Eight years. Sometimes Severus Snape had difficulty believing that it had been that long since Thomas Riddle was finally forced to shed his mortal coils and remain decently dead, but then Snape would look up and see Minerva McGonagall sitting in the headmaster's seat and that same gaping loss that he felt every blasted day would hit him. Then he'd have no trouble accepting how long it had been since their beloved mad hatter of a headmaster had made the ultimate sacrifice for their cause.

Who would have thought he'd miss those aggravating teas so much? But there were days he'd kill to hear Albus' sleepy voice offer him one of those loathsome lemon drops or force a biscuit upon him.

And it wasn't just Albus' absence that was felt. He and Minerva were among the last of the old guard, two of the few left of the Hogwarts' teachers who had survived Voldemort's assault on the school. He looked down the holly-strewn, Christmas feast table at Hogwart's current staff.

Trelawney was still here. Their resident psychic probably wouldn't have even noticed Voldemort's arrival until the blighter banged on her trap door, Snape unkindly, but truthfully, acknowledged. Professor Sinistra was the only other pre-war teacher who remained. Aside from Binns, of course, but Snape wasn't entirely sure that a man who wasn't alive enough to know that he'd died really counted.

The more honest part of his nature warned him of the hypocrisy of berating Binns. After all, was there really that much difference between Binns and himself? Aside from the fact that Snape showed up in the Great Hall for meals and actually consumed them, there was little to distinguish him from the ghost.

The remainder of the teachers' chairs were filled with the most talented of their former students. Although Snape wasn't certain he would ever have placed Neville Longbottom in that category, he reluctantly gave Longbottom his due and admitted that the man was a genius when it came to herbology. Beside him were the famous three - Potter, Weasley, and Granger, teaching Dark Arts, Quidditch, and Arithmancy, respectively. The blond man next to Granger was Callis Miller, a former Ravenclaw who now taught Charms. His perfect looks put Snape in mind of Lockhardt, only Miller's arrogance was far more offensive than Lockhardt's braggadocio had ever been. Further down the table, the Muggle Studies professor, Alicia Crenshaw, sat deep in conversation with Sinistra. Crenshaw's short, robust blondness was a sharp contrast to the Astronomy teacher's slender darkness. The final addition was from Snape's own house. Blaise Zabini had taken over Transfiguration once Minerva had assumed the headmaster's position, which pleased Snape no end. For a while there, it had seemed that those damn Gryffindors were going to take over the entire school.

Snape grudgingly admitted that the newcomers were a competent lot, but when he looked down the teachers' table at the absurdly young faces of people who'd been students in his own classroom less than a decade ago, he felt positively ancient.

Hardly a new experience, but these days he just didn't seem to be able to shake the malingering malaise.

Once he'd longed for Voldemort's defeat, desperately yearning for an end to the danger and lies that were the very fabric of his existence as a spy. All he'd wanted back then was to be free of his obligations. Strange, in all those years of anticipating an end to his servitude to that monster, Snape had never really planned on what he'd do with his freedom when he got it. And now with the Christmas festivities marking the passing of yet another year, Snape found himself looking back on these past eight years and realizing how precious little he'd done with that hard earned freedom.

With each passing day, he was becoming acutely aware that he had less of a life than some of the house ghosts. He went to meals, attended to the duties of his House and Potions classes, monitored detentions, spent what little spare time remaining on his private research, but inside, he felt as dead as Binns. He was only forty-eight years old, still a young man in his prime by wizards' standards, and yet, he felt old and used up.

Nothing moved him anymore, on any but the most superficial of levels. Oh, he could terrify children and treat his insipid co-workers to a scathing retort every now and then. He had only to glower down the table at Longbottom to reduce the man to a fork-dropping wreak, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. Hadn't been since Albus' death, were he to be honest. He was just existing these days, biding his time.

Waiting for death?

The morbidity of the thought sickened him. He was not a sentimental man. He was not given to self-pity. Wallowing was not his style.

But he was self-aware enough to recognize that the death of the sole friend he'd made in his lifetime had changed him in ways he couldn't begin to understand. He'd been alone his entire life. His childhood and adolescence had been miserable, but as an adult he'd come to appreciate solitude.

But lately he'd learned the difference between being alone and being lonely. Albus' death had changed his close-guarded solitude into soul draining loneliness, and he hadn't a clue how to alleviate his problem. He'd never asked for Dumbledore's friendship, and, consequently, had never realized how very much he depended upon it until it was gone. Not surprisingly, no queue had formed to take on Albus' dubious honour of being Hogwart's misanthropic potions master's only friend.

For the longest time, he hadn't even recognized the need for human contact in his life, but now that he was aware of that . . . lack, Snape had no idea how to change things.

