Chapter 3: Securing the nest

Author's note: I know I said that this story would be pretty fluffy, but this chapter is anything but fluffy. Fair warning- it's dark, and quite distressing for poor Severus

Severus heard it as soon as he opened the door. The baby was crying: not the screams of a hurt child, but the whinging cry of a fed up one. He slammed the door behind him, scooping Robin up from his basket and soothing him, only partly effectively, with nonsense noises. He needed changing. "Annie, what's going on?" he snapped, striding into the bathroom with the whimpering Robin cradled against his chest.

She sat in the bottom of the shower cubicle, the water streaming down onto her head. He yanked the cord by the door that gave power to the shower, shutting it off abruptly. He glowered down at the small ball of naked, shivering woman. "He's three weeks old, Annie! This has to stop! Your child needs you!"

"You have him. He likes you better," Annie mumbled into her knees.

Severus sighed, bending to pick up the towel from the floor. "Out, Annie," he snapped, holding it out to her. "You wanted him. This is baby blues, nothing more, and listening to him cry won't solve it. You have to get on with life. He needs changing, and feeding."

"You do it!" she sulked. "I've been with him all day."

Severus wanted to stamp his foot. "I got up at five this morning," he snapped, "in order to review my notes on the brewing of antiseptic potions for my practical exam at nine. I then proceeded to work a six hour shift on the antenatal ward, where a woman is suffering from eclampsia, and another has dragon pox, which is contagious and highly dangerous in a pregnant woman. Then I held my first solo consultation with a witch concerned about her fertility. I have not eaten since six o'clock this morning. I am expected at a meeting in an hour, and I have come to see you. Now you tell me that you are more tired than I."

She looked up at him, wide eyed. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "Can't you skip the meeting, get some rest?"

"No," Severus said with a sigh. The Dark Lord was getting… restless, and he had to ensure that no suspicion of wrongdoing fell on his head. "It is something I must do. I promised. Now, get out of the shower. You get the baby cleaned up and fed, and I shall make us some food."

Annie finally unfolded herself from the floor of the shower with a sniffle, tucked the towel around herself (Severus found himself averting his eyes) and took Robin, still whimpering, into her arms. "I'm sorry, baby," she said. "I'm a rubbish mother."

"No," Severus said shortly. "You're not. It's just a big change, having a child." He turned and left the bathroom, opening the little under-counter fridge to find something for dinner. Three slightly wrinkled apples, a block of cheese, some butter… he sighed, opening the cupboard instead. Ah. Spaghetti… He filled a pan with water. At the very least, Annie was clean: there were never dishes piling up or the bed left unmade. There were a few tins in her cupboard: he began digging through them. A motley collection: some baked beans, oxtail soup, tinned mushrooms, and tinned peaches. At the back, he found what he was looking for: tomatoes. He emptied the tin into her frying pan for lack of another cooking vessel and began to mash the tomatoes into a sauce. She had no cheese grater, but he finely chopped the orangey cheddar. Annie emerged from the bathroom wrapped in her dressing gown, and, settling on the sofa, pulled aside the fabric to feed baby Robin. At least the child had an adequate food supply, Severus mused. Hopefully she could keep feeding him for months yet, and limit the food costs. The house at Spinner's End still hadn't sold, and he was doubting that it ever would. Everyone who lived locally knew it too well, and he had just about given up. He had another month on the lease of his room: if the house didn't sell by then, he'd move back in and save himself a few galleons.

Annie was softly singing to Robin; her voice so low as to make the words indistinguishable. "Your voice is pleasant," Severus said, feeling guilty about being so harsh with her earlier.

"The vicar's wife wants me to join the church choir," she said softly.

"Why don't you?" he asked. It would be good for her, he thought: she needed to get out and be around other adults. Yes, he may have by far the more exhausting days, but he could see how she would hate being inside and alone all the time, waiting for his visits of perhaps an hour a day and a little longer on the weekend, when he'd taken to bringing studying to do, and Isabel's weekly pilgrimage on a Sunday afternoon.

"I can't exactly take the baby," she said. "It's okay for the service… well, he's slept the two times I've taken him, mostly. But I can't do choir practice with him there, really."

He carefully drained the boiling pasta water into the sink, stopping the spaghetti falling out by using the lid of the pan. "When is choir practice?" he asked.

