The golden potion was simmering heavily, soon to boil. Pieces of grinded holly berries swirled inside the bubbling liquid, tiny red flecks within a honey-colored cyclone. Combined with a vial of Evernice Elixir and a pinch of pixie dust, they would intensify the draught’s effect by a factor of 2.5, if his calculations were correct. They usually were, but as every Potions Master knew, the magic revealed itself in the brewing, not the theory.

Snape reached for his crystal stirrer (Size 5, Pink Opal), immersed it into the potion at an angle of exactly 70 degrees and began stirring. Four times clockwise, six times anti-clockwise, another three times clockwise. A cloud of scent escaped the cauldron, strong enough to make his nose twitch, but not unexpected or unwelcome. His potion had reached the amalgamation stage, when every ingredient released its magic powers and reacted with the agents around it. This usually resulted in some sort of discharge, be it smell, sound or even a supernatural manifestation. Snape felt the magic build within the potion and engulf his arm, tingling under his skin. The feeling was different for every draught; some Dark potions even demanded pain to reach their full potential. Not so this little concoction; a soft tickle was all there was to it.

When the sensation had subsided, he lifted the stirrer and set it down carefully in its holder. The potion would have to sit for two days now, cooking slowly on a low flame. As for the testing stage-

“Severus?”

Lowering the fire, Snape turned around. The person standing in the door of his laboratory was not unexpected (or unwelcome) either, although he had hoped to begin another batch of Drunkard’s Ease after finishing with his little experiment. The demand was high at this time of the year.

“Severus, I finished the stars but I dropped one of the Snitches and there was a lot of chocolate on it and it’s on the rug in front of the stove and it won’t come off. I trod in some of it but not much and it’s my old socks anyway.”

All this was said so quickly that Snape caught only half of the words, but then, the chocolate-covered six-year-old in front of him was explanation enough by himself.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay at the kitchen table?”

“Yes and I did but I needed more green sprinkles and they were on the counter.”

Snape didn’t ask why the boy hadn’t left the biscuits at the table; years of experience had taught him that logic only got him that far, especially with young Harry Potter. Behind the boy, a track of chocolatey footprints led down the cellar steps.

“Why didn’t you take off your socks before coming down here?”

The boy turned, looking surprised at the trail of chocolate. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Snape sighed. “Take them off, and leave them here. I’ll get them later when I do the laundry. There’s a fresh pair in the basket by the stairs. Wait!” He caught the boy around the waist before he could dash off. “You’ll just get chocolate all over your feet again. Tergeo!”

The footprints vanished, and Snape let go of the boy. As he watched Harry sprint up the stairs, he marveled again at the boy’s relentless energy. They had spent the morning in Diagon Alley, and Harry had been outside for most of the afternoon, zooming around the garden on his broomstick, but he seemed more awake than ever. Snape, meanwhile, could have done with a nice nap in front of the fire.

He followed the boy up the stairs and into the kitchen. Small it was, yes, but the grime and grease of Snape’s childhood days were gone. It still surprised him at times, how much a thorough clean-up and general overhaul had changed No. 37, Spinner’s End. Back in the day, Tobias hadn’t allowed magic in his own four walls, Eileen had refused to clean the Muggle way, and of course Snape’s father would not stoop to doing “women’s work”. The filth and dust had gathered correspondingly, but after a long day at work (or the pub), neither Eileen nor Tobias cared much. Then, Snape had never imagined that the house could actually look and smell clean.

Clean, of course, did not exactly apply to the kitchen after Harry’s chocolate mishap. Snape didn’t have to be a master sleuth to read the story the dark hand- and footprints told. A rather gruesome crime had been committed here, and the victims were a kitchen rug, two dish towels and what looked like a gallon of chocolate.

“Can you spell it clean?” Harry asked, regarding the rug without much hope.

“Very unlikely.” Snape bent down to pick up the two unfortunate towels. “In fact, I shall not even try, as it would be a waste of magical energy to do so. As for the rest of this… war zone…”

He waved his wand – a very useful spell Molly Weasley had taught him – and most of the chocolate vanished. Including, unfortunately, that on Harry’s carefully decorated biscuits.

“My biscuits!” Harry stared, open-mouthed. “You spelled all the chocolate off!”

“And you murdered my kitchen rug.”

They stared at each other for a moment, before Snape decided that, being the adult, he should probably reconcile the situation.

