The First Impression

For two days, Snape took refuge at Spinners End, occupying himself with nothing more mentally or emotionally taxing than sorting through his belongings in readiness for Hogwarts, reading the newspaper (absolutely nothing happening unless you counted the highly variable temperatures as Britain tried to decide if it was having a heatwave or raining) and gazing out his front room bay window while his thoughts spun unremittingly like a hamster wheel.

During daylight hours, nothing new presented itself. His thoughts revolved around the possibility of parenthood, what that meant, what that meant if he hated the child, what that meant if the child hated him, and what unfamiliar responsibilities might suddenly be visited on him that he'd have to attend to.

The second circle of questions, which rotated in the opposite direction, and of which the resolution would have direct ramifications for the first circle, related to the mystery of his missing memory. He had resigned himself to the concept that he must accept testimony as evidence, for he could discern no motive for multiple, trusted people to collude in a conspiracy that achieved no gain for them. It had been Phineas' Nigellus' declaration that sealed it for him: the old Headmaster had been stalwart in his support of Snape and was not the type to subscribe to silly games. If Nigellus said Snape had been involved with Charity Burbage, then such a liaison must have occurred.

So why could he not remember it?

The detective in him drove Snape to study the various forms of memory loss and memory charms, consulting the appreciable reference library in his home. Amnesia, he learnt, would not explain the selectivity of the memories he was missing – Dumbledore had been right. During the time he had apparently had a relationship with Charity Burbage, he recalled other occurrences with ease. He remembered a lot about the audit, he remembered classes, Quidditch games, shopping in Diagon Alley, Lupin and making the Wolfsbane, looking for Sirius Black – the only memories he didn't have were any with he and Charity Burbage together.

And so he deduced magic had been involved. The only approved memory charm was Obliviate. The strength or extent of it could be varied, but it tended to cover short-term events, and again, was not so selective. Gilderoy Lockhart had been an obvious victim to a powerful Obliviate and he was reduced to a gibbering idiot – not the case with Snape. Bertha Jorkins was a similar victim to a poorly wielded obliviate, but the results did not fit with his own experience. The Memory Modifying Charm created new memories, and unless someone very dedicated had performed that spell on almost all his colleagues, including portraits, then it was highly unlikely.

A Pensieve allowed one to remove selected memories but did not eradicate them. They were more for a three-dimensional recollection, permitting others to share the memory with you, a kind of magical hologram. But the memory remained, the memory that one has a specific memory was retained.

He knew there were Dark Art practices around eradicating memories, and one he found, which he'd known about before, and which he thought might fit the bill, was Memorium Delens. But it was highly illegal, and had been so for two centuries, due to the sometimes-cataclysmic after-effects, and that was if the patient/victim was not driven mad or killed during the ritual. It was pagan magic, and even if he'd wanted to try it, he wouldn't know where to find someone to perform it. He couldn't imagine circumstances so dire that he'd have wanted to risk it.

Perhaps his mind had been heightened into a kind of frenzy over the matter as a whole, for in his bed the first night home, his initial sleep was light and his half-dreamlike state was feverish. Then part-way through his eyelids flew open as if he'd been fully awake the whole time, and he was transported to the night at Malfoy Manor, sitting at the long glossy table to the right of Voldemort, his arm bumped by the massive python sliding up over the Dark Lord's shoulders, and Charity Burbage was suspended by invisible bonds, rotating, occasionally sobbing, and imploring him.

Had she then known he had no memory of their relationship? Their son would have been walking, talking, perhaps attending a preschool. She'd raised the boy alone for three years, thinking Snape wanted nothing to do with him. But if she hadn't known his memory was lost, she would have been expecting him to act. She would have been waiting for their history together to compel him, to save her: the mother of his only child. What must she have thought that he sat so impassively and waited for her to die? What must her last thoughts have been, thinking he cared so little, worse, cared more for himself; the only sensation greater than her terror must have been the knowledge she was forsaken. He'd abandoned her to die, this woman he had loved uncommonly.

His heart hammering, Snape threw back the covers of his bed and staggered to the bathroom, where he turned lamps on brightly and stopped to rest his hands on the edge of the cold vanity basin and breathe in heavily, then he ran icy water from the taps and doused his face, again and again.