How did a vetted curmudgeon attract friends? His colleagues were all good people, almost simpering with kindness (and that type of thought was definitely not going to win him friends or influence people, he chided himself). If he made a friendly overture, surely one of them would respond in kind, providing he didn't kill the unsuspecting soul with the shock of Severus Snape attempting to be pleasant.

But he'd spent the last thirty years in this school snarling to keep others at bay. He didn't know how to make small talk or how to exchange pleasantries. Hell, he couldn't even return his colleagues' *Happy Christmas* greetings this morning without making his response into a sneer.

His pride wouldn't allow him to appear weak, to admit to this unexpected need. After all, he'd turned self-sufficiency into an art form. And beyond that, he didn't *want* to be pleasant. He didn't want to transform himself into some blithering simpleton. Albus had never required him to change, had accepted him the way he was – greasy hair, snarls, death mark, and all. Surely, there must be one other soul somewhere who could be equally accommodating. All he really wanted was not to be so eternally alone, to have someone to share the occasional intelligent conversation with, someone who didn't tense up when he entered a room. It didn't seem like too much to ask from life.

And perhaps it wasn't, for normal people – for those who had never made mistakes too big to be forgiven; for those who would happily suffer fools, in short, for those who were worthy of friendship – people like Potter and his friends.

He had only to glance two empty seats to his left to where the fabled three sat with their heads close together to find proof of that. Not one of them had ever had difficulty attracting companions. Even now they were doing it as they worked to make the nervous students sitting at the teachers' table for the holiday meal feel less anxious.

The two Gryffindor second year boys, first year Hufflepuff girl, and second year Ravenclaw boy still looked like they were afraid to eat at the same table with their teachers, but Potter and Weasley were doing their best to dispel the children's nervousness.

Snape didn't know why they were bothering. It had been his experience that nervous children were far less likely to misbehave than those at ease.

He frowned at his co-workers' antics, not sure if his displeasure came from sheer envy or his disapproval of Potter and Weasley's unseemly behaviour. They were Hogwarts professors, for heaven's sake, not circus clowns. But the pair were currently acting like the half-time entertainment during a World Quidditch Cup Match. They were regaling the four wide-eyed students sitting across from them with an impromptu drumming session of seasonal carols on their plates and goblets.

From their expressions, it was clear that their pupils had never suspected their teachers capable of childish antics such as the three infamous war veterans had displayed at the feast. Weasley was banging away on his empty gold plate with a denuded turkey leg, the resulting sounds bearing no resemblance to music or rhythm, Snape irritably noted. Potter was tapping his fork against his goblet in counterpoint, while Granger -- he could never think of anyone that brilliant as a *Weasley* -- made ineffectual requests to stop it and laughed at their tomfoolery.

The giggling trio didn't look like professors at all. Aside from Miss Granger's loss of common sense in joining the Weasley clan, little had changed since Snape had taught them.

They were taller, of course – all but Potter, he amended.

Once it would have pleased him immensely that his old nemesis' son had remained a skinny runt. But Snape no longer thought of the DADA professor with the unkempt black hair solely in terms of his father. They'd fought far too many battles together for Snape to make that kind of mistake. James would never have been able to unite them during the war the way Harry had. There had been too much conceit in the father for James to share the glory. But Harry . . . for all that Snape had considered the boy a glory hound in their earliest days together, he'd come to recognize that Potter hated his fame as much as Snape did.

And, looking at him now, Snape was forced to admit that Potter wasn't all that small. What normal sized man wouldn't appear dwarfed by Ronald Weasley's height? Weasley's wife had grown up long and lithe as well, so Potter looked doubly small sitting between them.

Still, Potter's compact stature was no handicap. It had served him well during the war and had afterwards made him the best professional Quidditch Seeker the Chudley Cannons had ever had.

And now?

Potter puzzled him these days.

Snape couldn't say with any certainty why the most famous man in the Wizarding World had even deigned to teach at Hogwarts, when the entire world was his for the taking. When the interim DADA professor had retired three years ago and Minerva had told Snape of her intention to offer the post to Potter, Snape had laughed in her face and told her that not even Potter would be fool enough to abandon a career that was making him the richest wizard of this age. But three weeks after McGonagall had sent her owl, Potter had shown up for the first staff meeting and had displayed no intention of leaving Hogwart's since.

In the blink of an eye, Potter had gone from unparalleled fame to utter obscurity. It made absolutely no sense to Snape. After his defeat of Voldemort and unparalleled Quidditch career, nothing had been beyond Harry Potter's reach. He could have pursued the more glamorous career of an auror or worked his way up the Ministry ladder. Hell, if he'd wanted to be Minister of Magic, all the Potter boy would have had to do was ask. But, instead, at Minerva's first request, he'd packed up his Firebolt, left his fame and fans behind, to return alone to Hogwart's, where he lived nearly as solitary a life as its despised potions master.

