Chapter Twenty – The Bad Day Part II

Servius and William headed off for the Quidditch sign-ups and Snape took a deep breath to calm himself, and then turning found himself face to face with McGonagall, one brow arched.

"Are you spying on Servius?" she asked.

"Ma'am. Perhaps a little."

"I see he just got into dueling. I expect he'll take after you in that respect. Let's see what comes of it. Now – I've something to discuss, because I'm a little concerned. Neville said he has two Gryffindor seniors come to him very worried that you've decided they won't pass potions. What's this about?"

Longbottom. Straight on to the Headmistress. "I haven't decided anything Ma'am, but I was direct with the students that it is unlikely all of them will pass."

"Why ever not?"

"They shouldn't be there," he said simply. "They barely acquired their OWLs."

"And yet they did qualify. I know you've been out of teaching for a while, but did you really think that was the best way to set the tone for the year?"

"They will not make Potioneers, Ma'am. They would be better off investing their time and energy into something at which they'll succeed. I'd rather not wait until half-way through for them to arrive at the same conclusion."

"But Severus – you've now made it a self-fulfilling prophesy! Neville said their confidence has dropped so low they may never know their full potential! Few have your experience, Severus, I grant you, but you do not have that kind of foresight."

"Ma'am," said Snape coolly, thinking that in fact he practically did. "I think Professor Longbottom would be better to talk frankly with those students and find an alternative for them rather than fill them with false hope which will do nothing but make it worse when the inevitable strikes too late."

"Or perhaps he can coach them to rise above your predictions of a future you've damned for them?"

She held his eyes with a control that convinced him she meant it. He hadn't crossed swords with McGonagall like this since the war, and on similar circumstances – there was a kernel in the heart of her that was sometimes prepared to believe the worst of him, never could quite set aside her Gryffindor contempt of his Slytherin origins.

"Longbottom is always welcome to see me himself if he has issues with my teaching."

"I'll pass that along. And here is my final word on the matter. My expectation of all my teachers is that they set up their students to achieve, not fail. You will teach those seniors, Severus, as if they were already Potioneers. You will give them everything they need to pass their NEWTs. If ultimately, they fail, then at least you can sleep at night knowing you gave it all you had. Am I clear?"

Snape was quiet as he listened. Were this conversation happening with Dumbledore, he would have risen up and defended himself and his logic. But McGonagall…he could see she'd had to summon some nerve to put her foot down with him. She couldn't bring herself to tell him, outright, that he was wrong, but she made it fairly evident. And he bristled.

"Sir?" came a voice behind him. "Headmistress?"

He turned. The question had been voiced by a prefect in Ravenclaw colours; the boy's badge read Marshall Burns. "There's a first-year kid who's trying to get other kids to sign up for a football club. There's no football club, is there Ma'am?"

"Football?" repeated McGonagall, frowning. "Where?"

"By the Harmony Club, Ma'am," said Marshall Burns, pointing towards an emptier corner of the Hall.

McGonagall hurried off, and Snape followed close behind thinking Servius would almost certainly sign up for a football club if one had been established.

But he hadn't expected it to be Servius himself, sitting at a small, previously unused table with his Dossier open before him, scribbling down the names of a small knot of students who'd gathered and were looking rather excited by the prospect of forming a football team. Hanging from the front of the table was a poster of some English football players, the dull, slightly crumpled condition of the paper indicating this had been brought from home, presumably intended for his dorm. Beside him on the table was a scuffed football, and a supporters scarf was draped from the top of one pole to another overhead, substituting as a banner.

McGonagall propped at the sight of him and turned quickly to Snape. "Merlin's beard – it's Servius!" And then she smiled but covered it with her hand as she looked at him. "Shall I step in?"

Snape glanced about. Trelawney was occupied with some students at her Harmony booth but she was half-watching, presumably a little confused about the unusual turn of events. Other than that, Servius hadn't drawn too much attention to himself and he said to McGonagall: "I'd be grateful if you could let me deal with this?"

"By all means. But I'm curious, so I'll remain here."

Snape came round to approach the front of the football booth where Servius could see him. And it only took a moment, Snape seeming to loom over the heads of the students. Snape had folded his arms and assumed a grave expression, and the students waiting to sign up parted like the Red Sea to let him through.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked Servius, who only held his eyes for a second or two before dropping them to stare at nothing, demurring but not willingly.