“I did not intentionally remove the chocolate from your biscuits. It is in the nature of the spell to clean chocolate stains off any surfaces in the vicinity-”

Harry sniffled. “I made the cauldrons for you and it took for ever and ever to get the sprinkles on.”

Snape could see the truth of that statement; the sprinkles that covered the table and most of the kitchen floor attested to it. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, Harry.”

It no longer felt so strange, apologizing to a little boy who hardly reached up to his navel. Certainly no one had ever apologized to young Severus, or even acknowledged any grievances he might have. It had taken a while for Snape to understand that he could not demand good manners from Harry if he wasn’t ready to offer the same thing.

“It’s okay, I guess.” Harry’s sniffles subsided.  “An’ I’m sorry too about the mess.”

That was another thing that had taken getting used to; Harry’s quickness to forgive. Snape carried grudges like others kept mementos, turning them over his mind and examining their every detail. He hadn’t even known there was another way until Harry came along.

“Well, let me have a look at those cauldrons.”

The baking had been done together before Snape went down to his lab and left the decorating to Harry. Cauldrons, stars, moons, Christmas trees, cats, Snitches and Hippogriffs covered the trays, all of the cutter forms handpicked by Harry in Diagon Alley.

“Look, I put on green sprinkles for Toothcleaning Tonic, and blue ones for Headache Draught, and red and yellow ones for that new potion you’ve been making.”

Snape nodded in appreciation; the boy had correctly remembered the colors. “Very good, Harry. Why don’t we heat another pot of chocolate and finish this together.”

Harry’s grin threatened to split his face. “Really? You’re gonna help and all?”

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you trust my decorating abilities?”

A vigorous nod and a giggle. “I trust you.”

This boy was not going to be a Slytherin, Snape thought as he set the pot on the stove, but the thought didn’t rankle as much anymore. If Harry was happy in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff or Merlin forbid Gryffindor, then Snape would not begrudge him his Sorting. But, he reminded himself quickly, it was a long time still before Harry left for Hogwarts.

Harry climbed onto the stool next to Snape and watched as the chocolate slowly dissolved in the pot. “Can I stir?”

Snape handed him the spoon. “Careful now. Don’t burn yourself.”

Harry nodded. “Ten times clockwise,” he said earnestly, his eyes on the spoon’s movements. “And five times anti-clockwise. That’s how you brew chocolate.”

“Is it?” Snape felt his lips twitch.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m going to be a Potions Master when I grow up. Can I come see your new potion later?”

“You may, after we have cleaned up here.”

“Is it all done?”

“Not quite,” Snape said. “It needs to sit for two days before I can test it.”

“Can we test it ourselves?” the boy asked excitedly. Snape had tested various experimental potions on himself, sometimes with quite unusual results. “Can I help?”

“After I’ve made sure it is safe,” Snape said firmly. Harry had wanted to help before, and on one memorable occasion had dipped a finger into Featherweight Elixir and licked it off before Snape could stop him. The then four-year-old had spent six hours bobbing around on the ceiling until Snape finished the antidote.

“Does it taste good? What does it do?”

“Its taste should be acceptable,” Snape replied. “Something between toffee and cinnamon, if the flavor turns out as planned. And I told you before what it does.”

Harry nodded importantly. “It makes people be nice to each other on Christmas.”

A crude but succinct summary, Snape thought. His main customer, Pendergraft’s Potions in Diagon Alley, had asked him for a specially made draught to soothe frayed nerves and prevent family rows during the holiday season. After some research, Snape had come up the golden concoction that was currently bubbling away in his lab and which would hopefully meet the needs of all those haggard parents and long-suffering spouses.

“What are you going to call it?” Harry asked.

“I haven’t yet decided. What would you call it?”

Harry thought, his head tilted to one side while he continued to stir. “The Grinch Killer,” he said then. “‘cause it makes people be friendly and not mean like Mr.Grinch.”

Snape blinked. “That’s… very good, Harry. “ And it was, better than anything he could have come up with. Pendergraft would love it, that was for sure.

Harry beamed at him. “Is the chocolate all done?”

Snape nodded, his thoughts still on the newly christened potion. Harry had come out with names for potions before, and some very catchy ones, if Snape said so himself. Merlin forbid he start sounding like Narcissa, who would drone on and on about Draco’s many accomplishments, but the boy did have a way with words. Ravenclaw might suit him, after all.

