December 25th, 1991
For the second night in a row – of all good days of the year, on Christmas Day, Severus Snape sat alone in his Hogwarts office. He was mildly pleased with the world.

First of all, because his students had behaved admirably during Christmas Lunch. That was one wager won, and one bottle of excellent sherry Flitwick would have to hand over.

Secondly, because his Slytherins had been so very pleased with their cake. They had loved the decorations, they had boasted about it to the Gryffindors, who had received nothing. For which he didn't blame Minerva, Merlin, no. That Gryffindor lot shouldn't get sugar on any occasion, as the events at Halloween had shown. Stuff Gryffindors with pumpkin pie and treats, and they think they can trick a mountain troll – single-handedly, too.

But those who deserved cake had got it, and they had been becomingly grateful.

And now he'd deliver his package to Minerva's office. All was quiet, everyone was asleep. And after the day's food frenzy it would be a proper, deep sleep.

Snape set off on his errand. He had decided to go by way of the library, not via the back stairs. The back stairs were too dangerous, as previous experience had shown. There was always the small chance that either a student or the irrepressible Head of Ravenclaw would fancy another piece of cake and raid the kitchens. But no-one, absolutely no-one at all, would want to go to the library on the evening of Christmas Day.

Except, perhaps, Miss Granger. But she had not stayed at Hogwarts. All would be well.

It was when Snape arrived at that pleasant thought that a piercing scream roughly shattered the silence of the night.

In different stories, set in different castles, this would be where the hero faces either a Nameless Horror, or a Savage Beast, or, worst of all, a Damsel in Distress to save and subsequently marry, for such is the unenviable fate of Brave Heroes.

But this story is set in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, so our hero merely said, "Oh, damn. Now what?" In a rather peevish manner, too, but as my Readers will remember, I did warn them that this would be a Snapely Tale. There's only so much an author can do with their protagonist. Unless one actually is Charles Dickens, in which case everything is possible.

To return to our hero, whom we had left making his way to the library, he got the answer to his irritated query at once.

It was Filch.

Not that Argus Filch was the screamer. He was made of sterner stuff. But he had caught someone in the Restricted Section. And that someone had opened a book on the darkest of Dark Magic. The book had screamed and had given the intruder away. It had to be either a student, Snape thought, or else it was … it had to be Quirrell, on the prowl once more. He, too, would have considered the relative safety of this particular night where secret missions were concerned.

Snape hastened after Filch, who led him in the direction in which the footsteps of the intruder had disappeared.

There was nothing and no-one to be seen in the dimly-lit corridor. Except – was it real, or imagined? Did the door to that one, particular, disused classroom really open a bit further? And was there a brief change in the stillness of the shadows, an interruption that suggested that something, someone – invisible, but distinctly corporeal, or the small beam of moonlight would have shone right through him – had entered the room? If that was the case …

Snape quickly dismissed Filch. Since he was a Squib, the man would be no help. And if someone was truly after The Philosopher's Stone, he, Snape, wouldn't have time to protect Filch. Filch might get hurt, and a man who wanted to bring back thumbscrews didn't deserve that. Not on Christmas Day. Not at any time, of course. It was not as if there was anything special about December 25th.

Snape cast Mufflatio spells all over the door and the floorboards, until he was quite certain that nothing would creak or groan. Then he opened the door a bit further.

There was the mirror. And in front of it, on his knees …

Potter.

Damn and blast him. Potter!

Oh, Argus Filch, Snape thought, where are your thumbscrews when a man needs them?

Potter was oblivious to the rest of the world. He stared into the mirror open-mouthed; the expression on his face was even more vacant than usual.

Saw himself win the Quidditch Cup, of course. That would be just like him. He was too young for fantasies about kissing a girl, and the likes of Potter didn't dream of academic successes.

Potter stretched out his hand. Did the stupid boy think he could touch whatever he saw? That it was real?

Or – Sweet Merlin! Did he know what was in there, did he want to take the Philosopher's Stone – for whatever demented reason of his own?

No. Even if that was the case, he couldn't succeed. Those were not the terms on which the Stone would surrender itself. And besides, Potter, Muggle-raised as he was, wouldn't have heard of the Stone. Wouldn't have realised what it could do.

And even if he knew, he wouldn't want it. Snape was pleased to find he could think rationally again, after that one moment of fear. Potter was eleven years old; at that age one thinks oneself immortal. What use would he have for the Philosopher's Stone?

Potter still stared raptly at whatever Erised reflected. He reached out again.

"Mum? Dad?"

It was barely a whisper. So that was what he saw. Lily and that twerp. Obviously. The boy wanted his parents. Especially since he didn't know his father. It was a good thing the mirror didn't fulfil the desires it showed. The reality of James Potter would be a sad disappointment.

But not the reality of Lily, of course. She would be quite an improvement on that sister of hers. Snape remembered Petunia all too well. Naturally the boy was pleased to see his mother.

Only, he didn't sound pleased. Surprised, was more like it. "Mum? Dad?" It had been a question. A wondering question, as in, "Mum? Are you my Mum?" rather than, "Mum, what are you doing in a mirror?"

Harry had never seen his mother, then? Never seen a picture of Lily? Petunia – Lily's sister! – had never shown him a picture?

Snape remembered the spiteful, pinched face of the girl Petunia. It was possible. There were mitigating circumstances, even. Raising Potter's brat couldn't be an enviable task. But still. Lily. Her own son didn't know her at all.

Snape took another good look at the boy, who still stared into the mirror, but now with a wide smile on his face.

He couldn't step up behind him to drag him back to bed where he belonged. For what would Erised reflect when he, Snape, appeared in front of it? Not James Potter, that much was certain.

But.

But there was always the chance that it would show Lily and …

It was bad enough that Albus knew. Snape had no intention whatsoever to relive his past, even though Erised would show the desired acceptance of his suit, rather than the reality of rejection.

Snape considered his options.

Actually, he thought, all things considered, it might not be such a very bad idea to let the boy have his night. It would save him, Snape, the humiliation of a lifetime.

Well, not perhaps the worst humiliation of his life. But still not one he was willing to risk for the Potter spawn.

Potter kept staring and smiling, oblivious to his surroundings. And Lily would want her son to know her.

Soundlessly, Snape retired and made his way to his own rooms.

It was only when he was in bed that he remembered his original plan: to deliver Minerva's present.

Ah, well.

Tomorrow, then.

*To Be Continued*