Kingsley had to hand it to the staff of the Evening Prophet – they could certainly move quickly. Despite having little information to go on, the news of Tristan Snape's mysterious death had made front page news due to its connection with the Boy-Who-Lived (would they ever tire of discussing that child?), reminding the world of his bloody Last Stand against the aurors all those years ago and his subsequent flight from the country.

It was the photograph which drew Kingsley's attention, though. Seven proud faces stared out from formal shot of the Slytherin quidditch team in the 1940s, the school cup nestled between the knees of the seeker. The caption underneath read:

Front row (L-R): Algernon MacTavish (chaser), Griselda Burlington (chaser; future mother of fugitive mass-murderer Sirius Black), Tania Hurley-Wedge (seeker and captain), Edgar Hooch (chaser).
Back row (L-R): Tristan Snape (beater), Tom Riddle (keeper), Meredith Honeyduke (beater).

He wasn't sure which part of that frozen moment shocked him the most. Mrs. Black at about 12 years old, her hair in pigtails, her delighted face uncannily like Sirius' when amused; or the young Voldemort, looking handsome at 17 or 18 behind her, his Head Boy badge pinned to his quidditch robe. Kingsley would never have had You-Know-Who down as a keeper. In fact, it was well nigh impossible to connect the charismatic young man with the inhuman creature crowing at the Order after the battle the other day. In the photo, he was exchanging complicit glances with Tristan, who looked as though he was trying not to laugh.

Kingsley studied young Tristan's image carefully. Fair-haired, well-built, with a broad and infectious smile, it seemed the only feature inherited by his son was that distinctive nose. Perhaps the prominent cheekbones too. Severus had referred to him as 'a complete bastard', but he looked nice enough in the picture. But then, so did Riddle.

It was difficult to imagine what Severus was going through.

He had been three years old when his own father died. He remembered a sepia-tinted scene of an enormous man in sunglasses swinging his sister round and round in the garden, but he may have fabricated the memory after some reminiscing by Saffron, he couldn't be sure. Apart from that dubious link, all he had were a few photographs, anecdotes from his mother, and assurances from his older, wiser sibling that Joseph Shacklebolt had been the finest of men, and absolutely the best popcorn-maker ever. Saffron had a always been scathing about their stepfather Caesar's inability to deliver her favourite snack, though she agreed with Kingsley that in most other respects he was a pretty good replacement dad. And he was still alive.

"Mr Potter is ready to see you now," he put down the paper as a mediwitch stuck her head through the waiting-room door. "Can you keep it short please, Auror Shacklebolt? They've been talking to him for hours."

"Of course," Kingsley assured her. Poor kid. They had only just managed to get him all back together. He remembered the desperately confusing feeling of being splinched two ways when he had failed his first apparition test. It had taken the stand-by splinch team only 25 minutes to correct his mistake, but it had left him with a nausea very similar to sea-sickness for a few days. Harry had been in five pieces for almost two days now, so he must be really ill.

Pushing open the door, he was surprised by the atmosphere of anger which immediately assaulted him. The air was thick with Harry's fury. He was sitting fully-clothed and cross-legged on the bed, wearing an expression of defiance which suggested he wanted to be somewhere else; anywhere else. Or else.

"Well?" he snapped, seeming pale but very much alive and kicking.

"Harry," admonished Hermione gently, from her seat next to the bed. The young witch looked relieved but emotional, her hair all over the place, dark bags underneath her eyes. "Auror Shacklebolt is trying to help. I'm sure this won't take long." He recognised a threat when he heard one. It took him a minute to realise why she was taking the place of next-of-kin. Black was dead, Lupin was ill, the Weasleys were in no state to look after him, Dumbledore was undoubtedly busy with important matters and the muggle relatives were gone too, of course. He felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the orphan – living legend though he was. But there was nothing he could do about Potter's isolation now, the only way he could help was listen to Miss Granger, and keep it brief.

"Mr Potter, I'm very glad you are all together again," his tone was businesslike and he did not accept the girl's invitation to sit. "I just wanted to ask a quick question."

"Snape's dad?" Harry interrupted, nodding to the folded copy of the newspaper on the bedside table. Kingsley nodded, slightly unnerved at his perceptiveness. "One of the Death Eaters came in with a jug of water and dropped it when he saw Mrs Figg."

"He was surprised to see her?" asked Kingsley.