And, that, too, mystified Snape. Where it made sense for a misanthrope like himself to live the life of a cloistered monk here at Hogwarts, Harry was an attractive young man, barely twenty-six years of age. While Potter was with the Cannons, he'd had a very active social life. Though Snape had made no attempt to keep up with his former student's romantic conquests, there was no way you could live in the Wizarding World and not be aware of Potter's fling of the week, what with it being advertised on the cover of seemingly every publication, with the possible exception of Potions Weekly. But since Potter had arrived here, he hadn't dated at all, as far as Snape could tell.

Although they were discreet, all of the young professors seemed to have active romantic lives. Even Longbottom apparated somewhere every Friday and Saturday night. But Potter just stayed at the school, seemingly content to remain forever with the Weasleys as a third wheel.

"Ahum," Minerva cleared her throat from the end of the table, her blue stare focused on Weasley's instrument.

The lanky redhead dropped the turkey leg as if it had transfigured into a hot poker. The guilty expression on his freckled face was exactly the same one he'd worn when twelve. It set the four students sitting across from him off into another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Snape watched as Potter smoothly returned his fork to the table, with the same infuriating cool he'd always maintained when caught doing something forbidden.

"So," Potter said in his usual soft tone, as if they'd been doing nothing childish, "what did we decide? Is it essential to speak the spell to work magic?" McGonagall's gaze turned back to her own plate. "Or can it be done without words . . . without wands?"

"Oh, not that again," Granger complained. "I thought we'd settled that ages ago. We can't do real magic before we get wands or learn spells, so they are required."

"No," Potter mildly objected, "you decided that. We didn't. Did we, Ron?"

Weasley swallowed a large mouthful of pudding and answered, "I don't know, Harry. I was never able to do a thing before I came to school unless I snitched Fred or George's wand and used whatever incantation they'd been practicing around me."

"Well, I was able to make things happen when I was with the Dursleys without either wand or words," Potter said.

"But that's you, Harry," Granger said. "You've always been able to do things a lot of us can't."

"I think we just think we can't," Potter replied.

"Would you want to face a Death Eater without your voice or wand?" Weasley questioned.

Potter gave a subdued, "I have."

"Yes, but that's you," Weasley said. "Any of the rest of us would've been dead."

"I agree that we've come to rely on our wand and spells to the point that when they are denied to us, many of us are left as good as helpless, but I think that's because we believe we can't work magic without our props. I think if we were trained to do magic without wands, we could."

"In that case, why don't we just train the first years to fly without brooms?" Granger suggested with a sarcasm that rivalled Snape's own.

Weasley and the students laughed at the suggestion, but Potter replied, "Maybe we should."

"Harry, really!" Granger protested.

"Think about it Hermione. The brooms are made to be streamlined and fast, but they won't fly if a Muggle child sits on one. They don't work unless a wizard or witch mounts them. Wefly. The brooms don't. We don't use either wands or words to power them. They just work the way we want them to, the way we expect them to."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! The broom acts as a wand. It channels our power," Granger answered.

"But it's still us powering the flight, not the broom. What do you think, Professor?" Potter's bespectacled gaze slid past Weasley to settle upon him.

Snape could see how Potter's pulling him into the conversation had startled his two adult companions and horrified the students. It was clear the other six had all but forgotten that the reclusive potions master was even sitting there. But unlike Granger and Weasley, Potter had been an active field agent during the war. He was always aware when someone was observing him, even if that person appeared to be paying complete attention to his own meal.

Seeing that Potter really did want his opinion on the matter, Snape spoke slowly on the subject as his thoughts formed, "We are given wands . . . and taught incantations to focus the power with which we are born. Most wizards come to rely completely upon these tools to focus their magic. When their crutches are removed, those wizards dependent upon them are rendered as helpless as newborn babes. But there are those rare few who learn to rely on their magic itself, and not on the tools that channel it. Albus Dumbledore, the dark wizard Voldemort, Professors Quirrel, and Potter here are among those who have mastered wandless magic in our age."

"You neglected yourself in that list. The brewing of potions requires neither wands nor words, yet it takes formidable power to achieve a truly potent brew. That's why there are so few potions masters today," Potter remarked.

Snape stared hard at Potter's face, searching for some hidden insult, but the words appeared sincere. Startled by the compliment, Snape arched a brow and answered in his most condescending tone to cover his uneasiness, "It goes without saying that the brewing of potions requires a superior individual."