"What's it look like?" Servius then retorted, and then looked up again, full of challenge. Wait for William, who was sitting beside Servius, looked highly alarmed and nudged Servius.

"Where did you get authorisation to start a club, Servius?"

"I didn't. I didn't know you needed to get authori-whatsit. I just know that a group of us kids want to play footy."

"That's right, sir!" said Hufflepuff Godfrey Flinders, nodding his head earnestly. Snape noticed that Godfrey was joined by the other children who had gathered around in nodding and positive murmuring.

"Football is not played at Hogwarts, Servius. I don't mind if you kick a ball around in your free time, but it is not an organized sport. Take down your booth."

"Why can't it be played?" asked Servius. His tone had a bit more attitude than a simple enquiry – it was more of a demand. When Snape looked at him, the boy's eyes met his with their trademark glittering.

"In this world, we play Quidditch," replied Snape, but without much conviction. He'd never played Quidditch.

"Is that because football's a Muggle sport, sir?" asked sixth year Gryffindor Ben Strutton. "A lot of us kids used to play it at home. Is Hogwarts intolerant of Muggle sport, sir?"

Snape flashed his eyes at Ben. "Are you taking a tone with me, Strutton?"

"I'm asking a question, sir. I agree with Servius – why can't we play football?"

"There is no coach, no-one to supervise the club. It is something you can play at home in the holidays. Servius – I won't ask you again, take down the booth."

"We can organize it ourselves," said another prefect that Snape didn't know. "We were told that Muggle-born and Muggle-raised kids would be welcome at Hogwarts. The school is trying to pretend that the Muggle world doesn't exist or isn't as good."

"I reckon Professor Oosthuizen would supervise the club!" added Lavinia Prevost. "She knows all about Muggle sports."

"I'm a pureblood and I'd like to play football," said Ravenclaw Primus Dawson.

"Maybe we should bring it to the Student Consultation Committee," said Ben Strutton, who definitely was taking a tone with Snape. "Aren't you organizing that, sir? Can I put my name down for that, sir? Or is that only pureblood kids?"

"Watch it Strutton or I'm taking points," glowered Snape.

"When is the SCC starting?" asked the unknown Prefect. "I'd like to join that too. I think Hogwarts needs to explain why we can't play football if we want."

"Me too," said Servius.

"You take down this booth right now. The rest of you – clear off, or I'm taking five points from each you. Right now!"

"I'm going to ask Professor Oosthuizen!" declared Lavinia Prevost, and dashed away before Snape could do anything. Ben Strutton and the other prefect gave a last, surly look at Snape before departing and he didn't have any doubts whatsoever that this was far from the end of the matter. The other children scarpered.

Servius took down his scarf and slowly began to wind it up. Hatred seemed to emanate in waves. William, looking far more worried than angry took down the poster and folded it. "Take those back to your dorm," barked Snape, glaring at them. "Right now before I confiscate them." The two boys walked away in the direction of the entrance.

When they were out of sight, Snape closed his eyes and hung his head back, then raised a hand and massaged his brow wearily.

"Perhaps you should put your name down for the Harmony Club," suggested McGonagall quietly, coming to his side. "You need to find some inner peace."

"Did you hear them, Ma'am? They think the school is prejudiced against Muggles. I didn't almost lose my life in the war for that to get thrown in my face."

"Is that the reason we don't allow football?"

"It was probably quite sensibly banned because it is a dreadful, appalling sport."

"But it's extraordinarily popular amongst Muggles."

"I hated it." Snape recalled the dismal games organized for school PE, freezing cold, his skinny legs covered in mud, swearing that if the fucking ball came anywhere near him he would cast a Diffindo and shred it (despite having no means whatsoever to do it).

"Well you don't have to play, Severus. So do we have a reason for not allowing it?"

"I don't know, Ma'am. It hasn't come up before. Perhaps Dumbledore will know."

"I'll ask him," she said, with a small smile. "And perhaps you better start getting names for the Consultation Committee. I did ask you, Severus."

"Ma'am," he said, but it came out more as gut-wrenching sigh.

About forty-five minutes later, the club sign-ups came to a close. The students were sent off to their common rooms and dorms to do homework and prepare for dinner while the Great Hall was restored for dining. The teachers began to dismantle their booths and displays. Snape had taken a spare registration form of Slughorn's and the last half hour resignedly sought the names of members for the SCC, unsurprised that the first nominee was Ben Strutton and the unknown Prefect (who turned out to be Laurence Owen of Hufflepuff – no doubt a favourite of Oosthuizen's).

