In his private quarters, Severus Snape sat in a high-backed leather armchair. A worn, leather-bound book lay open on his lap. The pages were filled with moving photographs and careful, spidery script.

One photo showed a tiny, dark-haired infant swaddled in a blue blanket, blinking sleepily up at the camera. A younger, softer-looking Severus, with a rare, unguarded expression of awe, was visible at the edge of the frame, his finger just touching the baby’s curled fist.

He closed the book slowly, setting it aside. His gaze drifted to the door, then to the empty chair opposite him. His fingers drummed once, sharply, on the arm of his chair.