Weasley barely masked his snort. Granger's disdainful huff was only slightly less noticeable.

Potter's green eyes sparked with amusement behind his round glasses as he laughed aloud and answered, "But, of course."

"So, Professor Snape, you really believe that wandless magic is possible for all wizards, not just the very powerful ones like Harry?" Granger questioned.

"None of our Muggle-born students would be here at all, were it not," Snape pointed out.

She gave an embarrassed flush. "I never thought of that."

"Obviously," Snape drolly replied, earning a barely suppressed chuckle from Potter.

"What about words? Even Harry usually speaks when he uses wandless magic," Weasley challenged.

"Yes, but I have seen him cast spells without wand or voice," Snape responded.

"What about you? Can you work magic without using them?" Weasley demanded. "And I don't mean potion making, 'cause that's different. If someone were cursing you, could you defend yourself without lifting a hand or using your voice?"

"Like you, Professor Weasley, I prefer my crutches," Snape sourly admitted. "Especially my wand."

"But you still believe that children can be taught to work magic without either?" Ganger asked.

"I believe it is possible. I make no claims as to its practicality. It is difficult enough to teach some," Snape's gaze couldn't help but seek out Longbottom at that point, "with such props. And I believe there is an inherent danger to the idea."

"What danger?" Potter asked.

"When we recite an incantation, voice a spell, or wave a wand, we are making a conscious decision to use our power to affect a situation," Snape explained. All three of his co-workers nodded their understanding. "We have to stop, think, and focus before our will is executed. That delay, infinitesimal as it may be, gives the wizard an opportunity to consider the consequences of his use of magic in the situation. But should we remove those props and teach children to work magic by thought alone, what is to stop their every impulse from being executed by magic? Think of how many times a day, even as adults, we find ourselves wishing we could hex some bothersome fool. How often have all of us wished we could perform an Unforgivable Curse in some situation? Remove our props from the equation and we'd have bedlam."

"I never thought of that. But you're right. If all it took to work magic was a thought, neither Malfoy nor I would've made it through first year," Potter admitted.

And Potter's father would never have survived long enough to sire him, Snape thought. "Precisely."

"Has there been anything written on it?" Weasley asked, confirming Snape's suspicion that the man had never opened a book from the library that Granger hadn't put in front of him.

Granger rolled her eyes at her husband's ignorance and said, "Tomes. But most of them are theories. There has been surprisingly little empirical work done to back up the theories."

"The 17th century alchemist, Anton Chartier, did a very interesting treatise on his experiments on the nature of magic that dealt with these very issues," Snape said. "He took a group of twenty orphaned ten year old wizards and attempted to teach them wandless, wordless magic."

Granger's brown eyes grew as eager as a student's on the last day of class. "I haven't seen that one in the library."

"Only you would know what books the library doesn't have," Weasly mumbled beside her.

"Understandable enough, as it is part of my private collection. You are welcome to borrow it, if you'd like," Snape was surprised to hear himself offer.

"Thank you. I would," Granger said with a smile.

"I'll have it ready for you in the morning," Snape promised.

"So what happened in the study?" Potter asked.

"Eighteen of the test subjects died before age twelve. One of the two survivors spent his adolescence bound as a slave to the strongest of the group," Snape discretely edited, in light of their students' presence.

"And?" Potter prompted.

"Normally trained wizards could not stand up to Chartier's protégée. His magic was too fast, too raw. Chartier himself had touble controlling the boy. The boy was not quite up to Voldemort's level of malevolence, but he was a danger to the whole of the Wizarding World. Chartier finally ended up poisoning him at his sixteenth birthday celebration. The boy's companion tried to avenge his master's murder and Chartier killed him as well. A rather grim outcome to prove a theory, I'm afraid."

"No wonder nobody tries to teach magic without props," Granger said.

"But it did prove the theory. Propless magic is possible," Potter said.

"Perhaps," Snape said.

"What do you mean 'perhaps'? Chartier taught them to work propless magic," Potter argued.

"Perhaps he did teach them, but I don't believe so," Snape answered. "Eighty percent of his test subjects perished within months of the start of his experiment. That is approximately the number of wizards whose natural power levels aren't strong enough to work wandless magic. I believe one of his subjects was someone whose natural talents ran as high as your own, someone who could perform those same feats without props under duress."

"Where did you get that figure from? How do you know eighty percent can't perform wandless magic?" Potter questioned.

