DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling's created these wonderful characters. I am merely releasing them from their state of enforced inactiveness for the time being...
BETA READER: snarkyroxy - thanks a lot for your help!
Chapter Two
The boy had not hexed anybody, not on the night of the Welcoming Feast, in any case. In his outbursts of temper during the next seven years, though, he had made it up umpteen times.
Severus Snape.
Minerva knew there was no use to her line of thought, no way to understand what had happened, least of all a way to explain, let alone excuse, the atrocious act. And yet she had to think about the man who had betrayed her trust so shamelessly, the man she had thought to be remorseful, changed, the man she had defended a hundred times against mistrustful members of the Order, against suspicious students. Minerva could not even count the number of times she had defended Severus Snape, especially against the most absurd accusations of one young Gryffindor by the name of Harry Potter. And now this….
'How could you have let yourself be fooled by him, Minerva?' she asked herself. 'Haven't all your antennae cried 'Alarm' already at his Sorting? Should you not have listened better to your gut feeling? Albus always had too soft a heart, but you? Had you not sent for him tonight, none of this would have happened….'
She shook her head in a desperate attempt to drive away these dark thoughts of doubt and self-reproach. They would lead her nowhere; if anything, they'd just drag her down even more. And that just wouldn't do!
'No, Minerva,' she firmly told herself, 'you are not going to let him rule your mind, never again!'
Therewith, Minerva McGonagall straightened her back, pushed her glasses further up her nose and went over to the desk. Not being able to sleep a wink anyway, she could just as well use the time efficiently. Several tasks waited for her, one less pleasant than the others. But Minerva was not one to avoid or postpone unpleasant responsibilities. An obituary needed to be drafted in the name of the school, invitations to the funeral waited to be written, addresses of former members of staff and students had to be researched. A lot to do, a lot to take her mind off this night and its events.
'Funny,' Minerva thought to herself as the quill flew over the parchment, 'how the brain, the body, seem to develop a life of their own, functioning perfectly even though inside you feel numb and empty.'
Suddenly, she recognized how it did her good to keep herself busy, her mind blank, all thoughts about anything that had happened closed away, and even more fervently she dipped the quill into the inkpot, erasing the unavoidable splatters on the parchment with a flick of her wrist.
Ever since the end of the battle and the sudden retreat of the remaining Death Eaters, she had not allowed herself a break. There had been a short moment of weakness in the hospital wing, yes, but she had not given in to the tears welling in her eyes, knowing she would not be able to stop, once she had let herself go.
She had kept herself going, as she did now, working like an automaton. It was more difficult now that the castle was dark and silent, now that she was alone with her thoughts. But she had to be strong. A lioness did not show any pain.
Formulating sentence after sentence, putting into words what she was unable to speak out loud, let alone consciously think, Minerva was indescribably thankful for her mother's strict upbringing. Her mother had been a stickler for her girls' proper education in all aspects of life, including discipline, social competence and eloquence – skills Minerva had not developed easily. She had learnt how to put aside her own needs, though, and how to keep a level head, no matter what.
The obituary completed, Minerva moved on to writing the invitations to the funeral. There would be no other topic for weeks among witches and wizards all over Britain than the murder of Albus Dumbledore, that much was for sure. Neither would there be anybody not knowing what had happened, nor anybody ignorant of the time and place of the late Headmaster's funeral.
And yet social habits required formal invitations being sent to a number of people, mostly former members of staff, colleagues from other European schools, former students – head boys and head girls, prefects – and Ministry officials.
The text itself was quickly drafted. Despite being desperate to keep herself busy, Minerva charmed her own copying quill to duplicate the parchment, ready for her just to seal them and to send them via Owl Post.
The self-writing quill giving a constant, monotonous background drone, Minerva Summoned the huge box of index cards that archived the necessary addresses. They were charmed to keep themselves up to date, marking the persons as either student or staff, recent or former, respectively. It was a continuous archive, many of the cards being yellowed and brittle already, not few of them being marked with a black stripe – there would be one more of those now.
Minerva McGonagall swallowed, then firmly gripped her wand and summoned the first pile of cards – Ministry officials, first things first.
Signing and sealing the roles of parchment was a tedious, mindless task. Her hands and wand worked mechanically, her mind blank, only now and then being caught by a name that brought back a face not seen for a long time, memories that had seemed forgotten.
