Bumblebee Blood

I did promise a nice Albus fic, and in this story he is back to his old fatherly self, looking after poor Severus as he faces the ugliest threat of all; detection from Lord Voldemort. But at the same time, Albus is searching for something-or maybe someone?-a secret that he has kept hidden for so long. And he decides to enlist Severus to help him.

What they discover, however, will change both their lives. Forever.

Dedicated to mentor figures everywhere; special shout-out to Mrs McLannahan for being mine, and letting me become myself, instead of some foul parallel self.

Chapter One:

He took in a deep breath and raised his head so he was finally looking into the mirror with the enchanted glass. He waited for a long moment, watching as the mirror seemed to consider what it would reflect. Finally, it settled on an image—and it was just as painful as he had imagined. He was staring at himself, admittedly from a few years before, dressed in darker robes and standing in a shady room where there was very little light. His arms were held close to his body, creating a cradle, and lying half asleep within that cradle was a child. A baby, more precisely, of only a few hours old. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and wished he had not decided to look into the mirror that showed him his heart's desire.

"I'm so sorry about your wife, sir. There was nothing we could do."

"She was not my wife." He answered abruptly. "The child?"

"The child survives, and is perfectly healthy. You have a son." The nurse reached into the cot and lifted the bundle of white blankets and the tiny innocent creature resting inside. "Do you want to hold him?"

He should have said no. He should have simply turned away and told them that he never wanted to touch the child. But he was foolish—so terribly foolish—and he had agreed.

"Is he your first, sir?" The nurse continued as she crossed to him and carefully gave the child to him, adjusting the position of his arms to make them more supportive. He was about to answer—when he was suddenly staring into the face of his child, and all words left him. The baby's cheeks were slightly flushed, but the skin was pale beneath that. Two perfectly shaped lips lay under the smallest nose he had ever seen, and there were the faintest wisps of hair upon his head. His eyes were round and wide with curiosity and wonder, stirred into awareness by the change of scenery, although he would not know what those emotions even were. The irises were a perfect shade of blue, and he knew where he had seen them before.

"He certainly has your eyes, sir."

Her soft words prompted him to look up at her, "He's perfect." He whispered, and he realised that the baby truly was, without a doubt, a definition of perfect. He was wonderful, unique and completely sublime. He raised one finger and brushed it against the tiny clenched fist of his son, feeling the smoothness of the skin. The child was so fragile, so very vulnerable, and he never wanted to let him go, ever. He wanted to hold onto him and this one moment forever, he never wanted it to end. But it had to.

He had made the decision long before the child had been born, but when he had looked into the face, his conviction had been shaken. Suddenly he wondered whether he was making the right choice—but in the end he managed to convince himself. This child was innocent—he was the physicalisation of innocence, and he could not be dragged into a war that was not his fault. And he would be dragged in, that much was clear. So he would have had to let him go.

He asked for some time alone with his son. He was not quite yet used to those words, no matter how many months he had had to understand what was about to change in his life. His son. He moved across the room and sat down upon a sofa, still cradling the child close to his chest. Those blue eyes were still fixed on his, unwavering. He adjusted the blankets slightly, "I'm sorry, child. I am so sorry, but you have to understand that I have no choice in this matter. I will not place your life at risk when you do not deserve it. If people were to find out about you, if they found out that I had a son—they would seek to destroy you. I have so many enemies, my dear child, and I wish there was something I could do to protect you. But the only way I can protect you, is to pretend that you have never existed. I can place you in the care of someone who will look after you and raise you as if you were their own. That will be your new family—and you will never know about me." He paused, still looking into those blue irises and wishing, not for the first time, that he was not so powerful and popular. "I love you, child. I want you to know that, because I loved you the moment I first saw you. And I will always love you, because you will always be a part of my life. Maybe, one day, when the war is over, I can seek you out and we can be reunited. I do not know how long that will be—but I will always be able to find you." He leant forward and pressed the gentlest of kisses to the baby's forehead. "I love you so much, and know that I would give my life in a single moment to protect you." He noted to himself that the baby did not seem to cry—just watched him. "You will be so brave. You have powerful wizard's blood flowing through your veins, my son."