Could you experience guilt for something you didn't actually do? He'd committed many crimes in his life, Snape was no saint, he was neither good nor bad. He had an unusual capacity for hope, and unusual levels of resilience. But he was a deeply flawed and deeply scarred individual, who tried, when possible, to err in the interests of doing right. He'd thought, at the time, that he was working for The Order and that his job that evening was to foil any suspicions the Dark Lord was obviously harbouring. He'd thought he'd passed a test. His indifference to the plight of the Burbage woman was proof of his loyalty, he'd thought he'd done well. He'd shut down and bolted away so many emotions and opinions he was little more than a robot – the secret of his success. And in comparison to wielding the wand that killed Dumbledore, well Burbage was inconsequential.

In fact, it turned out, in deed or in omission, he had allowed to die the two most important people in the world to him.

Three, if Lily was to be counted.

The shaving mirror on its extendable arm swung round and glared his reflection at him and Snape smashed it away. He wandered out of the bathroom and for lack of anywhere else to go, returned to his bedroom, where he fell back on the bed, chest heaving, eyes wide and staring into the dark. There had been no help for Snape with his post-traumatic stress, those services did not exist for Wizards, and so he was left to himself to spend the remainder of the night processing on repeat the times he had let innocent people die.

The following night came mail. A barn owl, and it arrived after he had dozed off in his armchair, still holding a tumbler of whisky resting on the arm, the book he'd been reading up-tented on his lap. The owl, having nowhere to perch and nowhere to enter, slammed bodily into his front window and landed in a daze on the pavers outside the front of his house.

At the crash, Snape lurched several feet into the air, spilt his whisky, and was on his feet, wand in hand, in seconds, before even he was fully alert. A cautious look out the window revealed the doleful owl and he opened the front door to receive the scroll of parchment, and offered a biscuit to the deliverer who took off in disgust.

The parchment was his employment contract, which was a duplicate of a template with only the variables pertaining to his offer written in the blank parts. It was for, as promised, Potions Master and Deputy Head, and contained a salary, some allowances, residency on site during term, various forms of leave and provisions towards his own pursuit of further qualifications. The salary for a Deputy wasn't too bad, and it would be nice to add to the coffers again. He hadn't received a reliable income in nearly a decade.

There was, in addition to the contract, a letter from McGonagall, which invited him to take up his rooms as soon as was practically convenient, and before the 14th August which was when the full faculty was expected to be back at work and preparing for the new school year. Term One commenced on Monday 4th September, and the Hogwarts Express arrived at 6pm on Sunday the 3rd. She was having the first staff meeting on Monday 14th at 10am and would there make formal introductions of new (and returning) teachers.

She wrote that she had notified Sir Byron of Snape's return to service, and new role, and as she had informed both Candace Peacock and now the Board of Governors, it was incumbent on her to also inform Kingsley Shacklebolt before he found out the news through other agents. She had duly sent an owl.

The flywheel of his re-entry into wizarding civilisation was now spinning fast and freely. The School, the Ministry and even an undisclosed son were all that was required to set the grapevine on fire. These few remaining nights may be his last taste of sublime obscurity.

The very next day he packed his case of scant possessions, clothing and personal effects, ensured the Spinners End house was tidy, empty and secure, and then discreetly disapparated, arriving at the Hogwarts Gates close to 11am. He tried to open the Gates, expecting resistance, but to his amazement they swung open quite willingly. Either the gates recognised him or times had changed – ever since Sirius Black and the Dementors, security had radically restricted movement in and out of the school grounds. Perhaps it was also now possible to apparate directly to the Front Entrance – that would certainly be convenient.

He had shrunk his case and carried it easily up the windy path, past Hagrid's hut and to the courtyard, and looking up noticed a team of hard-hatted builders perched on scaffolding and hanging beams at various places along the front face of the castle, engaged, he presumed, in the work of restoring the damaged sections. He could see brief flares and arcs of green light where magic could be used, but in equal amount came the slightly jarring plinking of metal on stone and hammering.

As he entered the great oak door, McGonagall was descending the marble staircase hastily. "Ah, welcome back Severus, thank you for agreeing to come so quickly. You have your things? Good. Let me walk with you to your quarters as there is immediately business for you to attend to."

"What is it?"

"Can you please take a Floo visit from Candace Peacock in your Office at 11:15 – she wishes to discuss your introduction to Servius."

"Oh." He had expected school related business.

