Snape was dead: to begin with. No, not that Snape, his father. Severus was indeed alive and well. Alive and spreading doom and gloom about Hogwarts as was his want around Christmas. For he had forgotten how to live a full life when the last person he loved had died. Lily had been his saving grace until that unfortunate incident that caused him to lose his temper and attack her with his vicious tongue, calling her that appalling name. She had forgiven him but the forgiveness had come too late and he had fallen into the dark one’s snare.

This Christmas was shaping up to be the worst since that horrible night when Lily had given her life for her son, the same son that was now ensconced within the castle walls and was currently serving detention. The same son that was every bit his father and nothing of his mother save his eyes, the deep emerald green that had held so much warmth on his mother’s face, now looked at him with scorn and loathing.

“Hurry up Potter I have better things to do that stay here all night while you take your time scrubbing cauldrons,” Snape snarled not even looking up from the parchment he was writing scathing comments on in red ink. 

Potter – Harry – was a small for his age, eleven year old boy, with messy black hair and green eyes that were hidden by black, circular frames. If Snape had looked into those eyes at an unguarded moment he would have seen that they were full of sadness, pain and despair. He hadn’t had and never would for he could not see the lost little boy that was Lily’s son, only the arrogant, spoilt brat that was Potter’s spawn.

The Potions Master knew that the boy was being raised by his Muggle relatives, and knowing that there was no way Lily would have allowed the harridan known as Petunia to raise her son, the boy must be living with his mother’s parents Henry and Rose Evans. They had adored their fiery, red haired daughter and no doubt would dote on her only child.

Harry had scrubbed the last cauldron ten minutes earlier and was waiting for his professor to look up so that he could tell him. The child feared the man as he feared all adults. Adults meant pain of some sort. Though most of them here were ‘kind’ if that was what he could call it. He wasn’t sure because he had never really known kindness.  Snape was not kind, he snarled, scowled and snapped. He treated him as his relatives did with scorn and ridicule but he didn’t raise his fists as they did.

“I’ve finished Sir,” Harry said respectfully as the last thing he wanted was a detention over the holidays. He already had Snape’s homework to do. The greasy git, as his friend Ron liked to call the Potions Master, had been the only professor to assign them any.

Harry stood back as his teacher approached. He watched silently as the man inspected his work looking for a fault. The boy knew that he wouldn’t find any gunk or marks on the cauldrons; he had even cleaned the sink. His aunt had taught him well even if it was at the business end of a wooden spoon.

Severus Snape frowned as he inspected the cauldrons, the benches where they had been stacked and the sink. Potter had indeed finished. Everything was spotless. He knew for a fact that the child had not used magic. The sheer volume was staggering. There had been enough botched potion encrusted cauldrons for three detentions. Even the seventh years didn’t wash anywhere near as much.

“Get out of here. Perhaps you will put the remainder of your time to good use and produce a readable, passable essay for me,” the older wizard snarled.

“Yes professor,” Harry said as he moved to the nearest table to retrieve his robes and put them on. He made his way to the door and as he opened it he turned to face Snape who was still standing near the sink, “Good night Professor Snape, sleep well.”

Snape never replied. Lost in his thoughts he returned to his desk and his marking quill.