It was the name Nickleby, Abraham, Ravenclaw Head Boy, graduated 1957, that set in motion another unwanted train of thoughts.
She couldn't get him out of her head: Severus Snape, the man that had deceived them all… the boy he had once been….
Not far into his second year at Hogwarts, Minerva had suddenly recalled why he somehow looked familiar to her. There had been a quarrel in the halls, right in front of the Transfiguration classroom. Rather by chance had she witnessed the whole affair.
An innocent remark, 'What's that? A Gobstones Set?', followed bya cutting insult, 'Only babies play Gobstones, Snivellus!' and some immature laughs, that was all it had taken. Within an instant, hexes and curses had been flying; a wooden chest flew straight across the floor, splintering against the stone wall, pouring green and brown marbles all over the floor. The next second, a Ravenclaw boy was crying – or trying to, since a thick, sticky glue was adhering his lips together.
The wrongdoer hadn't been hard to find. "Serves you right," Severus Snape had hissed, shuffling past the other boy to pick up the splintered chest. "Nobody insults my mum!"
And suddenly it had all become clear. This pale skin, the heavy, oh-so-expressive brows, his constantly annoyed look, his sullen behaviour. Only the idiom had to be adjusted, in this case.
Like mother like son.
Minerva had not realized it before, but the Gobstones set had made the Knut drop. Severus Snape was the son of Eileen Prince, a student from Minerva's first years of teaching. A morose, but motivated young witch with a wilful character, having graduated 1957. Eileen had been leader of the Gobstones Club, Minerva recalled.
Much like his mother, Severus Snape had cut a miserable figure, and the accusing scowl that had always darkened his features, had not helped, either. True enough, he had not been the cute little first-year. Others had occupied that role. James Potter, for example, had been a charmer. No wonder the boy had attracted the girls. Remus Lupin had borne such a pitiful look, you only wanted to take him into your arms and cuddle him – and that meant something, coming from Minerva McGonagall. And then there was Sirius Black, another who had won people easily. A prankster par excellence, and yet at the same time, extremely amiable. To complete the Gryffindor quartet, Pettigrew, with his round face and those trustful, blue eyes. Though, we were also been wrong about him, Minerva thought sadly.
But those were only the Gryffindors. One of Minerva's favourite students in that year had been in fact a Slytherin, Evan Rosier. Never had she thought the well-mannered son of an Irish banker could harm anybody, let alone commit gruesome murders and other atrocities. Yet, Evan Rosier had, post mortem, been confirmed a Death Eater. And he had for a long time been Snape's best mate, if a term like that could at all be used when talking about Severus Snape. They should have been warned, but perhaps her ability to judge character was not so very good, after all.
And neither had been Albus', obviously…
But the Headmaster had always seen the best in every person and had, in the process, often enough neglected their apparent failings. Although being very aware of them, he had chosen not to dwell on one's flaws but to move on, to grant second chances. Minerva had admired this trait of Albus' character, had seen it as one of his greatest fortes. Yes, she had even viewed him as a role model, in this respect as in so many others. In the end it should have been Albus' greatest weakness, as well. The one that cost him his life.
Snape.
Of course, Minerva knew, had known back then, that it was not a nice thing to say – especially not for a teacher – but she had been relieved when Severus Snape had been Sorted into Slytherin, rather than into her own House. She hadn't been too surprised, either. Over the years she had developed some kind of seventh sense to determine into which House a student might be Sorted.
Minerva had always tried to treat all students equally, no matter which House they belonged to. But she was human as well, and naturally there were adolescents she was on better terms with than others. Minerva had always appreciated effort and dedication. Yet friendliness and an open heart, respect and a good upbringing counted as well. Suffice to say, Severus Snape had not had either of the latter.
But had this made him a bad boy to begin with?
Certainly not. She might not have liked Severus Snape as a boy, but he had been just that: a mere boy with a less-than-fortunate youth, prone to straying from the straight and narrow.
Minerva still remembered that night of September 1st as if it was yesterday; the expression of mistrust on his pale face; those dark, glaring eyes, assessing, but at the same time guarded. He had desperately tried to keep his emotions to himself and had yet reacted so impulsively, so angrily, to any well-meant gesture.
