His first thought was that it had come from the Dark Circle, after all. This was just their style, sending a murdered Muggle baby to the traitor. The message was clear: See, Severus, we have no compunctions about killing even a baby, and that Muggle brat passed away peacefully compared to what’s awaiting you.

But they wouldn’t use the Muggle postal service, would they? They could simply leave the baby on his doorstep, or send it as an owl package. Still… who on Earth, if not them, could be responsible for this?

Snape stood up, refusing to acknowledge the weakness in his knees. He was going to get to the bottom of this, and for that he’d have to remove the baby from the box. He couldn’t leave it in there anyway; if nothing else, he’d find a way of returning the little corpse to its parents. Maybe taking it to the Muggle police station might be a good idea; just leave it on the doorstep and disappear.

Some crumpled up newspapers had been stuffed around the baby – presumably to keep it from sliding around in the box, as if it were a damned Victorian vase. Snape removed them carefully, trying not to jostle the child. It was stupid; the baby no longer felt anything, of course. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to treat it like a thing; like the person who had sent it must have done. He strongly suspected that the baby had been alive by the time the parcel had been sealed, and he could only imagine the little being’s suffering and slow, torturous death. Why had the idiot Muggles not noticed something was wrong? Certainly the baby must have cried at some point. Did Muggle post officials routinely deliver packages that wailed?

One hand under the baby’s head and another under its back, Snape lifted the little bundle out of the box. It felt strange in his arms, fragile and at the same time quite solid; a real human being, made of flesh and blood. This whole situation was just so bloody absurd.

The baby was not an infant anymore; it had a shock of dark, messy hair and the round cheeks of a young toddler. Snape guessed that it was about one year old.

He laid it down gently on the table, and began to unwrap the fleece blanket. He wasn’t sure why he did it; surely nothing would come of examining the tiny body. The cause of its death was quite clear; it had either suffocated, frozen or simply died from the shock of being stuffed into a box. Snape grimaced at the thought. His initial impression of a small coffin had been more accurate than he liked to think.

Underneath the fleece blanket, the baby wore a shabby, overlarge t-shirt, a nappy and nothing else. Its arms and legs were not as plump as they might have been; Snape surmised that they were too thin for its age. A sour smell reached his nostrils, and he saw that the nappy’s leg holes had a brownish tint to them. Poor thing had died lying in its own feces. Whoever had done this deserved a round of the Cruciatus, and to hell with the comfort that came from doing right. Snape had a feeling that even the old man might agree.

He couldn’t leave it like this, he decided. He fancied himself a rational man, seldom given to flights of sentiment, but he could not leave a dead baby lying in its own shit. If nothing else, the parents would be spared that particular detail when they came to pick up the little body at the morgue. Always assuming it hadn’t been them who had sent the parcel.

Snape began to undo the nappy’s fastenings, steeling himself for the smell as he folded down the front part. It stank badly – Merlin, yes – but what he found underneath the nappy distracted him from the evil smell. The baby’s thighs, bottom and little penis were caked in a layer of yellowish brown, clearly the result of more than one bowel movement. Even a completely inexperienced man like Snape could see that this little boy hadn’t been changed in a long time. The skin under the filth was red and inflamed, sporting sores and open ulcers. The child must have been in terrible pain.

Cruciatus, Snape thought as he pulled the horrible nappy away from the boy, might actually be too quick, too clean. Perhaps a dose of Voldemort’s favorite Intestine Twisting Curse, instead…

He incinerated the nappy on the spot and cast a Cleaning Charm on the table and the boy’s t-shirt. It did not remove the stench completely, but made it bearable… to a Potions Master, at least. A person not used to horrid smells might still want to retch.

Snape went over to the sink and filled a bowl with warm water, which he carried back to the table. Dipping a soft rag into the water, he began to clean the boy, gently and thoroughly. The baby’s skin did not feel cold, so he could not have been dead for long. In fact…

“Achoo!”

His heart racing like mad, Snape dropped the rag and slipped a hand under the baby’s t-shirt. And there it was. The faint beating of a heart that had not quite given up.

The baby had not woken up from his sneeze; his eyes were still closed, his arms and legs lying limply at his sides. Was he unconscious, or… Snape noticed a faint blue tint to the boy’s lips, which he’d ascribed to the cold before. But maybe there was more to it.

“Accio test strip!”

Snape caught what looked like a small strip of parchment out of the air and carefully pushed it in between the boy’s slack lips. It turned green almost instantly. Someone, no doubt the person who had mailed the parcel, had given the child a strong sleeping drug.

