Author's note: Thank you so much for your patience! Life has been busy with little time to write. Fear not, though, faithful readers: I know where I am going with this, and this story will be finished by the end of the year (that's the goal I'm setting myself).
The Truce is Broken
Severus was standing on a mountain slope, a storm raging violently around him, rain falling in heavy sheets from lead-coloured clouds. Yet, over the clamour of the elements, he could hear a mad cackle, and soon he saw a black-clad witch, her cloak whipped around by the wind, walking up the path. Suddenly, she took flight, like a great ugly crow, and swooped down to attack him, scratching and shrieking. Her beak – for somehow, she had grown a beak, hooked, sharp and menacing – was hitting his skull repeatedly, trying to crack it like an egg.
He woke up, clammy with sweat, the shreds of his dream fogging his mind. Rubbing his face with his palms, he wondered why he could still hear the frantic tapping, coming from the adjacent kitchen.
Severus grabbed his clothes from the oaken chest and put them on, then strode in the other room. Outside the window, a flock of owls were knocking relentlessly on the glass with their beaks, each carrying a letter. "Oi! Calm down, ye daft birds!" Morag's voice exclaimed. She opened the window, seized the envelopes and thumbed through them, eyebrows raised.
"They're all addressed tae ye, Severus. What in Brighid's name is that all aboot?" she asked, handing them over to him.
"I don't have the faintest idea," the wizard shrugged as he took the pile. There was at least a dozen of them, some feeling quite thick in the envelopes. Frowning, he tore the first one open and started reading aloud. Morag put her arm around him, her head resting on his shoulder.
You are a sorry excuse of a man, and you should have been sent to Azkaban. How dare you drag the Potters' name in the mud to defend what you've done? – "Your opinion on this matter is irrelevant to me," he grunted as he crumpled the parchment.
You may think of yourself as some kind of romantic hero – "You may think of yourself as an intelligent person, but here we are," –, but you are nothing but a pitiful, toxic man. Clinging to a woman who never even wanted you for so long is completely unhealthy and obsessive, and I wonder what the Headmistress of Hogwarts is thinking, letting such an unbalanced person as yourself anywhere near children… "Well, I have wondered the same thing, as I want to throttle the little dunderheads half the time." The second parchment met the same fate as the first. The young healer gave his arm a comforting squeeze but made no comment.
How dare you claim you're Harry Potter's father? – "I claimed nothing of the sort! That insinuation comes from that infernal Skeeter woman, who masquerades as a journalist for the sole purpose of sprouting lies!" – That young man has all his father's brilliance and all the qualities of bravery you lack… I hope Harry Potter sues you for sullying his mother's name… "Let him have the audacity to try."
"Och, he wouldnae do that, Severus. I bet he's as riled up as ye are," Morag quipped.
A couple of missives where no more than hastily scribbled insults that he did not bother reading, and one was made of letters clumsily cut up from a newspaper, prompting the wizard to scoff at their cowardice. Appalled, he realized the next few letters were filled with fervent, enamoured prose:
Reading that article made me realize what a beautiful soul you are… it does not matter how people judge you… you are so incredibly sensitive and romantic… – "Merlin spare me," he sneered – of course, no one can ever replace Lily Evans in your heart, but if you wanted to find solace, I would gladly open my arms and my heart to you… – "I would much rather spend the rest of my existence as a hermit, away from birdbrains like you!"
One or two made rather explicit proposals, which infuriated him further, but sent Morag in fits of giggles as she read above his shoulder. "Och, Severus, ye've become quite popular with the ladies, it seems."
He rolled his eyes, unsure which was worse: the insults, or the love declarations. Throwing the scrunched-up letters in the fireplace, he watched the paper blacken and crumble into thin flakes of ash.
"If I lay my hands on that Skeeter woman, I will make her swallow back her nasty fabrications… I will concoct a potion that will cause her throat to burn every time she utters a single word and hex her fingers so her bones shatter every time she attempts to put a quill to paper," he seethed, sitting at the table.