"Wednesday evenings at seven," she replied promptly.

He made a noncommittal noise as he stirred the crushed tomatoes into the spaghetti. He worked wednesday evenings, but, perhaps, he could swap shifts with someone. He didn't want to get her hopes up. "Severus?" she said quietly.

"Yes?"

"He needs to be baptised."

"That's fine," he replied. "I told you, you may do what you will regarding such matters. They do not interest me." He dished out the spaghetti. "Is he almost finished eating?"

She moved Robin up to her shoulder to burp him following his meal. "You're his father," she replied. "You should be there."

"I'm not a follower of your God." He placed the bowls on the table with finality. "Put the baby in his crib and come and eat."

"I'll hold him," she said stubbornly.

Severus sighed. "He won't vanish from his crib," he explained, as if to a child. That was how he had come to think of Annie in many ways; just a child. It made him nervous, sometimes, leaving a baby in her care: how many times had the child screamed as he had this afternoon, and gone unanswered? And yet, the baby seemed healthy enough: he was putting on weight within expected parameters, and was clean. She'd agreed readily enough to having him registered with muggle healthcare services: it had taken a little bit of research on Severus' part to get the correct paperwork. She just seemed to flip from perfect, loving mother, to scared child in an instant, and he never knew what to expect.

"I just like to hold him," Annie explained.

"Fine. Just don't drip food on him; it's hot." He sat and began to eat. He was too hungry to wait for Annie to situate herself and the child. She took delicate little bites, leaning forward so as to keep Robin's downy head clean.

"So, will you come to his Christening?" Annie pressed.

"No." A muscle twitched in his jaw: the Dark Mark on his arm was beginning to burn. It was earlier than he had expected. He wished it didn't cause pain. Why would one inflict pain on loyal followers when you wished them to see you? Severus grimly reminded himself that the pain was worth it; that it was a great honour to be selected for the Dark Lord's inner circle, especially immediately after leaving school. He was important, and he had the Dark Lord's ear. He would be part of the return of magic.

"Sev," she wheedled. "Imagine what it'll be like, when he looks at photos and asks where his dad is?"

Severus clattered his fork down into his empty bowl. "You can tell him his father did not believe in fairytales," he snapped. It still seemed slightly odd to refer to himself as a father.

"Sev…"

He stood in a whirl of robes. "Give me the credit of my entire name, woman, not that childish nickname," he hissed. "I am late." A tear rolled down Annie's cheek: he knew he should have felt guilt for upsetting her, but instead, he felt contempt. That he was allowing this muggle woman to raise his child! "Cease this blubbering, woman," he chastised. "Take care of your child, or I shall find someone better suited to the position."

"Severus!" she cried, but he only sneered, the pain in his arm now stabbing. He did not even leave the flat before putting the tip of his wand to his arm and apparating.

"You're late, Severus," the Dark Lord drawled, lounging back in a chair. Severus looked around: the second dining room in Malfoy Manor. There were only a handful of followers there: Lucius, of course, newly made Lord Malfoy following his father's somewhat untimely death, the Lestrange brothers, Yaxley.

Severus dropped his head in contrition. "My apologies for the infringement on your time, my Lord," he muttered.

Voldemort flicked his wand point up. That was the first time Severus ever left a Death Eater meeting wracked with tremors from Cruciatus.

It was not the last. The Dark Lord took to summoning at times when Severus was working: he was unusual amongst the Death Eaters to not have a private income, and thus, to be answerable to other masters. Severus pleased his Lord by bringing records from the hospital relating to births and deaths of magical people, and he displeased him by not responding instantly to summons. His displeasure resulted in distrust, and it was frequent that Severus felt the light pressure of a mind bearing into his.

The fact that he was naturally gifted at occlumency was not a fact he had frequently shared. Lucius did not know: he had left school by the time the talent was discovered. It had been in Severus' OWL year, when a cheating charm had alarmed because of a clouding in his mind. A visit to Dumbledore, and it was revealed that Severus was that very rare creature: a natural occlumens. His mind could still be broken, but it took a skilled legilimens to do so, and he always knew when an attempt was made. He knew now why he'd always felt uncomfortable alone with the Headmaster: the occasions had been few, but always left him with a headache. Severus always knew when someone was trying to get in his mind. The matter was considered closed, the fact noted on his school records to prevent future examination-related mishaps. In secret, though, Severus had studied. It wasn't enough to know when someone accessed his mind: he wanted to be able to block them.