He was heading towards the door of the Great Hall, determined to take a long swig from the neck of his bottom-drawer whisky bottle in his office, when he heard "Professor Snape!"

The accent immediately told him it was Hellmann. He was still at his dueling booth, gathering up his generous bundle of registration forms, and smiled at him. Was it a smug smile? Snape thought it highly likely.

He grudgingly approached the DADA instructor. "Professor?"

"I hear you are to beat me in a duel!" said Hellmann jovially. "I am told you fought in the Vampire Uprising of 2001."

"There was no Uprising," replied Snape moderately. "That was simple speculation gone rife. Typical vampire propaganda."

"So you were there?"

"I don't see how it's relevant."

Hellmann laughed. "I'm merely trying to gauge my opponent, Professor. I jest. And what are we to do about these rumours of a duel?"

"I understand Slughorn has made short work of it. I propose we ignore it."

Hellmann's eyebrows shot up. "So I can't interest you in a little target practice?" He indicated towards his slowly moving targets.

"I don't think so -,"

"Nonsense! Come now, a little target?! I'll give twenty points head start!"

Snape could almost feel his wand vibrating – it had been some days since he'd used it for anything other than housekeeping. He studied the targets.

"Then this duelling nonsense is all at an end, ja? Kommen sie. One round."

"Fine. Make it fast though, I have things to do."

"Prima, Professor. I will speed up the targets; these are for the kinder…" With a wave of Hellmann's wand, the targets began speedily and erratically moving around in a fixed area against the wall. "And here is the standing spot."

Hellmann quickly moved into the middle of the Great Hall, a further five metres away, almost colliding with Hagrid carrying a small basket of something wriggly. "From here. Your best shots in ten seconds."

Feeling some reservation, but in no way prepared to back down, Snape took up position. His trusty wand slipped into his hand, the grip almost moulded to his palm after so many years.

"When you're ready, Professor. Just say -,"

"I'm ready."

"Fertig…los!"

Snape instantly raised his wand and zeroed in on the targets, selecting the largest one first and blocking the others out. "Eins…zwei…" he dimly heard Hellmann counting.

The target would move predictably one way, then abruptly change direction entirely. Just like a human would. Or rather…a mouse.

Snape had practiced target-shooting with his wand as a teenager, at home in his room, with flies. When his parents died, and he was confined to the house during the investigation and the post-accident autopsy, he spent many hours thus, killing time during summer afternoons, absorbing events by increment, opening vaults in his head and shoving stuff in them. The flies had been attracted to the bloodstain at the bottom of the stairs. No amount of bleach seemed to change that.

Now he used mice. Leave the mice alone…Charity had said once. Not likely.

"Assingo!" He fired his first shot and it hit home nicely.

"Bravo! Vier…funf.."

The second target was smaller. He blocked the others out, blocked everything out, his eyes trained on it and imagined a mouse. His wand seemed to shimmy with excitement.

"Assingo!" The second shot hit just outside the bullseye.

"Gut gemacht! Sieben.."

Snape heard a clapping. He was distracted and heard Hellmann say "Acht.."

The third target was smaller again. It was like a two-dimensional snitch zipping about. He picked his moment, picked where he thought the target would be and his magic would hit after travelling the distance …then: "Assingo!"

The blue zap hit the target on the outer edge of the smallest target. If it had been a mouse, he would have hit the tail. It did happen.

"…Zehn!" announced Hellmann. He clapped his hands, smiling, but the clapping behind him was what he'd heard earlier.

Heart thumping, Snape turned. It was Hagrid and Sinistra. "Was you thinkin' of Death Ea'ers, Sev'rus?" asked Hagrid, eyebrows lofty.

"Wow!" said Sinistra.

Hellmann came up and shook his hand generously. Then he headed off to the targets to collate the score.

Snape couldn't ignore the thrill he felt, the unconscious smile on his face was evidence. His hand open and closed around the grip of his wand, as if patting it. He was mostly happy with how he'd done, if he hadn't got distracted on the last one…he was oddly gratified that Sinistra had seen it…

"Two-hundred and twenty-five. Two fifty is the perfect score. I'm impressed, you are very accomplished, Professor Snape. A worthy opponent. Will you do me the honours?"

