Croydon.
The streets were piled with junk; everywhere you looked were people with sallow faces and vacant eyes.
Professor Snape quickly found the place called Hollisay Orphanage. The whole building was a shabby Victorian semi-detached house, long since in need of repairs.
Warm orange light spilled from thick-paned windows. Inside, Rowland Taylor, dressed in worn clothes, was staring out with clear, light-blue eyes.
She always watched the dusk outside, waiting for the one person everyone in the orphanage knew. Some of the children stood just beyond the doorway, watching her, watching their headmistress. She was always so full of expectation that she insisted on taking every letter to the post office herself, as though putting it in the green postbox would somehow slow it down.
At last, when the setting sun drew back its last rays, she saw two strange figures in black robes.
Despite her age, her hands and feet were nothing but quick; she hurried out of the room at once.
Beside the peeling door, under the crooked "Oak House Children's Home" nameplate, she rushed into the yard.
Seeing Rowland charge out, Snape's expression shifted and he yanked Sean behind him with one hand—he'd just been remembering the dazed, hollow people from the street.
Sean could only peek out a small head from behind the sweep of his black cloak.
Rowland froze briefly, then couldn't help laughing.
"You must be Mr. Snape. Please, bring Mr. Green inside."
She looked at that dark, hostile face, and then at the small face craning sideways behind him just to see her. For some reason, her eyes went damp.
His cheeks had color now. That was good…
They crossed a courtyard that now had a few more play structures than before, then stepped inside. Sean saw that the interior had changed even more than last time.
Unlike the shabby exterior, the inside was respectable—in this poor neighborhood, it might even be called very good.
A warm fire burned in the hearth, steaming the raindrops off the windowpanes.
Walls once blackened by smoke had been repainted a pale yellow; it was cheap paint, but it did make the room feel comfortable. The iron beds were new, still hard but clearly labelled; each child now had their own metal bowl and wooden spoon.
In the middle, a huge pot of stew was bubbling, churning up chunks of meat and vegetables. A small group of children had already gathered near it, faces full of hungry anticipation.
When Snape and Sean entered, dinner began.
There were no "places" here—no status or rank. The headmistress, the rosy, broad-hearted matrons, and all the children crowded around one long table to eat.
At the head sat Professor Snape and Headmistress Rowland, with Sean at Snape's side.
There weren't many rules, but whenever Sean reached for a dish, no one else put a fork or spoon to it again.
Seeing this, Snape gave a cold snort… pointlessly sentimental.
Rowland, keenly aware of the undercurrent, watched his sharp profile for a moment and her eyes dimmed slightly.
"Please forgive them, Mr. Snape. The children here only know one clumsy, awkward way to express themselves. If they never find the words… the Lord will know the fault is not theirs."
She said softly.
Snape felt something he didn't quite understand. When he turned his head, the headmistress was regarding him with a look he couldn't interpret.
He disliked that.
Night fell as dinner ended, and the agitation in Snape's chest became sharper, clearer.
An orphanage only reminded him of one person.
A person whose name couldn't even be spoken.
Wizards who got in Voldemort's way never came to any good. The Dark Lord's inhuman cruelty rose up vivid in Snape's mind, and naturally his gaze went to the boy who seemed to know nothing of it all.
Too stupid…
How foolish did you have to be, to offend the Dark Lord over someone utterly insignificant?
Worse, he himself had been watching Quirrell—had had the chance to intervene—and had known nothing… just like in the vault.
He stood in the yard, forcing himself to think through every detail. You could never be too cautious with a Dark Lord preparing to return.
Suddenly he remembered that certain Gryffindor Head of House had apparently spent some time in the Forbidden Forest. The thought almost broke his fragile self-control; he said, voice low and shaking with anger:
"Minerva McGonagall knew about this?"
Sean sensed something in his tone, but still nodded.
"Professor McGonagall noticed Professor Quirrell wasn't acting normally as well."
Snape's eyes swept icily over the courtyard.
"Tell me what happened in the Forbidden Forest—how much exactly Minerva McGonagall knew."
The night was very still; a lone crow beat its wings overhead. Snape's brief calm shattered and he began to tremble with fury.
A clueless brat had decided, all on his own and with no one knowing, to go confront Quirrell.
"How many lives do you think you have?! You have no idea how dangerous and terrifying the Dark Lord is, you idiot! You absolute fool! Do you think anyone would mourn you? Brains like a troll's, I tell you! Only idiots want to play the hero! Do you know what truly matters? Staying alive! Living!"
His sarcasm came down like a storm, but beneath the fury was a raw, paper-thin terror.
"Why… didn't you tell me…"
He glared at Sean, eyes blazing. The boy's green eyes were dim rather than bright.
This was always going to come out.
Sean knew that. But until everything was over, he had never said a word—for there was one person at Hogwarts who absolutely could not know Quirrell's true nature.
Just as Snape never spoke of that ritual, Sean had been just as careful with how he handled Voldemort's time lurking inside Hogwarts.
For a double agent, the slightest suspicion could be fatal.
Until Sean had enough power to truly influence the board, he couldn't afford any deviation in Snape's role.
He said nothing. But in the reflection of those green eyes, Snape saw himself.
He'd seen that look once before. He knew exactly what it meant.
The sky was black as spilled ink.
Only two dark-robed figures stood in the courtyard.
The children here always expressed their care in that same slow, clumsy way—hardly speaking, only acting.
Headmistress Rowland had appeared at some point and now stood in silence, watching. She stayed until the street lamps flicked on, lighting up the desolate road; until the fire in the hearth was burning again; until something in Severus Snape's frozen chest felt like it, too, had been lit.
"Remember your detention…"
Snape finally forced out a few words.
Some time later—
In central London, the far end of Spinner's End was as filthy and run-down as ever.
In the house that seemed empty at the very end, a cold fireplace once again held a living flame.