The day dawned frosty and cold as the bitter chill of a December snow settled over Hogwarts like a shroud.  A storm had passed through the previous evening, blanketing the grounds and covering the trees in a spectacular display of ice and snow.  The lightest of powdery snow could be seen glistening like a shower of jewels, blown gently by the wind and visible only against the background of the towering walls of the castle.  On any other day, the freshly fallen snow would have brought students out in droves, like moths attracted to a flame.  But today, the grounds stayed silent and no feet disturbed the desolate beauty of the landscape. The only soul about was a disheveled looking young man who was sitting in the Quidditch stands, plucking dispiritedly at the tail twigs on his broom stick.

Looking out over the empty grounds, Harry felt a wave of loneliness wash over him. Most of the students, Ron and Hermione included, had gone home for Christmas break, leaving a thick, oppressive silence in their wake. Even Hedwig was gone - Harry had sent her off this morning loaded with Christmas packages for his friends. She would travel to Hermione first, and then to the Weasleys, where she would stay for the remainder of the Christmas holidays.

"She’s only going to the Burrow," Harry told himself bracingly.  "Ron will bring her back at the start of next term."

The long flight would be good for Hedwig, but he still missed his owl and couldn’t help but feel slightly diminished by her absence.  With the exception of Dobby, who had unceremoniously kicked him off the Quidditch pitch, the only other living thing he had seen today was a small group of martlets that were nervously fluttering about the owlery rooftop, perpetually searching for a place to land.  They soared in and out of the windows, dipping and diving in unison until they rounded the far side of the school wall and were gone from view.

Harry snorted.  He knew how they felt - what it was like to want a home of your own. He couldn’t even go to the Dursley’s, since they had made clear he was no longer welcome at their house in the summers, let alone Christmas.  All in all, though, Harry didn’t feel that badly about it.  The Dursleys weren’t much of a family, anyway.  The Weasleys were more family to him than his Aunt and Uncle had ever been.  Harry supposed he could always go their house, if Dumbledore let him and it wasn’t too dangerous for anyone.  The Weasleys would let him, of course.  They had even invited him to the Burrow for Christmas despite what happened at the ministry...

Harry smiled when he thought of the Burrow.  The ramshackle building, complete with chickens and gnomes, was, next to Hogwarts, the place he loved most in the world.  Warm and welcoming, it was filled with friends, heavenly smells, and more than a little laughter and yelling.  It was invariably what he pictured in his mind when he thought of what a home should be like. Still, Harry had elected to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays.  Mrs. Weasley seemed genuinely disappointed, and she had heartily insisted that Christmas wouldn’t be the same without him. But in the end, Harry had turned down the offer.  Ron was still recovering from his encounter with the brains, and Harry thought the family might be in need of a some private time, notwithstanding Mrs. Weasley’s assertions to the contrary.

Sighing heavily, Harry shook his head in a useless attempt to dispel the gloomy mood that had settled around him.  Bending over his broomstick, he began his post flight maintenance procedures.  The free-fall tricks he had been doing were fun, but they did have a tendency to split the tail twigs.... Moving methodically from tip to end, Harry worked in a concise, practiced manner.  He found that if he kept himself moving, there was less time think.  The only problem was the nightmares, which had been haunting his dreams ever since the fiasco at the Ministry.

At first, the dreams were a replay of those horrible events.  In the past few days, though, they had become darker... colder... and they pulsed with a horrible sense of urgency and fear.  Sometimes Harry would find himself in the Hall of Prophesies, running down endless rows of shelves lined with glass orbs gruesomely illuminated from within by throbbing, blood-red flashes of light.  Other times, though, he found himself fleeing through unnamed hallways that invariably led to the same place.  An unearthly arch atop a huge stone dias.  And always, Sirius was there.  He never said anything, but the cold, accusing stare on his Godfather’s face told Harry everything he needed to know.  There was no love there, no kindness.  Just anger and bitterness.  And then Sirius’ face would morph into Voldemort’s ugly countenance, leaving Harry unable speak or even breath.

"Thank you, Harry," the high, cold voice would laugh.  "You’ve done a wonderful job of killing people lately.  Indeed, two in the last six months!  I daresay you’ve been almost as productive as I have...."

And then the dream would fade, leaving Harry cold and sweating, with a strange ache in pit of his stomach.  It was as if he swallowed a large, cold stone.  One that now sat, fixed and immovable, at the center of his being.  The feeling was similar to the feeling he had when visiting Ron and Hermione in the infirmary.

"Where you put them..." his mind whispered.

Hissing softly, Harry rubbed his eyes.  He briefly considered going back to Gryffindor tower and taking a nap, but the prospect of another dream kept him from the warmth of his bed.  What he really needed was some Dreamless Sleep to get him through, but even that wasn’t an option anymore, since Madame Pomfrey flatly refused to give him any more.  She didn’t like that he had managed to use the entire supply she had given him shortly after the Ministry.