Morag shook her head as she handed him a bowl of yoghurt sprinkled with fresh blackberries. "Dinnae fash yersel', Severus. Let them blether. That woman isnae wirth yer time." With that, she tucked in her own breakfast.
"I will not be defamed and ridiculed by a witch whose sole talent lies in spinning elaborate lies," he replied, clanging his spoon so furiously in the bowl that yoghurt spilled on the sides.
"Please dinnae take it oot on my crockery," the young woman chuckled. He looked up at her, ready to give a snappy retort, but her mischievous smile disarmed him, and he found himself grinning despite himself. He reached out and, using his thumb, wiped a purple blackberry stain from the side of her mouth.
"Enjoying this life with you, I sometimes forget that my past cannot be erased."
"Severus, what happened, happened, and what ye did, ye did. Ye cannae let it be yer prison."
"I understand that, but even if – I said if – I can forgive myself and move on, the rest of the wizarding world will not forget, Morag, as you can see. They will pry and speculate and judge. Always."
"Aye, they cannae judge ye as harshly as ye judge yerself, in any case." Under her light tone, he could hear her tenderness and concern – her heart sensing the conflicts of his soul.
Severus stood up with a sigh, collected the two earthenware bowls, and, muttering a quick scouring spell despite Morag's scowl, placed them in the cupboard. "Lazy whatsit", she shook her head, but, walking up behind her, he embraced her and nuzzled her neck, the soft coppery locks tickling his face. Her smell, tangy and sweet, roused his craving for her body, and he pulled her back to the bedroom. "I'm only teaching afternoon classes today, so we have a bit of time to ourselves. Let's forget about those asinine letters. I want to write love poems on your skin instead," he murmured in her ear.
"It really sucks, mate. What's worse than having people believe that git might be your Dad?" Ron asked Harry as they gathered their potions ingredients to leave Slughorn's class.
"Oh, I don't know, Ron. Family members being killed by Dark wizards? Spending half a year in the wild searching for Horcruxes while being hunted by Voldemort?" Harry snapped derisively. "Can't we just drop this?"
"So you don't care about the rumours she started? You've grown so fond of the man you'd be proud to call him dad?" Ron insisted.
Harry shoved his friend, eyes burning with rage. "Don't. You. Dare," he hissed.
"Stop it, both of you! Fighting won't help," Hermione stepped in. "We'd better do something about Rita Skeeter instead. We can't let her get away with it."
"Really? And what do you suggest we do? Make her drink Veritaserum once we're done brewing it, so she comes clean and admits she invented most of the stuff she wrote?" Harry shrugged.
"I'll simply remind her that I can reveal her little secret, not just to the Ministry, but to the Quibbler as well. If the public learns she's an unregistered Animagus and uses that skill to spy on people illegally, it will seriously undermine her reputation as a journalist."
"Yeah, well, the damage's done, isn't it? Everyone's gossiping about me. Again."
"I was thinking we could offer her a scoop," Hermione mused, straightening the strap of her bag. "An interview with Professor Snape so he can tell his side of the story."
"Oh, great. Of course. He's totally going to go along with it, Hermione. I mean, given how well he reacted at the trial, he'll love talking about it all with Skeeter," Harry sneered.
"Do you have any better ideas? It's not like you're enjoying the gossip, is it?" the young witch said defensively.
"Of course I'm not enjoying it. And if Snape stares at me one more time with that cold glare of his, I'll be frozen solid," he sighed.
"How about you talk to Skeeter, then, Harry? Explain what you know?" Ron offered.
"What could I possibly tell her that she would deem interesting enough? Besides, I'm done meddling with Snape's business. He's clearly back to hating me."
"Yes, whatever truce you two had is broken, it seems," Hermione commented in a resigned tone.