Slughorn was in the Potions Office when they arrived, and he took Snape directly to his former quarters. The rooms, which had been spartan during Snape's occupation, now boasted plush, busily decorated rugs, unusual modern art pieces on the walls, and instead of simple gas lamps there were elaborate sconces. Snape looked around, still standing in the doorway, quite at a loss.

Slughorn took his speechlessness for rapture. "Oh these old things," he said, grinning broadly. "I can't take them with me, won't go in the new place at all. So I thought I'd leave them for you. Brightens the place up a bit, don't you think? It was terribly grim when I took the rooms."

"Oh. Oh, I see. Well…thank you."

"I found a couple of things belonging to you. I put them aside, wasn't sure what to do with them. Big pile of books in that trunk over there, and…what else…," Slughorn wandered over and lifted the lid of the trunk. "Some quills that look a bit expensive. A lot of stuff in the medicine cabinet. Oh, this bubble bath…"

"Bubble bath?"

Slughorn's eyebrows lifted. "Yes. Definitely not mine. Not my scent. Ha ha."

"I don't use bubble bath."

Slughorn chortled. "Well maybe you had someone using the bath who did. Eh?"

Slughorn tossed the bottle of bubble bath to Snape, who caught it with ease in one hand. The minute the plastic bottle touched his fingers, he was almost blinded with flashes of memory. He saw the bottle standing on the corner edge of the bath, dim light, cloudy – no, steamy, the bottle was new, there were bubbles, someone using the bath…

The memory was gone. He stared at the bottle.

"You alright, Sev dear boy? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"Where did you find this?"

"Back of the cupboard. Bathroom. Normal place for bubble bath. Are you alright?"

Snape felt a twinge in his skull, and for a second the room tilted, and then he was fine again.

"Yes, uh, sorry -," he put the bottle down on the kitchen table, then glanced up at the clock that used to be on the kitchen wall but discovered it missing. "Um, sorry Horace, I have a meeting – what was the time?"

"You need a timepiece, my boy. About ten past eleven."

"I'll just leave my trunk here," a quick engorgio restored his case to normal proportions. "I need the Office if you're not using it?"

Slughorn walked him next door to the office and opened the door for him, and Snape entered, taking his usual place in the seat behind his desk. Thank Merlin Slughorn hadn't replaced his wonderful chair.

Within minutes, Candace Peacock was seeking admittance via Floo, and she stepped out of the fireplace with the merest of sweeps to her very severely drawn back hair.

"Professor Snape," she stated in decisive tones, extending her hand upon seeing him. "It is simply marvellous that you are a survivor."

He nodded, trying to hide his impatience with this routine.

"I have spoken to the Minister directly about it. He'll be in touch."

"As he wishes."

"And Harry Potter, he too plans to contact you."

"Potter?"

"Aura Office."

"Yes, I know."

"He came to see me. He's quite…what's the word…?"

"Horrified?"

"Not at all! Surprised, but bigger, elated is too strong…"

"Well I shall figure it out for myself when I meet him. You wanted to see me about the…about…Servius?"

"Yes! Can I…?" she indicated one of the chairs facing the desk and he gestured with his hand, then reassumed his position opposite her.

Sitting from this vantage point, he could see that Candace had, like everyone, aged a little. She had rather striking grey streaks through her helmet of hair, but still wore a smart, smooth suit with the MoM insignia at the left breast.

"Professor, I have met with Servius and his grandparents at his home since he got his letter for Hogwarts, and I took the opportunity to tell them about you. I hope you understand the necessity for that?"

"Quite understandable."

"They were…well, I'll be frank, unhappy to think you'd been alive all this time. Not because they preferred you dead, but because they thought you were neglecting your duty to Servius."

"I had no idea about…about him."

"Charity's mother claimed that Charity had told you about him. Via Patronus. She had a moth, you'll remember?"

"Yes, she did indeed send a moth, but I didn't know it was from her."

"You didn't know she had a moth Patronus?" said Peacock, scepticism etched deep into her tone.

"Something has happened to my memory. I have no recall about the relationship with Charity Burbage at all. I haven't since 1994, as far as I can tell," Snape explained, looking very openly at her.

She stared at him. "Pardon?"

He repeated himself, and explained everything he knew or suspected. He tried to incorporate an indisputable air of honesty into his voice. What this seemed to signify, he was realising himself, was the worst: that Charity Burbage had not in fact been aware that his memory had been erased, it evidently had happened to him or by him without her involvement.