Snape was quiet for a moment, forming his thoughts. If he said this incorrectly, the results could be catastrophic. "I've taught at Hogwarts for nearly twenty-eight years. Each year, there are usually two such as yourself, Potter, wizards filled with such raw power that very little would be outside their reach if they worked to attain their potential. But as in all things, most people choose to take the easiest course in life, and those with extra potential learn to rely on their props and learn what they can't do, rather than take the initiative to explore their true capabilities."

"You said two every year," Granger jumped in. "Who was the second one our term?"

"Malfoy?" Weasley guessed.

Snape raised his right eyebrow and drolly offered his opinion, "Actually, it was Longbottom."

"Neville!" Granger exclaimed in such a loud voice that the object of their conversation looked their way.

"Yes, Hermione?" Longbottom called from the far end of the table, appearing nervous to even have to glance Snape's way.

"Ah . . . could you please pass the custard tarts?" Granger stammered.

Looking his usual, confused state, Longbottom obligingly handed down the plate of treats, diplomatically not mentioning that an identical plateful of sweets sat in easy reach of Granger.

"Surely, you're joking," Hermione whispered once she'd settled the platter next to her goblet.

"I assure you, I'm not. Neville Longbottom had the potential; he was simply terrified of his own powers," Snape said.

"How can you say that? He was . . . ." Looking at the four students across from him, who seemed absorbed in their own conversation, Weasley broke off, the *hopeless* they all heard remaining unvoiced.

Lowering his voice, Snape said, "He had tremendous raw power. Even completely harmless potions would explode around Mr. Longbottom. It's my understanding that he had similar results in every one of his classes. He could rarely produce the desired result, but his mistakes were always spectacular."

"He could be right," Potter thoughtfully added, "Remember our first flying lesson? The minute Neville held onto his broom, he was airborne."

"And he always transfigured his object into something, just not what we were trying to achieve," Granger reminded.

"Yeah, but, he was totally out of control," Weasley argued.

"Yes, but the potential was still there. If he'd learned to control it . . . that's what you're talking about, isn't it?" Potter asked.

Snape nodded, relieved that he hadn't been misinterpreted. There was a time when he would have been accused of using them all as guinea pigs in an experiment had he voiced these observations.

"So, if you're correct, what does happen to those two with potential?" Granger wondered. "Why isn't there a Harry and a Voldemort in every graduating class?"

Snape noted she was wise enough to understand that the power might pull them in different directions. "The same thing that happens to every child in school, whether wizard or muggle. They blend in with their peers. They believe the power strictures placed upon them and forget what they used to be able to do before they came for Wizarding training."

"So, what you're saying is that we train ourselves to believe that we can't do magic without words or wands to protect the Wizarding World as whole?" Weasley asked.

"In a sense." Snape nodded, thinking that this was the first conversation he'd ever had with Ronald Weasley that was bereft of animosity. It felt strange, but not unpleasant.

"I read a book about that last year, Wizard Training and its Crippling Effects on the Naturally Gifted by Rosa Lawrence," Granger said, continuing to describe the theory.

To Snape's utter astonishment, he realized that he was enjoying the conversation. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had so intellectually stimulating a debate, certainly, never at the Hogwarts dinner table.

As Potter, Granger and Snape discussed the various articles they'd read on the nature of magic, the bored children sitting across from them left the table one by one.

Snape could see how strange this was to them all. Although they'd worked together as colleagues for almost eight years now, his former students seemed almost nervous conversing with the potions master as equals. After almost every statement they made, the Weasleys seemed to hold their breath, as if waiting for Snape to explode on them like one of Longbottom's more spectacular mishaps. Potter was the only one who seemed relaxed, but then, he'd never had the sense to fear him

For once the Christmas evening meal did not seem an endless ordeal. In fact, Snape was almost disappointed when the last of the diners finished, leaving only the four of them keeping the house elves from their clean up tasks.

"I guess we'd better clear out," Weasley said at last. "We still have to change for the party. I'm not wearing my dress robes to the Three Broomsticks."

"Heaven forbid you look decent for more than an hour a year," Granger snarked.

"Very funny," Weasley grumbled.

"Ah, Professor Snape?" Potter seemed nervous as he turned back to him.

"Yes?" Snape answered.

"Rosmerta is having a Yuletide celebration this evening. A group of us are, ah, going, if you'd like to join us?" Potter asked.

Snape couldn't tell who was more shocked by the DADA teacher's invitation – himself or Potter's companions.

To his unending shock, Snape was genuinely tempted to accept, even though he normally loathed such sentimental foolishness. However, the expressions on the Weasleys' faces made it quite clear that his presence would put a definite damper on the festivities. Weasley looked as though Potter had just exposed himself before a class of first years. Though Granger's response was less obvious, she, too, appeared stunned.

"Unfortunately, I have some work to complete tonight, but thank you for the offer," Snape lied, without a trace of his trademark sarcasm.