He had not named his child, because he did not believe he had that right. He was abandoning this child, leaving him alone, without a father or a mother, and although he knew it was the best thing to do, that did not mean it was right. It would never be right to do such a thing. So he had not named the child. He had simply sat, watching him, rocking him back and forth in his arms until the baby had finally fallen asleep.

He was asleep now, and his father was simply enjoying the soft rhythm of his breathing and the warmth that the baby emanated against his chest. He swallowed, knowing that it was most likely time. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pendant hanging from a silver chain. "This is for you, to keep." He tucked it into the blankets, careful not to wake the child. It was the side profile of a lion, true to his Gryffindor nature, with red pieces of crystal haphazardly combined together to create a mosaic effect. One piece was missing—he had kept that for himself. "You will always have someone to watch over you, wherever you are." He stood and gently rested his son in the cot, taking one of the external blankets from him and tucking it back into his robes. "I love you." He never wanted to stop saying it, that he loved him, that he wanted to keep him. He held his head up high as he turned and walked away—but could not resist that final look back.

"I love you." He whispered.

He sighed and returned to the present. Everything had changed that day; the fated 1st January when he had had to sacrifice the one thing that could have made his life complete. He had walked away, forced the nurse to never admit to what she had seen, and never looked back. He did not know what had happened to the child, he did not know where he had ended up, he did not know if he was even still alive. Something in his heart told that his child was still out there, somewhere, waiting for him.

He turned to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. Beneath the magazines that detailed knitting patterns and how to transfigure goblets into toads, there was a tiny box that seemed so innocuous amongst the other things in his room, pretty things. He picked out the box and lifted the lid—the interior had been magically altered so it was much larger than the outside, so he could hide any number of things there. The piece of splintered red crystal, for example. He had picked it up and held it in the palm of his hands so many times that the once jagged edges were now smooth. He would hold it between his index finger and thumb and hold it up to the light, seeing the glint and reflection. Envelopes—so many envelopes—some that were slightly worn and yellowed with time and age, others that were relatively knew.

And the blanket. A small, white blanket that he kept clean by enchanting it. He had preserved it in near perfect condition. He pulled it from the box and held it close to his chest, breathing in the scent of—well, he supposed, the scent of his son. The few reminders of a child that meant so much to him, the child he had never seen.

His eyes were hot. He chewed his bottom lip. It was the dreams that were the worst. Wondering what this child may have become, what they might have achieved. The fantasies of moments they could have shared—his first words, his first steps, all the hugs that they had exchanged, all the moments when he had seen his son laugh. His first day at Hogwarts School, being Sorted. When his mind was feeling particularly cruel, it would conjure pictures of what his son would look like—his eyes, but his mother's hair and features—and he would hear the damning whisper in his ear, what it just might have sounded like when his son had called him father. That was when his heart broke the most—when he was forced to picture what his child would have been like.

He had wanted children, he had wanted a family, he really did—but this had just been an accident. It had been a night of desperation and want and fear that had led to something so beautiful, so perfect, and yet so terrible too. He had had no choice. That was what he constantly repeated to himself.

He folded the blanket and placed it back into the box. He laid the letters on top and the piece of the broken pendant, as well as the memories and the remnants of his shattered heart. The part of his soul that he had sacrificed and given to his son, so many years ago. He put the lid back on, locked the box, and placed it back into his drawer.

He glanced back toward the mirror, and saw himself again, with the child in his arms. There, he was rocking the child like he had done, singing a soft lullaby under his breath, and in that reality, he would not have to leave. He would not have to give up the one thing that could have made his life complete. The one thing he could have cherished, beyond everything else. In that reality, he would have been able to keep his most precious possession.

But that was just a dream. He put the cloth back over the mirror and resolved that, one day, he would dispose of it completely. Just like its parent, the smaller Mirror of Erised was nothing but trouble. He closed his eyes and willed the tears to stop, willed his heart to cease weeping, willed his mind to stop making those pictures so vivid.

A knocking sound interrupted his moment of total introspection. "Albus, I must speak with you—Severus is being totally unreasonable once again!"