Hellmann had taken up position. The targets had been cleared and were moving about.

"Certainly," said Snape, feeling unexpectedly energized. "Are you ready?"

"READY!" responded Hellmann with fervour, staring fixedly at the targets, wand raised.

"And…START!"

Hellmann fired almost immediately. He too selected the largest target and he too got a bullseye.

"Good, good, uh two, three -."

Another fire and Hellmann zapped the second largest target. This was also a bullseye. Snape could hardly believe it and forgot to count.

"Professor?"

"Uh – very..very good, uh, five…six…"

Hellmann took a moment longer this time. Snape could see him concentrating and he muttered something under his breath. The wand pointed forward, and Hellmann shouted "Assingo!"

The smallest target shot upwards just as Hellmann had said the incantation. But unbelievably, the blue light shot home and hit the target, about midway from the bullseye.

"…eight," counted Snape, staring. "Nine. Ten."

Hellmann was standing straight, smiling at Snape when he turned back. "Ah. I enjoyed this!"

"That was...very good."

"Perhaps Hagrid could count the scores?" suggested Hellmann.

"I'll count them." A voice behind him. Snape looked round and saw Longbottom. The Herbology Professor was already walking towards the target before Snape could object.

"Thank you, Professor!" said Hellmann, smiling broadly. More teachers were gathering round, their arms laden with display materials and forms.

"Benedict, that was outstanding," squeaked Flitwick, bundled with choir paraphernalia and a banner. "Allow me to shake your hand later!"

Snape glared at Flitwick the turncoat.

Longbottom hurried back to the group with a gloating smile. "Two-hundred and forty. Almost a perfect score. Well done, Benedict! Haven't seen the like!" He stuck out a hand and shook Hellmann's enthusiastically.

"You were both excellent," said Sinistra stoutly.

"Professor Snape made me rise to the occasion!" said Hellmann. "I had my work to be cut!"

Snape swallowed, stepped towards Hellmann and put out his hand. "Exceptional," he muttered as they shook.

"Perhaps we could have a schnapps to celebrate?" offered Hellmann, as the other teachers began to move off. "I have some in my office?"

"Dad? You said you'd help me with my homework."

It was Amelie. Who knew where she'd come from, perhaps there the whole time? Snape didn't know, but the girl looked at him while she spoke to her father.

"Ja, ja – soon, okay? Go back to the Common Room now."

"Amelie?" It was McGonagall. "Why are you out of your rooms? Please now…"

The girl's eyes widened, and she hurried off. McGonagall watched her go, then turned back to Hellmann and Snape. "Really?"

"Ma'am," said Snape, straightening. "It was nothing serious -,"

"It was my idea," offered Hellmann.

"Do I have to give you both detention?" asked McGonagall. "And in front of students as well? Please gentlemen – remember you're meant to be setting an example. But well played, Benedict."

McGonagall moved off, tapping her wand-tip in her hand as she went. Snape didn't doubt for a second that she couldn't give Hellmann a run for his money.

It was eight at night, and Snape was in his office. He was seated, waiting, feeling the warmth of the fire as it snapped and crackled, the two snifters of whisky he'd snuck in mellowing the sharp, jagged perceptions he held of the day – the scabrous progress of it had almost left scratches on him. He had undone his cravat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and, leaning on his desk, when he rested his chin on his hand he could feel the roughness of bristles already.

With his other hand, he held up the parchment that had Servius's assignment on it from that morning's class. Like most youngsters learning to use a quill, the handwriting was virtually illegible, and blotched with inkspots. But in deciphering the mangled wording, Snape learnt that Servius's grasp of the assignment's problem, and his proposed solution, were spot on. His theorem was absolutely correct: the boy had got it. It was early days, there had been but one class – however a good fifty percent of his classmates – including William, who manifestly had not been copying – hadn't passed that assignment; could it be that his son had the makings of a Potioneer?

A knock at the office door, and Snape wearily lifted his wand to unlock it. "Enter."

Michael Tattinger opened the door. Prefects were required to escort first-years if they needed to leave the common room at night. Behind him came Servius, still dressed in uniform. On the lapel of his robe, three pins blinked back the light of the candle sconces.

"Sir? He has detention sir?"

"Thank you. I will return him."

Tattinger left and Servius stood in the doorway, looking about him.

"My office," said Snape, and with his wand, shut the door behind the boy. "So I can work while you do your time."