"Well this is going to be hard to explain," said Candace, her eyes scanning the desk in front of her as if it might reveal and answer. "The grandparents are au courants – they won't be familiar with the idea of memory being magically interfered with. But all the same, plenty of Muggle fathers go missing from their children's lives, it doesn't preclude a future relationship. I'll take the angle that you were unaware of Servius but as you're here now, you're prepared to start at the beginning."

Snape's mouth went dry. This all seemed to be coming very real.

"And have they any evidence that he is in fact mine?"

She frowned a little at him, somewhat impatient and disappointed with him for having any traces of denial. "Well as far as I can see, there are three pieces of evidence. The first is a birth certificate that they can bring with them on the first visit. He is has your surname and you are named as the father. Charity switched his name informally to Burbage after…after Dumbledore died. It was a protective move, you understand, even though Charity struggled to believe that you had actually done it. The second is a matter of simple logistics: the opportunity, let alone motive, for Charity Burbage to fall pregnant to another man at the time was virtually non-existent. Even if she were that type of person, which she wasn't. You haven't been privy to conception and birth dates as I have - there was no intimate relationship resumed between Charity and her ex-husband – he refuses to have anything to do with Servius. And lastly, the physical resemblance. He looks like you."

Snape processed her answer, lingered on the idea of a birth certificate naming him as the father, oddly touched that Charity Burbage did so. It pointed to a kind of ownership and pride in the relationship, that she'd had no reticence, no compunctions about boldly naming his part in the creation of her child, or hesitations that the child should know.

"What's he like?" Snape asked hesitantly.

"Servius? Oh, typical eleven-year-old really. Nice looking… takes after you quite a lot. But…Muggle raised."

"Is he…likeable?"

She paused, then said carefully: "I think…once you get to know him…"

Her reservation was instantly recognisable, and his reaction was mixed: part incipient dread at the idea of forming a relationship with a brat, and part defensiveness that she was judging his child. This second part caught him by surprise – were instincts rising to the fore already?

"And so have you made plans with the grandparents about a meeting?" Snape asked.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow!?"

"They are available tomorrow to travel into London. I shall meet them at Charing Cross Station and take them to the Leaky Cauldron. If you could join us there?"

"Why there?"

"Professor McGonagall suggested to me that you would take Servius for his school supplies…?" she looked confused at the prospect of a misunderstanding. "I really do urge you to undertake this, Professor Snape, you are vastly qualified to do so."

"Yes, yes, fine, the Headmistress did tell me that," he responded a little irritably. "So what time am I to meet you at the Leaky Cauldron?"

"They can be there for 10:30. The earlier the better, give you plenty of time to spend with him."

A shimmering was starting in Snape's left eye – he knew exactly what this heralded. The pain began in his temples and would soon join in the middle, right behind the orbital cavities. Involuntarily, he put the heel of his palm over his eye and Candace's brows raised.

"Are you alright? Headache?"

"Yes, uh, they can be quite severe."

She cocked her head curiously. "I wonder if they're related to your memory loss."

Once Candace Peacock had Floo'd out of Snape's office, he headed directly for the Hospital Wing. The vicious throbbing in his skull was already underway, but he knew it would get worse than this before it was over. If these migraines were going to be a feature of his teaching day, he was going to have a serious problem.

He was hoping for Diaphne. The ward was much as it had been the other day, but rather than lie down on a cot, he forced himself forward to Pomfrey's office. He wasn't sure who to expect, so he held off calling anyone until he could see was present, and was entirely relieved to discover Diaphne in Pomfrey's office alone, sitting in the patient's chair and doing something administrative with patient files.

"Diaphne," he muttered, "Diaphne, urgent please."

She looked up startled. "Professor!"

"I have another migraine," he said, and shut his eyes. "But I want your potion. I can't afford to sleep for three hours."

She stood and came before him, eyes wide but deep concern creasing her brow. "You look terrible. I'm sorry Professor, I don't have any of that potion here at Hogwarts."

"Can you make some?"

Her brows lifted almost clear of her forehead. "Did you say 'make some'?"

"Yes. In the Dungeon. Can you remember the recipe?" He groaned, as glass shards sliced their way up the inside of his neo-cortex.

She started to shake her head, "Oh, sir, I don't think -,"

"You can. You can do it. You are a Healer, remember?"

"But the rules say -,"

"I'm giving you an instruction. I am Deputy now." He swayed where he stood, and she put down the files she was holding quickly, as if preparing to catch him.