"Yes. He called her 'Bella', and she called him 'Tris'," he pulled a face. "It was like they were long lost lovers or something. They kept hugging each other and saying 'I can't believe it's really you!' and all these gross things. Then he lowered the wards so we could escape."

"He helped you?"

"He didn't seem to care about me, he just wanted to get her away safely. Mrs Figg insisted that I came too," Harry trailed off and Kingsley followed his gaze, coming to rest on the photo in the paper. Quietly, but maintaining his anger the boy added, "I suppose that's another person dead because of me."

The slightly creased teenage Tom Riddle gave a roguish grin.

…….

It was evening by the time he managed to escape from work and see Severus. He arrived at Hogwarts to find him in his dungeon rooms, silently sipping tea with Professor McGonagall, who looked marginally less stern than usual. That explained the absence of Potter's head of house in the hospital, and doubled his guilt at taking so long to come to visit his lover. Minerva smiled at Kingsley and slipped away without a word, leaving the two men alone.

"How are you feeling?" the auror asked gently, taking McGonagall's place on the sofa.

"Overwhelmed," Severus' voice was even, but lacked its usual confidence. His dry eyes gleamed with something unidentifiable. "I don't know what to think, if I am honest."

Kingsley had no idea what to say. The Ministry training and years of experience of dealing with the bereaved were failing him. How did one talk to a man whose father had just died, if said father had been distant and unpleasant at first, then totally absent from his life, turning up dead decades later as some kind of Death Eater who had been executed for allowing his squib friend and Harry Potter escape from certain death at Voldemort's hands. There was a lot of emotion to work through. He dumbly took Snape's hand and held it between both of his own, trying to convey any scrap of comfort.

They sat in silence for a long time.

At length, Severus startled Kingsley by speaking.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?" asked Kingsley, squeezing his hand.

"For not giving me platitudes or trying to convince me that all will be well again soon."

"I don't know how you're feeling, no one can" Shacklebolt confessed quietly. "But it must hurt and I wish there was some way I could help."

"I don't want to think about it," hissed Snape. "I am already exhausted from trying to come to terms with all of this …turbulence. Will you distract me for a while?"

"Distract you?" Kingsley had a feeling he knew what was coming next, but asked the question anyway. "What shall I do, Severus?"

"Fuck me," he said simply.

"Are you certain it will help?" he rested his hand on a black-clad shoulder, watching him closely.

"No," snorted Severus, closing his eyes. "But it might."

Kingsley smiled and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

"You'll never have to ask me twice, love."

Severus was more aggressive than usual, and Kingsley responded in kind. There was an element of desperation to their activities which they both found exciting, despite the unfortunate circumstances. Apparently not capable of waiting until they reached the bedroom, Severus had ravaged Kingsley on the sofa until they had rolled onto the floor, where the auror had pinned him to the rug by his wrists, straddling his hips. Despite the desperately aroused sounds rumbling from deep inside Severus, Kingsley hesitated, terrified of causing harm at such an emotional time.

"Are you sure you're OK?" he asked breathlessly, not relishing the gigantic effort of self-control which he would force his body to make if the answer was 'no'.

"No. But I need this," came the rasping reply. "Get on with it."

"I don't want to hurt you," gasped Kingsley, trying to ignore the twitching body between his thighs.

"Shacklebolt, I need you to hurt me!" he spat. "I thought there was no need to ask twice. Do you wish me to beg? Fucking hell!"

That did it. Channelling his own furies and grief Kingsley slammed into Severus after only the most basic preparation spell, urged on by his lover's throaty demands and screams. It was over quickly, leaving them both groaning and sweating on the floor, Snape with one arm still in his shirt sleeve, Kingsley still in his socks and (mostly) his trousers. Lots of tiny buttons were scattered over the floor, and the coffee table lay on its side, magazines and teacups strewn haphazardly around them.

"Thank you," murmured Severus hoarsely. Shacklebolt chuckled and pulled the pale body against his own, lightly stroking the tousled black hair.

"At your service, Professor," he whispered, then frowned as he noticed the fireplace just opposite the scene of devastation. "We probably should have sealed the floo first."

"Nah," the relaxed Slytherin muttered against his skin. "Give the old git something to twinkle about."

They laughed for longer than was necessary for such a small joke. But it seemed to help.

…….