It wasn't so simple, he discovered. To completely block your mind was, to a legilimens, like a red light declaring that you had secrets worth protecting. And so, Severus had began a furtive study of underhandedness, of half-truths and dense webs of interconnected distortion. Now, he considered himself a good occlumens, and it was none too soon, for he had secrets to hide from his master.

Months passed. Robin was Christened, and Severus refused to attend. He took Robin for two hours every Wednesday so that Annie could attend choir practice. She began going out more, happy to be seen out with a baby now. She didn't question where the money in the pot on top of the kitchen cupboard came from, she simply used it. He still had to mop her up every few weeks, but, as Robin never seemed to suffer ill effects, he did not pursue the matter. Annie's health was not his concern unless it impacted on his son, he decided. It wasn't his business to become embroiled in muggle psychiatry. Muggles would be better off under wizarding rule, he knew that. That was what he was working towards. That was why he followed his Lord: so the world could run as it should. Annie would just have to wait. He had bigger problems on his plate.

More and more, though, the Lord seemed to be turning away from his stated aims. Oh, he still declared that muggles required a wizarding overlord: after all, with the superior power and genetics of the wizards, what more could be said? But it wasn't benevolent any more. Now, instead of ruling over them, he spoke of killing dissenters, of the natural superiority of the wizards naturally granting them ownership of the muggles. Of slavery. And something about that didn't sit right with Severus.

Every time the subject of muggleborn children came up, he thought uncomfortably of his son: technically quarter-blooded, or half blooded, depending on your definition, but Robin would be viewed as a muggleborn to the world. And those thoughts had to be hidden. The Dark Lord was watching for any hint of foul play, and he punished harshly. Severus wanted to be alive. Through everything; he wanted to live. Such is the human condition.

Severus entered his last year of training: by next January, he'd be a full fledged mediwizard, able to run his own practice. He hoped to have more money then. In truth, he was exhausted, usually running on five hours sleep a night and a good amount of potions to keep him alert. He began drinking coffee: he hated it, but it woke him effectively enough. Robin turned one: he was beginning to toddle, still falling over if left unsupported for more than a few steps. Annie complained that Robin was quiet: he didn't babble so much as other babies at the group she'd been invited to, which mostly seemed to involve drinking tea in a local cafe, and comparing various baby-related anecdotes. Personally, Severus preferred a child that didn't babble nonsensically at every moment of the day. Robin seemed perfectly happy stuffing a toy into his mouth whilst watching his father study, though the beady dark eyes fixed upon him often disconcerted Severus.

He had his first experience of a child's birthday party: he reluctantly accompanied Annie to the home of a friend of hers who had offered to host. He knew no one but Isabel and Lily, who arrived, kissed her godchild resoundingly on the top of his head, and, of all there, was the only one to hand her gift to Severus instead of Annie to unwrap. He was strangely touched by this. She bent close to tell him not to open it here: he correctly suspected that there was a magical element to it.

If he'd needed evidence that Lily had been visiting, here it was: a photograph album, only a quarter filled with pictures of little Robin, Annie, even a couple of Severus playing with the child on the occasions his visits and Lily's had coincided. He hadn't really noticed her taking photographs, but there they were, both wizarding and muggle.

The uneasy truce between warring factions in Severus' life came to head in the third week of September, when he was summoned one Wednesday evening as he ate with Annie before she left for choir practice. He rubbed his arm and cursed. "I have to go, Annie," he snapped.

"But… but what about choir?" she asked. "Why do you have to go?"

"I just do! You'll have to miss choir." He stood, leaving a half finished plate of food before him. He bent over Robin in his seat, strapped to a dining chair, and kissed his son on the crown of his head. Robin waved a sticky hand at him, covered in goo from a banana the little boy had been happily mashing. Severus carefully grasped it by the small wrist to avoid having the fruit mushed into his clothing.

"Severus, I don't understand," Annie pressed. "Where do you go so suddenly? Is it work?"

"In a manner," he told her. The ache in his arm was increasing: the Lord wanted a quick response. He gathered his cloak from where it was folded on the arm of the sofa: his mask was tucked into an inner pocket, transfigured into a medallion that Severus could easily claim as a lucky charm. He was not so foolish as to allow a Death Eater mask to appear on his person. He left her still asking questions.