No, Severus Snape had not made it easy for anybody to deal with him. With his gruff and sour behaviour, he had efficiently turned away whoever had tried to get through to him.
Almost every year they had one or two students with less favourable childhood experiences, students whose trust had to be earned slowly. There were those who profited greatly of the school's atmosphere, the security of their House, and adapted quickly, literally blossoming out to strong, independent persons. Remus Lupin, for example. Others, however, were more difficult to approach. With students refusing to confide in their teachers, Minerva and her colleagues had to fall back on patience, openness, and an eye for when and where help was needed and welcomed.
Severus Snape had been one of those reticent, distrustful students. Minerva had never learnt the true reason for his distrust in his elders. Not even as a man had he ever spoken openly to her about his childhood. Other than scornful remarks about 'spoilt children' and 'what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger', Minerva had never gotten anything else out of him that might have allowed her to make more than assumptions about his apparently difficult family life. Anybody getting too close to him found themselves locked out by a mask of aloofness and sometimes just plain nastiness. He had perfected this shield over the years.
As a boy, however, his very expression had still spoken of suspicion, not so much of fear, but of an inherent wariness. She still saw him sneaking through the corridors with a slouch, squinting at his fellow students from behind a curtain of unkempt black hair. Somehow he had, during his first years at Hogwarts, always given the impression of being not really present, of wanting to hide. With his shabby appearance, he had always reminded her of a grey mouse. And yet he had already worn that unnerving look in those dark, enquiring eyes, a look she had later come to fear.
Except for classes, Minerva had not seen much of the boy during his first years at Hogwarts and certainly couldn't claim to have gotten to know him. Severus Snape had been a discreet student, quick on the uptake, talented, and eager to learn. Although not overly apt at Transfiguration, he had been ambitious, willing to make it up by doubling his efforts.
And yet, often enough, it had been just his ardent ambition to make it right, to make it better than the others, that had stood in his way.
mgmg
He was sitting in the back row – he had been late. Again.
His hair tousled, his shirt crumpled and the collar of his robe torn, he had entered the classroom almost fifteen minutes late. Out of breath, he had slid into the last bench, dropping his bag nonchalantly to the floor. Her admonishment for punctuality had been met with a muttered, 'M' sorry, Professor', yet the look in his eyes had told her, if anything, he had meant just the opposite. Angry and accusing it had been.
Severus Snape.
She'd have to have a serious talk with him after class; perhaps she would also confront Horace about it. Things couldn't go on like this.
The boy had changed during the last year, but not for the better. He had discarded his formerly insecure self – that in itself would have been welcomed, but Severus Snape still was as reclusive as ever, only now he hid it behind a shield of anger, obstinacy and plain rudeness.
Minerva had a premonition of why he had been late again. Most probably she would find another teacher's formal complaint, perhaps even a request to supervise a detention, on her desk after class. There had been enough incidents like this during the last weeks, even though the school year hadn't been long underway.
No week, not even a day, went by without at least a small quarrel between Slytherin students, mostly Severus Snape, and students of her own House. From the look of it, they had just had another violent encounter in the halls.
Minerva was just happy Transfiguration wasn't one of the courses Slytherin and Gryffindor attended together. It was the last class of the afternoon, double-Transfiguration for Ravenclaw and Slytherin third-years. This day's topic was Reverse Transfiguration. The students were supposed to turn their items from the last lesson back into handbags. The students were working more or less silently, and Minerva McGonagall let her eyes wander across the boys and girls. Later, she would have to walk from desk to desk to examine the students' performance, but it also helped a lot to watch them now, without their knowledge.
Most of the students worked in pairs or small groups, helping each other. There were those who got the spell right easily, others had to try several times. Some were concentrating, some apparently had their thoughts at the upcoming Quidditch Season rather than today's lesson.
Severus Snape cut another example. The boy was alone in the back row. Sitting on the edge of his stool, he was deeply hunched over the cabbage on his desk. His brows were furrowed in deep concentration, giving his pale face a rather grim, almost menacing appearance.
Minerva had watched him for a while now. No doubt he was talented, although Transfiguration apparently wasn't his strongest subject. His wandwork was neat, his incantations accurate. Yet he did not succeed in his task, and it seemed to bug him considerably.
