DISCLAIMER: The Potterverse is not mine. The Skittlesverse is mine. I recommend reading at least the first sixteen chapters of my novel length fic It Falls to the Young before reading this, but it's not really necessary. It'll give the subtleties a bit more meaning, though.

DEDICATION: To everyone who has ever loved a child.

An Unprecedented Shift of Perspective

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"He came to me asking help and advice and from here no one knows where he goes."

–from the song House on Pooh Corner

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My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It is not a job I take lightly.

For you see, every child—every single young witch and wizard—who passes through these doors is mine. My responsibility, my pride and my joy, sometimes my sorrow. But still mine, even if they are only on loan, even if I greet them knowing they will leave me in seven years' time.

I know their names even before they are sorted. I knew Severus' name. I knew he was a Slytherin, just beginning his second year; I knew he was small for his age, quiet, intelligent, unattractive, sarcastic and friendless. I knew he had received nearly a month's detention for cursing James Potter unconscious. I knew his head of house, Professor Slughorn, disliked him, although he was easily the best potions student in his year. Perhaps that was because we also knew his father was a Death Eater.

I knew who Severus was. He was one of mine. But I had never met him.

I met him on the first day of fall term. I remember the day was unusually cold; I wore my fluffiest earmuffs to Hogsmeade that morning. Late in the evening Minerva came to me, furious with her house, and with James and Sirius in particular... James and Sirius were—are—two of my favorite students.

Any teacher who has favorites will tell you teachers shouldn't have favorites. I am no exception. But those who are mine, my extended family—they number so many it is inevitable that among them be a few who shine brighter, or a different color, or twinkle to a slightly different rhythm...

I leave these meetings to chance, but when they do occur—when I meet a pair of boys, fresh out of their first Transfiguration class, trying to turn a suit of armor into a giant amoeba—or when I meet a girl crying in the bathroom, homesick and scared—or when I meet another girl trying to break into my office on a dare—or when I meet a boy in my office, and the first words I must tell him deliver the news that his father has died...

Then I smile a little brighter at their successes, shed a few more tears over their failures and clap a little harder at their leaving ceremonies. They know I am there for them, their Headmaster; and when their problems—which are sometimes greater than those faced by their peers—overwhelm them, they turn to me. I talk to them, their parents, their friends; I help them through adolescence, help them find their own two feet so they won't need Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore anymore.

Those few are mine, and they are particularly mine as well.

After Minerva left I could finally laugh at the tale she had told me. A food fight in the Gryffindor common room: food hand-delivered by James and Sirius, fight hand-delivered by Peeves...

Another visitor was on the stairs, spiraling upwards towards my office. Severus. I invited him in, bade him sit down, and gave him tea. He was shivering, but it was the hopeless look in his eyes that told me Severus' problem was not that of a typical second year.

I was correct. He began to sob, desperately, crying like a broken man—for when his eyes were so old I could not call him a child—and he told me his story. Severus told me things he had never told another living soul—told me of his father, told me of his mother, told me of Voldemort's interest in him, told me of midsummer. Afterwards he looked up at me, and his eyes were young once more; he was pleading with me as so many students had before, begging me to end his nightmare, banish his troubles and bandage his wounds...

And, were I just Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it would have ended there. The Aurors would have thrown Garridan Snape into Azkaban that very night.

But fate had decreed that I was also to be the Albus Dumbledore, founder of the Order of the Phoenix, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, defeater of Grindelwald and, according to popular opinion, the world's best chance against Lord Voldemort. I do not mean to boast, nor to complain; but for Severus Snape, life would have been better had I not been the Albus Dumbledore. Because the Albus Dumbledore desperately needed a spy.

Headmaster Dumbledore could hardly imagine such a thing. Sending one of mine—if not one of particularly mine—back into the hellish domain of Lord Voldemort? Who could ask such a thing of a Slytherin who was just beginning his second year, a boy who was small for his age, quiet, intelligent, unattractive, sarcastic and friendless?

The Albus Dumbledore could. And did.

I explained the situation to him. Severus stared at me silently for half a minute, then agreed. That half minute was an unprecedented shift of perspective; Severus was still one of mine, but to him I was no longer cheerful, eccentric Headmaster Dumbledore. I was the Albus Dumbledore, leader in the war against all that is evil.

Later I would mourn those thirty seconds.

At the moment, however, I decided to introduce the subject of Occlumency, a skill Severus had to master if he was to survive. The next hour of experimentation was interesting, to say the least, as it became apparent that Severus had inherited from his mother an intuitive grasp of mental magic that was far beyond anything I could teach him.

This was extraordinarily lucky. It was as if fate had decreed Severus Snape should spy for Albus Dumbledore. I took comfort in the idea that it was perhaps not entirely my fault.

