Tobias Snape had scarcely been a model father; he'd leave their tiny, terraced house at dawn, spend nine hours packing boxes upon boxes of nails, then head for the pub, only returning home once he'd drunk himself into happy oblivion. He'd had a lot to forget.

And even on high days and holidays, Tobias spent no more time at home; still he left at dawn, still he returned at midnight. It was only when Severus heard rumours of a 'fancy woman' that he'd followed his old man and found out the truth.

Eileen Prince had really made no sacrifice in marrying Tobias Snape; her parents,while disapproving of her choice to 'slum it' among the muggles, had loved Eileen enough to brazen out their only daughter's embarrassing alliance. The glittering career in potions had not been compromised, nor was the shabby little house uncomfortable; beyond the drab exterior and front parlour, magic and gallions had furbished up a comfortable home.

Tobias, on the other hand, had given up his job, his home, his entire way of life. As Severus sat on the leaf-bestrewn forest floor, listening to Tobias' low, sibilant voice whilst the flames of the camp-fire flickered across his father's angular face, sending his hooked nose into sharp relief and glittering life into those too-often empty black eyes. he entered a type of dream. A dream where horses feet beat against the everlasting road, drawing behind them creaking, ancient caravans, painted in sunset hues. Of fishing, the silver water soft and cool against your bare ankles, of the soft mouth of a foal brushing your fingers in search of a apple-bit, of sleeping under the velvet expanse of the sky.

And of magic; garlic cloves buried in jars on a Friday to break a spell of bad luck, a four leaf clover in a maiden's shoe when she went to meet her sweetheart and how you should always put a coin in a new wallet for luck.

Like his mother, Severus had sneered- albeit inwardly- at the hedge witchery; oh, yes, such simple spells could work- like the incantations, they served to focus the mind, but magic required power. You either had magic or you didn't- and no number of candles or herbs would change that!

However, divination... Severus knew that even squibs could be seers and when his father pulled a rather battered pack of cards from his waistcoat pocket, Severus was intrigued (even when the reading rather ridiculously revealed that he'd meet the love of his life, a bright-haired, strong-minded girl, within the next few weeks.)

“The Sight is in the very marrow of our bones, our Sev.” Tobias said firmly, looking deep into the sharp, sceptical dark eyes, peering out from his son's angular, pointed face. “Listen to your gut and you'll stay safe.”

And. for many years, Severus had taken heed of his instincts; they'd led him to a pretty little park, where he could sit amid the bushes and read unmolested, they'd encouraged him to talk to a girl who was so lovely she should have turned her nose up at him- and to try again when she rebuffed him due to his ill-considered words. Many an accident was avoided, many a sixpence came his way purely because he was in the right place, at the right time, to do a good deed.

Indeed, it was only after his induction to Slytherin that Severus began to ignore his gut, believing instinct to be based merely on irrational fear or, conversely, a false pattern which his brain had imbibed.

Later, when Severus learnt that the prophesy- which every instinct had screamed against it's disclosure- had placed a noose around Lily lovely neck, his arrogance dissolved. Severus listened to his inner voice, begged Voldemort to spare her, then threw himself on Dumbledore's mercy. Through the sarcastic indulgence of one and the wisdom of the other, Severus gained the woman he loved a reprieve.

In the first few months of his espionage, Severus would often smirk at how second sight- the gift of his muggle father- helped him subvert and deceive the twisted blood-supremacist he called Lord. The irony was delicious.

However, although Severus' instincts had led him back towards the light, he had, it turned out, resisted them for too long. Lily Potter was betrayed by her arrogant toe-rag of a husband's psychotic best friend. Why the man had trusted someone who, at the age of fifteen, had proven himself capable of murder was beyond Severus but, whatever Potter's reasoning, the fact remained that Sirius bloody Black had divulged the little family's whereabouts and, on the 31st of October, the Dark Lord entered the Potter household, murdered James, then turned his wand on Lily.

Harry Potter, Lily's infant son, had somehow survived, reflecting the killing curse back upon the Dark Lord. Quite how the baby had managed this was beyond even Severus' questing mind, but nevertheless, Voldemort's body had been destroyed and his soul sent to the deepest pit of hell. By Lily's son, the child who, Headmaster Dumbledore said, had her eyes. Exactly the same, in shape and colour. The only way Severus could make amends to the dead mother was to protect her living child.

