As Severus stared into a pair of jet black eyes, identical to his own, all thoughts of this child ever being anonymous, or wanted by anyone, were struck from his mind. With those eyes, it would be clear to anyone who his father was. And no one wanted to raise the child of a death eater. As Alice had made clear, not even another death eater. Let alone the son of the man who murdered Albus Dumbledore. His son would be just as ostracised as he was. Because he was his son.

"It's just me and you then, little man" he said softly. And sat in the dingy flat in muggle London, covered in blood, shit and filth, wearing his only pair of robes he held his newborn son, and wept.

He shook the tears off after a while, when the baby in his arms pressed closer to his chest with a whimper. Inhaling deeply, letting out a noise of frustration and growling at himself for the foolishness and uselessness of his tears, he set his thoughts to action.

Taking stock of his surroundings, he wondered where to begin. There were a few shabby looking baby items, most had tags on them showing they'd either been purchased (or stolen) from a muggle charity shop.

There was a worn old preloved baby blanket, sitting as yet unused by the bed. She'd obviously bought it in preparation for the baby but then decided not to use it, when she realised the child was Severus's and not her husbands. He fought another constricting pain in his chest at the thought of his child laying there cold and unwanted, because of who his father was. He was causing his son pain and suffering before he'd even met him. "I'm sorry" He whispered to his whimpering son. "I'm so so sorry my son".

He picked the blanket up, and gingerly wrapped it around his son, despite the mess covering the babe. His impressive mind was drawing a blank, having never dealt with young babies or their needs before, especially not newborns.

What does he need? Think Severus think!

Muggle hospitals were out of the question, they'd take one look at him and the child would be in the care service and he'd be a guest of her majesty' prison service. Especially with no form of muggle identification, and the ministry imposed restrictions on his wand. Attempting to cast any kind of confundus or obliviate on muggles would have Aurors down on him in an instant to drag him back to Azkaban. No, the muggles were not an option. They'd take one look at him, his whipcord thin frame and his tattered clothes and think he was some smacked out addict.
St. Mungo's was also out of the question, death eaters and their ilk were no longer entitled to free health care like the rest of the wizarding world, besides even if he could afford the cost, he couldn't take the risk that they would likewise take his son from him, accusing him of neglect... only to bundle him off to a monstrous care facility with even worse prospects. No, that was not an option either.

He had never dreamed of being a father, but as he looked at the whimpering bundle in his arms a fierce protectiveness rose in him. This was his son. His Son. And nobody would take him away from him.

He needs food. And care and love. The thought popped into his mind.

Well, he could at least provide the last one. He pressed a kiss to the child's head as he paced, the gesture was foreign to him, but instinct guided him as he spoke in soothing low tones to the whimpering baby.

Why is he not crying? Babies cry, don't they? Is he sick?

Severus looked him over, his lips were no longer blue as he had warmed in Severus's arms and he was moving more freely than when he'd first arrived now that he'd warmed up. He gently felt the boy's skin, and it was indeed dry and pinched.

He's dehydrated, he needs food, but what? How?... Bottles!

Hunting around the room, his new mission fuelling his motion, still cradling the boy against his chest, he went on the search for a baby bottle. A few frantic minutes later, it was clear there was none to be found.

I need bottles and...milk? or is it formula? How do I know which he needs?

There was another whimper from the boy, and what sounded like a small burp, before he started whimpering louder and fidgeting, which made some filth rub off onto Severus's robes.

He needs to be cleaned that's for sure. He thought with a wince. The boy was covered in all manner of birthing mess. He gingerly took in his son's stomach, noting the remains of the umbilical also still somewhat attached.

They're meant to cut these off right? But where? How? I don't want to hurt him. He needs bathing, but his skin's dry and sore under this mess... what do I use? What If I get the water too cold and give him a chill? or too hot and hurt him? Can I use soap? What if it irritates his skin?

There was certainly no way he could bathe him at his bedsit. Unable and unwilling to afford the cost of the bills, the gas had been shut off, and without the use of constant heating charms the water only ran cold. He hadn't cared, his Azkaban stay had ensured that Severus did not care to shower ever again, and instead would just wash himself in cold water from the sink when he became too ripe, and the cheap soap he procured from the muggle supermarket had even made his skin itch, so there was no way he was going to subject his son to that.

A quick foray into Alice's bathroom found nothing of use, and the water was disconnected as well. There were so many things he needed. He vaguely remembered from his childhood, visiting a neighbour with a young child when he was still a small child himself. They had a special bath to put the baby in, a cot for it to sleep in, various bottles and so much more, and they were a poor mill family struggling by on the absolute basics.

Totting up in his head, he thought of the handful of galleons he had to his name, the rent the he was already overdue and with no real way of earning any more money any time soon. Choking back a sob he collapsed to his arse on the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the wall. He cradled the boy to his chest as angry tears made their way down his face, and he hissed through his teeth as he attempted to get his sobs under control.

This will not do. I cannot stay here and think with the rotting corpse of his mother still in the other room.

Standing, he accio'd whatever baby products he could find, as he searched for anything of use or value. Of which there was of course nothing. He gently placed the boy in the plastic muggle carrier seat and holding it tightly, apparated back to his bedsit.

Looking around the dingy room when he settled, he pressed his forehead gently to his sons.

This is no better. He deserves better than me, better than this. There's no gas or electric, there's a draught from the walls and I cannot afford the rent I owe nor to feed myself, let alone him.

He needed help. It mortally wounded his pride to go begging, cap in hand to someone, but it was not just him he had to worry about anymore. He could not go to Hogwarts, he wouldn't put Minerva in that position. Anyone he knew from the ranks of death eaters either despised him or were in a similar or worse position than him. Likewise the majority of the order of the phoenix, though accepted the truth of his actions, still saw him as the man that killed Dumbledore and would prefer it if he just disappeared.

Except.

There was one.

And he cursed himself of not thinking of her before now.

One who always stood up for him, who saw through the mask he had to wear. Who always treated him with respect, even when at times he didn't deserve it.

One who had fought tooth and nail for his release from Azkaban, when most would've been happy to see him rot.

Wiping his tears, he gathered together what little of the baby things he had found, and searched frantically through the drawer. Finding the piece of parchment he'd been looking for, he checked the address and apparated away from his dingy bedsit, and to the one place he hoped and prayed he'd find the help he needed.