"What are those?" asked Servius, pointing to the shelves of bottles and conserved things.

Snape glanced at the shelf. "You'll have to be more specific."

"What's in all the jars?"

"Have you never been to a museum?"

"Yeah."

"Then you should recognize preserved specimens. Some of the others are potions and some of the others are ingredients. Now sit – you're not on tour, this is detention."

Still curiously gazing about him, Servius sat at the chair on the opposite side of the wide desk from Snape. Once he was settled, he drew his brows together and stared sullenly at this father, black eyes sparking. "So?"

Snape regarded him a moment, then lifted up the assignment parchment for Servius to see. "I've been marking this. You did well. I believe you that you didn't copy from the Hellmann girl, hers is superior again. But despite your deplorable conduct in my class today, it appears you're capable of grasping some fundamental potions theory."

"So if you believe me that I didn't steal her paper, why am I here?" His prospects of a future in potioneering obviously made no difference to the boy whatsoever.

"I didn't know that at the time, and you are on detention for other reasons. Why did she try to get you in trouble?"

"I don't know. She's been doing that all week."

"Professor Hellmann and Professor Slughorn have both told me about the dueling gamble. I know that you didn't place a bet. Why did you agree to it at all?" asked Snape.

Servius looked uncomfortable. "They were all wanting to know whether you'd win. So I said of course you would." He fixed his gaze on a Hippogriff knuckle bone on Snape's desk.

A warm glow sprang up in Snape's heart, and his lips twitched, but he refused to smile. "Well thank you for your vote of confidence. I should tell you now before you hear it from Miss Hellmann that I in fact lost to Professor Hellmann in a target shooting duel earlier."

"You lost?" said Servius, looking up in dismay. "Aw man. By much?"

"No. Not much," he cleared his throat. "I am a little…out of practice. How is your hand?"

Servius shrugged and waggled it a bit. "'S'alright."

"What caused the swelling?"

"A spine from a dumb spiky plant or something in Herbology."

Snape frowned. "Did Professor Longbottom give you mature plants to work on? That's not appropriate for first-years…"

"No it was just little."

"Then how did the prickle get through your glove?"

Servius picked up the Hippogriff bone and toyed with it. "Wasn't wearing gloves. Didn't know we were supposed to."

"But Longbottom would have -,"

"We were late. We missed the bit about putting gloves on."

And apparently Longbottom hadn't thought fit to bring them up to speed before starting the practical. Snape didn't comment but a low thundercloud of anger rumbled distantly. He wondered if warning Servius about Longbottom was appropriate.

"Professor Sinistra said you were horrible in her class today. I think that is a poor way to repay her for her kindness last night."

"I had Astronomy pretty much straight after your class!" said Servius heatedly. "I was already pissed-off and then all the other kids were calling you an arsehole and stuff. Those Gryffindor kids are looking for a square-up..."

"No fighting, do you hear? You do not throw a punch. And watch your language."

"Well what am I supposed to do when they're slagging you off?"

Servius's appeal to him was genuine, and Snape was non-plussed. "I would have thought you'd join in…"

"I'm allowed to slag you off; they're not!"

Snape paused to consider his words, knowing exactly what he meant. They were family. Only family could complain about each other.

"Can you not…can you just not be such a git?" said Servius plaintively, frowning at his own knuckles now, but not seeing them. "The other kids think I must be like you."

There was a length of silence in which Servius studied his hands and Snape studied him. Snape had no idea how to respond to that request. He himself was indifferent to the opinions of the students and had been for years, but he hadn't thought about how it would reflect on his son, struggling to fit in. The boy was caught between defending his father and proving he wasn't the same. It was painful to learn your child was doing all they could to prove they were not like you.

He exhaled heavily and said, "I shall…try." Then he added: "Is setting up football team about that? Trying to make friends?"

"A bunch of us just want to play footy. It's fun."

"How did you set up the booth…?"

"I brought stuff with me and when Will found a spare table I set it up. Some kids knew I was gonna do it, kids who wanted to join."

"Did it not occur to you to ask whether that would be permitted?"

"Nope. I didn't think it would be a big deal. And now all those kids think you're a plonker as well."

Snape sighed and crossed his arms. "Servius, this has been a bad day."

Servius nodded somewhat forlornly. "And having my father give me my first detention – everyone thinks that's hilarious."