Snape was no Healer, but he knew that such Muggle poisons could be fatal to a weakened immune system. The child’s breathing could stop, or his magic might reject the unknown substance and throw the boy’s nervous system into shock. For this was a magical child; Snape had known as soon as the test strip changed color. The spell did not work for Muggles.

He held a palm in front of the boy’s mouth. At least he seemed to be breathing normally, although his heartbeat was slightly erratic. There were a number of potions Snape could have spelled into an adult patient, none of which he dared give to a child this young. And the baby looked as if his life were hanging on a silken thread, ready to let go at any moment. What if he died right here, on Snape’s kitchen table?

“What am I going to do with you?” The question came out as a whisper. Unaware of what he was doing, Snape reached out and brushed the boy’s unruly dark hair aside. There was a plaster stuck to the baby’s forehead, looking as if it had been there for ages. No doubt the boy’s erstwhile ‘caretakers’ had simply forgotten about it.

Leaving the plaster for now, Snape resumed his task of cleaning the boy. The amount of dirt and grime on the baby’s body was unbelievable. By the time the little bottom was finally free of filth, Snape had gone through several rags and four bowls of water. Not that the result looked much better; with the layer of dirt gone, the weeping ulcers and sores could be seen in all their glory, infected as they were. It was probably a mercy that the boy was so deeply asleep; if he were awake, he would be screaming in pain.

“Accio Essence of Dittany, Murtlap and Wiggenweld Potion!”

The vials he had summoned were set out on the table, and Snape began the slow process of treating the boy’s injuries, using a cotton swab to apply small amounts of potion to each painful crack and sore. Wiggenweld Potion sterilized and numbed the infected wounds; Dittany closed the worst of the sores and Murtlap soothed the irritated skin. It was the best he could do for the boy; only a Healer could decide if more invasive measures were needed.

“This should feel better, little one,” Snape muttered. “You’re a fighter. It takes more than a ride in a cardboard box to finish you off, doesn’t it?”

The boy slept on, but Snape imagined that his breathing had evened slightly. Even in the depths of slumber, he may have felt that the constant, chafing pain on his bottom had finally eased a little.

Snape transfigured a paper towel into a nappy (which took several attempts, as he had no clear idea of what a nappy looked like exactly). The result did not look quite convincing, but he supposed it would do for the time being. The grubby t-shirt, however, had to go. After a moment’s deliberation, Snape transfigured it into a soft, loose-fitting overall, the kind he’d seen on young toddlers in Diagon Alley.

“Now you look like a proper wizard, child.”

###

“Were you scared?”

Snape did not hesitate. “Yes, I was. Very much so.”

“Because you thought I might die?”

“Yes. And because I didn’t know who had sent you, and why.”

“Tell me about the letter.”

The letter, yes. He had almost missed it, hidden as it had been under the crumpled newspapers…

###

The sleeping child nestled against his chest, Snape stared down at the envelope. He hadn’t noticed it before, lying at the very bottom of the cardboard box. So, not completely anonymous after all. They had enclosed a letter. If they were stark raving mad (as Snape was beginning to suspect they were), all he might find in there was a store-bought Christmas card. If not… well, if not, he might be about to learn why anyone on Merlin’s green Earth would mail a baby.

He took both letter and baby into his living room, settling on the couch so that the sleeping boy came to lie on his chest. The little body felt reassuringly warm. Magic had saved this child, kept him alive when a Muggle baby would surely have died.

“Well, let’s see what they have to say, shall we?” Snape ripped open the envelope. The handwriting was the same as on the parcel, stilted and somehow fussy. After reading the first few lines, though, Snape forgot about that; he even forgot about the baby on his chest for a moment. Whatever he had expected, this was not it.

Snape,

I don’t know if this address is still current, but you’re the only you-know-what I could think of. That man, Dumbledore, left no return address with his letter (on purpose, no doubt). There is no normal way of contacting any of you, so this is the best I could do. Hope this finds you reasonably well (and sober).

You may or may not know that Dumbledore left my sister’s boy with me and my family; dropped him off on our doorstep, in fact, a day after she died. He explained in a letter that there was some kind of freakish madman after him, and the only way of ‘keeping him safe’ was having him stay with us. We were not given a choice in the matter; he never asked us if we were willing to endanger our lives – and that of our son! – by taking in an orphan boy I’d never even seen before. I’m sure I know why; after all, we are just ‘Mugles’ (isn’t that what you used to call me, all those times you sat at our table, eating our food?).

