Snape drew his hand up with a flourish, staining the essay before him with bright red ink. He was infinitely grateful to Poppy for seeing to his exams. It felt good to lose himself in familiar, mundane tasks, rather than dwell on the events of the past few days. His gaze flickered to his lap, where an afghan was spread across his lap. He stroked it absentmindedly, feeling a soft warmth tingle through his fingertips. It had been a present from Flitwick, who had charmed it to give “warm fuzzies” to anyone who wore it. Severus made a show of scorning the gift, but the Charms professor merely grinned. Not even Voldemort himself would ever force Snape to admit that he had spent the last few days cocooned in it. He was far too old to need something so babyish as a security blanket, but he wasn't about to reject the simplistic comfort it gave.
He snorted as he looked over Potter's essay. The boy, as usual, made sweeping generalizations without backing up his observations with details and facts. Still, it was a surprisingly good effort. He watched his hand mark an E, for 'Exceeds Expectations', as if it were totally alienated from his body. Granger's essay, unsurprisingly, earned an O for 'Outstanding'. He ran the tip of his quill thoughtfully over his pursed lips. He had been quite harsh to the best student to enter his classroom, but not without reason. Hermione reminded him all too much of himself at his age, full of knowledge and eager to share it, to the point of becoming a know-it-all. He had hoped to shrink her ego with a few well-aimed barbs and to perhaps spare her the insults he had received at her age. The rejection of his peers had stung him deeply, and he had retreated even further into his books and potions experiments, distancing himself from his classmates. He was pleased to see that the girl had a sensible head on her shoulders, making several close friends and addressing those that slandered her with a cool indifference. He also knew all too well the price of knowledge without experience, how magic could be abused and twisted by one who had become too confident, another pitfall from his youth that he wished to help her avoid. Everyone else coddled her and encouraged her without setting proper boundaries. Though his intellectual side relished her raw potential, it fell to him to cut her down to size.
His quill faltered on the next essay. Longbottom. Another Gryffindor who was protected from the outside world, a world that would tear him up and spit him out. Snape knew of the boy's background, but in his eyes it was all the more reason to build Longbottom up and force him to face his demons. If the whelp was completely undone by a harsh-tempered Potions Master, he had no hope of surviving the coming war. Only Merlin knew how he had been sorted into Gryffindor in the first place. Once could only hope that that the boy had untapped potential, skills that he had inherited from his renowned Auror father. In the coming conflict, there would be no room for weakness.
His eye fell on a flowering plant perched on the corner of his desk, and his heart constricted. It was a magnificent hybrid that survived on minimal sunlight and emitted a faint floral smell designed to improve emotional well-being. He had suspected Sprout of slipping it into his classroom, but he had discovered the truth after the Herbology professor had raved about her top student's ingenious project. Said project, an experimental hybrid, sounded a bit too familiar for comfort. Snape rested his head on his fist and studied the plant critically. It was incomprehensible that someone so incompetent in Potions would excel in Herbology, since the two disciplines went hand-in-hand. Knowledge of plants and herbs, their properties and methods of harvest, were a crucial part of potion making.
The question remained: why would someone he had treated so cruelly gift him with something so precious? Severus fingered a sunlight-yellow petal lightly, breathing in deeply as its light perfume tickled his nose. It was magnificent work, no doubt about it. He certainly didn't deserve something as beautiful as this, especially from someone he had treated so cruelly. Gryffindor foolishness, he told himself cynically, but he found the gesture touching all the same. No Gryffindor had ever shown such kindness toward him.
'What was the world coming to?' he wondered dazedly as he marked Longbottom's page with a large A for 'Acceptable'. Perhaps the lad was not quite the limp dishrag he had always seemed. He supposed that it would be too much to ask that the boy stop melting down cauldrons and exploding things left and right. After a moment's thought, he jotted down a cryptic remark: “In the future, do not leave your Herbology projects lying around the dungeons.” It was as close to a thank-you as he would ever get.
