“Hullo” the parrot squawks, fixing me with a beady, straw coloured eye. “Stupid-boy!” He swishes his ultramarine tail feathers and raises a yolk-yellow lined wing in greeting.

“Hello Albus” I reply from the doorway, a sad smile tugging at my lips at the ironic wit of the bird’s name.

The elderly man looks up and, although I see him thus every day, the wrinkles softening the once harsh planes of his face, the heartbreaking confusion in his dark eyes, the parted lips, waiting to speak words which his mind cannot provide, all strike me hard. The years have been cruel.

“Severus, I’ve brought your tea.” I say, gesturing to the tray in my hands. Gin cooks him a bit of supper every afternoon; rich stews, cottage pies, soufflés and rice puddings. Better by far than the ‘healthy’, mass-produced crud they provide here.

“Your eyes...” He mutters, raising a hand towards my face.

“Green lilies. Buggerit.” growls Albus. We go through this every day.

“Lily was my mother, Sev.” I reply, walking slowly towards him.

“No son.”

“Yes, Dad, she has. I’m your and Lily’s son, do you remember?”

His eyebrows, still beautifully arched, knot as he takes in my salt and pepper hair. “Too old” he replies shaking his head.

“Old tit!” Albus mutters. “Stupid-boy!”

I rest the tray on a small yet sturdy side table and sit on the footrest, facing my father. Carefully reaching out, I take one of his wrinkled, yet still elegant hands in mine and show it to him.

“You’ve gotten old, Dad. A long, long time has past since you and Lily were kids.”

“Don’t remember it?!” Severus snarls, snatching his hand away. In the obsidian depths of his eyes, a flash of ‘Professor Snape’ remains.

“An evil wizard took your memory.” I reply. It’s a lie, but Dad remembers about magic and it’s easier on him than the truth.

“Evil wizard..?” Severus asks, his eyes softening. Albus nuzzles his green head into my father’s arm, making crooning noises.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“But… they’re mine.” He whispers, the whine in his voice trembles in my heart.

“I know, Dad. I’m going to get them back for you.” Another lie. The Healer’s say its for the best: he won’t remember tomorrow, anyhow.

Severus purses his lips, fighting against tears. It’s not right. He should be able to cry but he never allows himself. I lie awake some nights wondering what his life was like, before Lily. Even the Dursleys’ treatment didn’t affect me that badly.

“My name is Harry, Dad. Do you remember?”

“Dufferhead Qwiffith tit.” Albus supplies helpfully. He never quite managed to get the hang of pronouncing ‘quidditch’.

“Harry…” his tone deepens, the sign that a memory is bubbling up from the depths. “Harry P…” He stops, bewilderment saturating his dark eyes as the recollection fades. Severus looks at me helplessly and, noticing the sadness in my eyes, pats me clumsily on the head.

I stand up and wandlessly cast a heating charm on the chocolate soufflé. “Remus’ Cure”, as it’s still known in my family. The stew can wait till later.

Sitting on the arm of his chair, I hold the bowl as Dad struggles to manouver the spoon between the bowl and his mouth. He’s still a right stubborn bugger, refuses to allow anyone to help him eat and, the last time one of the nurses tried to put a bib on him… well, lets just say she didn’t turn up for work the next day.

Now I come in at six, twelve and five to help him with his meals and, more often than not, I’m the one who helps him get ready for bed. It’s only on rare days, like today, that I spend less than half the day at his side. Gin sometimes asks if he’d be better off staying with us but I know my Dad. Even now, his independence, what little he has, at least, is important to him.

Albus chuckles happily, scooping the fluffy drips of soufflé which have landed on Severus’ robes into his beak.

“Lily?” Severus suddenly asks, his obsidian eyes darting around the room.

“She’s not here Dad.” I reply, casting a cleaning charm, much to Albus’ disapproval. The bird has certainly inherited his namesake’s love of sweets.

“Where is she?”

“On holiday.” I invent, hoping this will placate him.

“Why did she go without me?” tears trickle down those soft, wrinkled cheeks and my heart breaks.

“She has to visit Petunia.” I say, putting an arm around his slender shoulders. “She doesn’t like going but she has to.”

“Petunia’s mean!” my father sobs, his once strong voice breaking. I pull his head onto my shoulder and stroke his thistledown soft hair.

“I know, that’s why you didn’t want to go.”

“But…” my father’s mouth moves as he struggles to find the words, “I like Lily more than I hate Petunia.”

I scratch my still wayward hair, trying to work out what I should say. “I know, Dad” I finally mutter, “but Mum wanted you to stay with me.” At least, for once, I’m speaking the truth. All those years ago, when I went back for the resurrection stone, Mum had returned, one last time, to tell me everything.

“Harry?”

“Yes Dad?”

“Where’s Lily?”

Inwardly I sigh “She’s gone on holiday, Dad. She’ll be back soon. Would you like some stew?”

“Alright.”

“I went to Francois’s graduation today.” I tell my father, hoping to distract him from the subject of my mother. I pass him the bowl of steamy goulash and a fork.

“Purple hair.” Severus mutters, happily spearing a wine-gravy seeped mushroom.

“Yes,” I reply, half surprised, “My godson’s little boy.”

“From Hogwarts?” Severus asks, scooping up buttery mashed potato

I smile, trying to treasure this little moment of lucidity. “Beauxbatons, Dad.”

“Why?”

“Francois' parents live in France. He’s going to try for a Mastery in Potions” I add, hoping that this will spark another reccollection.

Severus’ silver brows crease “Will I go to Hogwarts or Beauxbatons?" He asks, suddenly. "I think I’d rather go to Hogwarts…”

Those black eyes, still sharp behind the clouds of confusion, narrow as he notices my surprise and panic creeps into my father’s voice. “I want to go to Hogwarts, Dad! You can’t stop me, I’m a wizard I am!”

The bowl of stew goes flying and I wince as Albus, loyal as even, chooses this moment to sink his beak into my thigh.

“Of course you’re a wizard.” I reply, putting my arms around Severus’ shoulders and drawing him into a tight hug. His symptoms always gets worse towards the end of the day and I know that, if I don’t calm him now, he’ll go into a full blown panic attack.

“Would you like to hear a story, Severus?”

“My Dad never tells me stories…” He mutters fretfully, squirming within my embrace.

“Your Dad doesn’t hug you either, but I do. I’m Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Yes and I always tell you stories.”

“What type?” my father queries, stroking Albus’s ultramarine back.

“Any kind you like.”

Severus looks up, his dark eyes eager. “I want an adventure story. With wizards and monsters and duelling in it!”

I smile and resting my cheek against his soft pale hair. “Once upon a time, there was a little orphan boy who lived in a cupboard…”