Albus's Socks
Albus tried to recall his first memory of Severus Snape. And frowned.
Surely there must be some event, some occasion, something outstanding when he first recognised the boy. Did he remember the boy's sorting? No. Did he remember seeing his name on the list of new students? No. Did he remember him from period, in what would have been Severus's first term at Hogwarts when Albus had taken over first and second year potions as Slughorn had come down with flu? Surely he had a memory of teaching Severus potions? But no.
Like so many of his Hogwarts students Severus just gradually fades into existence in Albus's mind. A gradual awareness of presence, until a face and a name are stored away for real memories to be layered around.
So he can't remember his first meeting or even seeing Severus.....but ah yes he remembers now. He remembers his first real memory of Severus. A memory he could pensive.
Severus used to take things.
He remembers an angry Slytherin Prefect dragging Snape into his office.
He remembers the Snape boy, as he still then was, to Albus standing sullen and silent in front of his desk. His first visit, but he had no eyes for the moving portraits, the shiny trinkets, the puttering instruments or the jars of tempting sweets resting on a shelf. No temptation for this boy. No he had only eyes for the pile of junk, tipped out of a sack and now lying on the Persian rug in front of Albus's desk. A forlorn pile, amongst the rubble Albus can see; A tattered quidditch jumper, a belt with a broken buckle, a snapped quill with a bent nib, a chipped potions bottle sans stopper, and pieces and pieces of parchments; endless scrimps and scraps of parchment; torn off corners, half a crossed out essay, a shopping list, a love note passed during class, a copy of the Daily Prophet crossword – half done.
And he remembers Prefect Avery stuttering to explain, 'I know that they're not worth much. That they were being thrown out Sir but they hadn't been thrown out yet. And there was so much of it......I thought..........'
Holding up a calming hand to the boy.
'That's fine.......Albus.'
Yes Albus Avery, named for the Headmaster in a fit of peak during the months following Gwindwald's defeat. Death Eater Avery, but then just an earnest and good prefect.
'That's fine. Albus. You can go.'
Then a look at the small boy in front of him and a needless gesture at the spoils of his thievery.
'What were you going to do with these things Severus?'
And the boy just sighed, a hot, heavy sigh.
'Why do you need these things Severus? All these things?'
And the boy opened and closed his mouth, puffing out bursts of air, half formed sentences on his tongue never released.
Habit. Habit. Habit.
Habit thought Albus.
He's had these children before, of course, at Hogwarts. Surrounded by so much. Wanting it all. Eyes confused by the choice, their own twisted version of what is valuable develops.
On the streets, in their homes a worn out jumper is still warm, a half serviceable belt has many uses, a half-knut broken quill that can be bent back to use, a potions bottle that can be stopped with a wad of paper transfigured to cork, and paper that can be used to start a fire, practice your letters or perhaps something to read when you're bored or alone. But in Hogwarts where no one goes cold, no one goes hungry and parchment is given to those that need it, in a box left quietly on your bed when you arrive along with second hand books, fresh potion ingredients, new quills and everything else your parents couldn't, wouldn't or didn't provide. In Hogwarts where everything is provided and everything is warm and safe, most of the time these things are not needed.
Harry should never have worried so. Hagrid or no Hagrid he would have had everything he needed when he got to Hogwarts. Unfortunately no one provided what he needed before he got there. Like Severus. Oh just like Severus.
Now trapped in this building of such decadence filled with people who don't question where it all comes from, where even the endless Weasleys of this world know that they don't need to worry too much. These forgotten, lost children panic and pick and steal and take and take, again and again. Taking that which they would probably have been given if they had asked. And who never quite manage to take what they really need. Help with your homework as your Mother didn't teach you all your letters or how to hold a quill properly as you mainly had biros at home (nicked from the corner shop), plasters or salve from the nurse when you've bruised a knee or an elbow or when a splinter embedded in your palm from that time in potions where you slid a hand over a rough desk edge and it snagged on a sharp piece of word, has made it hard to hold a quill, difficult to concentrate in class and which after a week has brought you down with a fever as it has festered and the desk was covered in spilt calming draft and you're allergic apparently. What to do when boys twice your size tell you your skin is pretty, who to ask when the house elves take your only set of robes and you panic all weekend that you'll have nothing to wear come Monday and they haven't taken anyone else's robes, they've all still got a set, hanging up in their wardrobes – you checked, but then you didn't realise that they all had two sets of robes.
Albus had learnt that neglected children in equal amounts both believed and ignored rules. The later being rules set by those unreliable, distant, tall adults. The former the rules set by mean children and, yes, adults as soon as they realise who you are, what you are and what'll you'll believe.
You don't have to visit the school nurse even when she asks you to because you don't want her to see your back, your arm, your ribs depending on the week, depending on the bully, depending on when term just started. You do need to warm toilet seats for older boys to gain permission to use the house common room. You can talk to the houseelves however you want – they're not even human, and you've been called worst before. You can't disobey a prefect even when what they ask of you hurts because they keep their own points system and the rewards are food, your bed covers, your potions book not in the fire.
Albus didn't know what to do with children or adults who didn't tell him what was wrong. That's where he went wrong with Harry, for a while. It's why he never worried about Ginny Weasley even when she was so pale all that year. He even wondered that if he had learned to listen even when people weren't talking that perhaps Lucius Malfoy might have been a different man. Dear God he'd taught Lucuis's Father. And cowardly Albus always hoped that he never found out what Lucius's school holidays were like.
And then Severus. His Severus.
'And what exactly were you planning to do with these?' And Albus held up a pair of canary yellow socks he had lifted out from under the mangled cover of a book on household charms.
And the boy's head raised, his chin tilted up towards Albus as if to invite a blow. I dare you Headmaster – take your best shot.
'Exactly what you planned to do with them. Sir.'
And there's a tugging up of one corner of his mouth and a glint in those dark brown eyes. Eyes that girls and boys surely must have talked about. Severus in his final year skinny, pale, hooked nose, greasy hair, unsociable but tall, perfect complexion, long agile hands, talented, mysterious and with black eyes.
That look in those eyes made Albus think good lad.
And Albus laughs. He has hung onto that memory through the later shouts, the arguments, the anger, the rage, the betrayal, the repent, the sullen meetings and the worry. The boy who joked with the man who could send him home.
Till 20 more years have passed and does what he has never done before, to any Professor or colleague at his school. Break through personal wards and rifle through a drawer to find a ball of yellow hidden at the back. It's only fair to return the favour.
Touch, smile and remember.
He can take them back to his office and place them on his desk, and next meeting Severus will ask him, 'What are you planning to do with those Albus?' And he'll be so clever in the way he asks, with the distain in his voice so clear that Albus will think that maybe he has forgotten, but a tug of his lips will make Albus realise he hasn't. And, not for the first time, Albus will give into Severus's demands.
Well, what's an extra potion ingredient or two for the brave little boy that stole the Headmaster's socks?
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This is because I've always pictured Severus as such a sad, alone young boy. But also as an angry and determined one.