Unacceptable

The parchment crinkled in his hand as he read the words over and over. He'd been clutching the letter for so long that the wax seal was growing soft in his hand. His breakfast was cold. By now, the neat script—Headmistress McGonagall's most elegant hand—blurred in front of his eyes. All he could see was the green ink.

Albus knew he should be happy. He'd just been made a prefect.

He'd dreamed of becoming one since before he'd gotten his first Hogwarts letter. Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione had been chosen when they were in school. Albus knew that his dad was still a bit jealous of Uncle Ron over the whole thing. After all these years, his aunt still had her badge, framed on the mantlepiece. Uncle Ron, of course, had lost his long ago. When James had been passed over as a Gryffindor prefect, Dad's disappointment had shown. It was all because of Grandma and Grandpa Potter, Albus supposed. Dad wanted his James and Lily to carry on the family tradition.

Now, Albus had done it: he was a prefect, the first in his generation of the Potter-Weasley clan. All the same, a familiar pain needled him. Yes, he was a prefect—but for Slytherin.

Even after four years, being in Slytherin rankled. It was a never-ending judgement on his character. He could, after all, hear the comments of other students—and even some adults who hadn't known he was listening.

"Too ambitious by half, that Albus Potter."

"Takes after 'is namesake, Severus Snape. That one always 'ad ta beat the rest of us, even if 'e 'ad ta h'explode a dozen cauldrons and ignore the teacher ta do it."

"Albus Potter would do anything to be as famous as his daddy."

"Rich as he is, he'll never have to work for anything."

"Bloody hell, if he was poor as a church-mouse he'd still have the world on a platter, just because of his name!"

"Trades on his looks, he does."

But Albus couldn't help it that he had his father's dark hair and green eyes! He couldn't help needing glasses! After the first year, Albus had especially asked for tortoiseshell frames that looked nothing like his dad's, only to find out later that his mum had gotten his new glasses hand-crafted by a famous designer who owed her a favor.

He'd gotten hell for that, too.

Sometimes, Albus wished his parents wouldn't overcompensate so very much for having grown up poor. He would be much more popular if he wore Uncle Ron's old dress robes. Better to be laughed at than hated.

If he'd been sorted into Gryffindor, he wouldn't face this kind of hostility. Albus was sure of that. Yes, he was ambitious. Yes, he wanted to get top grades in every class. Yes, he sometimes saw solutions to problems that weren't quite standard-issue, strictly-by-the-rules. Yes, he was an aggressive Quiddich player. And yes, by God, Albus wanted his achievements to be recognized. But so had his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles! What made him any different?

It wasn't fair that he'd been the one person in his family to be singled out by that horrible old hat to be put into the Halfway-House for Wayward Wizards. Not even avoiding his housemates had done him any good. It just earned him a reputation for being "stuck-up" in addition to "potentially evil."

Albus had a sinking feeling that now that he had power, his life would be infinitely worse.

After yet another all-nighter, Harry Potter apparated home to find his wife waiting for him. Today, however, Ginny didn't greet him with a kiss. She was out in the yard, practicing her hexes, firing one off after another. She always did that when she was upset. Harry felt bad for the tree.

"Hello," he said, keeping his distance. Ginny turned, wand still in hand. He put his hands up playfully. "Don't point that thing at me, love. I've been fleeing hexes all night and right now I'm no match for you."

Ginny lowered the wand, but didn't loosen her grip on it. Harry anticipated a smart-aleck response (for instance, the standard "As if you ever are!").

None came. Strange.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's Albus," she said, her forehead creased with worry. "I think it's time for you to talk to him. He's in the kitchen. Hasn't touched his breakfast."

"Not even the grilled tomatoes?"

"Not even."

Harry sighed and shook his head. "It must be serious, then," he observed, heading for the front door.

"Are the tomatoes burned? Or you're just not hungry?"

Albus looked up at his dad, who had dark circles under his eyes. Another all-night assignment, he supposed, tracking down his housemates' parents.

"Just not hungry."

"Well, I am. May I?" Harry gestured towards the untouched plate. When Albus nodded, he cast a quick spell to heat the breakfast up. As Harry began to wolf down the eggs, he commented, "At your age, Ron could've vacuumed up ten plates of this stuff in a sitting."

"Vacuumed?" Albus inquired.

"A Muggle machine for sucking up dirt. I used it a lot during my days at the Dursley's."

Albus nodded. Tales about My-Days-at-the-Dursley's were a staple of Dad's, and they usually provoked quite a bit of laughter. There was always a kind of sadness in Dad's eyes when he told them, though. That whole family sounded awful through-and-through. Good thing they are Muggles. Albus shuddered at the thought of sharing a dorm with Dudley Dursley, Jr.

"So, Albus," Harry said, offering to pass the hot tomatoes back to his son, "What's wrong?"

"I was—" Albus gulped, not reaching for the plate.

Harry waited.

"I was—made a—prefect."

Before Harry could say a word, Albus did something he hadn't since his first night at Hogwarts. He burst into tears.

It wasn't long before Harry realized that the usual parental platitudes were not going to help Albus. "Congratulations!" and "I'm so proud of you," and "You earned this, Albus," fell flat. Not even "Think how jealous James will be!" made an impression on his little boy. Not so little now—Harry caught himself—fifteen years old! As Harry tried to pry the truth out of his son, he did something he'd never done before: he made his son a cup of coffee. Often, after a night-time hunt, Harry would drink a cup or two—strong and black. He'd never let Albus or James have any, though. Ginny thought it would stunt their growth.