But when Severus left my office that night, his eyes were old once more, for he had no illusions regarding pretty phrases such as "the cause" and "for the greater good. " He knew even then that I was asking him to walk barefoot through the fire. He would do it—for me, for the side of light, for the "greater good"—but that knowledge wouldn't cool the flames.

Severus left my office and presumably went to bed. Or perhaps he stayed up all night thinking, as I did. I was already proud of this child of mine, proud of his courage—and I was certain that Severus would turn out to be particularly mine, as well.

I was correct. I grew very fond of Severus Snape as his second year progressed. We met every other week, exploring his abilities with Occlumency and Legilimency. I learned of his faults—his temper, his bitterness, his foul mouth—and I forgave them. I learned also that he was, perhaps instinctively, an excellent spy. He came to me with information five times that first year: after the Christmas and Easter holidays, and when the talk in the Slytherin common room turned suspiciously nasty. His reports were better every time, clear and concise; when the occasion called for it he would let me view his memories directly. Afterwards I would offer him tea and we would discuss topics either school or war-related; I was still his Headmaster, after all, and it would hardly be appropriate for us to spend an evening playing wizard's chess.

Then summer reappeared. Soon afterwards, on the first of September, Severus was not at the Welcoming Feast.

I was afraid.

I remained in my office that evening, pacing the length of the carpet and hoping Severus would make his usual appearance. He had, after all, promptly reported to me after returning from the Christmas and Easter holidays; I had to trust he would reappear after the summer as well. And there was nothing I could do if he was already dead.

Severus entered my office at nine twenty-two. I could see exactly why he hadn't attended the feast; the bruises on his face would have raised awkward questions among the faculty. I healed them, and those on his arms, legs, back, front and neck; I gave him a much needed dose of Anti-Cruciatus potion and mended his two broken ribs and fractured wrist; and while I worked, Severus talked.

He had information. He had information beyond my wildest dreams.

He also had a brand on his forearm.

Once more, this was good news for the Albus Dumbledore and bad news for Severus. Voldemort could—and would—now call on Severus during the school year. He had been taught to Apparate over the summer, regardless of the danger such magic poses to underage wizards, and was expected to attend Death Eater meetings regularly. More chances for espionage. More chances for Severus to be discovered.

He was only thirteen. By far the youngest Death Eater ever. A clear attempt to keep Severus under Voldemort's control...

"Will that be all, Headmaster?" he asked shakily.

I opened my mouth to say yes, but in the fraction of a second before speaking I noticed Severus' eyes. I noticed that Severus' eyes were red and rimmed with shadow, as though he spent his nights crying instead of sleeping.

And then I realized something that changed my life forever:

No one cared.

No one cared. No one gave a damn. No one even knew that Severus Snape cried himself to sleep every night. No one knew he had nightmares. No one knew he was risking his life for them every day.

And even if they knew, who would care? His father was a monster. His mother was even worse. He had no siblings or other relations. He had no friends; even his dorm mates belittled and bullied him. His head of house thought he was a Death Eater in training and the other teachers had similar opinions. He didn't even have a pet.

He had no family. He had no confidant. He had no companion. He had no friend. He had no one.

Except me.

So instead of dismissing Severus, I stood up, walked across the room and hugged him.

It was immensely, tremendously awkward at first. Severus was rigid with shock—both because he'd never received a hug before, and because it was I who introduced him to the concept—and I wasn't feeling quite certain of myself either.

I have never married. I have no biological children, nor nieces, nor nephews; in fact, my only living relative is my brother Aberforth, and he is not, shall we say, a "hug-me" sort of person. Headmaster Dumbledore shakes his pupils' hands occasionally, pats their backs to congratulate them—but this was completely different. This was more personal—the way a parent would comfort a child scared by the thunder outside.

We stood there in mutual uncertainty for well over a minute, neither of us quite sure what we were doing or even if we wanted to be doing it. Then, slowly, gradually, Severus relaxed. And I relaxed. And then it was wonderful. A comfort I had not felt in half a century.

It was another unprecedented shift of perspective. Severus was no longer just mine, or even just particularly mine—now he was MINE with a capital "m", MINE in flaming, mile-high letters that threatened death and dismemberment to anyone who dared try to take him from me.

I was no longer Headmaster Dumbledore, no longer the Albus Dumbledore—I was simply Albus.

And he was simply Severus.

Keeping my left arm around Severus, I drew my wand and flicked it towards the door. It bolted shut, and I vowed to myself that nothing less urgent than Voldemort's appearance in the Great Hall would make me open it for anyone else that night. Feeling suddenly young and strong, I scooped Severus up in my arms—he was quite small for a third-year, after all—walked across the room to my favorite armchair and sat down. One conjured quilt later we were both very comfortable; Severus curled up on my lap, one cheek tilted to rest against my beard, and we watched the fire crackle beneath the mantel.

