Aaric squinted as a response to the pain in his face and raised a few fingers to it. "I don't need a lecture on fighting, sir. I wasn't the one who started it."

"Mister Snape," Dumbledore said sternly as he looked over the top of his glasses, "I have grown tired of seeing you in this office."

"And?"

The moment stretched on uncomfortably like their meetings always did. Didn't the man realize what he'd be in for when Dad got ahold of him? A good roughening-up for being a waste of potential after everything Dad had gone through to give him a decent life probably.

"You know that Voldemort is back and that your father is in trouble."

"That's not my business," Aaric snapped, more out of ritual than sincerity. He wasn't to be involved—Dad would never allow it. "I'm a weird kid. I study subjects that are not taught at this institution and my father is everyone's least favorite professor."

Dumbledore nodded along. "Which makes you vulnerable." The old man stood and turned to the bookshelf behind him. "You fight." He spoke as he ran his finger along the spines. "You are disrespectful. You have shown little academic interest or prowess, despite your claims." He turned back, a book in his hand. "Has Severus discussed the upcoming holiday with you?"

Aaric's hands shook in his lap, where Dumbledore couldn't see. He wasn't a screwup or a slacker; he wasn't disrespectful. None of his professors were ever on his side—that wasn't his fault. "I'm going home alone. Dad's working on a project." He kept his gaze on the desk, unable to look at the man. "I'll be fine. I'm used to being alone."

"Something you blame me for, I'm sure." He motioned with his finger for Aaric to stand. "I have arranged accommodations for you, if you are amenable."

Accommodations could only mean the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix and Potter. Someone he couldn't be friends with under any circumstance. If he went and enjoyed himself, Dad would be angry and maybe offended; if he didn't, he'd be alone all holiday in their shitty little house with nothing to do. There was no winning.

"Ask my father," he said as he made to turn.

"I am not asking." Dumbledore's hand wrapped around his arm to prevent him from moving. "You will be ready to go tomorrow evening."

He felt numb the entire walk down to the dungeons. Had he been raised around more people, perhaps he would have had someplace other than the dungeons to seek refuge. But he hadn't. He let the door slam shut and tossed his bag on the floor along with his shoes. Everything was cramped together. A sofa, a coffee table with one leg propped up to even it out with the others, a wardrobe, a desk and bookshelves, and a cot filled the small room, which led into a barely existent kitchen. One room was all for the two of them, no privacy. Dad had slept on the sofa without a single complaint from the time he started primary to his first day at Hogwarts. Now it was reversed: Dad had the bed and he had the sofa. Maybe not everything was Dumbledore's fault, but that was. When had he ever offered to give them new quarters? Or to expand their current ones?

"Dad?" he whispered. Sprawled out on the bed staring at the ceiling, he looked half-dead. When no response came, Aaric crawled into the open space, like he used to as a child, and curled up onto his side.

"Whatever it is you've done I don't want to know."

"Dumbledore…"

"I know." Dad turned his head so they were looking at each other and stared blankly. "Behave and keep your head down. I'm sure it won't be the worst Christmas you've ever had." He grunted in pain and rolled back to face the ceiling.

Aaric tucked his head into his own arm and rested his other one where it touched his face. It wasn't a hug—he wasn't sure he could remember the last time they'd hugged—but with Dad there and his smell on the sheets, it felt like one.

-:

He sat outside Dumbledore's office with his bag at his feet for over an hour. He'd packed a few of his nicer shirts, an extra pair of shorts, and a hat and mittens, torn between wondering what they would expect of him and fear that anything nice he took might be destroyed. The other Ravenclaws had destroyed a few of his things first year, which he'd naturally taken the blame and Dad's fist for. They weren't the sort of people that could automatically replace destroyed things. He was almost afraid to take anything, but in order to get work done over break he needed his Latin and Italian dictionaries, which he'd worked an entire summer to save up for; he needed his journals.

The ticking of heeled shoes on the floor alerted him to Umbridge's presence. He almost didn't move. She'd tried to punish him before, but as a standing rule only the headmaster could do that. It was supposed to prevent favoritism, he knew, but it only served to further separate him from the other students. The staircase to the headmaster's office carried him out of her sight as she puffed down the corridor and he bounced on his toes. Dumbledore would know he was there instead of waiting where he should be. A blatant disregard of orders. Just another reason for Dumbledore to think he was trouble.

The door popped open and he pulled his bag closer to his body before stepping in.

"Patience is a virtue, Mister Snape." The old man sat behind his desk hunched over a scroll. He set his quill down and looked up fully, instead of over his glasses. "You are no longer a child. You really ought to be able to entertain yourself."

Aaric nodded, his eyes downcast. "I'll be," he motioned to the stairs before leaving. The door clicked shut behind him and he sunk to the floor. Umbridge would likely circle back. Or Filtch would come round. He fished his journal, Latin dictionary, and a pen out of his bag.