"I wouldn't drink that plain," he warned Albus, who had stopped sniffling in surprise when his father put the cup down in front of him. "It might be too—"

Albus had already taken a long gulp, and from the expression on his face, Harry could tell it was, indeed, too strong.

"Try it with some cream and sugar."

Albus complied and found the augmented coffee more to his liking. After Albus murmured his thanks, father and son sat together in silence. Finally, Harry convinced Albus (who had scrubbed the tears off his now-red face with a napkin) to tell him what was on his mind.

Then, everything came pouring out. The humiliation that Albus felt because he was in Slytherin. His inability to separate himself from his house's reputation. The taunts. The overheard comments. The sickness in the pit of his stomach that he woke up to every single day. His lingering fear—a fear that had grown, not faded, since that first day on platform nine and three-quarters—that being in Slytherin had marked him somehow.

Harry's head reeled. It was all so familiar. Hadn't he himself heard the same things when he was Albus's age?

Why did I think that one conversation four years ago would put his mind at rest?

All of a sudden, things became clear for Harry. Things he'd never thought about. He and Ginny and Ron and the rest of the family hadn't made things easier for Albus. Harry had always preferred to assume that now that Lord Voldemort was gone, things would just get better. He should have listened to Hermione. She always had a better grasp of the big picture. She'd kept repeating that the old prejudices would continue unless they were rooted out at their sources: at Hogwarts, and in the hearts of "supposedly grown-up wizards."

But Harry Potter had been single-minded. He'd been so focused on finding and prosecuting former Death Eaters that he hadn't considered what was happening to the younger generation. He hadn't realized what it would mean to Albus—and James and Lily—to hear, year after year, that they were tracking down rogue Slytherins. He hadn't considered that the same forces that had made Draco Malfoy what he was might still be at work.

Worse, it hadn't even occurred to him that not even Harry Potter's son would be immune. In his mind, Harry could see Hermione Granger tapping her foot with impatience, one eyebrow raised.

"I told you so," she seemed to be saying.

Harry spent several hours in the attic and a few more digging through his over-flowing desk (Why didn't I just use Accio!? he wondered later, deciding to blame sleep deprivation for the oversight). Then, he knocked on Albus's door. He found his son curled up under a blanket, the Hogwarts letter crumpled in a far corner of the room. Harry sighed and sat on the bed.

"I've brought you some things I should have shown to you long ago."

Albus rolled over. His eyes were still red.

"You know about the snitch that Dumbledore left me in his will, don't you?"

Albus nodded.

"Well," Harry continued, "Dumbledore wasn't the only headmaster to leave me a legacy."

With these words, he placed a carved wooden box on the nightstand. Then, he produced a manuscript and set it down next to the box.

"This was left to me by Severus Snape," Harry said, pausing as he put his hand on the dusty box. "I was very surprised, as we did not get along well when I was his student. And this," he indicated the manuscript, "is a biography that your Aunt Hermione is preparing for publication. She asked me to look it over, since I was present for . . . many things . . . that she didn't witness personally."

Albus watched his father.

"I told you once that Severus Snape was one of the bravest men I ever knew, and that he was also a Slytherin. I think that it is time that you learn about him for yourself."

Harry opened the box carefully. Inside was a stack of journals, letters, a jumble of photographs, and a crystal vial. Lifting the vial—which contained a silvery substance—from the box, Harry put it in his pocket.

"I think these memories are too personal to share, but the rest you can look at. Most of the journals and letters were triple-coded. Not even Hermione could decipher them until she met your Professor Li in Diagon Alley. Otherwise, this book would have been published years ago. You'll find the essential passages translated in here."

Harry sighed.

"Look through these carefully, Albus. Severus Snape was a man who did a lot of harm—who was led in the wrong direction by his house—but as much wrong as he did, he also did much good."

Harry paused again, then spoke softly, "And unlike you, Albus, Snape had no one to guide him in the right direction. You have all of his talents, but—I hope—none of his handicaps."

After the door closed, Albus pulled himself into a seated position. What could there possibly be in a dusty old box or his aunt's manuscript that would make him feel better? Slowly, he sorted through the various items. He piled the journals to one side, the letters in the middle, and then began to go through the photographs.

Albus's eyes grew wide. Photographs—yellowed with age—slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. Muggle photographs of his grandma, Lily Evans, with a boy with lanky black hair. The boy was unmistakeably a miniature Severus Snape.

Hands shaking, he went through photograph after photograph. Captions were penciled onto the back in faded print. Lily and Severus, Summer 1971. Severus and Lily, Summer 1972. Lily, Severus, and Petunia (who looked rather ill), Summer 1973. Lily and Severus, Christmas 1974. Next, there were the moving photos, though far fewer: his grandmother grinning and waving, while the serious looking boy watched her with the beginning of a smile; the two children seated together in a boat on the lake at Hogwarts; Lily and Severus holding up a prize they won in potions class, a rotund, glowing professor standing behind them.

Then, the photographs ended.

After that, Albus found a couple newspaper clippings about his grandmother—including her engagement photo, with Grandpa Potter cut out.

There were no more photos of Snape. Albus picked up the manuscript. He read all night.

The next morning, Albus Severus Potter ate his poached eggs and grilled tomatoes with gusto. Across the table, James glowered. Albus smiled. He didn't even mind when his mum refused to give him a cup of coffee.

On his robe, his prefect's badge was gleaming.

DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.