Professor Severus Snape was alone in his office, deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts' castle, finishing to correct a pile of his student's homework assignments. He started to read the paper of a student named Gregory Goyle:

"The polyjuice potion is a very good potion. It is a mix of many kinds of juice, so, it's a very refreshing and delicious drink."

The teacher sighed.

"After reading such a thing, I definitely need to drink something."

"Once upon a time…" said a feminine voice "Slytherin was the house of cunning. Now, it's the house of retarded consanguine children."

The voice, with a strong Irish accent, came from a painting of a woman hanged on the wall behind the teacher's desk. She had more hair on her eyebrows than any woman should have, the hair on her head was long, oily and raven black. In contrast, her skin was very pale, which could have been considered of some beauty in past centuries, but, to modern eyes, seemed pretty unhealthy. She was dressed in a long sleeved dark dress that accented her almost morbid thinness. The only sign of vanity in her outfit was a curious necklace with round colorful beads that looked like marbles. Her horse-like long face combined with her grim looks and stubborn personality earned her the nickname "night mare" from her closest friends. She had astute-looking black eyes, a sarcastic smirk playing on her lips.

"People should stop marrying cousins for the sake of 'blood-purity'... Now you are suffering, my sharp boy…" - she stretched her closed lips in a strange expression, combination of pity and pride.

Severus stood up and took an old bottle from one of the many shelves in the room, then, he went back to his desk and poured some of the content in a round and short glass, taking two sips. When he put the glass back down, Severus could see his mother was staring at him with an odd expression; odd, but somehow familiar. He tried to remember… Yes, it was the same sheepish face she had when staring at…

He pushed the glass away, with the back of his hand, like it was something nasty.

That damned morning, when he was a pubescent boy… In front of a bathroom mirror, he found, for his horror, that his father's nose just sprouted on his face, like a poisonous mushroom.

Since permanent nose changing magic is risky and expensive, he decided to resignedly accept it, but kept avoiding any sort of reflecting surfaces the most he could. But, every time he had the bad luck to meet his own mirrored image, he saw his father. Wearing a "wig" of his mother's hair and dark wizard robes, sure, but it was still him . No wonder his mother saw him too, the glass of booze certainly helped as composition element…

"Mother," said the teacher "since you're so concerned about genetics, let me tell you I don't think you´ve chosen best specimen ever… In my humble opinion."

"Your father" she said in a slightly annoyed voice "was a man of his time ."

Severus lowered his head and went back to work. Experience taught him it was useless to discuss with her. But she spoke once more:

"You could try being a man of your time , for a change. Maybe, it would do you good…"

Severus knew what she was insinuating, but didn't talk back. She didn't say anything else, either; Eileen knew it was useless to discuss with him.

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It was late in the night when he finished the correcting. Kids, in general, were disappointing as always. They – he thought- made Miss Granger think she was something, even tough she's just a text-book memorizing parrot… I wish someone could show her what a real student is…

He wasn't feeling sleepy. Truth to be told, since he noticed, when taking a shower, that the dark mark on his left arm was easily visible again, and, in the days that followed, it was getting darker and darker, he couldn't sleep without drinking some strong sleep potion first. He was not alone. Karkaroff seemed to have the necessity to shove his mark over his face every single time he met him, like Severus' gaze had the power of erasing it. It was a bit of an awkward situation: he couldn't pretend he was pleased by the expectative of the Dark Lord's return, who knows what that sneak would tell Ministry authorities? Also, he couldn't show his discontentment sincerely, under the risk of making himself useless as a spy. So, the best thing he could do was avoiding and making excuses to escape any conversation with that troublesome man. It was not an easy task, since Karkaroff kept chasing him nonstop, like he was a particularly attractive bottle of vodka.

Indubitably, the Dark Lord was about to return, and at least one of his loyal-to-death followers was wandering around freely; not exactly a pleasant idea when you quit the Death Eaters. Some still unidentified prowler breaking into his office a few nights ago didn't help put him at ease.

He envied his dead mother's painted-self, who left, yawning, after wishing him a good night, probably to a picture that had some comfy furniture to lie on.

Good, at least now he could drink without feeling any guilt.

After two glasses of fire whiskey, he still couldn't get away of that feeling of uneasiness. He couldn't simply chill out for a while, when anytime he would have to stand up for fighting. He was always on work. He was instrumenta vocalia .

"It's late… I'll have a hard day when daylight comes…"

He laid his eyes on a calendar-clock that sat on his desk. 00:45, February, 14th.

He felt like a heavy rock just fell against the bottom of his stomach.

In fact, he was on the edge in those dicey days, his feelings almost going to the surface. And alcohol, instead of making him more aggressive like did to his father, always made him more sensitive and reminiscent. He opened a drawer in his desk, looking for something…

Here it was: that old Valentine's card.