"I think you should like down, Professor."

"I will, in my quarters. While you're brewing."

She glanced about anxiously, and identifying doubt, he seized it. "Come with me right now. I'll give you access to the brewing chamber."

"But Madam Pomfrey…?"

He turned and strode out of the ward, concentrating hard on seeing through the retinal fireworks, nausea starting to make him breathe heavily. She followed quickly, although it may have been more concern about a highly marginal patient that compelled her.

Through the largely empty castle she followed him straight to the Dungeon Corridor and he went directly to his rooms and lay down on the bed, Diaphne behind him, her movements circumspect. "Oh these are nice quarters, Professor Snape," she declared on entry, and if he hadn't been so close to death he might have checked to see if she were serious.

"Diaphne, the brewing chamber is between the Potions Office and Potions Classroom, just down this corridor. There is a password: Vis medicatrix naturae, can you remember that?"

"The healing power of nature," she said.

"Uh, yes, very good," he replied, a little surprised. "There is a store cupboard in there, but in my office there is also a storage room underneath. Take whatever you need."

"Are you quite sure about this, Professor Snape? What if I'm discovered? What shall I do?"

"Come and get me. Now hurry. I can't think much anymore."

"Do you want some Headache Help-?"

"Go Diaphne, make the potion."

He sank into a reverie of pain. Once or twice, she came back to his bedside, his doors having been left unlocked for precisely this reason, so she could consult him. She was insistent, at one point, that he had no store of Nux Myristica, but he thought Slughorn might have stocked it with other distilled spices and proved correct. Ptolemy supply was just short of the right amount, but he told her to wing it. And then she was gone for at least an hour.

Somehow, beneath the pain, he started to worry that something had happened to her, and was just on the verge of forcing himself to his feet when she reappeared, coming to his bedside, and she was holding a goblet with a spill cap on it.

"Professor," she said, her voice light with pride at her own achievement, "I think I've done it. It looks the same and smells the same. I was just working from memory, but I ended up making so much of it for you at the hospital that it must have imprinted more than I realised."

He struggled upright and accepted the goblet, and without even his usual precautionary checks, drank the whole of its contents in three gulps. "Tastes the same," he murmured, sinking back against the pillows, and through slitted eyes, appraised her. "Well done."

She had no appreciation of how rare or fulsome this approval was for him.

She smiled and gazed at him with that rather devoted air she had, took up his hand and stroked it. "Poor Professor. These migraines are getting quite wicked. I feel I should contact my Aunt."

"Do you think your Aunt might know something about them?"

"Yes. And…and if they are getting worse, then she may have advice on…on how to reverse them."

The potion was taking effect already, steel bands were loosening, glass knives receding.

"Are they a side-effect of something you did while I was in the infirmary?" He already knew they weren't; he'd had them to a lesser degree as far back as the Triwizard Cup. But the way she talked…it was as if she thought the Aunt knew something. "If you think the Wicce may have a cure for these, then I need to know urgently, Diaphne. I can't go back to teaching like this."

She nodded slightly. "I'll contact her from home. I can't do it here. Dear Professor, will you be alright now? I left some potion remainder in the cauldron in case you need more soon. I need to go back to the Hospital Wing."

"Thank you, I will store that away."

She leant over then, and kissed the top of his head. As she'd used to.

Snape grabbed her by the wrist tightly and looked hard at her, unsmiling. "Diaphne, that was then."

"Professor? It was but a -,"

"I know what it was. We are here now. We are working here," he paused. "That was then."

"You mean it doesn't matter now? It was nothing? I was good enough for you then but not now?" she gazed at him, her greeny-grey eyes pools of perplexity, that faint regional accent of all Hogsmeade locals rising to the surface through her anxiety. Somewhere between Scots and northern Europe.

"It was nearly seven years ago."

A furious blush suffused her neck and cheeks. Her eyes were shining. "I don't care. I feel the same about you."

And with that, before he could answer and crush her further, she fled his rooms. When the door clicked shut, he closed his eyes, remorseful about the coup de grace, regretting that he'd hurt her when she had done so much for him, wondering what it was about Hogwarts that it seemed to effect such turmoil in his life. But also, he reflected on her words. I feel the same about you.