Mrs Figg was released from St Mungo's later that evening. With no home left to go to and in desperate danger from the Death Eaters, it was decided that Hogwarts was the safest place to be for the moment. She had moved into rooms in the Headmaster's tower, which was now crawling with cats, much to Fawkes' disgust. He was perched atop Dumbledore's tallest bookcase, crackling threateningly with orange sparks whenever any of the displaced felines so much as glanced in his direction.

Severus, Kingsley, Arabella and Albus sat in the office, waiting for the explanations which Harry had not been able to give. Mrs Figg fussed with the blanket covering her knees, ordered tea, changed her mind, ordered cake, then cream to go on it, all the while refusing to meet any of their eyes. Kingsley wondered why she was so nervous. Well, not nervous exactly, more like…embarrassed. At length Snape broke the silence with a mysterious comment.

"You are Bella Micklethwaite," he stated coolly. She swallowed, gazing at him with shame and something like pity.

"You knew?" she asked quietly. He shook his head.

"I only began to suspect when Kingsley told me what Potter said earlier," not one single emotion could be read on his face.

"Ah," said Mrs Figg. No one spoke.

Dumbledore looked questioningly at Kingsley, who shook his head, equally baffled.

"Would someone mind explaining?" asked Albus carefully. "Just the basic facts will be sufficient. Please."

Arabella looked up, but Snape was staring out of the window in silent refusal. She cleared her throat.

"I was…I was Tristan Snape's mistress," she said quietly.

Kingsley gaped for a second before regaining control over his shock and putting on a calm expression. He reached out and took Severus' hand. Severus pulled it away and folded his arms across his chest. Arabella was crying now, but began her explanation as clearly as she could.

The Snapes were a traditional pure-blooded wizarding family. They had two sons, as was expected of people of their class – an heir to inherit the money and estates, and a spare in case the heir was killed. The eldest son, Malvolio, was raised with leadership in mind, indoctrinated with his parents values of how to be a great leader and a fine wizard, whilst the younger son, Tristan, was largely ignored and allowed to do as he pleased. This consisted of running around the castle grounds and surrounding areas, having childish adventures and developing a free-spirited outlook on life. Aside from the occasional thrashing, Tristan's parents had little to do with him and his outlandish ideas, which suited the solitary boy just fine.

He was seventeen when he met Arabella. Out meditating on the Moors one misty day he had become hopelessly lost, and his magic-locator spell had pointed him to the nearest wizarding area. It was not, as he hoped, Otley Castle, but the Micklethwaites' cosy cottage. They had welcomed him in with generous hospitality, and he had immediately fallen in love with Arabella.

'Her's a squib, you know,' her father had told him with textbook Yorkshire bluntness. 'Young wizard of your class can't be seen with her.'

'My brother could not,' Tristan explained with a shrug and a smirk. 'But I'm the second son. Who will care what I do?'

He was absolutely right. His parents rolled their eyes. Malvolio made some tasteless jokes. His mother's friends were scandalised for a day or two but quickly recovered and went back to ignoring the unimportant son.

Arabella and Tristan were very happy for fourteen years. Never feeling the need to conform to social norms by getting married, they moved into a nice little home in nearby Ilkley, living mostly as muggles with occasional visits to the magical world, content with just being together in peace and love and harmony. Until disaster struck.

It was a stupid accident. One of those unbelievably simple events which can shape the destiny of scores of people. Malvolio had apparently been strolling alone in the castle grounds when he slipped in mud at the edge of the lake, knocked himself unconscious on an ornamental rock and rolled into the water. He was dead by the time the groundskeeper found him.

Pandemonium erupted at the castle. Suddenly Tristan was no longer the spare, but the heir. His parents dragged him back home, cursing their earlier inattention, and foisting etiquette tutors and all kinds of lessons in how to be a noblewizard upon him. There was no longer any question of his being left alone to enjoy domestic bliss with a squib girlfriend, his mother insisted he marry a fine pure-blooded witch and produce sons to keep the proud Snape heritage alive.

Mrs Figg faltered in her narrative, the emotion of her story overwhelming her. Severus had risen from his seat and was staring out of the window again, with his back to the room. She blew her nose and took a few gulps of tea.

The hippy couple were devastated by this turn of events. Tristan had protested violently against his responsibilities at first, but his family had used some kind of hold over him, and he had been unable to refuse. After much soul-searching, they had planned to stay together despite Tristan's pending marriage, with Arabella taking the role of 'mistress' while the future Mrs Snape was his official partner and bearer of his children.