The entire school had noticed a subtle shift in the Potions Master's behavior. The man was still as biting and sarcastic as ever, but the venom seemed to have decreased. He spent a good deal of time lost in thought, and he had frightened a dozen Hufflepuff first-years by sitting motionlessly on the window seat facing the lake. They had run away as quietly as possible, certain that the professor was either possessed or had been lurking in the shadows to strip them of several dozen house points. The staff had noticed the change as well. In the past, Snape had firmly rebuffed any invitations to extra-curricular activities or anything not directly related to work. Recently, they had begun to extend casual offers to participate in a game of chess, or private invitations to tea, and to their great surprise, he had hesitatingly accepted, his eyes cast downward, glimmering with an endearing sort of awkward shyness. He was useless in social situations, but it was nice to feel accepted, and his colleagues were very careful to keep things light and casual, so as not to put him on the defensive and risk driving him away once more. Severus was like a high-strung horse, skittish and edgy, requiring a gentle hand and soothing voice to bring him around.
He had scared the children even further one day by sitting on a bench by the lake, watching the sunlight glimmer off the rippling water, the giant squid's tentacles occasionally breaching the surface. The bright sun dazzled his eyes, and he knew he could not remain outside for long without risking a nasty burn, or heatstroke due to his heavy robes. Still, he wished to enjoy the beauty of his surroundings as his mind turned over the ponderous question of his future. After nearly half a lifetime of duplicity and looking over his shoulder, he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. The mask that he had worn to keep the world away had kept him alive, kept him safe and allowed him to conduct his spy missions with aplomb, but it had also kept him from forming close attachments with anyone. Now that the mask had been ripped away, he felt exposed yet exhilarated, given a new lease on life. The question was: what should he do with it?
He had lived for so long with the specter of Death hovering over his shoulder, expecting to be caught out at any moment. It had not mattered then, for he was merely existing, biding his time until the end. It was now as if an entirely new world had opened up to him, ripe with possibilities. He was free to seek his own fortune. He could always follow his boyhood dream of working in a research facility. Hell, he could open his own laboratory and hand-pick his assistants. He could devote himself entirely to his potions, experimenting at will, with no one to answer to. He could even devote himself to teaching graduate students, as he did occasionally over the summer. There were any number of universities and laboratories that would offer him the sun, moon and stars. Karkaroff (while he had lived) had tried to lure him off to Durmstrang for ages, offering him free reign at whatever he wished, be it Potions or Dark Arts. And yet, he had remained at Hogwarts, performing his duties for Dumbledore, held there by a mixture of obligation and guilt.
He sneered as he thought of the empty-headed cretins masquerading as his students. His talents were surely wasted on them. It took sheer, pants-wetting fear to hammer anything into their thick skulls. He had received quite a number of interesting letters over the years – while parents liked to complain about his heavy-handed methods, universities and Auror-training facilities expressed their gratitude for the students that were sent to them with basic safety and attention to detail drilled into them. Every now and then there was a student was worth his while, a shining gem amongst the lumps of coal, but so often they wasted their potential on Quidditch and other such nonsense. There was no reason for him to remain in his current capacity.
Then again… he shuddered to think of what would happen if the students had no one to keep them in line. Dumbledore was quite skilled at keeping order, but he was often too lenient. McGonagall was as stern as they came, but she had a soft spot for her charges that prevented her from being objective. The children needed someone to play the villain, someone to mold them into shape, to subtly teach them the skills needed to survive. Not that very much seemed to take root in the vast wasteland of their collective minds. If they expected him to become a big softie, filled with smiles and handing out daisies, they were in for a shock. He had no intention of changing.
And then there were his Slytherins. A small crease of worry formed between his eyes. What would become of them if he left? He remembered all too well how things had been during his student days. His Head of House had been a fool, ill-suited to the responsibilities that the job entailed. Slytherin House had been falling apart in those days. Much-needed renovation funds had been devoted instead to buying the Gryffindor Quidditch team new brooms. Being of a frail and sickly nature, he had contracted pneumonia his first winter in Hogwarts, due to the drafty and poorly heated dormitory quarters. His beloved pet snake had died from the cold. (His second snake, a gift from Hagrid, had been poisoned in a Marauder prank. He refused to own another pet after that.) His first action as Head of House had been to raise private funds from wealthy Slytherin alumnae and his own savings to finance a full renovation. Nowadays he sneered at Minerva's begging for funds to replace the outdated Cleansweeps used by the Gryffindor players. His Slytherins had always had to make their own way. They had come to depend on benefactors such as Lucius Malfoy. Let the Gryffindors feel the pinch for once.