The Dark Lord was pacing when Severus arrived in a small wood, already masked and cloaked. A glance showed him two others already there. He bowed deeply, then sunk to his knee before Voldemort. He felt the cold brush of the man's mind against his own, but for Severus, slipping on the mask came with ordering his mind, sending all memory of his child, of Lily, now married, of Annie, to the back of his mind. "My Lord," he muttered, keeping his head low.

"Take your place, Severus." The voice from within the deep hood was slightly sibilant: high, commanding, frustrated, but the impression Severus received from the mental touch was not one of particular anger, more frustrated, pent up energy. Severus rose, his head still bowed, and backed himself towards where Lucius stood. He was masked and cloaked as well, of course, but he knew his friend and mentor in pureblood society. Lucius' regal bearing was enough, even without the silvery glint of hair within his hood. Lucius infinitesimally inclined his head in greeting. In silence, they waited. Two more apparated, knelt to offer their greeting and subservience. After the second (McNair, Severus thought, a man only recently raised to the inner circle) had risen from his knee, their leader turned, gliding out from beneath the trees, his robes barely fluttering about his feet. With ease of practice, his five followers fell into place behind him. Severus wondered why they were here, so few of them? This was no revel or meeting, this was a team gathered for some purpose. Severus looked around through the slits of his mask. The area they were in was rural: there was a barn to his left, a solid stone-built house to the front. Was this a new meeting place? He tried to convince himself of this, but the heaviness in his heart told him otherwise.

Their Lord reached the front doorstep before turning on the spot, causing his duckling line of followers to halt abruptly. "This house," he hissed, "contains traitors. A pureblood woman, defouling herself, her body, her bloodlines, with muggle men… we must stamp out this behaviour, make an example of those who sully the purity of magic, dilute power in such a way."

There was a faint ripple of agreement amongst the gathered followers, nothing more than a whisper of wind through trees. Severus tried to control his breathing, slow his beating heart. This seemed too close to his own situation. No. He couldn't think about that now. He strode forward in step with Lucius as the Dark Lord blasted open the door. No subtle entrances for him. A child started to scream.

Severus wanted to block his ears, to run away, anything, but a glance at Lucius showed not even a flicker in his ramrod straight posture. Severus had to follow Lucius' lead. He couldn't think. Just follow. Follow… follow… he dogged Lucius' footsteps down a hallway and into a kitchen.

There was more than one child crying now, an older child whimpered in the corner. A man shouted at Severus' left, the Lord raised his wand. The word fell easily from his lips, the crucio as easy to him as breathing. The man- tall, blond- crumpled to the ground, spine arched painfully. His mouth was opened in a soundless scream. He lost control of his bladder, a common enough side effect of cruciatus.

Severus twitched his robes away from the man in rictus. He looked away distastefully. He could see a metal filling in the man's tooth. The Lord laughed: it was probably a chuckle, but sounded wrong: grating, almost. "No taste for torture, healer?" the Lord taunted. Severus winced, though the unconscious gesture was invisible behind the silvery mask. It was not unusual for jibes to be poked at his chosen profession.

He controlled his voice. He had to control his reaction. "No taste for muggles, my Lord," he replied.

The black-cloaked king threw back his head and barked out a laugh. "We'll train you yet, boy," he declared. His voice hardened, though, when he called, "Woman! Stop cowering, come out and see to your mudblood children!"

There was no response. The Dark Lord flickered his head towards the door to the rest of the house. "Avery. McNair. Find her. She's here somewhere. I can sense her magic, sense her mind."

The two Death eaters peeled off from their companions, splitting without verbal plans, one searching downstairs, and the other's footsteps treading heavily up the wooden stairs. The Dark Lord finally twitched his wand towards the man, ending the cruciatus. He lay shaking on the floor, muscles twitching and tensing. Severus knew that he would seize soon, losing consciousness. He wouldn't survive it without medical attention, not after so long a curse. He would die anyway. He felt more sorrow for the children being here: a small boy of about six cramped beneath the kitchen table, in the corner, and a little girl, her hair in soft blonde pigtails, about the age of Robin, her face crimson with screams and cries. She didn't understand.