Anyway, Snape, you can tell Dumbledore that it isn’t going to work. I won’t pretend to understand any of the ridiculousness about ‘blood wards’, but I know one thing – that boy will never have a home with us. My husband won’t stand for it, and frankly, neither will I. We never asked to be part of your world, and that boy is going to be just as unnatural as his parents. I wouldn’t know how to raise him, and I’m certainly not going to stand by and watch as my Dudley suffers from having a freak in the family. So tell Dumbledore thanks, but no thanks. You lot got them in trouble – you lot pick up the pieces. We, my husband and I, are certainly not going to do it.

As for sending any of those ridiculous yelling letters, he can save himself the trouble, as we’re not going to be in the country for much longer. My husband has accepted a job offer abroad, and we’ll be leaving soon. If you try to return the boy to us, we’ll abandon him – you’ve been warned. We’re not going to be blackmailed into this.

I’m enclosing a blanket and some clothing; it’s all that was left with us.

Petunia

PS: I put a few Temazepam in his bottle to keep him quiet. He should sleep it off in time.

Snape stared at the sheet until the letters began to blur before his eyes. Then he crumpled it up and hurled it across the room, bringing his fist down hard on the couch’s backrest.

“You miserable bitch!”

The baby didn’t even flinch, still deep in his drug-induced slumber. Snape stared at the dark head tucked under his chin. This… half-dead little thing was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Stuffed into a cardboard box and mailed off like a stale fruitcake. Petunia must have lost her mind… what little she possessed, anyway.

He sat up on couch, shifting the baby in his arms so that he could look at the tiny face. Yes, the messy dark hair was his father’s, but something about the curve of the boy’s lips reminded Snape of another face, a woman’s face he knew so very well. And that plaster… the scar must be hidden under it, the famous scar Voldemort’s curse had left on the boy’s forehead. The Prophet had speculated what it looked like, as they could not get their hands on a picture.

Snape began to ease up a corner of the plaster, only to find it stuck. If he ripped it off he might injure the boy; better to use warm water and coax it off gently. But that could wait. First, he had a call to make.

###

“You Flooed Uncle Albus.”

Snape nodded. “He needed to know that you were no longer at your aunt’s house.”

###

“This is… unfortunate, Severus.” Dumbledore’s image in the flames looked worried, more so than Snape had ever seen him. “May I step through?”

Snape nodded silently, moving away from the fireplace to make room for the Headmaster. The baby in his arms did not stir. Harry was still fast asleep; if not for the warmth of the small body, Snape could have been carrying a bundle of rags.

Dumbledore stepped out of the fireplace, vanishing the soot on his robes with a flick of his wand.

Snape cleared his throat. “The chimney sweep hasn’t been round in a while…”

Dumbledore waved his explanation away. “No matter, my boy. How is Harry?”

“Sleeping,” Snape said truthfully. “Petunia drugged him. Some kind of Muggle pills, it appears…”

“Dangerous?”

“I’m not sure.” Snape wished he could reassure the man, but Dumbledore would know if he wasn’t honest. “He seems stable, but I haven’t much experience with Muggle substances.”

“May I see the letter?”

Snape accio’d the crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to Dumbledore. The man scanned it quickly, his face giving nothing away. That, of course, meant little; Dumbledore could hide his anger behind a blank mask as well as any Slytherin.

Finally, he lowered the letter. “Poor Petunia.”

Snape blinked. “Pardon me?”

Dumbledore sighed. “She seems to have felt that I valued her family’s safety less because she is a Muggle. It was always a sore spot with her, of course…”

“A sore spot?” Snape had raised his voice, and made an effort to continue more calmly. “She could have killed the boy!”

“True.” Dumbledore seemed more sad than angry, which annoyed Snape. He had hoped for the old man to share his feelings for once, rather than do the forgiving-and-understanding routine. His next question came out more snappishly than intended.

“So, what now? We just forget about it?”

“Of course not.” Dumbledore looked at him in that way he had, as if he were gazing right into his soul. Snape forced himself not to avert his eyes. “It seems as if we have to come up with another plan where Harry is concerned.”

“No Muggles this time,” Snape said forcefully, wondering when he’d come to feel so strongly on the matter. Then again, he had promised to protect the boy.

“Not all Muggles are unfit guardians, my boy…”

“Perhaps it’s just the ones I know, then,” Snape snapped, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the disappointed look on the old face. “Anyway… why can’t a wizarding family take him? I’m sure many would be more than happy to adopt the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“But that’s it,” Dumbledore said. “They would adopt the Boy-Who-Lived, not a little boy who simply happens to need a family.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t need a family who stuffs him in a box and leaves him at the post office.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Again that look, the one that never failed to unsettle Snape. What did the old man see when looking in his eyes? “He needs someone who will protect him.”