He knew all too well what would become of Slytherin House in his absence. The house would be neglected, its students regarded with suspicion. Only a Slytherin could truly understand the needs of its house, and what was needed to channel the ambition of its members to constructive means. For most of the world, ambition equaled evil. Apparently they had learned nothing from Pettigrew's example; that even those of the vaunted Gryffindor house could turn to the Dark. He had become fond of his charges, despite himself. He was savvy enough to avoid manipulation, and while he appeared to coddle them in public, they knew not to bend the rules he had established. Slytherins had a different outlook on the world, and Severus had offered himself to them as a mentor. Watching them grow from frightened first-years to confident graduates always filled him with a sense of pride. It was as close as he ever intended to come to fatherhood. His house, more than any other, would bear the scars of the upcoming war, as it had suffered bitterly after Voldemort's initial defeat. He stood, startling a flock of birds and causing a few feeble-minded Gryffindors to shriek. There was something that needed to be done.
* * * * *
The Slytherins darted glances at the front of the Common Room as they shuffled in. The abrupt announcement of a House meeting had taken them all by surprise, and left them more than a little apprehensive. Snape's introductory speech to his First Years had always remained the same throughout the years. It was simple and to the point. Learn. Pay attention. Sharpen your skills. And above all, stand united. Slytherin House faced opposition from all sides, and divided they would fall. It was a lesson that they had taken to heart. It had been a terrible blow to them to see their Head of House so troubled. They had learned to distrust those who mouthed equality and acceptance but sought to keep them down. Snape's heart was pure Slytherin, and despite the man's prickly demeanor, they had come to respect him, even like him. There had been disturbing rumors after his illness, rumors both of his affliction and its possible causes, which left them confused and frustrated. Something had happened; something enormous that concerned them. They had been left in the dark, and the enterprising students of the House of the Snake had sought answers, but what they had discovered had only confused them further. Now, with Snape's sudden reappearance, finally there was the promise of answers.
Snape faced his charges and assumed his customary stance with his arms folded and a scowl affixed on his face. Some of the more observant students shivered as they saw white bandages peeping out from underneath the sleeves of his robe. Silence fell swiftly, and all shifting and rustling abruptly ceased. Their Head of House refused to address an audience that was not fully attentive, and they wouldn't miss this particular speech for anything.
Once every face had turned toward him, he began to speak in his measured voice, his tone betraying none of his emotions. “I trust that you have heard of my recent illness,” his lip curled slightly at the word, “but that is not what I have come to discuss with you. There is a matter of utmost gravity that must be addressed. It is an issue that has held Slytherin House apart from the rest of the school. The escalating war between the Dark Lord and the Wizarding world had put us in a very precarious position. Ours is a house of ambition and occasional subterfuge. We are scorned by the general public for what we are. From the moment the Sorting Hat was placed on each of your heads, your reputation was sealed. Few realize that our house is one that is slowly being torn in half. Do not think that I am unaware of where loyalties lie. Some of you are descended from Death Eaters,” Crabbe and Goyle stirred, while Malfoy looked at him impassively, “while others offer silent backing to Dumbledore or the Ministry.” Blaise kept his face studiously blank, while Millicent glared at her shoes. “Those of you who have not yet chosen will soon be forced to do so. I know that Lord Voldemort is actively seeking young Slytherins to join his cause. Before you choose, either way, there is something you must know.”
He slowly unbuttoned the left sleeve of his shirt, drawing up the fabric slowly past the bandages to expose the Dark Mark, seeming to glow with malevolence against the pale flesh. There were a few muffled gasps, but to their credit, his charges kept a solid grip on their composure. “I am a Death Eater. This will not come as a surprise to some of you. However, as you have come to learn, appearances can be deceiving. I have some shocking news to deliver, and I thought it best to tell you in person, before you hear from other means. Make of it what you will.” He gazed solemnly at each student in turn, his dark eyes burning into them, and they shivered one by one. “I have been a Death Eater for nearly twenty years, but I have not been a faithful follower. I have been a double agent within Voldemort's ranks, gathering intelligence for Dumbledore and his supporters.” Several jaws worked in either awe or protest, but a glare from him froze them in their tracks. “As I said, Voldemort is very eager to recruit Slytherins, who he knows are dissatisfied with their lot in life and are looking for a quicker way to success. But while his words sound golden, he speaks with a forked tongue, promising the world but delivering ashes.” His face tightened in anger. “While he preaches of the prejudice towards pure wizards and how the Ministry holds us back, Lord Voldemort himself was the one to besmirch the Slytherin name and brand us as a House of evil. He will offer you whatever you desire – fame, riches, power, influence, and much more. But it comes as a heavy price.” Snape began stalk before them, his robes swishing and disturbing the heavy air. “Your triumphs and successes will not be your own. You will be subservient to him. You will be forced to debase yourselves, to crawl before him and kiss his robes to earn his favor. He turns his followers against each other for sport, to keep their senses sharp and their loyalties focused only on him. A true Slytherin crawls for no one. Is this truly the life you desire? Will you be satisfied with his paltry gifts when he curses you with the Cruciatus for some small failing? Is this truly the kind of master you wish to serve? For that is what Voldemort asks of each of his Death Eaters – total subservience.”