Oh, yes. Severus Snape had quite a temper. One could see it even now. The way his small shoulders tensed every time he raised the wand, his knuckles, protruding white and tense from the back of his hands, it all spoke of ambition and impatience to get it right.
Time and again she watched him pronouncing the spell. The cabbage would quiver, a faint glow emanating from its edges. And then it would stop abruptly, either lying still or bumping loudly across the desk and down onto the floor, the crease between his dark brows getting deeper with every failed attempt.
Minerva observed him throwing dark, spiteful glances at the giggling Ravenclaw girls to his left every so often. She'd have to watch him there, quick with his wand and nasty with his hexes, as he was. In his ill-temperedness, Snape was never far from vindictive revenge for merely being looked at the wrong way. A touchy young man, not only as far as his ambition and pride were concerned. Seldom had he misbehaved during class, though, and he controlled himself this time, too.
Minerva stood and walked slowly between the rows of students, correcting the wand movement here, the spell pronunciation there, and gradually made her way towards the last bench.
She was only a few steps away from the brooding boy when Severus Snape exasperatedly threw his wand down on the table. She heard him growl, 'Bloody cabbage!' as he slouched back into his chair, irritation rather than frustration in his voice.
It was an instinctive move, a gesture of affirmation. She made it with all of her students, and she definitely meant no harm as she touched his shoulder, encouraging him to try the spell again.
Perhaps he hadn't heard her approach – no, he definitely hadn't, as absorbed in his task as he had been. In any case, he stood up and spun around quickly, knocking his chair over in the process.
For a moment, Minerva thought she could see panic in his eyes, and his rushed reaction certainly seemed to confirm just that, but whatever it had been, it was covered immediately by an expression of fury. "Don't. Touch. Me," he hissed, his dark eyes burning into hers. He had that look. That look of strong rejection, yes, even contempt, and Minerva wondered what it was that made him react so strongly to such an innocent action.
It took all of Minerva McGonagall's self-control not to admonish him about his rude outburst, but she had to make allowances for his astonishment. "Now, now, Mr Snape. I didn't mean to take you by surprise. Why don't you sit down and try the spell again?" she suggested stiffly, having difficulties voicing the gentle tone she had intended.
The boy did as proposed, however grudgingly, glaring daggers at his fellow students, who had witnessed his outburst and were now staring at him, Ravenclaws and Slytherins alike. Minerva took her time to explain the Transfiguration once again. It wasn't that he was lacking talent or magical strength. She had seen him only a week ago at the Duelling Club, and he certainly had both, all right. But standing next to him now, Minerva could feel aversion and unwillingness literally pouring out of him.
Focus on the task at hand was, of course, important to cast a spell successfully. But whilst Severus Snape had no problem at all with concentration, he was obviously lacking the mental understanding for the process itself, which was at least as important as the technical performance. She told him so and was met with a more than sceptical glare. The boy did not need to speak, his face spoke volumes; it was an expression of bored indifference. If anything, he was irritable that she had dared to correct him in front of the class.
It shouldn't have surprised her that she heard him muttering derisively, "Such crap – as if any of us needed a handbag, anyway," as he collected his books later. His face hidden behind a curtain of unwashed black hair, Minerva could only guess about his expression when a muttered tirade of what had to be swearwords accompanied his exit. He certainly had quite a vocabulary there.
mgmg
That was Severus Snape for you – awfully reclusive and taciturn, yet when he opened his mouth whatever came out was just ill-mannered and stroppy.
The boy had spent that evening in his third year in detention, not for his rudeness, but for hexing a Gryffindor first-year in the halls. As it had happened so very often, Minerva McGonagall had no idea at all what had caused this particular incident. For all she knew, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin had somehow been present as well, yet they had protested their innocence. They had just been witnesses to Snape hexing the first-year for no reason at all, they had said.
Although Minerva suspected that the boys of her own House had not been completely uninvolved in the whole affair, she couldn't prove anything. Gryffindor's quartet and Severus Snape had a history of their own. They could not be within wand distance without leaping at each other's throats, often enough in the literal sense of the saying. On more than a few occasions, a third person had ended up in the line of fire.