There was a cry of victory from upstairs, and a harsh, wailing sob. In moments, McNair was dragging a tiny, delicate woman down the stairs. "Hiding under the bed," McNair explained with delight. "What do you want doing with her, my Lord?" He held out an unfamiliar wand; the Lord took it distastefully between thumb and forefinger.

The snap of the wood echoed through the room. "You do not deserve to carry a wand." The Dark Lord removed his mask, pushing back his hood. His dark hair was thinning, his skin waxy with age and the potions he used to try to keep his youth. He leered down at the woman, cowering with fear. "Filthy blood traitor," he hissed. "Sullying yourself, allowing some muggle to touch you… carrying the children of muggles, diluting your magic. You don't deserve mercy." He held his wand to her face. "Legilimens," he muttered, and the woman's whimper rose to a scream as he plundered her mind.

"Yes," he muttered after a minute. "Yes, you will do well. McNair, bind her tight. She will be our entertainment for the night. It is too long since we held a revel. This pathetic excuse for a woman believed that we could not kill children; that we would not kill her children, so if she hid, she would be safe. She was wrong."

Beside Severus, the man was fitting wildly. Blood bubbled from his mouth: he'd bitten his tongue. Severus itched to turn him, stop him choking to death on his own blood and spittle, but he could not. He took a delicate step to the side, making a show of keeping the hem of his robes from the mess. A stink rose as the man gurgled out last attempts at breath.

The Dark Lord turned towards the child beneath the table. He crouched, as if to welcome the little one. He grinned, his teeth sharp. He raised his wand once more. "Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green, the smallest gasp from the child, and his body slumped against the wall. The mother screamed, her voice hoarse, her words indistinct. Lucius silenced her with a simple spell.

The Dark Lord slipped his mask back into place, drawing the heavy cowl of his hood up about his face again. He tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe. "Severus. Be so good as to dispose of the brat," he commanded (for, no matter how it was worded, a command it was) as he nodded towards the red faced child strapped into a high chair.

"My Lord?" Severus asked, a note of confusion in his voice.

"Kill the child, Severus."

Severus stared at the child in incomprehension. "My Lord," he ventured, "this child need not die. It is young, my Lord. Take it. Raise it to our ways. You build an empire, my Lord: you need those to serve it."

The face, masked in heavy silver, turned fully towards him, along with every other Death Eater. "You grow too fond of your profession, Severus," the Dark Lord sneered. "As you are saving so many lives, have you not stopped to think of the worthiness of those lives? A lily-livered healer is no use to me. Kill the child."

Severus couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Slowly, he raised his wand to the squalling child, his arm trembling. Oh, gods, how could he do this?

With a frustrated growl, the Dark Lord knocked his arm away. With utter disdain, he muttered the words to the killing curse. The flash again, the tiny slumped body. Severus let out a surprised gasp.

Strong fingers wrapped around his upper arm, yanking him around. "You are weak, Snape. Do you truly deserve my patronage?" the Lord hissed, before snapping out, "Crucio!"

Every muscle in Severus' body locked, only the tension keeping him almost upright. After an eternity of seconds, the curse broke, the sudden laxity causing him to drop. The Lord prodded at the abused body of his follower. "Think on your position, Severus," he intoned. "I am displeased." He turned away. "Avery. Torch the dwelling. Rowle, put up the Mark."

"My Lord." Lucius' voice was satin edged with darkness. "Shall we not remove Snape?"

"Let the flames test him. If he gets out under his own power, he will live," the Dark Lord replied archly, almost bored. "If not… well, then he is no great loss."

Severus' mind was blank as he lay, delicately twitching. He heard the crackle of flames, but it wasn't until he could feel the heat that he stumbled to his feet, looked about. Three dead… it would be four by the end of the revel. He felt sick thinking about the tiny child, swallowing bile and keeping his face turned away. Maybe he should let himself burn…

Robin. Little bright eyed Robin. He had to make sure this never happened to his child. Only that thought gave him the determination to summon his strength and turn, apparating away.

He wasn't really thinking as he went. He had no destination in mind: just away, away from all this, away from the dead, away from the flames licking at the table, away from the madman that could commit this.

The evening air was cool as he thumped to the ground, too exhausted for anything else. Slowly, he opened his eyes, looking around him. Trembling fingers rose to pull his mask from his face, tucking it inside his robes.