“You can do the cauldrons, if you want!” Harry had bounded over to the table, pulling out a chair for Snape. The boy’s cheeks were glowing with excitement. “I’ll do the Snitches, I’ve loads of yellow sprinkles left!”

Snape sat down, surveying the trays of yet-to-be-decorated biscuits. He hadn’t remembered that they’d made quite so many. It seemed they would be living mainly off chocolate cauldrons and snitches for the next few weeks… though on second thought, perhaps not. Harry had pestered him into letting the youngest Weasley boy visit after the holidays, and Snape had no doubt that between them, those two would take care of any leftover sweets.

“Severus?”

Snape looked up from the cauldron he’d been covering in chocolate. “Yes?”

“It’s Christmas tomorrow, but not for presents yet, right?”

Snape nodded; they’d been over this before. “Yes, tomorrow is the 24th of December, also called Christmas Eve. It’s wizard and Muggle tradition to open any presents they may or may not find under the Christmas tree on the morning of the 25th.”

He kept a perfectly straight face, watching the boy from the corner of his eyes. Harry chewed on his lower lip as he dipped his brush back into the chocolate.

“Severus?”

“Hmm?”

“D’you think there’ll be presents under our tree?”

Snape held up one of his cauldrons, pretending to inspect it carefully. “I suppose there may be some catnip drops for Hecate.”

“And – and some for me?”

“I was not aware you had a liking for catnip drops.”

A grin began to appear on the boy’s face. “You’re teasing!”

Snape smirked a little and turned back to his cauldrons. He was not born to be an artist, he decided, but the things didn’t have to be pretty to be devoured by Harry and the Weasley progeny. And Albus, of course. The man would be over for Christmas dinner and no doubt spoil Harry shamelessly; Snape had yet to experience a Christmas where the old man stuck to the two-present limit they’d agreed on.

“Severus?”

It was question time tonight, it seemed. No wonder; the Weasley boys had been hyperactive for days. From the many “calm activities” Molly had assigned Harry and her sons in their homeschooling lessons, Snape concluded that they must be pestering their parents around the clock.

“Severus?”

“Yes?”

“When I go to bed, can you tell me the story of how I came to live with you?”

The request was not exactly unexpected; Harry loved to hear the story, and particularly so at this time of the year. It had almost become a tradition, retelling it on Christmas.

“If you’re not too tired by then.”

Harry grinned. “I won’t be.”

###

Snape’s childhood room had been a bleak affair, its windows perpetually blackened with soot from the nearby steel factory. A simple Dust Repellent Charm could have kept them clean, but Snape supposed that Eileen hadn’t thought it worth the row that would inevitably follow. Everybody had sooty windows; if that witchy Snape woman suddenly kept hers sparkling clean, the neighbors would talk… at least according to Tobias.

The steel factory had been closed in the 70s, taking with it the incessant noise and the omnipresent soot. These days, the abandoned buildings were a magnet for adventurous children, who would throw stones through the windows or build dens in the old production halls. In fact, Harry had received one of his few groundings for sneaking off there with the neighborhood kids. Even so, Snape did not miss having a huge production plant close by; at least he no longer needed magic to keep the windows clean.

Including windows that one could actually see through, Snape’s boyhood room looked very different these days. A pale blue wallpaper covered the bare roughcast, the curtains did not resemble discarded cleaning rags, there were toys on the shelves, pictures on the walls and a small desk where Harry spent many hours drawing and painting. There had been a time in Snape’s life when these changes might have embittered him – why would Potter’s brat deserve so much more than he had ever had? Potter, bloody Potter with his top-of-the-range broom and his new robes and his arrogant smile.

But James Potter was a fading memory these days, a pale reminder of a time and a place Snape had long since left behind. Now there was just Harry, and Harry deserved what every child should have; of course he did. His erstwhile idiot of a father had nothing to with it.

You’ve come a long way, Severus, Albus had told him, a year or so ago. Snape had merely grumbled in reply, shrugging off the sentiment. He’d much rather spent his time pickling rats’ brains or even cleaning up one of Harry’s bathroom messes than join the old man in his maudlin soul-searching.

Talking about messes…

“Haven’t I told you to hang up your towel after using it?”

Harry stuck his head in the bathroom door. “I did!”