Homenum Revelio: I reveal the humans. Homo (m): human being, person. Revello (3): to wrench off, tear down/out, remove.

· Illogical formation. I suspect the exponenter over-utilized English sound patterns to make the spell more accessible.

· Literature suggests spell is highly unpredictable. If one is able to form it, the results are unlikely to be reliable.

Alternatives:

· Humans/People: homines (pl homo), mortales (pl mortalis)

· I reveal/find/discover: evulgo (I make known), deprehendo (I catch in the act), rescisco (I discover), comperio (I discover)

1. Homines Evulgo

a. Evulgo also means to make public, divulge

2. Homines Deprehendo

a. Dephr(he)ndo also means to perceive, overtake, surprise. Additions make useful against enemies specifically?

b. Combine Deprehendo with Hostes? I overtake/surprise my enemies.

3. Homines Rescisco

a. No alternative meanings

4. Homines Comperio

a. Comperio also means to learn, know for certain. Used to confirm the presence of a specific individual?

5. Mortales Evulgo

a. See 1

6. Mortales Deprehendo

a. See 2

7. Mortales Rescisco

a. See 3

8. Mortales Comperio

a. See 4

The door creaked open and he stuffed it all back in his bag. "Sir?" he asked as he stood.

"I hope you took the time to start on your next term's work," the old man said. He took the stairs slowly, his lavender robes flowing around him. "While I'm sure a boy your age is naturally taken with immodest distractions, you should know it is unbecoming."

Aaric nodded. "I was studying. Are you working on anything interesting, sir?"

Dumbledore made a noise half-way between snorting and clearing his voice. "I do not do the sort of work that interests boys. Over the holiday you might consider engaging with the youngsters you will be housed with. Isolation starves the soul." He took hold of Aaric's arm as they crossed the open gate and apparated without warning.

The smell of London flooded Aaric's nostrils as he fought to stay upright. He'd apparated only a handful of times and Dad was always mindful enough to have a ginger ale ready for the arrival. He pushed forward and into the house without knocking, needing to be away from Dumbledore. The entryway led to a staircase and a long hall, at the end of which he could see people gathered around a table. Dumbledore stepped uncomfortably close behind him and he hurried forward.

All laughter and conversation stopped when he entered. Few of them were totally unknown to him—they must be the Aurors. Moody and Lupin were former professors. Then there were his classmates. Everyone knew what Sirius Black looked like.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Aaric. Thank you for having me, Mister Black."

Black glared at him with wild eyes that matched his unruly hair. There was something hungry in the look, like he was a man still starving. "Dumbledore tells me you're one for trouble."

His eyes flashed to the old man in anger. "I won't give you any trouble, sir." He returned his gaze to Black, stared at him a moment, and then made show of checking the rest of the table. "Nice to meet you all."

Lupin whispered something to Black before clearing his throat. "I remember you of course, as I'm sure Mad-Eye does. As you may or may not know, one of our numbers was grievously injured in a recent attack—Mister Weasley."

Of course he didn't know—it wasn't the sort of thing he ought to know. But he could hear in between the words. "I'll stay out of the way. Just tell me where I'm sleeping."

"We have you in with Harry and Ron," Black said slowly.

"Fine," Aaric cut him off. "Can I go?"

When nobody answered him, he took the silence as permission. No matter what Dumbledore thought, getting familiar with any of them would be a mistake. None of them cared. None of them understood. When had any of them been hungry or alone, little and afraid? Black, he supposed, would understand him. But Black liked Dumbledore. Black would never understand that Dad hadn't had a choice. He was maybe the most dangerous of them all.

He found the room easily enough: the other boys had their shit thrown around everywhere…it smelled. He set his bag on the spare cot before kicking his shoes under it. His roommates were always the same way. It wasn't that he minded the mess, just that his whole life existed in a single room. How could two fifteen-year-olds have so much? A quick look around told him that it was mostly Quidditch stuff. Understandable were it just one item. There were games and magazines too. The unbecoming sort, he was sure.

His shoulders rose uncomfortably the second he heard the thudding of feet on the stairs. They weren't going to have anything in common. He'd just be the odd one out as always. He sat on the bed with his back against the wall and stretched his fingers out past his toes. If he pulled his knees up to his chest, he'd look weak. The door slammed open and he watched them from under his bangs. Potter's hair was unruly like Black's, something intentional given how he kept playing with it.

With hair like that, he'd look like Dad. Instead he was brown with curly hair, not at all an image that resembled the Snape family. Which logically meant he'd gotten it from his other progenitor, whoever on earth that must be.

He tried not to watch them as they sat on their own beds. They were too old for napping, which meant male bonding. "Uh," he started.

"You like the Cannons?" Weasley asked as he gripped a quaffle in his hands.

"No. I follow LFC."