Albus Dumbledore opened his eyes, plastered a smile onto his face, and moved to unlock the door.

Minerva McGonagall swept into the room, having already started speaking before Albus had even fully opened the door to her. Her normally impeccable bun was slightly out of place with several hairs descending down the sides of her lined face. She pulled her emerald robes tighter around herself, glancing at Albus, "He is being stupid, once again, Severus, you cannot expel a student just for pure curiosity!"

"I think you will find, Minerva, that the….brat…looked into my Penseive and violated my most secret memories!" Severus Snape's voice was trembling with barely restrained anger and, to Albus' practised ear, hurt. "I want him out!"

"Just because Mr. Potter saw some of your memories? You are blinded by your fixation with him being just like his father—which he is not!" Minerva shouted back, clearly slightly tired and incredibly irritated. Albus watched them, bemused, two of his closest friends…

"Just take his side, Minerva, that's fine, because you always take the side of the Gryffindors!" Severus folded his arms into either side of his black cloak and scowled blackly at Minerva, his black hair framing his face and slightly windswept, adding to the angry countenance he was wearing.

"I seem to remember I took your side when discussing the event in question!" Minerva shouted back—and Albus finally decided to intervene. "Minerva, Severus. If you would not mind, I can hardly think with your heated discussion. Would someone like to explain exactly what has happened here?"

Minerva looked set to do just that, but Severus beat her to it. "Potter looked into my Penseive during the Occlumency lesson this evening."

"That was no reason to throw a jar of cockroaches at his head, Severus!" Minerva snapped, and Albus straightened his back. "Severus, you know I do not tolerate violence of any kind against the students…"

"I knew you would be like this!" Severus bellowed back at Dumbledore. "You and your precious Potter!" With that censure, Severus whirled on his heel and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. The portraits on the walls quivered with the impact and uttered their own opinions about the volatile Potions Master, which Dumbledore quelled with a raise of his hand. He turned to look at Minerva, who was watching the door. "Make sure Mr. Potter does not repeat what he has seen, Minerva." He murmured quietly, and she glanced at him. "I am sorry, Albus. He just…pressed my buttons…"

"He was simply being Severus, something we should be thankful for. He is under much stress at the moment, Minnie, as you know well." He resorted to using her affectionate nickname to calm her down, and she nodded. "I know. I know. I just think, sometimes, when it comes to Mr. Potter, he does…" She trailed off and looked away. Albus reached and touched her arm gently, "You are allowed to be protective of your students—you know Severus would be the same if it were a Slytherin in question. Come, let me walk with you to your office, and then I will venture into the dungeons to find Severus." He held the door open for her, and as they walked down the spiral staircase, he paused. "I suppose this means he will not be doing the Occlumency lessons any further, then?"

Minerva smiled, just slightly. "He said something in that vein, yes. Along with what he would do to Mr. Potter if he ever saw him again-I believe it involved disembowelling."

"I thought this may be the case, which is problematic. I must do what I can to convince him. Good night, Minerva, see you in the morning." He left her at her office and continued down the stairs, into the dungeon, wincing slightly at the darkness and coldness that lingered in the underground corridors. He sped up, drawing to a halt outside the black door that led into Severus' office. He listened by the frame—

"Insolent, annoying, arrogant little brat…"

He smiled despite himself and tried the door handle, which turned easily. The wards that Severus used to protect his office never could withstand the Headmaster; that was one of his privileges. He entered the office, eyes falling on his younger friend, who was sat at his potions workbench, scrubbing at a particularly persistent stain that had caught his attention with a cloth. "Hello, Severus."

Severus did not look at him. "We are not speaking." Albus smiled at the words and how Severus was cleaning his desk; it was something Albus also did on a regular basis when he needed stress relief.

