Blood Matters

It was annoying to see them in such high spirits.

A scruffy tartan bag dangling over his shoulder, and his robes uncharacteristically slung around his waist, Severus Snape was standing atop a hill slope, watching waves of students storm the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch and pat each other on the back. He preferred keeping a safety distance. Whenever Slytherin won the cup, things were perfectly peaceful. People enjoyed the good feeling after a well-deserved victory, while the other team, thankfully, tended to shut up and leave everyone alone. Not so when Potter and his gang were celebrating. Black, whom Professor McGonagall had put out of job after yet another heavily biased commentary, had been first to storm the field after the Snitch had been caught. He had pulled his best friend in a wild embrace, almost knocking the other boy over, whose feet had touched the ground only seconds before. The two of them, including the rest of the Gryffindor team had then started forming a sort of heap, which was now creeping and winding on the ground like a many-headed snake. Too quick to catch and too dangerous to approach.

Severus turned, disgusted, scratching his neck, and then took a few tentative steps away from his observation post. There was homework to do. Essays to begin or to complete. And, of course, most students were now in the middle of revising for their end-of-year exams. Were they two or three weeks away now? Severus wrinkled his nose a little and went on a discovery trip for a bogey. Barely two, he calculated. The cheers from below mutated into collective grunting. Potter was carried by three team-members and a bunch of fangirls to the edge of the pitch, where the Quidditch cup was waiting for them.

Severus disliked Quidditch. It was a foolish way of showing off skills that he had, after three years of more or less dedicated training, still not been able to obtain. Why anyone would waste their time catching balls when there were far more interesting things to do at a school of magic was entirely beyond the small, sullen boy. There was wizard chess, which he had never particularly understood, but liked watching. McGonagall was said to be superb at it, but he had never had the honour of seeing her play. He had, however, discovered a fairly large, red and gold set on one of the staff room tables - through a gap in the door while waiting for Professor Flitwick the other day.

Then there was Herbology, which was a little like Care of Magical Creatures, only that your creatures seldom ran away and only occasionally bit you in the finger. Severus had joined the Herbology club at the beginning of the school year, admittedly without this having much much effect on his achievements in class. The last grade sheet had, yet again, featured a complaint by his overenthusiastic teacher that he was not using his full potential. A- had been all she felt she could give him. Severus was satisfied. He did not have many As. Potions was one, but of course it was one of the easiest subjects around. And Defence, of course. Unfortunately, with Defence there was always exam week, which tended to reduce him to a wreck of nerves. As did all the subjects where the emphasis lay on the theoretical part.

The celebration at the foot of the hill continued. Severus decided to return to the library for some undisturbed revision. He closed his bag, which kept opening on its own accord, and shuffled towards the main entrance doors at such a slow pace that he was finally overtaken by a couple of fifth years, who seemed to agree with him that Quidditch was a waste of their valuable time.

"…going to do basic training after the OWLs?" one of them just finished asking his friends. The other two nodded.

"Army's going downhill, though, my father says," the first boy said pensively. "I'll do basic, of course. But I don't think I'll make career as a wizarding soldier. There isn't much in it these days."

"I hear only idiots sign up for longer than the required four months," one of the other two grinned. Severus frowned at him. He had blonde hair and was taller than his two friends. As opposed to them, it was easy to imagine him in one of the red uniforms of the wizarding army, running around in the forest or the wasteland, hunting barbarians.

"You know, Dick," the first speaker now said to the taller one, "I hear only Robertsons sign up for longer than the required four months. You think people use these statements synonymously?"

The boy called 'Dick' held his fist under the other boy's nose, seeming so theatrical for a moment that Severus assumed his anger might not be real. He turned out to be mistaken, however. The boy Dick was threatening took a step backwards in surprise and Dick uttered a very nasty insult, which Severus resolved to forget again straight away. "Careful," he said, "My brother showed me one or the other move, which I might just decide to try out on you."