Weasley scrunched his face up in confusion and turned to Potter. "Football." Potter crossed his legs under him and leaned forward, almost copying Aaric's position. "Snape's all right with that?" he snickered. "A Muggle team?"

"Aye, me an' me arl fella from Liverpool." He watched the look of disgust overtake Potter's features with amusement. "There's your upper-class sensibilities."

"Is that near you?" Weasley grumbled.

"No!" Potter laughed. "It's in the North."

Aaric tapped his fingers on his feet. "An yer a posh twat? London?"

The smile fell from Potter's lips and he nodded. "Surrey."

"There's a lot of money in Surrey," he corrected his accent back. "Got the Surrey Pegasus. You don't follow?"

Potter scowled like he was the one under attack. "No." He held his hands up and Weasley passed the quaffle. It hit his hands with a thwack.

Aaric tensed his shoulders in case it came his way. He'd never been well-coordinated. Dad wasn't particularly well-coordinated. He could run though, faster than anyone he knew.

"Where's your mum then?" Potter passed it back to Weasley.

"My—father—left before I was born," He glared. They were probably the sort that called themselves wizards instead of witches and restrained themselves to the Muggle definition of heterosexual. "We're proud witches. You'd understand if you were from an old family."

"But you're not!" Weasley argued immediately.

Aaric sat a little straighter. "My gran was disowned. Her parents, before they died, reintroduced my father to the House with the condition he produce a proper heir. I was born out of wedlock, so…" He shrugged.

Weasley grumbled and Potter threw it back to him. "Take it you celebrate Yule instead of Christmas then."

"Both. Was raised a Muggle, weren't I?" He wiggled his toes and tried to shove away the feeling of discomfort. "Me da' smokes an drinks. Me da' loves LFC. Every night he has a bevvy and a bifter—I just have the bifter. A couple throughout the day actually."

"Cigarettes," Potter explained as Weasley's head turned. "They're bad for your health. Give you cancer."

Aaric shrugged. "They keep you warm, make you less hungry." The need for one flared. Or perhaps the need to leave was stronger and he couldn't come up with anything else to do. "I'm off," he said as he stood and grabbed his sack.

He saw no one in the few minutes it took to reach the front door and pulled it open before the impulse gave way to logic. He watched the people in the park and thoughtlessly pulled a cigarette box out of his bag. If he left he could make it home before anybody cared. It would probably be a few days before anybody really cared. He'd hitch or beg for enough money for the fare. Dumbledore would call Dad and he'd take a good beating for the trouble.

He lit another and wrapped his arms around his knees, focused on the cold. With the cold it was easy to pretend that he didn't have to sleep with people that disliked the idea of him. Snape's son. Greasy git junior. Scouser. From the North. Dirty, rude, troubled. The door opened with just enough noise to catch his attention.

"Come back in," Lupin ordered, "and we'll have a wee chat about the house rules." After a moment, his hand took hold of Aaric's shoulder and tugged. It was weak, for a man of his condition. More likely than not he was impressively strong, given the wolf within. "And put that out!" He pushed Aaric forward.

The hall back to the dining room felt more constricting this time, like it was going to fall in on him with all the weight of the other occupants' frustration. He wouldn't make it past Lupin if he attempted to turn and run. He kept his head ducked as he entered the dining room. They were all still there, sans Dumbledore—a small gift.

"He was smoking!" Lupin sounded unnecessarily exasperated. He grumbled as he walked to stand next to Black. "I don' t imagine your father's going to take this kindly."

"He smokes like a chimney," Aaric muttered. They weren't going to listen to him anyways. They saw what they wanted to see.

"What did you just say?" Black snapped.

"That Severus smokes like a chimney," Lupin said. "Which would be terribly irresponsible of him."

He couldn't prevent a nasty look from taking over his features. They didn't know Dad, didn't know his life. "Can I go?"

"No!" Black began pacing, apparently needing the motion to keep himself in check.

Mrs. Weasley cleared her voice in something of a harrumph. They all turned to face her. "Even if your father participates in this behavior, surely you know it breaks your mother's heart? I would be devastated if it were one of my boys. We can get you help." Her stern features were also somehow soft. Perhaps that's what mums were like—harsh and soft. Dad almost always one and rarely the other.

He rocked his body slightly and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Don't have a mum, Miss. It's just me and Dad." He looked back at Black. "Your rules?"

The man's shoulders hitched right before he turned. "You are not to leave this house. You will not smoke or drink. You will be respectful, and if you cannot be respectful you will be quiet." He trembled. "Now hand them over and go to your room."

It wasn't his room, and he wasn't welcome there—not that Black seemed to care. He whispered a duplicating spell when he grabbed the carton and pulled away the duplicate one. It felt slightly lighter in his hand due to an inability to duplicate tobacco, but they wouldn't notice. He slapped it down on the table, eyes locked on Black's, daring him to say something.

"Off you get then," Lupin said.