cxv. brother mine

Severus Snape released a low, aggravated sigh as Gabriel Flourish continued to sob.

Few would believe it of him, but Severus did actually keep office hours and those office hours were, on occasion, taken over by blubbering, homesick children or supercilious teenagers with a grudge. He would sit behind his desk with his markings and allow them to talk themselves to death—or to their own amelioration, whichever occurred first, and sometimes he had to send an owl to their parents or Pomfrey or the Headmaster. Rare were the times in which he had to drag Slytherin into his office to deal with what, by all rights, should be his duties to begin with.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as Flourish sniffled.

Slytherin enjoyed the perks of being Head of House—the prestige, the access to more information, being the entitled figurehead of his Death Eater breeding grounds, and, more specifically, having a direct line of ascension to the role of Headmaster if—when—Albus passed or stepped down. God help them all if—when—that day came to pass. What Slytherin did not enjoy, however, was the menial and more routine duties assigned to a House's Head: namely, taking care of the bloody students.

It fell to Severus to enforce the wizard's wayward demands, to offer begrudging counsel and discipline as needed, to chase errant students down after hours or wake in the dead of night when one of the idiots passed the ward on the common room entrance. Oh, they only dared come knocking on his office door if left with no other recourse, and for that small mercy, Severus gave thanks to whatever cosmic force looked over his shitty soul. He couldn't imagine what kind of nauseating coddling Pomona or Filius had to dole out on a daily basis.

He retrieved his pocket-watch and judged it against the hour on the carriage clock, exhaling when the first-year sitting before his desk sniffled snot up his nose. "Mr. Flourish," he said, drawing upon the vestiges of his patience. "I will have a word with your dormmates regarding the…reallocation of your possessions, and if they are not summarily returned, consequences shall follow. I will write to your father in regards to your damaged textbooks."

"I don't want to bother my Da about this."

Severus rolled his eyes. "I doubt your father would be bothered by such a thing, but I will refrain from writing for the time being." He ground his teeth and jerked a handkerchief from his pocket when the boy wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. "Pull yourself together, Flourish. That's a disgusting habit."

He jumped at Severus' brusque tone and accepted the handkerchief, using it to clean his nose. "T-thanks, sir." He sucked in a breath, hiccuped, and found another, calmer one. "Professor?"

"What is it?"

"What i-if they don't stop? What if they keep taking my things a-and taunting me?"

Frowning, Severus bit back the first retort to come to mind—to hex the lot and cover his tracks. That's what he had done when the pure-blooded cunts in his year had nicked his things. "Then your dormmates will suffer the consequences of failing to behave in accordance with the rules all students of this school must adhere to." He paused. "You need not associate with them, Mr. Flourish. If they do not respect you, they are not worthy of your time—or your tears."

Flourish blew his nose a final time and made some vague attempt to hand the handkerchief back—but Severus' scowl had him quickly stuffing it into his own pocket. "Thank you, sir."

"Off with you, then. I have other matters to attend."

Flourish scuttled through the door having survived the Potions Master's dreaded temper—though Severus surmised his dormmates wouldn't fare as well, especially if Severus had to repeat himself in regards to this matter. "Idiots," he grunted, writing himself a note to tend to later. He spared the clock another glance, then departed his subterranean office to brave the light of day. The unseasonable weather had relented, marginally, and the student-body took advantage of the sunlight breaking through the bank of iron-colored clouds.

Severus followed the shouts and laughter down from the school proper toward the Quidditch pitch, his robes eddying behind him in the cold, Scottish wind coming in off the lake. No one took note of their Potions Master out on the grounds, and so he made his way to the pitch without incident or delay, stopping only once he reached the shadow of the stands and looked out over the field. A makeshift game appeared to be happening among Gryffindor's players on the far side, while Slytherin House was holding a more regimented tryout on the other side. Members of both Houses dotted the stands, immersed in schoolwork or conversation. Hooch sat at the sidelines with a goblet of something decidedly alcoholic, ready to mediate the inevitable tiff between Houses.

Turning, Severus swept away from the entrance and the stands themselves to patrol the lower reaches, striding through the wooden supports and creaking rafters, his way illuminated by stray shafts of light peering through the boards. The occasional broom rocketed past and the wood groaned in the resulting downdraft.

He passed toward the stadium's outer edge where the struts lay bare and the ground eroded into a cliff above a wide crevasse and part of the forest. Here the wind bit harder, fiercer, with all the freezing gall of its winter counterpart, bellowing low in the open crevasse like a dying thing. His eyes slid over the dark trees and shadowed underbrush, finding nothing amiss.

"You're getting predictable, Severus."

He whipped about, wand raised—only to lower it when he spotted McGonagall watching him, her lips pursed as she shot a displeased look at the wand leveled in her direction. He didn't know how he'd missed her there, wearing her tartan cloak and obligatory hat.