Why? Why, he wondered, was he here, at the gates of Hogwarts? Of all the places his addled mind could have taken him, why here? Shakily, he stood, reaching for the heavy wrought iron of the gates, cool beneath his hands. He felt the tickle of magic, wards, most likely. He'd never touched the gates before… he laid his head down against one of the curlicues, the metallic smell harsh in his nose.

"Who's there?" a voice called. Severus looked up absently. The gamekeeper, the giant. Hagrid. Yes, Hagrid, that was his name.

"Hello," he said stupidly.

The giant bent to look into his face. "I know you," he declared. "You left school not so long back, di'n't you?"

"That's right," Severus drawled, not willing to let go of the gate yet.

Hagrid grunted. "Stay there," he said. "I'll be back."

Severus muttered that he had no intention of going anywhere, but he spoke to nothingness. The giant had already gone, his stride swallowing the ground to his little hut. Absently, Severus wondered why such a large man had such a small house. How big a bed did the gamekeeper need, he mused? His fingers began to uncurl from the gate, his muscles no longer so tense. He slid down to the grass. Just a few minutes… a few minutes rest. Then he'd go, go and sleep it off...

There was a creak as the left hand gate opened a few metres. Severus' head snapped up. "Good evening, Severus. What brings you here?" Dumbledore asked. He was followed by Madam Pomfrey and Hagrid.

"See, Pr'fessor, I told you he weren't looking too good," Hagrid said.

"Yes, thank you, Hagrid," Dumbledore agreed mildly.

Severus was staring up at him, wide eyed, in a mixture of panic and… was that hope? Dumbledore… the sworn enemy of the Dark Lord… the muggle lover… the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, dedicated to the sole task of the destruction of the Dark Lord… "I need your help," he rasped.

Madam Pomfrey's cool fingers grasped his chin. He met her gaze. He liked Madam Pomfrey. "What happened to you, Severus?" she asked gently.

"Cruciatus," he replied easily, though his voice still caught in his throat. "And smoke damage, I believe."

She was clearly shocked, but her voice didn't betray it. "I have potions that can help," she promised. "Hagrid, may we use your floo again, please?"

And so, Severus found himself back in the hospital wing of Hogwarts school, ushered up onto a bed in a side room. He was sure he was leaving soot and dirt on the freshly laundered sheets, but Madam Pomfrey simply uncorked a selection of vials, handing him one after the other, watching him sternly as he downed them. He recognised muscle relaxants, cleansing potions, brews to soothe the damage in his throat, and a calming potion, along with a pain reliever. Dumbledore settled himself a chair behind the bed, and when Madam Pomfrey had gathered the empty bottles, she let herself out, leaving the old man and the young man together. "Now then," the Headmaster asked. "What is it that I can help you with?"

Severus' thoughts were jumbled. Where to begin? Gingerly, his muscles still sore, he shrugged off his voluminous outer robes and unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He didn't have to roll it far to reveal the stark black stain of the dark mark.

Dumbledore looked at him almost kindly. "Do you think to threaten me, young man?" he asked.

"No," Severus replied flatly. "I made a terrible mistake, and I need help to turn from this path."

"Tell me," Dumbledore suggested.

Haltingly, Severus choked out the tale: the summoning, entering the house, the death of the muggle man, the children, the woman's kidnap for later murder… "I couldn't," he whispered. "I couldn't kill that child."

"You must understand," Dumbledore said, leaning back in his chair, "you must see, that it is not so simple. I am not able to remove such a mark as this; I am not able to shield you from the whims of the master to whom you swore your very life. How, pray, can I even tell that you are not sent to spy upon me, or to do me harm?"

"I am not. I… I have my reasons," Severus spat out. "There are things far more precious to me than the Death Eaters, and I will do anything to protect them."

He felt the bearing down of Dumbledore's mind on his. He growled in frustration. "I will tell you what you want to know," he snapped. "Just get out of my head!"

Dumbledore's eyebrows raised in surprise, his forehead crinkling deeply. "Surely you understand that I cannot simply trust the word of a marked Death Eater? The man to whom you swore your allegiance shows little by the way of sportsmanship."

"Don't you think I know that?" Severus growled. "Did you not listen? I cannot do this anymore, I cannot murder children! I will tell you what you need to know, I will declare it under veritaserum if it makes you happy, just stay out of my head!"