Severus gave a snort. Mrs Figg nodded.

"Yes, well, that was the plan," she grimaced, "But we seriously underestimated your mother. We knew Kali was very young, only eighteen or so, from a very well-bred Indian family. At first she seemed to be a demure slip of a girl who would do as she was told and not ask too many questions."

Snape gave another snort, louder this time.

"I don't know how she got the house-elves to tell her…" began Arabella, but was interrupted once more by the potions master.

"Cruciatus, I should imagine," he commented dryly. Everyone swallowed in unison. Mrs Figg continued.

"Possibly. But anyroad, Kali found out that her fantasy of playing Lady of the Manor in an English castle was not working as she had hoped. After a more than two years of…er…persuasion, Tris and I were forced apart. Oh, I don't blame her, how can I? I was the third person in their marriage, the monstrous carbuncle on the landscape. But our happiness was ruined. I was married off to a kind and loyal estate worker named Norman Figg, we were given a huge settlement and a house hundreds of miles away in Surrey. Norman was a very nice man," she added, almost apologetically. "But he wasn't my Tristan."

She tailed off, lost in the happy memories of her youth. Kingsley was having a hard time connecting the Tristan Snape of her narrative with the vicious dueller and dark arts specialist described by Moody and the Daily Prophet. He supposed that was what a broken heart did to you. Had he ever forgiven his wife for sending away the love of his life? Had she ever forgiven him for marrying her as a gesture towards respectability, with no intention of being faithful?

Severus swung away from the window so abruptly that the others jumped.

"I shall be in my rooms," he nodded curtly to Albus and swept through the door, black robes billowing behind him. Kingsley shot to his feet, unfortunately slowed down by a random cat which had fallen asleep in the folds of his cloak, and hurried after him.

"Severus!" he called down the stairs. There was no answer. He dashed down the corridor in the direction of the dungeons and glimpsed a silhouette charging full tilt away from him. He called again, but the long stride did not falter, forcing him to run to catch up.

"Please, Severus," he began.

"Leave me alone," snarled Snape, without stopping. Mindful of the last time he grabbed hold of the potions master when they were both upset, Kingsley did not touch him, but kept pace in the sprint for the dungeons.

"Don't run away from me," he almost begged. "We don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." They had reached Severus' rooms now, and he muttered the passwords to allow him entry, before rounding on Kingsley.

"You are absolutely right," he said, voice dangerously soft. "We do not."

The oak door slammed in Kingsley's face with a ominous boom.

…….

Severus slid down the other side on the door until he reached the floor. This was ridiculous. Bella Micklethwaite's name had been flung around during arguments, cursed by his mother as the most ruthless kind of scarlet woman, and the reason why his parents lived in opposite wings of the same house without seeing each other for days on end. It was impossible to grasp that he had known 'that squib whore' all this time, disguised as a batty, cat-loving old dear who wore carpet slippers in the street.

Figg could not have been talking about his father, either. It must be some other man named Tristan Snape. She had painted a picture of an unconventional but charming chap who had not been equal to the responsibilities which had been thrust upon him, worlds apart from the harsh man Severus remembered, locked alone in his study, angry with life, his wife, himself. Then he had vanished after the terrible battle, the castle destroyed, the house elves dead, the money confiscated. All that was left was a thirteen year old boy wondering what the hell happened to his life; and a young mother cursing the day she laid eyes on that selfish, evil old bastard Snape.

Severus was used to shocks, his world turning upside-down with alarming frequency, but these new developments challenged some very long-established ideas which had been carefully archived deep within his flawed personality.

This war was proving just as disturbing as the last one. It would be a miracle if he survived with his sanity intact.

…….

A/N: Emotional rollercoaster alert! Oh dear, just when they were making progress, too.

So much of this fic is based on events of the past – but re-reading OoTP in preparation for HBP recently, I noticed how much of the real thing hinges on events which happened way before Harry's birth. And I'm a History graduate, I love the stuff.

Thanks again for more wonderful reviews, they brighten my morning, my life, my soul! And I always love to hear from you!

Well done Oya for pointing out the Moody slip. I had completely forgotten that canon Moody is retired, while mine is still ruling the auror's roost with a fist of iron and a leg of wood. Oops! (Smacks self on wrist for not paying attention). OK, as far as this fic is concerned, he got re-instated after the Ministry finally admitted Voldemort was back and decided they needed his expert help. Ahem.