He could see the relief flash across the Weasleys' faces, but Potter didn't seem to share their feelings. Although he didn't appear surprised by the rejection, there was something almost like regret in his pale green eyes as he said, "Perhaps another time then."

"Perhaps," Snape did not commit himself.

"Well, Happy Christmas, then," Potter wished, rising from the table.

Snape nodded as Potter's companions echoed the sentiment.

As the trio left, he heard the tall redhead demand in what passed for a whisper in the Weasley universe, "Have you lost your mind, Harry? What if he'd agreed to go?"

Snape strained his ears for the response. But Potter had a modicum of discretion and whatever he said went no further than his companions. By the time Snape had even considered a sound enhancing charm, the three were out of the Great Hall.

Besides, even if he had had the presence of mind to work the spell, wizards of Potter and Granger's sensitivity would have been immediately aware of his actions.

His heart more heavy than it had been at the start of the evening, Snape returned to his quarters, doing his best to ignore the flashing strings of lights, real fairies, and carolling suits of armour on his way back to the dungeons.

His private rooms were blessedly free of seasonal cheer. But only in that way were they lacking. He remembered the few times he'd had visitors to his chambers. They had always seemed surprised that Snape's rooms did not reflect the asceticism his sombre clothes and demeanour suggested. He supposed that the well-lit, book lined sitting room with its lush brown rug, Slytherin green velvet couch, wing backed arm chairs, and highly polished mahogany desk, end and side tables didn't jibe with most people's expectations, but Voldemort's hospitality had convinced him at quite an early age that minimalism could be taken too far.

The book he'd started that afternoon on the possible use of the deadly mandrake root in a truth serum consumed the remainder of the night.

Hours later, Snape finally closed the tome. What an incredible waste of time! Six hundred pages of theory, all for a concoction that killed its test subjects. The fact that the drug had forced them to reveal the truth before their painful demise in some way alleviated the uselessness of the book, but a truth serum that killed its subjects was extremely impractical. One might just as well put the poor sod under Cruciatus until he broke down and told you what you wanted to know, Snape thought, resolving to have another discussion with Blott about vetting the books he sold before putting them on the shelves.

He replaced the book in its place on his theory shelf. Recalling his promise to Granger, he found the Chartier treatise and left it out on the end table so that he'd remember to bring it to breakfast with him.

Weary to the bone, Snape completed his nightly ablutions, entered his bedroom, and donned his nightshirt. The huge four-poster with its dark green curtains sang a siren's song to his aching muscles.

With a flick of his wand, he doused the torches on the wall, his soundless gesture bringing to mind this evening's discussion, which inevitably roused memories of its less than pleasant ending.

The truly annoying part was that he couldn't even be angry with Weasley for his reaction. It was, after all, precisely the response he'd laboured a lifetime to achieve. Albus had always warned him to be careful of what he wished for. Ah, well, such was life.

Cautious as ever, Snape slipped his wand beneath his pillow, where it had rested every night since Mr. Olivander first slipped it into his hand.

Back in school, it had been his inbred paranoia that had caused him to keep it so close. The other students in his dorm had laughed at him. Not even Lucius kept his wand under his pillow. For a long time, Snape had been almost self-conscious about the precaution.

It was only after he'd joined Voldemort that he'd realized how wise his younger self had been. He couldn't count the number of victims that he and the other Death Eaters had surprised wandless in their beds and finished off easy as Muggles. The war might be eight years over, but Snape was determined to never be caught with his pants down.

Unlike Potter, he did not excel at wandless magic. And even the living legend was better with wand in hand than without it. As he slipped in between cool silver sheets, he briefly wondered if Potter still slept with his under his pillow as well.

Damn, he would have to think of Potter again. Fifteen years ago, he'd envied the boy his celebrity. Snape gave a sardonic twist of his lips as he acknowledged how much he'd matured over the years. Now, he'd advanced to envying Potter his people skills. He supposed that meant something.

Pathetic, that was what it was, truly pathetic.

And yet, as he settled down into his bed, Snape couldn't help but wonder what it was like to be Harry Potter, to have been raised in a nourishing environment that promoted friendship and trust, instead of having endured a childhood where one's humanity was excised as a weakness. How different would he have turned out if he'd had a friend like Potter or even Weasley when young? Or if he'd had any friend at all?

Stars, but he hated Christmas. It made even heartless bastards like him wax maudlin. Enough of this. All he needed was a good night's sleep. Doubtless, it was just the season, during which Albus' absence was always most keenly felt, that had made him feel so dissatisfied with his life. Tomorrow was another day.