“Traitor!”
The Slytherins turned as a group to stare at Draco Malfoy, who stomped to the head of the room, a letter clutched in his hand, his lips white and trembling. “It's true! I didn't want to believe it when Father told me, but it's true! You're a traitor to the cause, and they won't stop hunting you until you're dead!”
“Let them.” Snape looked scornful. Truth be told, he was surprised that the news had not broken sooner. Either the Death Eaters had been laying low after the attack, or Dumbledore had been blocking their mail to the students. “I will not prove such easy prey as they hope. It is true that I betrayed them, my so-called friends and brothers in arms, but Voldemort betrayed us first. He twisted us and turned us against each other, warping us and trying to weed out every ounce of humanity or empathy that remained within us. Tell me, Draco, do you honestly think you can perform the Killing Curse on a defenseless babe, be it Muggle or wizard? If so, then go to his side, for it is already too late for you. If he asked you to defile Miss Parkinson for his amusement, would you do so?” Pansy squeaked and shoved a hand in her mouth, eyes bulging in horror. Draco's expression faltered, allowing a quick flash of uncertainty. “This he will ask of you, and more. I know that none of you have taken the mark as of yet, but the time is fast approaching when you will be forced to decide. No matter how he preaches of Slytherin unity and achieving your destiny, he cares nothing for you. He would cheerfully sell you out to the Aurors, or kill you with his own wand, if it suited his purposes.”
Draco visibly struggled to regain his arrogant façade. “But Father--”
Snape's expression softened slightly into something resembling regret. “Your father was once a good man, Draco, and my closest companion. Vain, perhaps; arrogant, certainly; but he was not cold-blooded or vicious. Voldemort changed him, changed all of us, treating us as nothing more than lumps of clay to mold into the form of his choosing, or to destroy if we displeased him. I have used my position as Head of Slytherin House to the fullest advantage – while I appeared to groom you as his latest group of cannon fodder, I have done my best to instill in each of you the ability to choose for yourself. I cannot make this decision for you, nor can I delay its coming. Whatever your choice may be, you must prepare yourselves for dark times. I will provide protection for you the best I can, but my influence will spread only so far. It may come to pass that we will face each other on opposite sides of a battlefield. If you go to the Dark Lord's side, you best be prepared to fight to the death, for that will be your only hope for survival. Azkaban is a living torment far worse than death.”
Draco trembled from head to foot, his hand clutching a silver ring adorning his finger, an engraved snake swallowing its tail. It was an undeniable means for Lucius to summon his only son. He swallowed heavily, looking as if the weight of the world was crushing his shoulders. “I – I must go,” he stammered, trying desperately to look calm. “Father expects me home immediately.”
Snape put his hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling it tremble. “Draco, it is never too late. Those who are branded with the Mark are cursed for life, but I will provide a refuge for those who have a sincere desire to abandon his ways. As your godfather, I have tried to provide another path for you to walk on, besides the one that your father has forged for you before even the moment of your conception. You are your own man and your decisions will be judged as such. Make the decision that is right for you.” He watched with fathomless eyes brimming with concern, as the young Malfoy heir pushed him away and bolted up the stairs, unwilling to speak to a soul as he prepared to return home to fulfill his destiny. The rest of Slytherin house stared after him, long after his footsteps had faded. Snape's true alliance had stunned them all and turned their world order on its ear. What would Draco's decision be, in light of this? What would any of theirs be, when the time came?
Epilogue
Severus cursed prolifically under his breath as he hastened toward the Great Hall. Dumbledore had assigned him a few last-minute tasks that had taken him well into the Leaving Feast. As much as he despised such festivities, he had wanted to see his Slytherins off, and to provide moral support when they lost the House Cup once more. For a wonder, Ravenclaw had been the house to prevail this year, so the sting would not be as harsh as in the past. He blamed their losing streak strictly on Potter and his fan club that awarded him points merely for existing.