It was Friday 4th August. The July heatwave was over, but it was still dry and sunny in London, good conditions for shopping on Diagon Alley. Snape had arrived earlier than the appointed meeting time in order to visit Gringotts. He had needed to reactivate his account which had been suspended after several years of non-use and withdraw funds as he was assuming the cost of Servius's school supplies would be down to him.

While he'd been busy, the nervousness he felt had simmered insistently. It had been the same the night before and afforded him only uneasy sleep. But now, as he sat alone at a table in The Leaky Cauldron, careful to select one that had enough chairs, annoying the bartender by drinking nothing stiffer than a glass of water, he was palpably jittery. The water in his glass wallowed a little as he raised it, hoping to ease the dryness in his mouth.

He didn't have to wait long. He could see the door from his seat, and when it opened and Candace Peacock came through, his heart lurched.

She waved briefly at the sight of him and turned to people behind her and urged them through, often a necessity when bringing visitors to The Cauldron for the first time, particularly Muggle-borns, who thought they were being coaxed into a derelict hovel.

Snape stood, eyes fixed on the door. Candace was followed by two elderly Muggles dressed for a summer day-trip, and a boy. Servius.

As they all approached his table in a confounded daze, the grandparents in particular having the appearance of having emerged from behind fur coats in a closet, Snape stared at the boy. Servius was staring at him. Neither smiled.

Candace said, "Here we all are!" with the slightly awkward false cheer of a tour-guide. "Mr and Mrs Burbage – this is Professor Severus Snape." A short interlude of salutations and hand shaking. Then Candace said, "And Professor – this is Servius. Servius – this is your father."

He was an attractive child, that was true, Snape had seen enough eleven-year olds to be able to discriminate finely. The boy's eyes were his own – black, almond-shaped, critical. He had a thick mop of black hair, straight, that required frequent flipping out of his eyes. Smooth olive complexion and even features: Charity's genes had apparently taken a lead in the necessary places. He was a respectable height, with the lean, coltish lankiness that so many of his age sported, devoid of any muscular definition. Dressed in jeans, overly embellished trainers and a hooded sweatshirt with a nonsensical logo on the front, there was nothing in his looks or manner that would have caused a casual eye to notice him in a British crowd. Nothing in his appearance - in the expensive clothes he wore, in the professionally tended hair, in the even, straight teeth - indicated any form of struggle or strife. What Snape found difficult to warm to was an attitude broadcast loudly of utter contempt.

Snape put forward his hand and Servius took it limply then withdrew it immediately. Snape frowned. Had the child been a student, he would have corrected that swiftly.

"Servius, say hello to your Dad," said Mr Burbage.

"Hi."

"Hello," returned Snape and felt like saying that it was enough for today, goodbye. "Have you been to Diagon Alley before?"

"Nup."

Candace said, "Servius goes to a Muggle school and, well, it was a bit of surprise, the letter from Hogwarts wasn't it?"

"I'm not going," said Servius, glaring at Snape. "I like my school."

"You would be going to a different secondary school anyway." Their first argument, Snape wondered.

"Yeah, with all me mates."

"My mates," said Mrs Burbage. "My mates."

"I hate Scotland," added Servius.

Snape was flummoxed. He'd never met a child who wasn't interested in the prospect of magic. He turned to Candace. "You did…explain Hogwarts to him?"

Candace raised a discouraged brow. "Most certainly. In detail. Including Quidditch."

"You're aware your mother was a teacher at Hogwarts?'

"Mr Snape," interjected Mr Burbage quickly. "We've talked to Servius at length about his mother. I'm afraid the idea of attending the school away from home is a bit of an adjustment for him. How about we have a drink?"

"Great idea," said Candace. "Butterbeer for everyone?"

"Oh, uh beer? It's not even 11am," said Mrs Burbage in consternation. "Perhaps just a lemonade for me." She glanced about her furtively at a table not far away with some wizards puffing on pipes. "Are you still allowed to smoke in here?" she whispered.

"Lemonade for all of us," said Mr Burbage stoutly. "Oh, em, sorry Mr Snape, you go ahead."

Snape's eyes met Candace's and he said. "The same for me."

She went to the bar to order the drinks and Snape sat back woodenly in his chair. Servius slouched down in a seat opposite him and reached over to the roomy tote bag belonging to his grandmother. From within it he brought out some kind of electronic device, which he proceeded to grapple with.

"Well this is certainly a bit of a shock!" said Mr Burbage. "We'd only just started recovering from the news about Charity when we were told that you had died as well. It's been hard on Servius, I can tell you."