“Well… do you have somebody in mind?”

Finally, Dumbledore looked away, a strange glint in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do. But in the meantime, I shall ask you to keep an eye on him. The drug may have possible side-effects, and I’d feel better knowing that he is in professional hands.”

“I… have never cared for a baby…”

“The lot of every new parent, or so I’ve been told.” Dumbledore must have noticed the expression on Snape’s face, for he added, “It’s only temporary, Severus. Just until I’ve made sure that the person I have in mind can take him.”

Snape glanced down at the sleeping boy. “What about the wards? Has Lily any other relatives?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Petunia is the only one still living. And she is right, of course, the blood protection will not work if it isn’t willingly given. As for Harry’s immediate safety, for the moment we shall have to do with the Fidelius Charm.”

“What do you mean, for the moment?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Blood protection works in all manners of ways, Severus. There may come a day when someone is willing to share their blood with the boy, take him as their own. Then we may set up new blood wards. For now, the Fidelius will do fine.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. “Blood adoption? Who do you have in mind, Dumbledore?”

Again that strange look, and a smile, though what the old man would find so amusing, Snape did not know. “Suffice it to say, Severus, that it is someone I’d trust with my own life.”

###

“Uncle Albus was your Secret Keeper, wasn’t he?”

Snape nodded. They’d performed the charm the very next day, with McGonagall as their witness. They had told no one else… at least, not in those early days.

“Who was Uncle Albus going to ask about the blood adoption?” Harry wanted to know. “I thought he wanted me to stay with you.”

Snape sighed. “Let me tell you something about your Uncle Albus, Harry. Never – never – assume that he does not have an agenda in the back of his mind, not even when he asks you to pass him the salt at the dinner table.”

“What’s an agenda?”

“A secret plan.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about this for a moment. “Did his secret plan work, then?”

Snape almost smiled at this. “Eventually, yes.”

###

Harry slept for eighteen hours straight, snug and safe in a blanket enhanced with a Perpetual Warming Charm. Snape had set up a transfigured crib in his bedroom, the better to keep an eye on the child; during the day, he carried the boy around in a sling, like Poppy Pomfrey had suggested. She had come over to have a look at Harry and proclaimed him ‘recovering, but far too thin’.

The constant presence of another human being was new to Snape, even if said human being did nothing but sleep. He found himself talking to the boy, reading him news from the Prophet and complaining about Pendergraft who had ordered Sunshine Elixir in late December. He applied healing potions to Harry’s sore bottom several times a day, and spelled Nutrient Draughts into his stomach, amazed by the change those few hours had wrought in the boy. Harry’s skin was no longer pale and clammy; there was a faint rosy tint in his cheeks and his long dark lashes made him look like an angel - according to Madam Pomfrey, anyway. Snape thought he looked like a particularly scraggy kitten someone had left out in the cold... with a lightning bolt on its forehead. The famous scar was indeed shaped like a runic “s”, which, no doubt, had prompted Petunia to cover it with a plaster. Anything so obviously magical had to be hidden away from the “normal” world.

On Christmas morning, Snape sat at the kitchen table nursing his usual cup of coffee. Spending this time of the year alone was supposed to be a melancholy occasion – St. Mungo’s reported twice as many suicide attempts during the Christmas season. But melancholy was not how he felt. There was a certain kind of peace to just sitting here, the sleeping child on his lap, knowing that later they’d go downstairs and brew up a batch of Stomach Soothing Draught (always a moneymaker after Christmas).

“At least you don’t prattle on and on like your blessed father,” he remarked to the boy, his hand on the baby’s back as he scanned the latest Practical Potioneer. “Study hours in the Great Hall used to be hell with him and that yapping mongrel chattering away like magpies.”

“Da.”

Snape almost knocked over his cup. He looked down, and found his gaze met by a pair of bright-green eyes.

“Da ba,” the boy said quietly. “Widelibubwablahbla.”

“Yes, indeed...”

“Hawwy.”

Snape blinked. “Yes, that’s you. I’m glad you know your name.”

“Hawwy go leep.”

“You were asleep,” Snape said, wondering if the child understood any of this… how did you talk to an eighteen-months-old? Did you talk to them? “But you’re awake now.”

And you sound like an idiot, Snape, stating the obvious to a baby.

“Hawwy sit?”

Snape thought about this for a while, then hazarded a guess: “You want to stay on my lap?”

“Awabwada.”

“Okay.”