“Then why, pray tell, is it on the floor?”

“Oh.” Harry came in, picked up the wayward towel and hung it neatly on the rack. “It musta fallen off after I put it there.”

“That is what happens when you toss it instead of hanging it up properly.”

“I didn’t!”

Snape sighed. “Off with you to bed, and no more sweets after brushing your teeth! Don’t think I didn’t see you sneak those biscuits!”

Actually, his Slytherin side had applauded the boy’s stealth in slipping the sweets into his pocket, but as a – Merlin help him – parent, he couldn’t pretend not to have seen.

“What biscuits?” Harry grinned and escaped into his bedroom, flinging himself into bed as usual.

Why the infernal child had to make a racket wherever he went, Snape did not know. Sighing once more, he picked up Harry’s sweater and jeans and followed the boy into his room. Harry had already snuggled under his covers, Hecate lying curled up on his feet.

“Severus?”

Snape draped the boy’s clothes over the desk chair. “Yes?”

“I’m not tired at all.”

“No?”

“Nu-uh. I’ll probably be up for hours and hours.”

“That’s unfortunate, seeing as there is not much for you to do but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling,” Snape drawled.

“But, you said you’d tell me the story if I’m not too tired…”

“I did, didn’t I.” Snape sat down in the armchair next to the boy’s bed. “Well, I suppose a promise should be kept.”

“Yay, story, story!” Harry bounced excitedly, causing Hecate to raise her head and give him a stern look.

“Settle down now.” Just how much sugar had the boy consumed during his baking adventure? If it was as much as Snape suspected, Harry might indeed be up for ‘hours and hours’. Sighing at the thought, he leaned forward to pull the boy’s covers up to his chin. “And don’t wiggle around so much, or Hecate might decide to make a snack of your toes.”

Harry giggled. “Are you gonna tell me the story now?”

“Patience is a virtue, Harry.”

“That’s what Uncle Albus told you when you were waiting for those books.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Harry nodded vigorously, clamping his mouth shut to show that he was ready to listen without interrupting.

“Well then,” Snape said. “You know how it all began…”

###

December 24, 1981

The room smelled of alcohol. That was nothing new; the little kitchen had seen a lot of whisky bottles opened in its time. As a boy, Snape had been so used to the smell that he noticed its absence, the first time he was invited to tea at Lily’s and sat in their clean kitchen, feeling awkward in his shabby, ill-matched clothes. Their kitchen only smelled of home-cooked meals and freshly baked biscuits; any bottles of whisky that found their way into the Evans household were kept in the living room cabinet and only taken out on special occasions.

Well, every day had been a special occasion for Tobias Snape, to be celebrated by having a shot or four (and perhaps a shot at his wife, too, if he was in a particularly foul mood). No wonder the smell of it had lingered, but even then, it had never been as bad as it was now.

And that was not surprising, Snape thought, staring at the puddle in the corner. His father had been far too fond of his whisky to shatter an entire bottle of it against the wall.

Perhaps it was the memory of his father that had made him think whisky would help. Eileen and her son had always sighed in secret relief when Tobias passed out on the living room couch; in a way, the drink had been their friend and helper, too.

But it didn’t help him now; after emptying half a glass of the foul-tasting brew, Snape had surrendered to that truth. No matter how much he drank, the burrowing, poisoning pain that had been with him since the last day of October would not be driven out. It was far too strong, far too alive. And it seemed to have taken a liking to Snape, as it would not leave him for even a minute, even a single blasted second. It was so fond of him that it woke him up at night, whispering in the dark like a teasing lover: Remember her face? Pale, with just a bit of blood in the corner of her mouth, where she must have bitten herself when it happened. Remember? Remember walking up those stairs after stepping over Potter’s still body, knowing what you were going to find and yet in no way prepared for it? Remember how it felt, seeing her lying there on the floor? Remember?

He did; it seemed that he did nothing but remember these days. Remember her smile, her hair, her eyes. Oh yes, the old man was right; he would not forget the shape and color of Lily Evans’ eyes, not ever. But in his mind, they would be forever fixed in a lifeless stare, the green dull and unseeing. He had taken the life out of them. The voice whispering in the dark loved to mention this particular fact, caressing his ear as it repeated it again and again: Remember listening at that door in the pub? Remember how pleased He was with you, how proud you were? What a momentous occasion, your first successful mission for the Dark Circle. Remember? Remember?