"Minerva," he said, irritated by her sudden intrusion. Severus did, however, lower his wand and let her approach. "It's hardly being predictable when I'm set to do rounds, now is it? Aren't you to one who creates those timetables?"

The old cat snorted, briskly rubbing her arms as she came out into the wind. Her pointed hat jostled but stuck firmly to her head. "Rounds inside the castle, yes. Not out marching about the woods."

"It's hardly the woods." Severus kept walking, taking the narrow path looping around the stadium, dipping into the crevasse, revealing the beginnings of a briny delta bridging the Black Lake and a smaller tributary disappearing into the forest. Below lurked Hinkypunks and the occasional kelpie, and all along the silt-covered shore bobbed the bulbous heads of grindylows. He continued on, Minerva keeping pace.

The Transfiguration professor was silent until the path rose again and they climbed the stone steps carved into the side of the slope and fell once more into the stadium's chilling shade. "I suppose we had the same idea," McGonagall admitted—and when she shifted her arm, Severus could spot the familiar handle of her wand tucked into her buttoned sleeve. "But I doubt Black would come this way, even if he did access the grounds through the Forbidden Forest. Nor would he show himself in the middle of the afternoon."

"If he can escape Azkaban, he can cross a bloody bog." His statement lacked conviction. Weeks had passed with little news of Black's whereabouts and Severus had begun to dare hope the bastard had been flattened by a Muggle lorry, but still he made it a point to check the weakest points in the warding—if one could consider a mire infested with Hinkypunks, kelpies, and grindylows weak. In truth, Severus didn't believe Black needed to tromp through the wilds to gain access to the school; he felt certain the bastard need only ask his old acquaintance for assistance. "And should he decide to hunt Potter or Longbottom, he won't care about witnesses. He's shown that shining quality already."

"No, I guess not." Minerva frowned, her expression gone melancholic as she thought of times long passed. Severus didn't share in her reverie; it only served to fuel his rage and his sick vindication that Black was at last seen for the monster he'd always known him to be. That vindication wasn't worth twelve Muggle lives, Lily, and two orphaned brats though, and so the feeling curdled in his gut until Severus wanted to vomit to purge himself of it.

"I don't think I'll ever understand why he did it," Minerva sighed. "He loved James and Lily—."

"Spare me," Severus spat. "You and the Headmaster exemplify the notion of the blind leading the blind. Don't be so surprised by a trait I recognized in Black years ago." His hands flexed, fingers tightening. When he sent me down into the dark of a tunnel to die by his best mate's hands. Or claws, as it were.

They paused once they crossed under the stadium's supports and stood at the field's entrance, watching their respective students fly about. The Gryffindors continued to play their game, members of their House not on the team dotted around the goal post, taking turns in the air, the mood genial and decidedly Gryffindor. The Slytherins had not ceased running drills.

"The girl needs to be told," Severus intoned as he leaned a shoulder against the wall, the exposed wood snagging on his robes. "She needs to be told her life is in danger. Albus found her out at the Gagwilde last weekend. Merlin only knows how she managed to tear off without any of us being the wiser."

"We can't know what Black intends to do. Her life may be in danger, yes, but so too are the lives of the others—Mr. Longbottom, Miss Black." Minerva gestured at the field before them, a scowl deepening the lines on her face. "They are all in danger while that—man is on the loose, Severus, and you cannot deny that Miss Potter is having a rougher time than most this year. Why would you wish to burden her with knowledge of Black's relationship with her parents?"

"Is it our place to coddle the girl, now? Where was this vaunted Gryffindor compassion when Potter was living in a cupboard?" The staff had all heard about the boggart by now; Slytherin took particular delight in taunting children over their fears and did so every year, always enumerating the manifestations he found most amusing. He thought Potter feared the dark—but Severus knew better.

Color rose in Minerva's cheeks. "Don't get shirty with me, Severus!" she snapped. "I see you haven't taken the liberty of going against Albus' decision and telling her yourself. If you believe she needs to know so badly, then do so. On your head be it!"

He grit his teeth. The damn witch has a point.

A sudden whistling drew their attention upward in time to see two brooms swerve hard and clip the stands, Marcus Flint driving the object of their conversation into a bench, the resulting bang echoing in their ears. Flint shot off again, laughing, and Severus barely had time to register the tingling in his wrist before the girl flung herself after him with a growl.

"Och, they're going to break her neck, playing like that!" McGonagall exclaimed. "Can't you do anything about those boys—Severus?"

The Potions Master hadn't heard a word she said. Distracted, he stared at his hand, at the fingers as pale as cut stone bleached by the sunlight, feeling the phantom sting wend through his veins until it discharged like unwanted static. Minerva stared at his hand as well, until he jerked it back and hid the offending limb once more in the folds of his robes.

"Severus—."

"Don't."