They walked up the stone staircase to the ground floor, mingling with the other seventh-years in the main corridor. A crowd of nervous-looking first-years were scurrying off to the courtyard for their first flying lesson, muttering to one another.
"Oi, Potter! Been to the dungeon to see your father, the bat?" someone sneered behind the trio.
Harry swirled around, made straight for Terry Boots and slammed him against the wall, wand out and pointing at his throat.
"You take that back, Boots, or else…"
"Or else what? You'll go tell daddy?"
Harry was ready to hex him when McGonnagal's stern voice interrupted him.
"Mister Boots, mister Potter, I want you both in my office this instant."
Harry's hands fell to his sides, and he threw an apologetic glance at his friends, then fell into step with Terry. They followed the Headmistress along the corridor, where she stopped in front of the restored gargoyle. " Pica pica," she muttered, and the gargoyle stepped aside. Striding into her office, she sat and gestured to the chairs in front of her desk.
"After everything we have all been through, would you care to explain why you two are at each other's throats?" she demanded severely.
The two young wizards clenched their teeth.
"Well? Mister Potter?"
Harry stared ahead and didn't reply.
"Very well. Since you are behaving like children, I will treat you like children. Twenty points from each of your houses, and you will both get detention next Saturday. Mr Filch needs some help cleaning the bathrooms. Mister Boots, you may go."
Groaning with discontent, both young men rose and made for the door.
"I said Mister Boots, not you, Mister Potter," the Headmistress said flatly.
Harry slumped back down on the chair, frowning. The old witch let out a weary sigh and handed him a tin of ginger snaps.
"Have a biscuit, Potter."
Confused, Harry looked up and reached for the tin. McGonnagal was regarding him with concern.
"I am neither blind, nor illiterate, Potter. I have read The Prophet too. I can imagine this is the last thing you, or indeed Professor Snape, needed. But you must rise above it. It is not the first time you have been a target for unwanted rumours. They will die out eventually, they always do. In the meantime, I would ask you to take the moral high ground and ignore provocations. I won't have you hex other students over this. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, Professor McGonnagal," Harry hissed through gritted teeth.
"Very well. You may leave."
His mind in turmoil, Harry raced down the stairs, back down to the dungeons, and, without even thinking twice, made straight for Snape's office. His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he rapped the door, and Severus opened, staring him up and down.
"Potter. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?"
"Professor, I need to know", the young man asked breathlessly. "Were you and my mother ever… intimate?"
"After the Battle of Hogwarts, I started to think you were not a complete dimwit, Potter. It appears I was mistaken," Severus stated coldly, his dark eyes menacing.
"Please answer the question." The young wizard's hands felt hot and sweaty as he clenched and unclenched them repeatedly.
Exasperated, Severus grabbed Harry by the scruff of his robes and dragged him to a mirror. "Here, Potter," he hissed. "Are you blind as well as stupid? Look at yourself and tell me – do we look anything alike?"
"Of course we don't, sir. I know you can't possibly be..." he hesitated. "I just need to know whether anything happened between you and my Mum before she started dating my father."
"Use your eyes, Potter. Look. At. Me. And remember the pictures of your mother you have seen. Do you think a beautiful woman such as your mother would ever consider a romantic relationship with a man like me?"
"Morag Duncan's a beautiful woman, and yet she's sleeping with you, isn't she?" Harry said defiantly.
Severus raised his hand, ready to slap the younger wizard, then checked himself and let go of his robes.
"Out of my office, Potter. Now," he snarled.
Glossary
aboot – about
arenae/cannae/couldnae/daesna/dinnae/isnae/shouldnae/willnae/wouldnae – aren't/can't/couldn't/doesn't/don't/isn't/shouldn't/won't/wouldn't
aye – yes
blether (verb) – talk nonsense
Dinnae fash yersel' – don't worry
och – oh
oot – out
tae – to
wirth – worth
ye/yer/yers/yerself – you/your/yours/yourself