Turning over onto his side, Snape's hand snaked under his pillow. With the reassuring comfort of his wand gripped tightly in his fist, he thrust all self-pity from his thoughts, allowing sleep to court his tired body.

His mind drifted, worries fading.

Outside, the winter night was filled with wind, biting cold and ice. Its chill slowly invaded the subterranean dungeon. For once, he didn't notice the discomfort.

Warm in his dream, Snape ran across a sun-warmed field. He was barefoot and the grass felt sensually cool as it squished between his toes. He couldn't help but note how tiny his feet looked.

And there was something else strange. He was laughing, with pure joy and physical glee, happy as he could never recall being in real life, or even in most of his dreams, for that matter.

There was another oddity. His feet weren't the only ones slapping the dewy grass, nor was his boyish laughter the only sound piercing the sunny field.

Curious, he glanced to his left, and received confirmation that he was, indeed, dreaming. As if joy like this could have left him in any doubt.

There at his side ran Harry Potter, or the boyish version thereof. A grin on his face, his scar revealed as his black fringe bobbed in the breeze, his tiny body swimming in a pair of brown short pants and blue short-sleeved top that were at least five sizes too large. The Boy Who Lived was in fact a boy. Potter looked younger than Snape had ever seen him. Looking at Potter, Snape decided that he was about six or seven years of age, probably a year or so younger than his dream self, judging by the size difference. Snape was a head taller and markedly wider.

As if feeling his gaze, Potter turned his way.

To Snape's surprise, the smile grew wider. "Told you I could keep up. I'll beat you to him."

Potter took off with a burst of speed. Looking in the direction his companion had taken, something painful clutched tight in Snape's chest.

There, at the end of the field, dressed in his high-heeled boots and silver starred, lilac robes, stood Albus Dumbledore, grinning like a madman.

Snape increased his speed.

Normally, in his dreams, when he did something like this, Albus would vanish or crumble into dust when he got close to him. But tonight his old friend remained solid.

Tears of joy streaming from his eyes, Snape crashed into the long-bearded wizard, clutching at Dumbledore and feeling Potter do the same right next to him.

Albus bent down and drew them both into a tight embrace. Snape could never recall anyone hugging him like this.

"Severus, Harry! How good to see you!"

"Professor . . . ."

"Albus . . . ."

Judging by his wavery, childish voice, Potter seemed as upset as he was.

"It's been so long, sir, so very long," Potter rasped, giving voice to Snape's thought.

"There, there, boys. There's no need for tears," Albus comforted, patting their backs as they both hugged tighter. Snape could feel Potter's sweaty hand beneath his own on Albus' back as they tried to get as close as possible. Their sides were pressed together in their effort to get closer to Dumbledore. It almost felt as though they were hugging each other as well as Albus, but neither of them seemed to mind. They'd both loved the old man like a father.

"You've done me proud, working together as you have. You've made me so happy," Albus said. "But it troubles me that neither of you have found the joy you deserve."

"I'm happy now," Potter said.

"Ah, I'm glad to hear that, Harry, but you know this is just a dream," Albus said.

"It had to be. I was never this happy when little," Potter once again voiced Snape's sentiments.

"I wish it were real," Snape whispered, not recognizing the high, but soft voice as his own.

Both he and Potter lifted their heads out of Dumbledore's soft beard far enough to see his face.

"I suppose you both do. I'm afraid that neither one of you had an easy childhood. I always wished that I could change that for you both, but circumstances wouldn't allow it. Do you understand?" Dumbledore's normal glitter seemed dimmed, his guilt an almost palpable presence.

"You can't change things like that, sir," Potter said.

"No, I suppose not. We can only take our comfort in the present. I always hoped that by working so closely together that you would become friends. Has that happened yet?" Dumbledore asked.

A fast glance at each other and then Potter, the eternal Gryffindor, was answering, "No. He still doesn't like me."

Those piercing blue eyes settled on him.

"Is that true, Severus?" Dumbledore asked without rancour, but Snape could feel the unspoken disappointment.

"I don't know how to be a friend. You know that better than anyone, Albus," Snape softly denied, his face hot with embarrassment. Even here in his dreams he was letting Albus down.

"To the contrary, Severus. I found you a most loyal and devoted comrade. I'm certain Harry would, too, if you'd just let him," Dumbledore counselled.

"Let him? I don't know how . . . I never learned how," he whispered, wishing this man didn't call the honesty straight up from his very soul. "You never cared that I didn't know how to be nice. Everyone else does."

"Ah, yes. I suppose that would be an impediment. What if you were given the opportunity to learn these things you feel were omitted in your upbringing – would you take it?" Albus questioned, the sunlight glinting off his silver beard and half moon spectacles.

