freaks don’t get nice things.” The boy stepped back from the older man and walked away.

Severus frowned in understanding and sighed as he finally reached the checkout lane. The man could not help but remember a Christmas when he had been desperate for a simple item. He had made good time and was the only customer at the moment. With ease, the transaction was complete and Severus found himself in the blustery cold once more. Before he could leave muggle England though, he had one final task to complete. It only took a couple of minutes before the spy located the boy. The lad was shivering from the cold and his black hair hung to his head, wet from snow.

“Boy, I think you could use these,” the normally snarky man handed the child the pair of mittens that the child had adored. Watching the boy’s face light up, the man who was a stranger to happiness, felt a smile tug at his lips. He fought it off though, and reached into his pockets, pulling out a medium-sized jar. He handed that as well to the amazed boy.

“This is a simple lotion; it will cure your hands and keep them healthy.” The child stood stunned, and Severus began to walk off, but before he walked a yard away, he heard a little voice.

“Thank you, sir, thank you!” With that, the child bolted and ran in the direction of a middle-class neighborhood. Severus replaced his mask as he paused for a moment and then promptly apparated near Hogwarts.