His footsteps made little noise, but still the crunch of gravel could be heard in the silence strung between the pair as Severus strode away. McGonagall followed, of course, and while the witch might not match him in height, she certainly matched him in speed. "Your vehemence over this issue will not put me off, young man! What if you drop dead, for Circe's sake! What would have us do?"

"I'd be dead and beyond caring, witch!" Severus stopped and glowered, willing Minerva to let it go, to return to her pride of disobedient dunderheads and leave him be. He was the only person alive who knew of his Vow and it belonged to him. It was penance branded into his flesh, his promise, and he didn't owe McGonagall a damn explanation. Severus took a breath, then another. "If I drop dead, do yourself a favor: find a ditch, shove me in it, and move on. You'll have far more pressing issues to deal with, I assure you."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Have you mistaken me for some maudlin fool all of a sudden? It is none of your business—and it certainly isn't Albus' either. It is mine. Keep your nose out of it."

With a final glare, Severus continued on to the school, leaving Minerva and the daylight behind.

x X x

Naturally, the interfering witch didn't leave the issue be.

She stepped out of his office Floo not ten minutes before curfew, arching a brow when he cursed under breath and dropped the book he'd been consulting. "Have you a purpose for being here, Professor? Aside from sorely testing my patience?"

"I'm not one of your students, Severus, and you won't address me as such." One uttered incantation later and Minerva had a comfortable wing-chair to sit in, sniffing in disdain as she glanced over the shelves of preserved specimens. "We haven't finished our discussion. No—you needn't raise your hackles. You've said what you wish to say, and now you will listen to me."

She folded her hands together on her lap and cleared her throat, square spectacles catching the dim glow from the fire. Haven risen partly from his seat, Severus dropped back into it with a huff. "Have you ever been told what happened to my younger brother, Robert?"

"Given the trajectory of this conversation, I postulate it was something…unsavory."

"You could say that." Minerva exhaled, her tone mild and yet somewhat disquieted. "He died in the first war. To Death Eaters, in a manner of speaking."

The fire crackled, and beyond his door echoed the footsteps of Slytherins hurrying down to the common room, eager to be shut in before their Head of House emerged for his rounds. While Severus and Minerva sat in strained silence, guilt swum in the wizard's chest. Not because he had anything to do with Robert McGonagall's fate; no, Severus hadn't participated in the raids, relegated instead to the horrors of the laboratory, which provided their own abominations and night terrors. However, he'd enabled those who'd killed Minerva's brother, blinded himself to the atrocities committed by and in the name of the Dark Lord. He traded his soul like a rumpled quid for a packet of rotten crisps. That Minerva could stand to be in the same room as him was a testament to her strength, not his.

"He was always very impetuous, my brother Robert. You would have thought him the quintessential Gryffindor. Our brother Malcolm and I spent years trying to bring into line, but he also proved wilier than our efforts. When Rookwood broke down his door and threatened his family, Robert did the only thing he could to protect them."

When she didn't continue, Severus cleared his throat and forced himself to speak. "And that was?"

"He took an Unbreakable Vow. That was what Rookwood was after, in the end. He was spying at the Ministry but sought all forms of information, anything he could gather and present to You-Know-Who. The movements of Order members were especially coveted at the time." A grim smile ticked the corner of Minerva's mouth. "Rookwood swore Robert to report on all of my activity in exchange for his family's lives. Part of the Vow ensured he could not reveal his duplicity to me or anyone in the Order, and still Robert swore to it."

Severus waited again while Minerva gazed into the hearth, lost in thought or memory. She met his eye and grimaced.

"As I said, he was horribly Gryffindor. Not an ounce of sense in the poor lad's skull. He moved Allana and his boys into hiding and did the stupidest thing he could; he told me of the Vow." Again Minerva exhaled a long, drawn-out sound. "The fool died in my arms."

Severus shut his eyes. "My condolences."

"Well, he's been dead for quite some time. There's nothing for it." Minerva straightened her robes, her expression somber, but her eyes remained dry, steely. "But don't you dare tell me to stand by while you kill yourself, Severus Snape, and then tell me to shove you off into a ditch. That is a level of callousness I refuse to accept, even from you!"

The Potions Master steepled his hands together and rubbed at his brow. A headache brewed there, brought on by the constant worry he maintained to stay alive in Slytherin's presence, and now by Minerva's well-meaning—but ultimately misplaced—haranguing. "What would you have me do, Minerva?"

"I would have you place some measure of trust in me. We've been colleagues for over a decade."

"I am not afforded the luxury of trust."

His clock chimed once in recognition of the hour, and Severus turned a pointed look to the door. Minerva rose to leave, the disappointment clear in her face. She went to the exit, but paused with one hand on the knob, delivering a final, parting remark. "And what would Miss Potter think if you were to die without a word? Without anyone the wiser as to why?"

Severus couldn't help himself; dark laughter rose unbidden inside him and escaped in a cold, unfeeling chuckle. "I imagine she wouldn't think anything at all."