Pinned by those eyes, Snape gave a slow nod. "If I could."

"And would you help him, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

Potter met Dumbledore's gaze and then glanced at Snape before uttering a single syllable, "Yes."

"Because Albus asked it of you?" Snape snapped, hating the very idea of being pitied. He'd rather remain miserable than have Potter befriend him out of a sense of duty to Dumbledore.

"No, because I'd like to be your friend," Potter replied, his gaze and tone level, if the latter pitched much higher than Snape was accustomed to hearing.

"Why?" Snape asked in equal measures of suspicion and bewilderment.

"Because when you're not being too vicious, you make me laugh. I like your sense of humour, and your ruthless intelligence . . . and how bloody stubborn you can be. I also appreciate that you never once left me to die during the war, even when I probably deserved it," Potter answered, his light green eyes fixed squarely on Snape's.

Snape swallowed hard. He knew the truth when he heard it.

Finding his voice, he tested the veracity of the claims. "If asked, most would deem me completely humourless."

"Only those who don't know you," Potter answered. "Even Ron laughs when you get sarcastic these days."

"Ah, just what I aspire to in life – to be a source of amusement to a Weasley," Snape snarled.

"That type of comment is not going to aid your cause, Severus," Albus gently pointed out.

"And being a buffoon to mental incompetents is? I - I don't know if I want to be what most simpletons call . . . nice," Snape warned.

His disgust must have shown because Potter grinned. For once, he wasn't taking issue with the insult to his friend. "I don't think anyone would want you to do anything that radical."

"Then what would it take?" Snape felt lost again. Clearly, he didn't have any idea what the problem was, if not his lack of good will.

"Maybe you could take down some of your No Trespassing signs and let one or two of us a little closer?" Potter suggested.

"I . . . ." That don't know how line was getting a little old, Snape thought.

"Well, Severus, what shall it be? Will you let me help you?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape gave a tense nod. He'd faced Voldemort's wrath with less fear.

"Very well, then. I will give you your chance to learn, Severus. Use it well. But for now, let's chase some butterflies, shall we?" Dumbledore gave them a tight squeeze before releasing them. He stood up, waved a hand into which three wire and mesh butterfly nets instantly appeared. After handing one to each of the startled youngsters, Albus Dumbledore grinned and hared off after a cabbage leaf butterfly that was fluttering about ten yards away.

For a moment, Potter and Snape looked at each other out of adult eyes as their headmaster ran off in hot pursuit of the fluttering insect. The absurdity of the scene was no doubt reflected in both their faces.

"I've never chased a butterfly in my life," Snape cautiously admitted, staring down at the net in his hand, having no clue what to do with the thing. "Have you?"

"No, but it does look like fun," Potter answered, giving his own net an experimental swish, like a first year trying out wands.

"It always seemed a senseless pursuit when I watched other boys doing this when I was young. Unless one was going to use the butterfly in a potion, capturing one seemed an incredible waste of time and energy," Snape admitted.

"Something doesn't have to make sense to be fun," Potter said. "Some of the most enjoyable things are actually rather ridiculous."

"But . . . ."

"There's no one here to see us," Potter seemed to pick up on the true source of his hesitation. "And I'll never tell. I promise. I did mean what I said. I'll help you any way I can."

"And precisely how will chasing butterflies help me learn to be a friend?" Snape dubiously questioned, the enquiry just this side of cynicism. Still, when he saw Albus racing across the field, he ached to join him, no matter how idiotic his current pursuit.

Snape tensed as Potter reached out to give his shoulder a squeeze. "I haven't a clue. Come on. Just try it and don't worry about all that, okay?"

And then Potter turned and ran off to follow Dumbledore.

For a long moment, Snape stood there, feeling very left behind. This wasn't him. He couldn't waste his time with foolishness like this. He should be . . . .

"Severus, hurry up! All the good ones will be gone!" Albus called out to him.

What he should be doing vanished from his mind. He had a chance to spend some time with his only friend. What did it matter what they were doing? After eight years, it felt good to simply be with Albus again. And, chasing butterflies was certainly a lot safer than some of the things he'd done at this man's behest.

Feeling his own mouth quirk up into a hesitant, unfamiliar smile, Snape gave his net a swoosh and jogged off after his two companions.

Chasing butterflies might, in fact, be an entirely senseless pursuit, but as he and Potter trailed their loony headmaster across the wildflower dotted field, Snape began to understand that Potter was right. Joy didn't necessarily have to make sense. It just had to be experienced. And he'd done so little experiencing in his life.

Desperately wishing that he had more time than just a dream to learn about these things that his childhood had never taught him, Snape immersed himself in the butterfly chase.

**********