"Professor Snape is working on a concentrated Dreamless Sleep Potion that has less possibility for dependence.  You may ask him for some once the formula has been perfected," the nurse-witch had told him, not unkindly.  "For now, though, I must insist that you refrain from using any more than you’ve already had.  It is an aid only, and it is not meant to provide you with a means to avoid your problems. Have you talked to anyone about your loss?"

Harry just shrugged.  "Erm, yes... well... I was thinking of talking to Mr. Weasley...." And in truth, he had considered it.  He just hadn’t acted on it.  Pomfrey, however, was already nodding in a business-like fashion.

"Excellent.  Arthur is a very understanding man," she had said.  But that was two days ago, and Harry still hadn’t bothered to fire-call Mr. Weasley.  He really didn’t know how to begin the conversation.  At the Dursley’s, no one ever asked him how he felt or tended him when he was hurt.  He had learned to handle things on his own, and the idea of asking for help with such a personal loss seemed somehow wrong.  He was fine.  He would be fine.  And for now, he was content with the idea of being alone.  Having so decided, Harry once again turned his attention to his Firebolt.  His solitude, however, was short lived....

After leaving the Headmaster’s office, Severus stopped briefly at his quarters to contact his house-elf, Biddy, and have her alert the household of the impending change.  Having set the wheels in motion, Severus then worked his way silently out to the Quidditch pitch, going over in his mind exactly what he was going to say to Potter.  He had given the matter some thought previously, when it became clear that someone was going to have to step in and take the boy.  But now that the moment was upon him, he was at a loss for words.

"Well," Severus thought, "first thing’s first...where is that bloody urchin?"

Severus pulled his cloak tighter around him and headed towards the pitch.  He wouldn’t be surprised if Potter was still flying, notwithstanding the Headmaster’s order.  As he approached the field, Severus caught sight of Potter bent over his broomstick.  Moving quietly, Severus approached the child from behind, taking the opportunity to covertly study the younger wizard.  Perpetually mussed hair and face flushed red from the wind, Potter lay disheveled and sprawled out on the bleachers. Clearly, the child had no idea he was being watched.  He was too busy playing with his precious broomstick to concern himself with inconsequential things like paying attention to his surroundings, worrying about his own security, or even listening when the Headmaster said to vacate the pitch.

Severus snorted.  The illusion must have been more complete than anyone could have predicted, because - biology be damned - the child was a Potter inside and out.  It was evidenced by the attitude of superiority he had worn since he walked into Hogwarts. Severus wasn’t surprised, though. He had been expecting it after that long ago conversation with James.... Indeed, remembering the child’s arrogance during his first potions class made Severus angry just thinking about it.

"POTTER!" Severus bellowed.  He watched Potter start violently, and then had to stifle a laugh as the boy tumbled backwards off of the bleachers.  It took a few moments, but Potter managed to right himself enough to look around for the source of the confusion.  Severus saw the look child’s look of bewilderment change to anger once he figured out exactly who was yelling at him.

"I wasn’t doing anything wrong," Harry grumbled, managing finally to straighten his glasses and push them back onto his nose.  "Dobby told me that Hargrid needs the pitch, and I’m just finishing up with my broom."  Harry stared back at the Potion’s Master defiantly, clearly expecting to be scolded by his professor.

"Is that so," Severus responded quietly.  "It heartens me to know that you are such a good listener, because I have something to tell you.  Follow me."

And with that, Severus turned and marched back towards the castle.  He had considered telling Harry on the Quidditch pitch, but decided against it at the last moment.  Instead, he led the boy back to the silence of the dungeon.  It was, after all, his "home field."  The place at Hogwarts where he was most comfortable, and where Potter was least comfortable.

"Where are we going? What do you need to tell me..." Severus could hear Potter stumbling along behind him, but he continued on without acknowledging the questions.  As they entered the labyrinth that was the dungeon complex, Severus could feel the boy’s mounting apprehension.  He debated leading Potter down a few more hallways just for fun, but ultimately he decided that getting to business was more important that terrorizing the brat.  Having so decided, the Potions Master rounded one last bend and stopped abruptly at an ornately carved mahogany door set deep in one of the damp dungeon walls.

"Nervous, Potter?" he sneered, opening the door and motioning the younger wizard inside.  The door led to the antechamber of Severus’ private residence, which aside from Draco, no student had ever set foot in.  Severus smirked as Harry walked past him, and he found himself actually looking forward to the conversation.  It was sure to wipe that arrogant look off of the boy’s face....

"What is this place?" Harry asked, feigning indifference.

The small room was chilly and dark, but not morbidly so.  Looking around, Harry could see a bookshelf and two lush chairs and a settee in rich chocolate brown, along with a towering grandfather clock in the far corner of the room.  There was no fireplace, but there was enough heat circulating from the lanterns on the walls that the temperature was tolerable, if not comfortable.  The walls were adorned with various pieces of artwork, primarily paintings, but also a few pieces of aboriginal art that Harry found vaguely disturbing.