Snape cleared his throat. He'd wondered how to answer to this inevitable question and decided to take Candace's angle. "I apologise. I was unaware of…of Servius."

"Charity told me she'd told you!" said Mrs Burbage immediately, looking more alarmed than anything.

"She may have. I'm afraid I didn't receive the message." This was only a slight deviation on the truth.

"Do you know what happened to Charity?" asked Mrs Burbage suddenly, eyes round and desperate, and she leaned towards him. "We had nothing. No information. Nothing to bury."

Servius looked up from his device. His eyes were unfathomable.

Snape scanned frantically around for something to say, the image of Charity Burbage suspended and rotating, dominating his inner vision accusingly, daring him almost to speak the truth. As she had. But he said, "Uh -,"

"Martha," said Mr Burbage. "I'm sure we have lots of time to get to know Mr Snape a little better. This is Servius's day. Eh? Here's our lemonade."

Candace brought back a tray with five tall glasses. She handed out the drinks then sat down next to Snape and smiled brightly. It was a strange look on her.

Servius said to her, "He doesn't know what happened to my Mum."

"Boy!" said Mr Burbage, looking abruptly very stern. Snape got the impression a mask had slipped slightly. Mrs Burbage jumped in. "This is hard for all of us."

Candace looked uncomfortable and cocked a brow, opting to take a long drink instead of answering.

Snape said to the grandparents, "I don't know how much Professor Burbage, I mean Charity, told you about the war. Your daughter was one of the fallen. But she…but she has been honoured for her service, she was always dedicated to teaching about peace and tolerance."

Mrs Burbage listened to him enrapt, hanging on to every word. She seemed mildly comforted by his measured tone and carefully selected words.

"Good lord!" said Mr Burbage suddenly, and he leaned over to nudge Servius. "Look!"

Turning to look, Snape saw the bartender had come out from behind the bar with several trays of drinks. Using a hover charm, he was directing them in front of him towards a busy table at the back of the pub. It was workaday magic, literally, but it struck him how much Servius was going to be uninitiated. He saw that Servius had shrugged, even though he discreetly watched the trays being delivered, the glasses being hovered to each drinker, and then he held up his gadget.

"My Gameboy isn't working. Ma, I need new batteries."

"Oh, Servius, remember I told you about electricity," said Candace. "Those games won't work in the Wizarding world."

Servius scowled at her, then snorted under his breath. "Wizarding world!" He dropped the game onto the table with a loud clatter.

Snape stared at him and Servius attempted to hold his eyes but dropped them.

"Servius is very good with computers," said Mrs Burbage. "Does Hogwarts have computer studies? I'm quite keen for him to build on his strengths."

"Didn't you just hear what Candace said," blustered Mr Burbage. "No electricity in their world. Charity must've told you that a hundred times."

"You were the one always asking why you couldn't phone her!"

Snape said moderately, "No, I'm afraid no computer studies. Computers aren't necessary for magic."

"What!" said Servius. "How'm I supposed to find stuff out?"

"The way people found stuff out before computers."

It was hard for Servius to find room for any more derision on his features.

Snape breathed in hard. "Perhaps Hogwarts isn't for Servius. It's not compulsory, after all. I know Charity would have wanted it, but I imagine she also wouldn't have wanted Servius to be unhappy."

He had no idea what Charity did or didn't want for her son. But given what he had uncovered about her, he couldn't believe she would have been indifferent to his wellbeing. Clearly he'd be miserable at Hogwarts. And frankly, there would be no pleasure for Snape from the boy attending.

But Mr Burbage sat upright. "Servius is going to Hogwarts because, as you say, Charity would have wanted it. She said so right from when he was a baby. And Servius has a lot of magic, I think it would be good for him to learn how to use it properly."

"A lot of magic?" inquired Snape. It was the first positive thing he'd heard. "Such as?"

"Pa…" said Servius looking irritable and a touch embarrassed.

"Well he can slam doors shut without touching them. And once he made a pigeon fall out of the sky. And he can tell if an egg is rotten."

Snape's brows furrowed. "All those things are incidental…"

Candace said subtly, "I have seen Servius hex someone."

Snape looked sharply at her. "Hex someone? What do you mean?"

"It was on the train. A passenger was being loud and obnoxious and Servius stuck him to his seat."