Yes, Harry Potter had lived. For several hours. The next morning, Dumbledore had switched on the wireless to hear news of a dreadful gas explosion in Little Whining- an explosion which had demolished a house, killing the mother, father and child within.

A quick floo call to the ministry confirmed the ancient headmaster's worst nightmares; Dumbledore's lined face grew grey as he heard that, far from being an isolated incident, this attack was but the second in a series of reprisals for Voldemort's demise. Frank and Alice Longbottom had been tortured into insanity and their young son, Neville, was only barely alive. The group of Death-Eaters, it seemed, had then moved onto the Dursleys- the very people on whose doorstep Albus had left Harry a few hours earlier.

There had been nothing left of the Vernon, Petunia or Dudley Dursley and, as for Harry Potter, all that remained were a few blackened willow branches, flung into the scorched privet hedge. The Death Eaters had blasted the Moses basket so hard that it's scant remains had been thrown at least 20 meters.

Despite the Wizarding public's grief, they had In the main, been quick to support Albus' decision; Voldemort often took hostages and the very fact that the Dursleys remained unmolested- despite Petunia Dursley being Lily's sister- suggested strongly that their whereabouts remained unknown. Moreover, Albus had placed powerful blood wards around the property. They would only have failed if Petunia had rejected Harry and such a reaction could hardly be expected from the worst of women- at least in the opinion of the Daily Prophet.

Severus was one of the few who found it difficult to be charitable towards the old headmaster. Although he had hated the very idea of Harry Potter- the pollution of Lily's DNA by James Potter's poison- Severus had felt... cheated when he heard of the boy's death and very, very angry; Albus only had to ask and he'd have told him that it'd be better to throw Potter Jnr in with the Lions at Whipsnade than give him to that spiteful, vicious cow. Severus had grown up within streets of Petunia Evans, not to mention that, as Lily's confident, he'd been parley to all her spiteful behaviour. However, within the black clouds of anger, there was a tiny, bright spark of hope.

That spark had led Severus to this desk, where he was stuffing letters into envelopes and gazing, every so often, at the legendary Hogwarts quill. Dumbledore's forgetmenot blue eyes had actually teared up when Severus had volunteered for this duty, making the young Potions Master want to shove the man's cursed lemon drops up those quivering nostrils.

Abbot... Bones... Boot... Crabbe... Severus dragged his eyes away from the quill; it was ridiculous, not to mention as boring as watching water boil. Goyle... Granger... The Potions Master shook his head, displacing oily black locks. Padma Patil... Pavarti Patil... Severus bit his lip, shut his dark eyes. There was no reason for him to care about whether the Potter brat had lived. Lily was probably much happier to have her son with her, in the world of spirit. Besides, beholding those beautiful, pure eyes in the demon features of that malicious bastard...

“Harry Potter
Smallest bed,
Elijah Pidgley's Caravan,
Currently Nr. Haddenham”

Severus stood up, pushed his chair under the desk, picked up the envelope and walked calmly and quietly though the echoing corridors. Raising a hand- which did not tremble in the slightest- the young teacher knocked on Dumbledore's door.

“Come in”

“Headmaster I...”

“Oh my dear boy,” Albus murmured, rising to his feet. “My poor dear boy!”

Sweeping across the room, his tyrian robes hissing against the marble floor, Albus Dumbledore gathered a very surprised Severus Snape into his arms. Given that the old wizard was almost a foot taller than him and had bundled the slender young man up quite skilfully in his voluminous sleeves, Severus knew that struggling would only compromise his dignity further.

“Headmaster..!”

“Come, Severus, these tears are not beneath you. Indeed, they are proof of your strength”

Starting back, Severus stared up at Dumbledore, then slowly raised his calloused fingers to his cheek.

As a teenager, Severus had spent many hours carefully schooling his face into a blank mask, furnished with only such smirks, glares or grimaces as he manufactured. His body was completely under his control...

So why, then, did, saline gleam wetly on those potion-stained fingertips? Why were his hollow cheeks slick from silent tears which had fallen, unheeded, unnoticed and completely unrestrained.

Blank eyed, Severus looked into Albus Dumbledore's sorrowful, soft blue gaze and jerked the envelope free from the pocket of his black silk robes. “He's alive, Albus. Harry Potter is alive!”