In that particular moment, Albus Dumbledore was probably the only person who would be allowed into Severus' office when Severus was this angry—and also the only person alive who would be able to come slightly nearer and then say, "Don't you think you are overreacting just a tiny…"

"OVERREACTING?" Severus leapt to his feet and positively glared at Dumbledore. "He violated my memories and saw the moment when his blessed father suspended me in the air and proceeded to undress me in front of most of the student body! How dare you suggest I am overreacting!" Rage and fury sparked from his very being, and the fact his fists were clenched and his whole body was shaking had not escaped Albus. "Severus…" He tried to sooth, but Severus was not in a mood to listen. "Get out, Headmaster." He said, turning away.

"You really believe I would do such a thing? Forgive me, I did not mean to insult you by suggesting that what has happened is unimportant—but Severus, Harry will never reveal what he saw, and I doubt he was particularly pleased—he saw his father…"

"Being a cruel and vindictive bully to someone they mutually dislike." Severus' voice was pure venom. "I am sure he is delighted." He sat back down at his desk, picking up the cloth and starting to terrorise the stain once more.

Although he was making it clear that the conversation was finished, Albus was not so sure. He was concerned. Severus was often volatile and easily upset—but he tended to stew in silence rather than this sort of rage, which was wearing his emotions on his sleeve. Yes, he was more willing to open up to the Headmaster, who had seen him in every state imaginable—but this was different. "What is wrong, Severus?"

Severus hesitated before replying, "He looked into my Penseive!"

"No. That is not the true matter here. I can hear that. Severus. Look at me, my boy, please." He came closer, watching as Severus continued to clean the desk, even though the stain was now long gone. "Why are you using your left hand?" He asked suddenly.

Severus stopped cleaning and was very quiet. Albus waited for an answer. Something was very wrong here. "What is it?"

Severus looked in his direction and Albus saw something that chilled him to his very core. Fear. His friend was terribly afraid. Instantly he felt some sort of need to wrap Severus in his arms and tell him that everything would be all right—because he had never seen such a expression in Severus' eyes, not even on the night that Lord Voldemort had returned, a year before. He crossed to him and sat on the bench next to the desk, "Tell me."

"He has…marked…me." Severus murmured, as if the words were dirty and as if the admission was even more so.

Slightly confused to Severus' statement, Albus raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

As if irritated by Albus' ignorance, Severus pulled back his right sleeve and thrust his wrist in Albus' face. "See!"

Albus looked at the bloodied red mark that was carved into Severus' wrist. "Ah. Thurisaz, am I correct?" He reached out one finger and traced the mark gently, "What does this mean?"

"It means that he believes he has a traitor in his camp, and has marked those whom he suspects." Severus' voice was shaking slightly beneath the facade of neutrality. "It appeared tonight, after dinner."

"Severus. You must be careful." Albus wrapped his fingers over Severus' wrist and looked into his eyes, "I do not wish to lose you, my dear boy."

"You want me to do the Occlumency lessons with Potter, don't you?" Severus said after a moment.

"I cannot ask anyone else…"

Severus drew his hand away from Albus and stood, turning his back. "Is this just another way to torment me, Dumbledore?" He didn't see the wince of hurt from the Headmaster—using Albus' surname was a tactic so rarely employed to upset the older wisdom and convey just how hurt Severus was.

"Severus!" Albus admonished, "I would never intentionally hurt you, and you know that well! Please, consider what you just said. I need you to teach Harry Occlumency because there is no one else better suited—I do not have the time—and you are more talented at it than I! You are incredibly gifted at Occlumency, and I worry that if you do not teach Harry then your position will be put at risk!"

Severus turned and looked at him. "And you think shameless flattery will change my mind?"

Albus smiled, "I'm hoping so, yes."

Severus folded his arms bitterly, "I will think about it."

Albus beamed this time, "Thank you, my boy." He closed the gap between them, "What about Voldemort? How will you convince him of your loyalty?"

"I have yet to know why he suspects me. I am sure he will inform me, in the near future. Probably the next time he summons me." Severus' countenance darkened. "I fear he is testing me."

"And you do not know how to best answer his questions?"

"Indeed."

Albus felt pained, "I wish I knew how to help you, my dear boy. I really do. But I cannot." He peered over his half moon spectacles at the younger man. "Promise me that you will be careful."

"I promise, Headmaster."

"You should get some rest. Good night, Severus, dear."

"Good night, Headmaster."