It was laughable, that whisky should be able to take care of it, take it all away. And yet he had tried, like so many desperate men and women had before him. Dumbledore had warned him about taking comfort in such remedies: “Do not make that mistake, Severus. You’ll see that the greatest comfort lies in doing right; it is the only redeeming grace that is given to us in this life.”

How he had hated the old man for these words. Just as he hated himself for not doing as he had decided initially, telling ‘this life’ to go to hell once and for all. The old man had guilted and manipulated him out of this decision, until Snape himself believed that he owed it to her not to join her in oblivion… yet. “Your way forward is clear.”  Albus was a manipulative old bastard, but he was right about one thing: The boy had been the single most important thing in Lily’s life. She would want him protected by all means. So yes, he supposed his way forward was clear. For as long as he was needed.

One thing he had not agreed to, though, and that was coming back to Hogwarts as a teacher. The old man had tried, oh yes; had offered him his own private potions lab, a generous starter’s salary and the special protection of the school’s ancient wards. It was more than any broke and orphaned twenty-one-year-old could hope for, and Snape had almost – almost – accepted. But then, imagining how it would be, going back to the place that he’d been so glad to leave behind four years ago, whose corridors would always be echoing with laughter at his expense, he had balked at the idea. Snape had no illusions about himself; he was not the most likable person and would never be, no matter what he did. But returning to his old school might just turn him into a wizard version of his father, addicted to his bitter anger like Tobias had been addicted to whisky. He did not want that for himself; he could not live that life. And Dumbledore had, after some arguing, given in. “I suppose teaching may not be your true calling,” he had conceded in his understating way. “I do have some very good connections with potions’ sellers in London. Your talent would be well applied there.”

And so it was, Snape supposed; brewing paid the bills, if nothing else. And whenever he saw parents dragging their eleven-year-olds through Diagon Alley, he thanked Merlin that it was not his job to guide the brats through their first clumsy attempts at draughtsmaking. He would hate every second of it, and they, no doubt, would come to hate him in turn. Better to spare everyone the misery.

So, Spinner’s End and potion making. And misery, yes, but of a different brand, one that would become easier to bear as the years went by… at least according to Dumbledore. He had refused to join the old man at the school for Christmas. Loneliness may be poison to one in his situation, but perhaps a little poison was just what he needed.

Snape waved his wand and the whisky puddle in the corner disappeared. The smell remained; it would likely linger for a day or two.

He glanced out the window. It had snowed early this year, providing the neighborhood Muggles with the ‘white Christmas’ they had been hoping for; Snape had heard them talking about it in the corner shop. Why anyone would wish for the traffic snarls and slippery pavements that came with the snow was beyond him, but he did not care one way or another. The Floo network was not subject to weather conditions, and Diagon Alley was kept snow-free by a Perpetual Warming Charm. It was the same charm he had applied to the pavement in front of his door, and he did not care one Knut about the neighbors. Let them gossip why the Snape lad never had to shovel any snow.

Outside, two teenagers were running down the street, chasing each other. The boy grabbed up handfuls of snow and began to pelt the girl with them. She shrieked and laughed, trying to hide behind a parked car. His second volley hit its target, taking off her hat. Reddish-brown hair spilled out from under it, and the girl shouted something to her friend, who stopped his attack at once and stepped onto the street to retrieve the hat. His coat was shabby and overlarge, his shoes too worn to be much use in the cold weather.

Abruptly, Snape turned away from the window. Pendergraft had ordered a fresh batch of Strengthening Solution and a gallon of Murtlap Essence – both were in great demand after Christmas, it seemed. He’d better get to it.

He spent the morning and most of the afternoon brewing, methodically measuring, slicing and grinding ingredients on his huge wooden work table. The cellar had turned out to be a handy place for a potions lab; after he had thoroughly cleaned it out, that was. The cold kept his ingredients fresh, and the small crenel windows kept nosy neighbors away. He had cast a charm on the ceiling to absorb the fumes, and set up shelves around the room to store his bottles and jars. Granted, it was a bit small, but wizard space always allowed for another bushel or two of storage room. And as Pendergraft had given him a discount on equipment, he had been able to afford Shrinkable cauldrons, all of which fit into a single drawer when shrunk. It was a good starter’s lab, and of all the rooms in No. 37, Spinner’s End, Snape preferred the cellar by far. The only smells down here came from bubbling cauldrons or freshly opened jars.

