He had been able to think of little else -- except for Quidditch -- for the last week. The pictures he had seen on Monday of his Mum had filled a tiny corner of the gaping hole he had in his chest, the emptiness he harbored where memories of his parents should be. He wished, more than anything else in his life, ever, that he had been given a chance to know his Mum and Dad. He wished there had been no Voldemort, no Killing Curse, and no need for the Dursleys in his life.
As all his wishes bubbled to the surface of his mind, Harry drew another breath, this one to steady himself. He could not let the professor see his emotions so out of control, and he had to turn his face away until he felt calmer.
Snape laid the first picture flat on his desk. "Come around this side, Harry," he said, and his voice held that same calm and oddly . . . caring tone he had used the night he followed Harry to the owlery. And he had used Harry's given name, which he did not do very often, and never in front of other people. In fact, usually only when they were discussing difficult things, or when Snape was apologizing for something.
Harry moved his chair around to Snape's side of the desk and his gaze went immediately to the photo. Snape slid it closer to Harry, so he could get a better look. His Mum, in her Hogwarts uniform with the addition of a dark blue jumper and matching knit hat, stood in one of the larger courtyards of the school. She leaned against one of the columns covered with winter ivy and cradled a book in her arms, her head bent over the pages. A light dusting of snow skirled around her feet in miniature cyclones. As Harry drank in ever detail, she looked up from her book and grinned at him. Her green eyes sparkled. Couching her book against her chest with one arm, she waved at him, then tucked a long strand of her auburn hair behind her ear.
Harry's chest tightened; he could barely breathe.
She appeared older than in the other pictures Snape had shown him; he would guess she was in third or fourth year in this one.
"Did you take the picture?" he asked Snape after a few minutes of staring hungrily at the image.
Snape nodded. "This was a bit before winter break in our third year." The professor cleared his throat, and Harry wondered if Snape was as choked by emotions as Harry was. "She wanted more pictures to show her parents."
"Was she . . . did she go home for the hols then?"
"Yes, of course."
Harry nodded, his face growing warm with shame. Of course. His Mum's parents had probably still loved their daughter, even though they didn't have magic and she did. Not like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who would be just as glad if he never came back. No wonder their daughter got to go home for holidays, though: they wanted her.
He watched his Mum read a bit more from whatever book she held, then glance up to grin cheekily at him a few more times. Once, she even spun in place, her robe billowing out like the bottom of a bell as she laughed and laughed. She looked so happy.
Wanting -- somehow -- to have her recognize him, acknowledge him as her son, Harry reached toward the picture as she finished spinning. He wanted to talk to her like he could with the Bloody Baron, or with the portraits of people long dead and gone that covered the halls of Hogwarts. After all, she was smiling at him.
"Mum," he called and put his face close to the surface of the picture. "Mum, it's Harry, your son. Mum! Can you hear me?"
She didn't react at all, and when Snape touched Harry's forearm with his pale, slender fingers, Harry jerked his hand back from the photograph. "She can't hear you, Harry," Snape said quietly. "She's not really there."
Harry swallowed down his disappointment. "I . . . I know." He turned his face away. "Sorry."
"It's all right." Snape paused. "It's a common mistake for people new to the Wizarding world."
Harry gave a jerky nod, but could not bring himself to look at the picture again.
"Would you like me to put this away now? Or do you want to see another one?"
Harry nibbled his lip, considering. He wanted to see them all, but if he did it right now, he feared the pain would overwhelm him. Seeing just one was already making his eyes burn and his chest ache, and he didn't think he could take more tonight. "I . . . I'm done. I think."
Snape nodded again and put the small stack of pictures back into the packet. "I will ask the two questions tonight. Your two hours of assisting me you will have to schedule, but they should be completed prior to next Sunday.
Glad to hear Snape's back-to-business voice, even though it meant he now had to answer questions, Harry said, "Yes, sir." He clasped his hands together tightly on top of the desk as if he were bracing himself. "I'm ready."
"You know, Potter," Snape said, sounding almost irritated, "I'm not going to hurt you with my questions."
"Beg your pardon, sir," Harry replied, clenching his hands tighter, "but you don't know that." He glanced up at the professor's face and met his dark, fathomless eyes head on.
They stared at each other for several long moments before Snape gave a miniscule nod. "My apologies, Harry. You are correct. How about, I will do my best not to hurt you." He paused. "And you will tell me if I have failed. Agreed?"
"All right," Harry agreed, though he didn't know if he could do that, in truth. "I'll try, sir."
"Thank you. That's all I can ask." He smirked. "Except for two other things." Harry gazed at him expectantly, until Snape finally said, "First question: Why don't you want to go home for winter hols?"
Harry had not said that he didn't, but he figured Snape was drawing on what Harry had asked before, about his Mum. But it wasn't fair; Snape was skipping a much easier question to answer. Harry considered making him ask that question first -- about whether he wanted to go to the Dursleys for the break or not -- but decided not to, less interested in having an argument than in just finishing this and going back to the dorms.
"There's no reason for me to," he answered after a moment.
"Explain." Harry narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to ask if that was the second question, when the Professor cut him off. "I am not satisfied with that answer, as I do not find it complete. So explain why there is no reason for you to return home for the holidays."
Scowling now, Harry mumbled, "Okay. Fine." Hitching up one shoulder, he said, "I'm not allowed to be part of their holidays, except cooking for them and cleaning up afterwards, so I'd rather stay here than be their servant."
"What about on Solstice itself . . . or, I suppose as Muggles they celebrate Christmas."
"Yeah, they do." Harry shrugged, knowing next to nothing about Solstice. "But yeah, on Christmas, sometimes they let me out of my cu . . . er, my room, so I can finish cooking dinner for them. Sometimes they don't, though, so I get to spend all day in there, alone, listening to them having fun and all. I'd rather be at Hogwarts, where I'm pretty sure I'll at least get dinner."
"That would be a good assumption." Snape smiled a little as he said it, and somehow, the touch of humor made Harry feel a bit more comfortable to be talking to him. "What about presents? And yes, this is still part of question one."
"Presents?" Harry frowned. "What about them?"
"Won't you miss out on getting gifts from your family?"
Harry actually laughed, terribly amused by Snape's inadvertent joke. "No," he said, still chuckling a minute later. "They never give me anything. First present I ever got was on my birthday this year. Hagrid gave me a cake when he brought my Hogwarts letter, and then he gave me Hedwig when we got my school supplies in Diagon Alley." He chanced a look at Snape's face. The man did not show surprise or pity or any of that, and Harry was glad.
"Oh, wait!" Harry added a moment later, continuing to hold the man's gaze. "I did get a present for Christmas once." The day he started primary school, he had been promised a gift if he was very, very good until Christmas. He went for months not questioning any orders, and never talking back, hardly talking at all, in fact. He worked for hours every night after school doing chores to make up for the fact that he wasn't home during the day, and that was only after he did Dudley's homework. He was allowed to do his own homework after he finished the chores. During those four months, he never dared to ask for food or challenge any mean thing Dudley said about him or his dead parents, and he never complained when Dudley and his gang chased him or beat him up. He had been so good, and so looking forward to getting his present he'd been practically frantic with anticipation on Christmas morning.