Servius smirked and snorted laughter at the memory of it.

"The unpleasant passenger reached his stop, but when he tried to stand up, he couldn't," Candace continued. "He was stuck, stuck fast. It wasn't enough magic that any Muggle suspected anything paranormal, but the passenger missed several stops I believe. The hex wore off in a short amount of time. But Servius was definitely responsible."

Snape looked to Servius, who shrugged. "He deserved it. Wanker." Mrs Burbage smacked his knee.

"How long ago was that?'

"Couple of years ago," said Servius, and flipped hair out of his eyes. "I've done that sort of thing to loads of idiots at school. What did you call it?"

"A hex. Like a curse or prank magic."

"Yeah. That's the one."

Snape was staring again. His son's natural ability was in hexing and jinxing. Was that even a thing? Normally a child exhibiting their first uncontrolled magic would move objects about – usually to their advantage, such as a crude accio. Sometimes the latent magic manifested as a result of extreme, heightened emotion, in which case objects would be randomly assaulted, or people pushed. Other times it would be in inadvertent self-preservation: throwing something between themselves and an antagonist, removing themselves from an attack, or doing something to the attacker. Snape had never heard of uncontrolled magic taking the form of a methodical, calculated or intentional plan.

"Well then," he said uncertainly, thinking back on his own teenage days, part revenge, part self-defence. By eleven, he'd been tutored by his mother and had mastered many of the fundamentals that first years hadn't even heard of, especially Muggle-born and Muggle-raised. But hexes and jinxes? That had taken study. "Well then, that's something. But hexing and jinxing is not allowed at Hogwarts."

"Oh no, don't worry, Servius will be good," said Mr Burbage. "I just think it's the best place for him to learn how to use his magic…properly. And safely. He's been getting into a bit of trouble at school, you see. His mother, she enjoyed the company of people…more like herself."

"Hogwarts is not a…an asylum, Mr Burbage. It's a school," said Snape. He sensed Servius's grandparents were looking forward to a bit of respite from their challenging grandchild.

"See. Doesn't want me to go," muttered Servius, tossing his head to shift his hair. He seemed to have no idea what to do with his hands, and drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. Instead of sounding glad or defiant, he took a denunciative tone, his suspicions having been confirmed.

"But Mr Snape," said Mrs Burbage. "You need to get to know your son. I know you didn't get the message from Charity, but she always talked about how…how happy you would be when you could get back together."

Snape lifted his eyes to the older woman, saw the sincerity there. Charity Burbage had held a future for them in her mind, had been biding time, had nurtured a plan for them as a family. Snape glanced back at Servius and was freshly assaulted at the dissonance of being a stranger in his own history, and apparently his own future.

Servius wasn't looking at him. He was staring daggers at the table top.

"Oh, nearly forgot," said Mr Burbage. "Martha – have you got that birth certificate for Mr Snape?"

Suddenly reminded, Mrs Burbage blinked rapidly and she went to her bottomless tote bag and withdrew an A4 envelope which she handed to Snape. Candace murmured to him, "I asked them to bring it. But look at Servius. Do you really need any more proof?"

Snape didn't really. But he removed the certificate from its envelope anyway and glanced it over. The wax stamp was real, and he read his son's name: James Servius Snape. Then his own name as father: Severus Snape. And then the mother: Charity Margaret Burbage. He looked it over a few times, this rather innocuous piece of Muggle parchment with its red, round stamp of authenticity, adding James Servius Snape to its British population, registering him, identifying him, acknowledging him. According to Muggle bureaucracy, Servius existed whether Snape chose to accept that or not. And if Snape did not accept it, then the onus of proof was on him.

His hands had recommenced their trembling, and it took two attempts to slide the certificate back into the slim envelope. He handed it back to Mrs Burbage, but she said, "Would you like to keep it, Mr Snape? You're his father after all. We are only guardians of Servius, we haven't adopted him."

Servius was glaring at him. And it occurred to Snape that not once, apparently, had the child questioned whether Snape was really his father. Angry at him, certainly, rejecting him, yes, it would appear. But not doubt, so far. Snape realised how insulting it would be to have your own flesh and blood repeatedly challenge – object to – your validity, something you'd had no control over.

Snape couldn't help a frown, but he looked at Servius, at the burning black eyes of the boy, and said, drawing the envelope back towards himself, "Thank you. I shall keep it. I shall take excellent care of it."