And Snape's reaction had been stubborn silence. Gone were the days where he'd been white, shaking with fury, blaming everybody and anybody, crying, 'Their fault!' at the world.
"I'll get detention anyway, so there's no use in repeating it all over again," he had said morosely, glaring daggers at Lupin and Black. But he had been right, of course. It had been him hexing another student, after all, and a younger one at that.
That time – like so many others – Snape had dragged his grudge over the following weeks, waiting for his opportunity to strike back, or so it had seemed to Minerva. At least she'd had smelled a rat when 'her boys' had to spent detention with caretaker Pringle during the Halloween feast, and – by pure chance – Severus Snape had stood smirking in the Entrance Hall, watching her march them off, towards the Caretaker's office. Minerva could have wagered her hat that Snape somehow had his fingers in the pie. His sneer had just been too spiteful.
James Potter had seen it as well. "You better watch it, Snape!" he had growled at the other boy.
That was how things had been between them. Sure enough there had been consequences, yet Minerva didn't know them.
It was the fate of a teacher to only know fractions of what was going on between the students. They simply could not have their ears and eyes everywhere. Anyway, the students were to be encouraged to sort their quarrels out on their own. And that they did, in their own special way, and often enough just by a hair's breadth within the bounds of the school rules. It wasn't always easy to watch them argue and fight without interfering. Potter, Black and Snape even seemed to surpass all other students in their never-ending feud.
Horace – the Head of Slytherin House at that time – had not taken too narrow a view of it. 'They are boys, Minerva,' he used to say, 'that's what they do.'
And Minerva herself? Of course she'd been displeased about 'her boys' hatching trouble whenever they stuck their heads together. The countless times she had had to supervise detentions or had to give them a telling-off had been somewhat annoying. But their pranks had usually been just that, silly pranks.
Actually, Minerva had to admit it had been even amusing at times to watch Black and Potter – for they were definitely the heart of Gryffindor's quartet – wriggle themselves out of any precarious situation they had gotten themselves into. With the most innocent expression they would look at her, protesting their blamelessness or at least trying to reduce their reprimand to a minimum. They had always been highly imaginative to come up with excuses as to why and how their transgressions had happened.
Certainly there had never been any ill-will behind their mischief. As for the rows they had gotten into with Snape… well, Minerva couldn't say that Severus Snape hadn't asked for trouble with his rude behaviour and his offensive tones.
As little as Minerva knew about the reasons for that day's argument, she knew little of what had caused the antipathies between Severus Snape and 'her boys' in the first place. They didn't seem to need any reason to have a row.
Fights and secret nightly duels had been a given with Snape and 'her boys', especially James and Sirius, and if they had not been fighting, there had at least been dirty looks during meals and spiteful remarks in the halls. They had been each other's equal in every way and no telling-off, no detention, had any effect on any of them.
Minerva McGonagall sighed. There was no point in blaming one or the other party now. Sirius Black and James Potter, the infamous pair, had been no saints; far from that, actually. Minerva was aware of that, but it always takes two to tango – or five, as in this special case – and Severus Snape had been no choirboy, either…
'Choirboy. No, definitely not!'
Minerva shook her head. Heavens, this boy has become a murderer – a multiple one at that! She might have greatly disliked Severus Snape, but at that time she had not yet even dared to imagine what the pale, unpleasant Slytherin might turn out to be.
Suddenly Minerva felt like having more than one Scotch. That was, of course, out of question. For one, she wasn't so sure she'd be able to stop herself once she started to drown her despair with the golden liquid. A clear head, however, was the least she'd need to face the following day.
Anyway, she wasn't likely to find any single-malt here in Albus' office, where everything edible was either of the most bizarre taste or unbearably sweet. The taste of liquor was the one thing the two of them had never agreed upon.
Minerva's glance wandered across the office to the high bookshelf. There, on the upper shelf, behind an old leather-bound tome, the first edition of 'Twelve uses of Dragon blood – a treatise by Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore', she knew Albus kept a little flask of bilberry liqueur. 'A sweet drop in fateful moment,' Albus had always said, falling back on humour and sweets when other people's stomachs turned.
Fateful moment. If this night wasn't a fateful one, then what time was?