"I'm not laughing," said Snape quietly.

"So what do I have to do? Write lines?"

Snape had selected his detention task for Servius immediately after first-year potions. He reached into the side-drawer of his desk and withdrew some sheets of parchment and a quill and passed them across the desk to Servius. "There's an ink-pot just there."

"Lines?"

"A letter, Servius. To your friends, to your Grandparents – to someone at home whom you miss."

There was that clearing on the face of Servius, as he contemplated the fine, blank parchment, that rare expression when his brows relaxed and his eyes took their full almond-shape and his lips were allowed to be full. And Snape stared because then…then he could make out some of Charity in him, so ephemeral it was like smoke, a cloud passing, the seconds just before the sun dipped below the horizon. At that moment, Servius was so exquisite it almost hurt.

"Okay…" Servius dipped his quill in the ink; failed to tap it. "They'll think it's sick to get a letter from an owl…"

Snape then went to his secret draw and withdrew the enchanted parchments. "I'll be writing a letter myself."

"Who are you writing to?"

Snape hesitated. Then said softly, "To your mother, in fact."

He could feel Servius's eyes boring into him. "How does mum get a letter?"

"She may never get it. But I…like to think she might," replied Snape in such an inward-facing voice that Servius leaned forward to hear.

"If you still love Mum now, how come you weren't married to her when I was little?"

Snape's heart thumped a touch harder than normal and he waited some moments before answering. He couldn't look at Servius while he spoke. "She…it was the war…I had to fight…she was protecting you, Servius."

"Is that where you got that?" asked Servius, pointing at the scar on Snape's neck. "Fighting in the war?"

Snape unconsciously covered it with his fingers. "In a manner. Yes."

"But you, you know, wanted to be with us?"

The truth…how could there be so many versions of it? Surely truth could only be only. And yet…eventually Snape replied, "Yes. I…wanted to be with you."

Perhaps with a wisdom beyond his years, Servius left it there.

And the Snape's, on either side of the desk, in candlelight and silence, wrote their letters. The younger fidgeted and scratched, and once or twice scrunched up his paper in frustration. The elder took longer to start composing and, after a few minutes, withdrew his bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer, poured a finger into a decidedly grubby tumbler concealed behind a short tower of books and took a hearty draught. Then picked up the quill again and proceeded to write.

Servius had written but three paragraphs and then decided he'd finished. Seeing Snape still engrossed, he got up from his chair and began to inspect the jars and bottles on the shelves. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and Snape's rasping quill. And then, presently, there was a clearing of his throat and Snape sat back in his chair.

"Are you finished?" Snape asked.

"Yep."

"Fold it and pass it to me. I will seal it."

"You don't wanna read it?"

"Should I?"

"It's kinda private."

"Then no, I don't need to read it."

Servius folded the parchment clumsily and handed it over to Snape, who dripped candlewax on the fold and impressed a Hogwarts seal.

His own letter, he tapped with his wand and said almost under his breath: "Convey." His writing before his eyes faded away, sending his message across magical planes, fields, spheres or dimensions of which he knew not, to – he hoped – another world again, additionally foreign to him, but across which all, must surely, exist the language of love. That tongue was indifferent to lexicon or dialect or even realm. All he really believed is that Charity would know it and understand it.

"Shall we take your letter to post it?" he asked Servius, draining his glass.

"Huh?"

"Your owl. I think he has been unoccupied for a few days. Shall we give him some useful work?"

"Now?" checked Servius, hope bringing lightness to his features.

"I will give you my old winter cloak. Come along, quickly now, bring your letter."

They stopped briefly by Snape's quarters to acquire the cloaks, the one for Servius, though warm, trailed along the ground behind him. Then they bent their steps towards the owlery which, to Servius's extreme delight, necessitated access to the grounds via a secret passageway, the access to which was through a dungeon holding cell, replete with chains and wrist-cuffs. Snape didn't often use this passage but each time he did, he wondered what function the Four Founders had intended for this room, and had a dire suspicion that it would have been on the insistence of Salazar. He also suspected the tunnel had been made by someone held in the cell. Or perhaps the whole thing had been an elaborate prank. Irrespective, he could hear behind him the appreciative mutterings of his son as he led Servius by wandlight along the dank, moss-coated tunnel, cautioning him to step around the occasional mummified remains of an unfortunate creature who'd found their way in, but not back out.

