You find Snape in the gallery of the library, under the watchful eyes of the family portraits. You watch as he salutes your Great-Uncle Henry with something stronger than Butterbeer.

"Arrogant pup," Uncle Henry mutters. Snape offers him an obscene gesture, and you can't help it: you laugh.

Snape turns to you, and you can see that he's pretty well potted on your father's brandy.

"Fuck off, Potter," he snarls.

"My house, Snape."

He shakes his head, and his hair hides his eyes. "Just leave me alone."

"Can't do it. It's easier to watch you now than to count the silver after you're gone."

Your mouth is always running away from you. The words hang in the air between you.

It shouldn't matter. It should just be added to a lifetime of sniping and fighting. You've known Severus Snape for nine years, and in that time, you've only ever done one good thing for him.

You saved his life.

That lies between you as well.

He glares at you for a second, then looks away. You abandon your Butterbeer for the brandy. He doesn't complain. It doesn't belong to him, after all.

"Is he – is my father—" He stops. "We didn't want him to come," he says. "We knew it would be humiliating."

There is nothing you can say.

"My mother wanted to come alone."

"Why?" you ask, before you can stop yourself. He looks at you contemptuously.

"Gryffindors," he mutters. "Are you going to make me spell it out?"

"No."

You mean it as a kindness, but he takes it as pity.

"You must feel so special," he says softly. "The cherished son of a great family. The Head Boy, the almighty fucking Quidditch hero, surrounded by your minions and miscreants ... friends with fucking werewolves and murderers..." His voice slurs. "Bloody Potter," he mumbles.

"I don't do it to spite you, Snape," you say.

"Oh, good."

You drink, and the brandy burns your throat and chest. Your head spins and you say, "I had a brother, once. A little brother."

"That's nice." His voice is sardonic, but he looks curious anyway. "What happened to him?"

"Poison."

"What kind?" Now the curiousity is almost professional: Snape is the kind of voyeur who'd stop to look at splinchings and murders.

"I don't fucking know." Your teeth are clenched, and Uncle Henry sputters indignantly at your language.

"This is a family affair," his portrait says.

"Fuck off, you second rate Pre-Raphaelite fop." This strikes you as being remarkably witty, and you laugh. You'll have to tell that one to Sirius, when you get back to school.

Of course, that would probably involve telling Sirius that you spent Christmas drinking with Snape, so there's that idea out the window.

Snape watches you, and waits for the laughter to pass.

"What happened to your brother?" he asks.

"I told you. Poison."

"Why?"

Uncle Henry has disappeared, probably to tell your father that his precious son is blabbing.

"Come on," you say, "not here."  >> next chapter >>