The boy looked around the kitchen, his face scrunching up as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings, and for a moment Snape thought he might start crying. But the baby just looked up at him again, one small hand closing on his black robes.

“Bublublu.”

“No,” Snape shook his head. “Severus. I’m Severus.”

“Hawwy.”

“Severus.”

“Evvu.”

Snape nodded. “Close enough. Well, Harry… shall we go downstairs and brew some Stomach Soothing Draught for all those insufferable dunderheads out there?”

“Evvu.”

He glanced down at the child, and found that it didn’t hurt as much as it might have, looking into those catlike eyes. Unlike those he remembered, Harry’s eyes were very much alive, and they seemed to see him in a way few people had before.

Listen to you, growing maudlin like the old man.

Snape shook off the thought and stood, the child on his arm. But he didn’t go to the cellar stairs right away. He went over to the window and pulled the curtain aside, revealing a bright blue sky and a street covered in sparkling snow. Blanketed in white, Spinner’s End didn’t look as rundown as usual; in fact, it looked almost nice.

“See?” Snape said, hoisting the baby up for a better view. “It’s Christmas today.”

###

“And then I stayed with you.”

Snape reached out to brush an errant lock from Harry’s forehead. “You did.”

“And then you blood-adopted me.”

“I did.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “What if you hadn’t been at home when the postman came?”

“I suppose they would have left the parcel on my front step,” Snape said. In the freezing cold, he didn’t add. Bloody Petunia. That score wasn’t settled yet, and true to his nature, Snape had held on to the grudge; if anything, his anger had grown as the years passed. If they ever happened to meet again… well, Albus had better look the other way.

“What if you hadn’t liked me?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You mean, what if you had turned out to be a little monster who dripped chocolate all over my kitchen and stole biscuits?”

Harry giggled. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sure the biscuits didn’t climb into your pocket by themselves.”

“No, the chocolate. I meant to nick those biscuits. But the chocolate was an ac- accident.”

“Like the accident you and Mr. Weasley had in the bathroom last week?”

Harry nodded, the sarcasm going straight over his six-year-old head. “Yeah.”

“Well,” said Snape, “I can’t very well send you back now, can I?”

No doubt Poppy Pomfrey and Molly Weasley would have frowned at this little comment, but Harry just grinned. “I wouldn’t fit into the box, anyway.”

“More’s the pity.” Snape tucked the sheets around the boy, making sure his feet were well covered. “Time to sleep now, Harry. Lupin is coming over tomorrow, and I’m sure you want to be well rested for all those games of Exploding Snap you’ll pester him into playing.”

“Uncle Moony?” Harry cried, and Snape could have kicked himself for relaying the exciting news just as the boy was settling down to sleep.

“Only if you go to sleep now,” he added hastily and untruthfully (if only the wolf could be kept away by something as simple as Harry not sleeping).

“Okay.” Harry smiled. “Night, Severus. See you on Christmas!”

Snape stood, looking down at the boy all wrapped up in his covers. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He quietly left the room, picking up some stray socks on the way. Lupin had insisted on coming over, as he did every Christmas, Easter, Harry’s birthday and whenever he could manage in between. Well, Snape mused as he dropped the socks into the laundry basket, it could be worse. When he wasn’t transforming into a bloodthirsty beast, Lupin could be tolerable company… not that Snape would ever tell him so.

He looked out the window to the back garden, just in time to see a single snowflake drifting down and settling on the frozen lawn. Another soon followed, and another, dancing here and there in the night wind. Harry would be delighted; he loved to play in the snow. And if it’s Lupin who has to pull him around on that sledge and not me, even better. Then again, Harry would probably insist that they both join him… and Merlin forbid, build a snowman. Snape sighed at the thought. In his opinion, snow was best admired through a window.

As were children, of course, and still he had one living in his house, baking chocolate biscuits, flooding his bathroom and asking for bedtime stories. Albus had fooled him well and good, those five years ago, and he had fallen for it like the greenest Hufflepuff first-year.

“Well, it wouldn’t be good manners to return Christmas presents, I suppose,” the old man had said when Snape had curtly informed him that Harry would be staying at Spinner’s End, and even Snape’s fiercest scowl hadn’t wiped the smile off that wrinkled face. Sentimental old fool.

He’d be insufferable, should he ever find out about the box stowed away in Snape’s office, the box that contained an old blue fleece blanket. The box that Snape took out every Christmas Eve… just because. Not that he cried over the battered old thing, or any such sentimental rubbish. He just wanted to have a look at it. And remember how a baby had arrived in it, a baby that had filled an empty house and an empty soul with new life.

Just once a year. Because it was Christmas.