"You'll see where violence leads you," mumbled the third boy, who was the smallest of the group, chubby, and who wore a stupid blue hat on his grubby hair. "It's true what Alderton says – all that is left of the wizarding army these days is three African camps, a couple of splinter groups up North, and a bunch of self-possessed officers who don't realise that they are living in the past. You know, I hear some of them are older than Nicholas Flamel and still on duty, none of them capable even to lift a wand…"

"That's a LIE!"

Three heads turned left and right in search for the person who had interrupted their conversation, and it was only after a few seconds that all three of them realised they had to incline their heads to look the offender in the eye. Three looks, disbelieving and quite possibly a little amused, fixed Severus's sullen face. They were standing almost in a semicircle around him and Severus suddenly wondered whether entering this conversation had been such a good idea after all. There was no Skein to protect him, he remembered. No one to back him up, and not a teacher in sight.

"Snape," said the boy called 'Alderton' now calmly as a tiger focussing his prey. His face had an bony, very unpleasant look to it and his eyes were cold and unmoving, featuring an icy shade of blue. Severus disliked him from the moment he spoke and returned a suitably defiant scowl.

"Yeah," he said. "So what?"

"Youwould, of course, know what you are talking about," remarked the boy called Dick coldly. "What with your father being a colonel and all."

Severus shot him a resigned look. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered what it was like not to be member of a family known by every son of the old wizarding families, whose members all did two months of basic training between fifth and sixth year at least. He decided to stick out his tongue. The older boys laughed.

"Such a darling," remarked the third boy nastily, whose name Severus did not know yet. "Look at him behaving like a five-year-old to attract our attention."

The Entrance Hall was deserted except for the four of them. Severus suddenly realised that he was inwardly scanning it for any kind of noise indicating that there was someone close by, desperate for something that would get him out of having to defend his heritage.

But was his heritage really what he had always supposed it to be? With a shudder, Severus thought of the newspaper article he had once found, which was now stored safely in his trunk in the third-year dormitory. A brief mentioning of someone's wedding, a certain Eileen Prince's wedding…

"Somehow I can't imagine this one doing basic," the boy called Alderton now remarked, his cold gaze still fixed on Severus. "But there's no way around it, is there?"

"Aren't you that… one third-year who missed out on his flying certificate yet again this week?" the third boy enquired, watching Severus with curious politeness. The younger boy clenched his fist again.

"Possible… So. What?"

"Why, I was just wondering," said the boy slowly, "how the son of a colonel can turn out so pathetic as to fail his flying exam three times…"

"Well, maybe I'm not," Severus snapped. "A colonel's son, I mean… I mean, I'm actually adopted, you see."

Three disbelieving looks were exchanged.

"What," said Dick after a moment's surprised silence, sounding almost disappointed, "not a real Snape?"

"A real Snape," snarled Severus. "Just not of the w-… just not of this particular line. My real father fought and died in the war… against Grindelwald."

"As if!" the third boy burst out.

"Keep telling yourself that," said Alderton softly.

"Everyone claims to have fought in that war," sneered Dick.

"But it's true," said Severus hotly, resenting the fact that they did not believe him – he might have been telling the truth, after all. "My father was Tobias Snape, married to Eileen Prince – uhm, who also died in the war," he invented quickly.

"A witch in a wizarding war?" Dick snarled. "Do you know what you're saying, man?"

"Don't be ridiculous, young Snape," Alderton said softly. "You are as common as we are. With one difference – your father is a member of a dying institution. With his head as much in the clouds as the rest of them."

"Don't. You. Dare. Talk like that about my - about him!" Severus said heatedly. "He has –"

But what Colonel Lance Snape had, none of the three older boys ever found out. There were voices coming from the entrance door and minutes later the hallway filled with cheering, celebrating Gryffindors. Severus and the three fifth-years went for a tactic retreat. The former finally made his way upstairs, as planned, and the three friends slouched towards the Slytherin common room for some more officer-bashing.