He wondered what the old man was up to this time. There was some reason that Dumbledore wanted him to arrive late. Most likely the nosy old buzzard wanted to gossip about him. He found the concept most irritating – he was used to people insulting him both to his face and behind his back, and he had much less respect for the latter.
Albus' voice carried to him as he stomped his way up the corridor. “…making uncounted sacrifices for the side of Light, and receiving little thanks for his efforts. He is an unusual sort of man, wanting nothing but the safety of his students. He has asked for nothing for his own sake. It is time that he is finally recognized for what he truly is – a hero and a protector.”
Snape opened the side door as unobtrusively as possible and slipped in, wishing to make a quiet entrance for once. It would not due to interrupt the Headmaster's speech, though he wondered idly what fool was being lauded this time. He approached his chair, wanting nothing more than to sit down and wait for the farce to be over. Thus, he was understandably flummoxed when Dumbledore turned to him, greeting him with a large smile and a nod, and began to applaud. He blinked. Perhaps he had inhaled too many fumes from the last potion. Sitting down seemed like a good idea indeed. Too bad his feet wouldn't cooperate. He stood frozen to the spot, no doubt gaping like a bloody idiot, as Harry Potter rose to his feet, applauding wildly, his sidekicks Granger and Weasley quickly standing by his side. They were followed by the rest of the Weasley clan, then all of the Gryffindor table. The Slytherin table rose as one, not applauding but standing at attention, a solemn sign of respect. The rest of the staff stood as well, and the other tables followed suit, until the Great Hall rang with applause and cheers. Severus wondered vaguely when he would wake up from this truly bizarre dream.
Dumbledore approached him and thumped him heartily on the back, shaking him out of his reverie. Snape shook his head slightly, staring at the sea of grinning faces with the utmost disbelief. “What did you say to them?” he hissed.
Albus twinkled at him. “Merely the truth, my boy. Now come and join us. You're looking a bit wobbly.” The raucous noise somehow increased as Dumbledore guided Snape to the Head Table to stand by his side. As he passed by, fellow faculty members patted him on the back and gave him wide smiles of encouragement and congratulations. But it was the sight of the Slytherin table that gave Snape the greatest reward of all. Draco had not returned, that was to be expected, but somehow he thought that the boy was not lost to them yet. Several faces were missing from all four tables, and it brought a pang to his heart, but those that remained were the real surprise. At the front end of the table stood Pansy Parkinson, a defiant sneer on her face, and Malfoy's omnipresent henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle. They had all defied their parents' expectations and chose to remain at the castle. Severus would do his best to protect them, to his dying breath if need be. They had made a very difficult decision, but it was a choice that they had made themselves and would stand by it.
“I have news for you, Severus,” Dumbledore said jovially. “The students have decided to petition the Ministry to award you the Order of Merlin.” Snape snorted, but he couldn't hide the twitch of his lips. The petition didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell, but the gesture made all the difference in the world to him. Someone cared. A lot of someones. No one had ever bothered to stand up for him before, but here was the entire population of Hogwarts demonstrating their support. He was under no illusions of the actual number who believed in him – most of them were sheep following the herd, a herd that would have cheerfully fed him to the wolves just yesterday – but it was still more than he had ever dreamed of.
Things seemed to have turned around so quickly that he was still reeling. He hoped that this adulation wouldn't become some sort of trend; he'd end up hexing the lot before the end of the week. Of course, this didn't change anything in the least. He still would take great pleasure in snarling at them and deducting House points in the hundreds. But damn if it didn't feel good to be appreciated for once! His lips twitched once more, and despite his best efforts to turn it into a condescending sneer, they began to spread in a timid ghost of a smile. The expression looked uncomfortable on a face customarily lined with pain and scowling. The cheers rose to a deafening level, and despite all his misgivings, the cynical voice in his head fell silent, and the corners of his mouth lifted until the smile was small but genuine. Great Merlin, they would never let him live it down. The transformation was stunning – with the lines of the years smoothed away, he looked… almost handsome. The cheering wasn't just for him, it was for them, for the fact that for one moment they were standing as one, they were invincible. And suddenly none of it mattered: Voldemort, the future, the escalating war. The moment was perfect and simple and Snape drew it close to his heart. Come what may, he would face it. And he would not be alone.