The secret passage opened onto the north-east of the castle grounds, the land being of rough lawn and rock and presently almost invisible under a dense fog. Snape said "Nox," and allowed Servius to behold the silent, glowing, imperceptibly moving landscape under the bright light of the super moon.

"Aw, that's cool," murmured Servius, gazing around him. "Can we go in the Forbidden Forest?"

"No…no I wouldn't recommend going in there. Come, hurry, the owlery is this way."

They set off, Snape keen now to reach their destination. It was cold and the grass was sodden. He walked fast and Servius was forced to keep up, the too-long winter cloak absorbing dew and mud, but he didn't say a word, not wanting to give Snape any reason to change his mind about this unexpected adventure.

The owlery itself was signalled some way out by the flightpaths of various owls leaving and returning, never heard and only glimpsed when they moved over their heads. Hooting and screeching became audible as they neared the tower, and at the foot of it they could see owls launching from the purpose-built arched holes peppered into the stone.

"He's probably out hunting," said Servius, his attention upwards as he watched the birds. "I'll try calling him."

"I'd rather not go in," concurred Snape, his recollection of the owlery interior being wholly unpleasant. It wasn't even all the eye-watering droppings, which Filch vainly tried to keep on top of, but the carpet of regurgitated fur and bones which had the feel of walking on a slightly crunchy sponge.

Servius put two fingers to his lips and emitted an extremely impressive three-note whistle, and before long they both saw an owl come out of the darkness purposefully towards them. To his upheld hand, the owl landed, flapping his wings and bobbing his head, clearly expecting some kind of treat. Servius had none, and Snape hoped that somehow the owl would instead take as reward the evident delight and affection showered on it by the boy, whose wide, guileless smile was so singular and so beautiful that Snape couldn't look away.

"How are you mate?" muttered Servius, as the owl leaned in and lowered his head so that the back could be scratched. "I missed you Täne. Do you like it here? Have you made lots of friends?"

The questions, Snape mused, reflected in value the uppermost concerns for himself. He waited patiently, his feet freezing, as Servius drew comfort from his avian companion. "What time did it take for Tane to reach Trowbridge from here?" he asked when a moment presented itself. "I sent him to you at 7:30 sharp."

"I don't know for sure because he was waiting for me in a tree when we got home, and we'd been out for three hours. But I don't reckon it would have been as long as ten hours."

"Then he's a good owl."

"He's the best. Täne – I want you to deliver this letter to Matty Mathieson, he goes to Kingsdown School but I can't remember his house address." Servius looked at Snape. "Will Tane know how to find him?"

"Does Matty Mathieson have a bedroom?"

"Yeah. A corner one upstairs."

"And will master Mathieson be alarmed by an owl arriving at his bedroom window?"

"No way, he'd think it's brilliant!"

Snape turned to the owl. "Täne, take this to the upstairs corner bedroom window of Matty Mathieson in Trowbridge, but only after dark when the bedroom light is on. Fly direct, await a reply and return to deliver."

Servius handed the letter to Täne who clasped it tightly in his beak and launched into the darkness, disappearing in moments above the gloom of the Forbidden Forest. Servius wrapped the cloak around himself tighter, then raised his eyes to his father's. "Thanks. This is really cool. I have a feeling this is not like a normal detention."

Snape grunted laughter and began the trek onwards towards the front entrance of Hogwarts, completing a half-circuit of the castle. It was uphill, and they left the fog below them, their eyes now drawn upwards to the night sky that looked as if it had been sprinkled with grains of light. They were silent, but it was not acrimonious – an undercurrent of familial accord filled the space, and as they passed Hagrid's dark and shuttered hut, Fisk joined the wordless procession. When they reached the courtyard, their boots and paws left wet footprints on the paving stones and they now breathed small plumes from the mild exertion of ascending the hill.

Snape opened the heavy oak doors with a password spell and Servius gave the deerhound a generous patting before they both entered, and the door shut behind them.

Being a Friday night, the Prefects and Seniors were still socialising in the Slytherin Common Room and looked up in surprise when Servius came through the door. "Have you only just finished detention?!" asked Tattinger in amazement. "What did you have you do? Were you cleaning cauldrons? I heard he used to make kids clean every cauldron in the Brewing Chamber."

"Nah," shrugged Servius, already edging his way past the staring students towards the dorms. "It wasn't so bad. Lines."

"Blimey. Must've been a lot of 'em," muttered Reggie Chiverton.