The contented silence stretched on. At one point I ran my fingers through Severus' hair, imitating the mothers I had seen comforting their children. Severus sighed softly, contently, like a cat being petted—then started butting my hand with his head, demanding I continue.

I chuckled, and that was when our discussion began.

We talked. We talked for hours, and we talked about everything. I told him the best Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean flavor was lemon and the worst was vomit; Severus said the best was strawberry and the worst was sawdust. He said his favorite book was Hogwarts, A History; I said mine was Winnie-the-Pooh by A. A. Milne. We learned that, when pressed to choose, we both supported the Appleby Arrows, and we both agreed that Ravenclaw was most likely to win the Quidditch Cup that year. I told him that I loved a nice pair of woolen socks and he told me that he loved the smell of chocolate. I explained to him the reasons I so enjoy ten-pin bowling, and said that—though I consider being on a Chocolate Frog card my greatest achievement—I do wish they would have included on it that one of my finest triumphs was learning to play the nose flute, a task which I had to spend four weeks in Tahiti to accomplish. Severus asked where Tahiti was, and I told him it was an all-muggle island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He told me more about his home life, told me how his father supplied a half-dozen apothecaries with special orders—sometimes legal, sometimes not—and how, at the tender age of five, he'd been forced to learn to brew so Garridan could spend the day sleeping or drinking. Severus said he enjoyed potions despite this inauspicious start, and mentioned with a hint of pride that he'd been able to brew every potion his father could by the time he started at Hogwarts. He said he was thinking of running an apothecary after the war, and I told him after the war I was thinking of retiring and joining the Muggle circus. Severus told me not to.

By that time it was two o'clock in the morning, and I decided to send for a house-elf who was delighted to bring us hot chocolate, an assortment of warm, delicious, fattening pastries, and for some reason the evening Prophet. We threw most of the newspaper away but I summoned a quill and together we managed to finish all but three clues on the crossword.

We talked some more. We talked about life, and death, and faith and hope and love. I learned that Severus' favorite color is blue and that he is fluent in Latin; he learned that my favorite color is lilac and that scented candles make me sneeze. We compared the relative merits of kneazles and owls; I ranted briefly about the foolish, petty disagreements that kept popping up in the Ministry and among the Order; Severus ranted briefly about the way his Transfiguration homework kept disappearing. I promised to look into that, and told him that he shouldn't worry about his unsigned Hogsmeade permission slip because I had over a century's practice forging signatures.

Then we sat in contented silence once more, as the first rays of dawn inched across the carpet. Fawkes yawned. Severus and I yawned as well, an echo; Fawkes twittered on his perch and we laughed the laugh of those who have stayed up far too late but don't regret it.

Not a word needed to be said. We both knew Severus had to leave immediately, lest he be caught out of bed; we stood up and stretched, I gave him a vial of Exhaustion Antidote, Severus smiled at me and then he was gone.

And that is how Severus came to be MINE, and I his. Now he visits me every Friday evening; we talk and laugh, drink tea and play wizard's chess, or simply sit together and stare contentedly into the fire. Fawkes has taken a great liking to him as well; I would wager Severus is the only other person in the world who could groom my phoenix without having his fingers bitten. And when Severus comes to me in the dead of night, shaking from the Cruciatus and with an invariably sad story to tell, I hold him in my arms until he runs out of words or tears. He is a great comfort to me too; the one person who does not expect me to save the world single-handedly, the one person I can spill my frustrations to, the one I can tell of the stubbornness of human nature and politics. I believe Severus, more than anyone else, understands that I am only human.

And I believe that is why he has never blamed me for sending him back into hell.

He understands that I am not omnipotent, that I cannot wave my wand and vanish all the world's troubles. And he doesn't care that I'm not perfect, he doesn't care whether I save the world; he just wants me to care about him.

I feel guilty, sometimes. I know Severus deserves better than me—I want him to have better. I want him to have parents who can devote every scrap of their attention to him, parents who are not plagued with the troubles of running a school, a war, a hidden world. I want him to have parents who will take him to the seaside on holidays, parents who will worry incessantly about his health, parents who will always make his wellbeing their first priority. Parents who would never be able to send him out to face Voldemort, as I have so many times.

But Severus does not have parents. He has me. And however much I wish it was otherwise, I remain thankful that I have been given the opportunity to have a grandson. I do consider Severus my grandson; we are too close to be anything but family. I would bet my life that no one knows him better than I, and I know for a fact that no one knows me better than Severus.

Not that there are wizards and witches who don't know more about Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Minerva, for example, has been my friend for decades, before Severus was even born. But on my birthday, November twenty-fourth, she gave Headmaster Dumbledore scented candles. The rest of the faculty and all the Order members gave the Albus Dumbledore books.

On my desk, however, wrapped neatly in plain parchment, I found a thick, woolen pair of lilac socks.