Then, having taken several staircases and a tunnelled shortcut, when he was just passing the statue of Gregory the Smarmy on his way to the library, Severus was held up again by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dreading that one of the older boys had followed him after all to finish their conversation, he whirled around and, to his enormous surprise, looked into the round, beaming face of his Herbology teacher Professor Sprout.

"Severus," she said, "I mean – Mr. Snape. Could I have a word, perhaps?"

"Sure," the boy mumbled quickly, and then, remembering his manners, "any time, Professor."

"I have two requests," said Professor Sprout, as bouncy as ever, though perhaps a little more earnest. "And they are both related to your schoolwork."

Severus's heart sank, just a notch.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, yes," said the professor seriously. "I must tell you that Professor Slughorn has just been to see me with some grave news. I really don't know if my life is ever going to be the same again after this."

"What is it?" asked Severus quickly, thinking, hoping against hope, that she sounded almost sarcastic. He could not remember any recent misdeeds or failings. Even Transfiguration had gone exceptionally well in recent weeks. But who knew… with this teacher, you never knew what she was playing at.

"Your head of house spoke to me this morning," said the Herbology witch, a grave frown forming on her small forehead. "He let me know that it will be absolutely impossible for him to move the Potions club to a different time, let alone another day. That means, if you still intend to join next term, I would either have to move the Herbology club, which I absolutely resent, or… well," she sighed, "or see you go," she then added, sounding as though taking this step would end all her world's happiness in one go.

Severus grinned.

"That's fine, Professor," he said nervously, pushing a strand of hair out of his face in almost girl-like fashion. "I don't mind… I mean, I would like to keep looking after the Venomous Tentacula, but the club's getting a bit crowded anyway. And Potion's got to do with Herbology, of course."

"Only in the broadest of senses," the Professor said sourly. "And I still think if Professor Slughorn were just a little more co-operative…"

"I suppose he has his reasons for wanting the club on Thursdays, though," Severus said, trying to sound very serious and grown-up.

"Well, I congratulate you on being one of the few who got permission to join, of course," Professor Sprout said after a moment's internal struggle. "I am sure it will help you on your way to greatness..."

"Doubtless," Severus grinned, thinking of the Slug Club, which was almost inseperably linked with Slughorn's Potions disciples.

"Ts," said the Professor sternly. "You sound like your father already. Just see to it that you don't outgrow all your friends before you have had the chance to pass your flying exam next year. It is an unfortunate habit of Snapes to cross the seven foot mark before they turn seventeen and while I personally approve of tall wizards, I am not sure there is a school broom strong enough to carry someone the size of your father, giant that he is."

She stopped, obviously a little embarrassed of having drifted into chatting mode again, as she so often did in private conversations. Severus waited, nervously, a little awkward again all of a sudden. He suddenly self himself wishing Skein was here. He would have known what to do - what to reply to a statement like this. After all, it might just have been a harmless comparison.

"There is no giant blood in my family, Professor Sprout," he eventually decided to say, politely, yet reserved, thinking of Tobias and Eileen again. He was not, strictly speaking, lying. After all, how could he know?

It was only when the chubby witch had turned around the corner that he realised what her last words actually meant. Of course she was right. Of course Snapes were always, always, extremely tall. Everyone said so. Family members, Hogwarts teachers… even his father mentioned it every now and then. And, of course, he had never been particularly well-built himself. What if he didnever pass the 'seven foot mark'? What if he was, in fact, not going to grow into a 'small giant'? Was this not as good as proof that he was not, in fact, related to the wizarding line of the family after all?

Severus smiled. For almost fifteen minutes, he stood in the corridor leading to and away from the library, trying to imagine how he discovered definite proof that he was, in fact, the son of Tobias Snape and Eileen Prince. A Halfblood, yes, but still a member of one of the oldest wizarding families around. A Prince. A Halfblood. A half-blood Prince.

When Severus was sitting in the library some time later, revising for his upcoming Defence Against the Dark Arts exam, he was wearing an exceedingly smug smile on his face. He had signed his entire set of textbooks with the smallest quill he had found in his bag. "This book," he had written, using his most legible hand, "is the property of the Half-Blood Prince."