"This is a sitting room that leads to my private area here at Hogwarts," Severus finally answered.  Closing the exterior door, he strode past Harry to make his way to a smaller, interior door set next to the bookshelf on the far wall.

"Through that door," Severus motioned towards another door nearest to the fireplace, "is my personal residence here at Hogwarts.  Through this door," Severus directed Harry’s attention to the door near the bookshelf, "is my office.  Come." And, as directed, Harry followed Severus through the door.

Harry had no idea what to expect as he followed the Potion’s Master through the door into the man’s private office.  In fact, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he was even in this place.  Looking around, Harry was surprised by the office.  It wasn’t bad.  Actually, it was rather nice.  A large mahogany desk with a high-backed leather chair sat in one corner, piled high with neat stacks of parchment, ink wells, and much used quills.   In another corner, a small fired burned warmly in the grate of the fireplace.  A large mantle set over the grate served as a home to numerous pictures of smiling, happy people.   And all around, the walls were lined with what could easily have been a centuries worth of dray and dusty books.  All in all, it was neat and orderly, as expected.  But there was something vaguely cozy, and distinctly un-Snapeish, about the room.  Harry continued to look around in fascination, oblivious to his professor’s malevolent stare.

"Best not to let your mind wander, Potter," he sneered.  "It’s too little to be out on it’s own. Now sit."

Harry shot Severus a withering look, but did as he was told and took a seat opposite the Potion’s Master.  As he watched, the elder man rummaged around in his desk, finally pulling out four small, clear glass bottles, each filled with a silvery looking liquid.

"I’ll be damned if I’m going to drink anything he gives me...sadistic bat," Harry thought, eyeing the vials with unease. There was something familiar about that swirling liquid, though...

"Potter," Snape hissed.  "I don’t like what I have to say.  Accordingly, I will only say it once, and you had best pay attention."  Harry turned his attention away from the bottles in time to see his professor run a hand through his lanky hair.  It was an oddly human gesture.  One that Harry could not, in all of his years at Hogwarts, ever remember seeing from Snape.

"Frankly," the elder man continued, "were it up to me, I would gladly pay good money - a lot of it - to have someone obliviate this information from my mind. Believe me, I have tried.  But thanks to your beloved Headmaster, I cannot." Severus sighed.  "And now, I have to tell you."

It was clear to Harry that, whatever the professor had to say, it was something he found highly unpleasant.  Naturally, this piqued Harry’s curiosity beyond measure. As far as he was concerned, irritating news for the professor was probably good news for him.

"Potter," Severus stated, drawing the name out.  "Such a vile sounding name, don’t you think?"

"It could be a hell of a lot worse," Harry shot back.  "It could be Snape." Much to his astonishment; however, the Potions Master just laughed quietly before responding.

"It just got worse."

Harry blinked, unsure of what to make of the statement.  And he didn’t like the way that his professor was staring at him - there was something vaguely predatory about it... Slightly unnerved, Harry decided the best course of action was to sit quietly and wait for his tormentor to spit out whatever was to be said.  After a minute, Severus snorted and shook his head disdainfully.

"Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it, Potter," he taunted.  "Well then, allow me to be direct.  James Potter was not your father.  I am.  Hence, you are not a Potter.  You are a Snape.  Which, according to your most recent comment, makes your life - and here I quote - ‘...a hell of a lot worse.’"  Severus finished his brief rant and sat back in his chair, carefully watching Harry as if he were a cauldron about to explode.

Harry, however, didn’t explode. At least not as expected. Instead, he did the only thing possible.  He laughed - hard.  For the first time since the fiasco at the Ministry, Harry found himself actually laughing.  He tried not to, but he just couldn’t help himself.  Harry couldn’t help but think that Snape was a bigger toerag than he originally figured, if the git thought he could get to him with such a stupid story...

"What fumes have you been sniffing?" Harry managed to ask while trying, and failing, to regain some composure.  "I mean, couldn’t you come up with something better than that?  Have you been watching old muggle movies... ‘No, Luke...I am your father...’"

As he said it, the absurdity of the statement hit him again.  He leaned his chair backwards on two legs and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of laughter in spite of the subject matter.

"Who is Luke?"

Harry threw his head back and howled.  He didn’t even care when his precarious position on the chair gave way, tipping him backwards onto the floor.  Instead, he sat there, tears streaming down his face and laughing harder than he could remember in recent days.

"I can’t wait to tell Ron," he thought, swiping his eyes.

Through the tears, Harry saw Snape walk to a cabinet and retrieve something, but it wasn’t until the professor set the object on the desk that Harry realized it was a pensieve.  Quickly, the professor unstoppered three of the four glass vials and poured the silvery contents into the bowl.  At that moment, Harry suddenly realized what was happening.

"They’re memories," he told himself.  But before he could follow the thought further, he felt a hand grasp him harshly by the arm, pull him off the floor, and plunge him violently into the swirling depths of the past.