The idea alone made her feel sick. Yet it wasn't so much the thought of the thick and sweet ruby liquid that made her gorge rise, but rather the reminiscence of Albus and of the horrible events of the last hours. She leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. Removing her glasses and placing them on the table, next to a pile of unfinished invitations, Minerva started massaging the bridge of her nose as her mind wandered back to the man that had brought all the misery on this night.
Snape.
'Merlin, did I dislike the boy', Minerva thought, reflecting what she remembered of Severus Snape's schooldays.
The boy had been a nuisance, neither popular with staff, nor with his fellow students, a little telltale and a smart-aleck. His intentions had seldom been innocent. It certainly had not been just 'her boys' he had gotten into trouble with. Whatever happened, Snape was mostly the first to put the blame on the others, and even quicker to take revenge.
Another incident came to Minerva's mind, or rather a whole series of them, one of which she had come to experience first hand. Like many students that age, Severus Snape, up to then lanky and short, had undergone a growth spurt at the age of fifteen. Within weeks he had grown at least two inches, rendering him even more painfully thin and resulting in the well-known symptoms.
It had been the Friday morning joined Slytherin-Ravenclaw class. Snape had already looked unwell when he entered the classroom, yet had snottily assured her he was just fine, as if suggesting otherwise was a terrible insult. Yet he obviously wasn't, as became quite clear when a sudden bustle in the back rows disturbed Minerva in mid-lesson.
Severus Snape, apparently having lost consciousness, had noiselessly slid down his chair and was now hanging rather lopsidedly on the workbench, his wand having slipped from between his slack fingers. Some girls sniggered nervously, the boys coolly scoffed at their classmate's awkward situation. The Slytherins glowered darkly at the Ravenclaws, as if it was their fault, yet did not take any action, either. The only one trying to help was Evan Rosier, shaking his friend and lightly slapping him on his cheeks.
Minerva rushed to help, fishing a vial of smelling salts from the folds of her teaching robe. It was no uncommon occurrence with students of that age, circulatory disorders being a frequent accompanying symptom of puberty. The magical strain coming along with practising exhausting Transfigurations did the rest; a problem more common with young witches, admittedly. Yet Minerva's little flask had brought a number of students back to consciousness already, and Severus Snape was no exception to that rule, either.
He was, however, not in the least appreciative of the help offered. Ill-bred sprang to Minerva's mind at first, and that certainly about covered it. Obviously, Severus hadn't learnt to deal with the embarrassment and ire, he undoubtedly felt, in any other way than to lash out at his putative opponent. That immature remark 'You're such a girl, Snape! Fainting like a…" that accompanied his departure to the Infirmary was met with a quickly drawn wand and a well-placed hex, and resulted in Minerva assigning detentions and Adrian Thistlebloom being cursed with red, itchy pustules for the weekend.
Yes, Severus Snape had quite a temper. His nearly hexing the Hufflepuff witch during his Sorting or the incident with the Gobstones set had just been a small insights into the irascibility of the otherwise introverted boy. It wasn't mere rudeness, though. It seemed to be more a measure of security on his part. Perhaps in accordance with the motto 'offence is the best defence'. It had caused him trouble more than once.
Spontaneously, even without having to think a lot, Minerva could recall at least a dozen of occasions, when he had been more than eager to rise to the bait of his classmates. Often enough it just needed a wrong look to tick him off.
And the four Gryffindors seemed to be like a red rag to a bull for Severus Snape. Minerva had no idea about the reasons behind this dislike. It certainly was mutual, though none of the wizards had ever offered her any explanation, not 'her boys' and definitely not Severus Snape.
Whether it had been brawls on the Hogwarts Express or insulting tirades in front of the classroom doors, whether they had it out during the Duelling Club or cursed each other from behind in the halls, they never managed to settle whatever it was that stood between them, nor was any of them put off by the impending detentions. It had been a vicious circle of taking revenge and being paid back for it.
Some time during their schooling, things had gotten out of hand; when, though, she couldn't say. Neither did Minerva have any idea how things could have gone so far as they had. Nobody had seen it coming.
A/N: Chapter Two… I hope you liked it.
I want to thank all my reviewers for their kind reviews. You will find my answers to your reviews on my livejournal. The link is on my profile site here on really appreciate all feedback offered, and therefore once again, dear readers, I ask you for your reviews. Keep them coming, please, they mean so much to me!!
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