Mark of Honor
By Classic Snarry
Chapter 1:
Harry closed his lesson plans with an audible snap, and let his forehead land with a thud against it's thick cover. He mentally apologized to every teacher that had ever had the displeasure of teaching him before backtracking and striking out Snape. Even when faced with students who assuredly rivaled himself in difficulty he managed to control himself better than his former potions professor, who amazingly continued to terrify students in much the same way. All of those who thought the man would improve after the downfall of Voldemort were mistaken. Granted, if rumors were to be believed someone was attempting to regroup the scattered former Death Eaters and begin a war of vengeance. Still, Harry Potter was more worried about his students passing Defense Against the Dark Arts than a Neo-Death Eater coup.
Harry gathered the scattered papers off of his desk, and temporarily ignored the shambles that was once his classroom, thanks to a couple of inept second years. He had a staff meeting to attend, the third in a series after their latest employee survey to discuss it's results. He hustled through the halls, being delayed even further by uncooperative staircases. Arriving in the teacher's lounge, he noted with dismay the only available seat was next to Severus Snape. Harry quickly took the seat, ignoring the annoyed look the greasy bat was giving him, as if to say Harry should have sat on the floor before daring to approach him
Harry turned his attention to the front of the table where Headmaster Dumbledore appeared to have stopped mid-sentence due to his interruption.
"Sorry, Headmaster," Harry said contritely. Noting the look on Dumbledore's face, Harry quickly amended, "Albus."
The Headmaster smiled kindly at him and continued on speaking about their need for improved communication. Harry looked around the table at his former professors. It was only his second month of teaching. He still found it difficult to associate with any of them as equals, continually forgetting to use their first names despite multiple requests by nearly all of the staff. All excepting Snape. Snape had insisted to him that he would respond only to 'Professor Snape' or 'Master Snape'. Harry, ambivalent to whether he actually got a response or not, was content with calling him Snape. That being as polite as he could manage, a far sight better than 'sanctimonious bastard'.
"Is that amenable to you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, interrupting Harry's jumbled thoughts.
"Sir?"
"I thought that you would be the perfect choice to work with Severus on this project," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle in his eye. Harry, of course, dumbly nodded his head, rather than admitting he hadn't been paying attention.
"Very well," Dumbledore continued, "You're all dismissed. Enjoy the weekend!"
The teachers slowly and noisily filed out and Harry turned and looked expectantly at Snape. If nothing else, Harry could rely on him to have been listening intently, if for no other reason, than to object to or find fault in the proceedings.
"I have detentions until eight-o'clock this evening. You may meet me in my office then. Good day, Potter," Snape said briskly, turning and exiting before Harry could reply.
Seeing as it was already six-o'clock, and he had far more than two hours of grading to accomplished, Harry decided to make use of the empty room and large table. Nearly a quarter of the way through the stack of parchments, Harry's arm began to itch with a slight burning sensation. He scratched his left arm absentmindedly with his right elbow, and continued to read the essay in hand. The pain suddenly spiked and the parchment flew from his hand as he grasped his arm tightly, but almost as quickly as it came, it subsided to the same persistent itch.
He stared at his sleeved arm in horror, before hastily drawing away the fabric, tearing a button from the cuff. There, on his previously unblemished skin, the faint trace of the dark mark was pulsing on his arm. Someone was trying to reactivate it. It wasn't just a rumor. He hastily pulled the fabric down, and cast about the room guiltily. Still alone. He occluded his mind and braced himself for another rush of pain, clutching the edge of the table with white-knuckled fists. A mild constant ache replaced the itch, and an address came to the forefront of his mind, despite the mental barriers he had erected. He ignored it, instead attempting to compile the mess that had become his papers. As he tried to return to his grading, keeping his mind barely from complete panic, the pain increased and the address repeated. While he had no idea where the location was, he sensed that with the last flash of the address in his mind he could apparate there with no difficulty.
He once again packed his papers into his briefcase, glanced at his pocket watch, and sat still, thoughtfully assessing the increasing pain. As he saw it, he had two options, wait to see if the pain either killed him or drove him to insanity, either way revealing his secret that he had been marked. The other, go and see what he could find, try not to die, or let out that he's actually Harry Potter. Seemingly not that difficult, a bit of magical alteration to his appearance... he paused, doubting his sanity, but in lieu of a better option, this was perhaps his best chance. There had been hundreds of Death Eaters at the time Voldemort had died, surely no one would be able to recognize that he didn't belong.
He stood. The pain increased. He held it together as he gathered his things and calmly walked to his office, which now seemed an eternity away. He surprisingly found the strength to continue as he thought of Snape. He had seen the man called numerous times, both in his last few years of school and the six years since as he continued to work with the Order, four of those completing university and two in the Auror Corps. Never had he seen any indication that Snape may have been in this much pain, even when he delayed responding to the summons in order to complete a meeting.
Reaching his office, he quickly closed the door behind him and tossed his briefcase on an overstuffed armchair. He glanced at the clock, fifteen minutes to eight. It seemed he would not be meeting Snape in quite the setting he had expected. Standing in front of the mirror hanging over the mantle, he began his physical alterations, layering small changes one over the other, so that if anyone were to remove a glamor from him his audience would still be none the wiser. He continued to add and modify until he could bear the pain no more and apparated away.
When he arrived in the darkened room, it was not a shortish twenty-four year old young man with bright emerald eyes and a messy black mop, but a taller man in his mid forties with short medium brown hair, similarly ruffled, but now appearing more purposefully style rather than overlooked, and cold blue-gray eyes. The lightning bolt scar, which he couldn't seem to ever cover, he'd been able to move, or at least give the appearance of having been moved, so that he appeared to have a faint irregular scar below his right ear.
The first to encounter this newly made, currently unnamed person, was none other than Lucius Malfoy.