Albus Severus was a dark mop of hair in the corner of the room named after his late fathers. Both famous for their deeds, and both misunderstood, none had known about their secret affair until a tiny pink human had been brought into the light, an experiment in potions and magic that other wizards were baffled by.
They had killed eachother, in the end... like some sort of wizarding romeo and juliet. Or rather, romeo and tybalt as it were. His father, Albus, had died before his tiny namesake had even time to emerge from his cauldron. And a grief stricken Severus Snape had not much a father made. Of course, he died too, and soon at that. It was in Hogwarts that young Albus Severus had been raised. An orphan child who belonged to the castle much as it belonged to him. Hogwarts, of course, did not technically belong to his late father, the Dumbledore, but it was undeniably his, and as such, that tie had been passed down to his scrawny, quickfooted son.
Madam pomfrey was more an aunt than a nurse, seeing to not just his scrapes and broken bones from trying to climb on top of the bell tower, or broken nose from where he slipped trying to investigate the very spot where Harry Potter had clashed with a dragon on the rooftop, but also she tended to his getting enough to eat, having the proper place to sleep, and staying- for petes sakes, away from the girls dormitories!
The house elves were used to seeing him below in the kitchens as food was being prepared, and even after. As a small child, he might fall asleep at a small round table used to snap peas at. His face on a potions book, mug of warm honey tea in front of him. Two elves would carry him then, one under his shoulders, the other taking his legs, and they would tuck him lightly into one of their beds, where he would sleep among its piles and piles of blankets, and dream of flying biscuits.
As Albus Severus grew, he spent less time in the kitchens with his working friends, and more exploring the castle. The dungeons became a favorite haunt of his, he knew every room, every bottle in the potions room and where it sat, what shelf each ingredient should be on. He knew the rooms that would ooze with slime upon entrance, and which ones were more friendly to passerby. The cold, dark dungeons did not seem to be a place for a young boy, but each night as he came down to feast until his lithe body felt rotund, he always emerged from them with a smile. And a fat lot of dirt about his clothes and face, too.
It was during his eleventh year as a scraggly youth that he was accepted into hogwarts officially. Though he had already spent many a time being taught little tidbits from professors, and madam pomfrey had seen to it that she had a proper education (And McGonagall had given him a better one at that), it was finally time for him to become a real student of the school. However, he found that the dormitories, while cozy, were not the right place for him, and it was like as not that you would see him flitting between shadows in the night, creeping off to wherever it was that he spent his nights.