He was decanting the finished Strengthening Solution into crystal vials when a shrill noise from upstairs broke the silence. It repeated itself after a moment, lasting longer than the first time, and this time he realized what it was: someone was ringing the doorbell. Quite insistently too. It almost sounded as if the person, whoever they were, was actually leaning against the button.

If those kids had decided to play a game of knock down ginger… or Merlin help him, maybe it was carolers again. The last bunch had toddled off after a well-placed Confundus, but he could not hex too many of them, or the blasted Ministry would come down on him for Muggle-baiting. Muggle-baiting, ha! And what about wizard-baiting, knocking on his door and expecting him to listen to their caterwauling? Trudging up the stairs, Snape felt for the wand hidden in his sleeve. If it was carolers, he might just send another Confundus through the keyhole and be done with it. After all, he had work to do.

He glanced through the peephole, expecting to see the cold-reddened faces and inane smiles of those singing neighborhood pests. But there was just one man standing in front of his door, clad in a red uniform jacket and clutching an enormous box. And he was definitely not smiling.

Snape opened the door. “Yes?”

The postman peered around the huge parcel in his arms. “Severin Snape?”

“Severus. I’m not expecting any deliveries.”

“S’pose it’s a Christmas surprise then, and a bloody heavy one, too. Could I-?” He indicated the open door, and Snape reluctantly stepped aside to let him pass. The man staggered into the small kitchen and dropped the parcel onto the table, shaking his arms after he did so.

“Just need a signature here, mate.”

Snape took the proffered clipboard. The space for “return address” was empty, which was odd. He knew Muggle postal services were sticklers about that kind of thing. Signing the designated space, he handed the clipboard back to the postman. “I didn’t know you did anonymous deliveries.”

The man shrugged. “Seems the bleedin’ thing was left outside a post office in Surrey. No return address. I’m just doing my job.”

“Yes, yes.” Snape saw the man outside, ignoring his perfunctory “happy Christmas”. Snowflakes were drifting through the cold air, settling on fences and parked cars.

“Bet the M60 will be chaos,” the man muttered with a morose glance at the sky. Snape ignored this as well, waiting until the man had climbed into his red van and begun to navigate his way down the darkening street. Then he cast a quick Homenum Revelio. Nothing. If the delivery had come from them, one of them would be sticking around… at least that was what he assumed. The Dark Circle preferred to leave nothing to chance.

So, not an unpleasant Christmas surprise for the newly discovered traitor. Dumbledore was ever so confident that none of the former Circle suspected a thing, but Snape knew better than to let down his guard.

He went back inside, closing the door and casting a Monitoring Charm for good measure. The parcel was sitting on the table where the postman had dropped it, looking for all in the world like a small coffin. It had the rough size of one anyway; as long as Snape’s arm, and about fifteen inches wide. Someone had secured it with a lot of Sellotape, as if to make perfectly sure it wouldn’t split open by accident. His address, written in neat, spiky letters, was printed on top. But it was something on the parcel’s side that caught Snape’s attention, and he took a closer look. A row of holes had been punched into the cardboard.

This was… not good. Snape could think of several reasons to punch holes into a parcel, and none of them were particularly reassuring. Perhaps the best idea would be to Vanish the damn thing on the spot.

Gripping his wand, he stepped closer to the table. “Viventem revelio!”

A red glow engulfed the parcel, proving that there was indeed a live being inside it. Or at least, a being that had been alive in the not-so-distant past.

He must be a fool to do this, but he could not help being curious. If this turned out to be Pendergraft’s brainwave and he found a supply of freshly killed toads in there, he would let the old fool know just what he thought of his delivery methods. A Howler or two should do.

Steeling himself, Snape cast a Slicing Charm, cutting neatly through the Sellotape on top of the parcel. Wand at the ready, he reached out to lift one cardboard lid.

And stared. And sat down on his kitchen chair. And stared some more.

Inside the parcel was a baby, a human baby, wrapped up in a blue fleece blanket. And it was quite obviously dead.

###

“That was me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

“And I wasn’t dead!”

“No, you weren’t.” Not quite, Snape amended silently. Parts of this story were not for Harry to hear… at least, not yet.