"I better get to bed," said Servius, and gave them a grin before slipping through the door.

In the dorm, he lit a small candle sconce beside his bed, glad that half a dozen kids were still awake and talking softly or reading. He swiftly changed into his pyjamas, but before scrambling under the covers of his bed, he took Sinistra's starry blanket that he had hidden beneath his pillow and wrapped it round his feet, then with his wand, mumbled the incantation Sinistra had taught him that made the blanket snuggle up tightly and warm his frozen toes.

It was then he noticed a pale, ash-coloured moth land on the blanket. He brushed it off and shoved his bundled-up feet beneath the covers of his bed. The moth returned and landed on his hand. He flicked it away. The moth landed on his pillow, just where he was about to lay his head.

"What the -?" he half-whispered. "Clear off."

The moth beat an erratic orbit around his head and he stared at it. Was it a magic moth? Was that a thing here?

Thinking he might check with Hagrid, he reached out to try and grasp it. The moth lifted lightly away and came to settle against the stone stretch of wall alongside his bed. It opened and closed its wings slowly and scuttered about on the irregular face of the stone.

Servius was now curious. He watched a moment then reached out. The moth seemed to wait. His hand closed over the fluttering insect and at the same moment, the light pressure of his hand against the small section of wall was given way by the stone block shifting, and he shrank back in surprise. The moth fluttered about him and settled once more on the same spot.

Servius could see an inside edge of the adjoining block of stone. He leaned over and gave it a slight push and there was a gravelly noise as the heavy brick shifted. The moth fluttered upwards and then landed again.

He glanced about quickly, seeing if anyone had noticed but the dorm was unchanged. Tentatively he pushed the stone a little further and one end edged inwards while the opposite end came out. The entire stone was clearly loose and with a careful grip on either end, he wiggled it free, flinching slightly at the rough, grinding sound.

In the cavity behind the half-brick something had been hidden. "Lumos," Servius whispered, and his wand gave a soft 'hizz' and lit. He pointed it inside the cavity and saw what appeared to be two notebooks, their covers chestnut-coloured and pebbly in appearance, like crocodile skin. Servius was briefly disappointed that the hidey-hole hadn't stored something exciting or semi-precious, but he reached in and picked up the books, and placed them before him on the bed before replacing the stone.

With his lit wand he saw inscriptions on the front of the books and recognised them as diaries. Nineteen seventy-six and nineteen seventy-seven. He quickly thumbed through one and saw they were filled with writing, the paper had become stiff and crinkled from absorbing so much black ink. A closer look revealed the words to be almost illegible, being both cursive and cramped.

Servius sighed. His feet were becoming toasty and he shrugged himself under his goosedown quilt feeling tired now, sleep was stealing up. Somewhere inside him was an unusual peace, as if a faceless anxiety had been quelled. He put it down to knowing Täne was alright. The front of his quilt up under his chin, he listlessly picked up the earlier of the two diaries and opened the cover. Whoever had written them he figured was long gone. Perhaps the stone cavity had been the kid's hiding place back in the seventies, and he or she had forgotten about them. He vaguely hoped the author had felt like he did, and the diaries were designed to store the person's loneliness and confusion. He searched the inside cover and back for any clue of an identity, but as happens so often with teenage diaries, it was devoid of name. The only indicator he could find was some initials: H.B.P.

Without any true reason for thinking so, he decided the author had been a boy. He admired the hide on the cover, the lack of ornamentation, the rather austere, utilitarian and focussed way the diary appeared to have been used. It was not a gift that had amused for two weeks and been abandoned – every page had been filled. There were no doodles, no aimless wittering, no half-hearted entries that nothing had happened. The ink had been strictly black, and the handwriting was functional, not decorative. HBP had purpose for these diaries…needed them.

The moth fluttered above his head and landed on the top of the notebook, where it was now open before Servius as he sleepily began to read. He smiled at the little creature, who stopped for a moment and seemed to wait.

"Hey, thanks," said the boy, in a whisper. "I needed something to read. It's not Beano but…it'll do."

The moth seemed satisfied and took to the air, disappearing into the darkness of the dorm. Under the covers, Servius managed two pages of the diary by wandlight before falling into a deep sleep.

A/N: acknowledgements to Rennaro "A Difference in the Family" for h/c and inspiration re death of Snape's parents, in this chapter and future chapters.