"Why now?" Dumbledore asked. "You come to me now? Why? That is what I cannot comprehend. What changed your mind?"

Severus dug his nails into his palms. It went against everything he'd been doing for two years now, but it truly was the best way to explain, to get Dumbledore to trust him. Dumbledore was headmaster of a school, surely he valued children? "I have a son," he said quietly. "His mother is a muggle woman. He is a year and a half old. I've been hiding him from everyone… no one knows. The Dark Lord can never know. How can I kill a child when my own…" he couldn't say anymore, and he realised he was crying. Angrily, his swiped the hot tears away. A grown man, crying! A Death Eater… crying? How pathetic.

Dumbledore didn't comment on the angry tears. He sat in silence, staring at the wall as if he were mulling over a problem. Eventually he asked, "your son. What is his name?"

"Robin," Severus admitted with poor grace.

"A very sweet name," Dumbledore replied. "Not one I would have expected from a former Slytherin, though."

"His mother chose it."

"Ah." Dumbledore steepled his hands before his face, his elbows braced on the arms of his chair. "I may have a plan which could benefit both of us," he said. "Tell me, Severus, what have you been doing with your life since you left Hogwarts?"

"I'm in training to become a healer," Severus replied. "I have three months left, and I shall be a mediwizard and a midwife."

"A midwife?" Dumbledore parroted, his surprise obvious. "How… unusual."

Severus glared at him. "Magic is declining," he snapped. "Magical births are becoming harder and harder, magical pregnancies more and more unusual. I wish to find out why."

"So," Dumbledore said mildly, "you do not attribute it to the influx of muggle blood, like your… playmates?"

Severus sneered. "I do not know the cause. That is why I wish to research it. What is this plan of yours?"

"Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "I have need of a Potions master," he began. "Professor Slughorn retired at the end of the last year, and we are almost a month into the new school year, with not a single applicant."

"You want me to teach?" Severus said, hadn't come here looking for a job. He'd come looking for some way to extricate himself from the camp of the Dark Lord.

"I seem to recall that you were unusually gifted in the subject. One of the highest NEWT results the school has ever seen, as a matter of fact. You were not only top in your year, you were the top student in the last fifty years."

Severus hadn't known that: he'd had an O, of course, but that was quite expected. "I won't finish training until January," he said. "I had intended to go into practice, probably at St. Mungo's for a bit, then trying to set up my own practice… I had never intended to teach."

"But you need to protect your child," Dumbledore said. "I can help you. I am well connected in the wizarding world. I can hide your child from magical eyes, shield him from suspicion when he comes to Hogwarts, register him under a different name…"

"He already has a different name. He's registered under his mother's name," Severus pointed out.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. He was secretly impressed. "Here is the deal, Severus. You will become the Hogwarts Potions professor. I will ensure that the subject of your son is hidden at the ministry. I will give you the resources you need to make his place of residence unplottable, give him the best protective spells that can be managed."

"And you'll protect me from the Dark Lord?" Severus confirmed.

"Oh, no, dear boy. You misunderstand. I will give you the chance to redeem your soul from the atrocities you have committed. You will feed information about him back to me, to the Order of the Phoenix. You will be instrumental in the downfall of Tom Riddle. In addition, your new position will seem pleasing to him… as far as he is concerned, you are now a spy for him."

"I would be killed if I were found out!" Severus hissed.

"You court death each time you displease him in any case, dear boy. Make yourself indispensable to him, or your son will almost certainly be orphaned."

Severus dropped off the high infirmary bed. He wandered to the window. How had things changed so fast? "I can't," he whispered. "I can't give up everything. I can't… I can't go back there."

"You must," Dumbledore replied.

"Why? Why is there no other way?" He turned, leaned against the wall to face his former Professor.

"Because, if you do not begin teaching on Monday morning, you will find your precious child… mysteriously vanished, and your indiscretions with a muggle lover revealed to your master."

Severus' heart plummeted. "Are you… blackmailing me?" he whispered.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in grandfatherly fashion. "Oh, that is such an ugly word, Severus. No, I am simply offering you an opportunity… a rewarding career, a good salary to support your son, all the perks of a member of Hogwarts staff… I am sure, when little Robin is older, you will enjoy having school holidays free to spend with him? And it would be such a shame to lose such an intellect as yours, Severus. You can help to rid the world of this menace for good. You can be the lynchpin, the saviour of the wizarding world."

Severus pressed hard against the rough stone wall, trusting it to keep him upright, light-headed as he was. He'd come here for help! "I can't start on Monday," he whispered. "I do not finish my training until January."

Dumbledore waved away the concern airily. "Mediwizard training is not necessary for the position," he replied. "You have two days to inform your teachers that you will not be continuing."

Severus breathed heavily, Dumbledore reclining, relaxed, in his chair. "Your answer?" he pressed. "It would be a shame indeed to lose you.. So young… so much potential…"

"You're no better than he is!" Severus snapped.

Dumbledore laid a hand over his heart. "You wound me," he said sincerely. "I am offering you everything, Severus… a secure career, safety for your family, the opportunity to destroy that which you hate... even the perfect apology to your former master. Just swear fealty to me, take my offer…"

"Why Potions, if we are to please the Dark Lord? GIve me the Defence position!"

Dumbledore shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "No, Severus. That is too much temptation."

"And where on my body will you brand your phoenix?" Severus spat.

Dumbledore was smiling benignly. He had won: he could see it in Severus' face, hear it in his desperation. Severus had made his choice: not that he had much of an option. "Nothing so crass, dear boy. A wizard's oath to serve me will do quite nicely. I will instruct you in the wording."

And so, it came to be that Severus Snape swore to protect the interests of the Order of the Phoenix until the threat of the Dark Lord was neutralised, the promise rooted in his own magic. And, not half an hour later, he pressed his wand to the dark mark on his own arm. There was a revel tonight, he'd felt the itching burn that meant a general summons.

He kept only his half-truths in his thoughts as he whiled through the squeezing blackness of apparition, ready for that moment of impact.

He heard the laughter, the calls of high spirits, the moment he landed in the antechamber. He did not bother to re-mask: masks were not worn at revels. He looked around: the Parkinson mansion, he was reasonably certain. He followed the sounds of revelry to the next room.

A bloodied, broken body lay on a marble table to his left; he averted his eyes. It was to his right that his destination lay: the Dark Lord, seated on a chair transfigured to be a heavy throne. He dropped to his knees, prostrated himself on the cold marble floor at the Dark lord's feet.

"Severus." His voice was cold, displeased. "You return so soon? Alas, the flames did not harm you…"

Severus gulped reflexively. Raising his head only enough to be sure that he could be heard, he began his hastily rehearsed speech. "I displeased you, my Lord. I was weak, I thought of myself, and not of the glory of your leadership. I wish to make amends, my Lord."

"Continue."

"I wish to give you information on your greatest enemy. I have sought a position as teacher at Hogwarts school. I have convinced Albus Dumbledore, old fool that he is, that I am repented of my association with you, your Lordship. In return, he has promised to take me into his pathetic Order of the Phoenix. I did this, my Lord, so that I could bring you information…"

The Lord began to laugh: not a warm sound. Severus was tense, waiting for the strike of a curse, even death, but nothing came. "Rise, Severus," the Dark Lord commanded. He was rifling through Severus' thoughts: he saw a meeting between Dumbledore and Severus, but one where Severus had the upper hand, where there was no mention of Robin, where Dumbledore was pathetically grateful, praised him for his turncoat ways… the Lord laughed again. "Such a trusting old fool," he chuckled. "You are redeemed, Severus. I am pleased that you have ceased this harebrained scheme of healing. You are more useful by far as spy."

Severus stayed silent, still bent to the floor. "Get up, man. Get a drink."

Barely controlling his shaking, Severus rose. "Thank you, my Lord. Your generosity knows no bounds."

Two hours later, Severus extricated himself. He let himself into Annie's flat as quietly as he could. She was sitting up in bed, reading. She looked up in surprise. "Severus!"

He said nothing. He strode to the end of her bed, where Robin slept in a chipped, third-hand crib. He reached down, picking up the sleepy, soap-scented body of his son, heavy with sleep. Robin whimpered, waking slightly, but Severus shushed him, tucking the little head into the crook of his neck and holding the child tight.

Annie was out of bed. "What's going on?" she asked, confused. "Severus… you smell like smoke. You smell like you've been by a bonfire."

"Nothing to worry about," Severus croaked, clutching Robin to him. "I have dealt with everything."