Severus left the library in a dreadful bad temper. How dare Potter ask him that, the gall of the boy to ask him how his mother died? His foot falls rang though the hall as he paced from one end to the other and back again.

The incongruity of the fact that Harry Potter was his father struck him again. This was Potter, whom he had taught for six and a half years. The boy was younger than he was, young enough to be his son, and wasn’t that a revolting thought.

That was the problem really; he was a boy, an arrogant, swaggering, reckless, wretch of a boy with no regard for anyone around him. He was a child. Perhaps he understood on an abstract level that other people were worth his care, but he didn’t think about them often. He respected no one and nothing. In the part of his mind in which he kept secrets from himself, Severus acknowledged that he was much the same in that one way at least. He respected no one living.

He respected many things however, even if none of them were breathing, at least not anymore. He respected power. He didn’t like it, and he disliked it most when others had it and he did not. He respected magic, which was a part of power, and he respected knowledge, which was a greater part still. Most of all he respected a dead man, though he did not respect any living ones.

He respected privacy, which clearly Potter did not. He respected respect itself, which Potter was entirely ignorant of. It hurt, he admitted grudgingly, remembering how his mother died, and he cursed Potter for reminding him of it. It wasn’t the boy’s right.

He felt the stone floor pound his feet though his boots. When at last he came to the conclusion that he had no excuse to be wandering the halls, not even an excuse to give himself, no students to watch for because they were on holiday, no suspicions of wrongdoing amongst the staff, did he return to his office. Once there, he pulled open a desk drawer and cursed.

~*~

When Severus had requested that Slughorn brew potions for him, the man had done so with irritating good grace. Belby, who had less reason to be annoyed, as he didn’t know that Sebastian Prince was really Severus Snape, sulked beautifully when Severus asked him to brew. He didn’t often, it would look suspicious, but he had an infestation of doxies in a few of his desk drawers and didn’t have any doxycide. It had absolutely nothing to do with the black mood he had been in since Potter had asked him how his mother had died, nothing to do with actually wanting to see Belby grumble and fuss. That was simply a side benefit, he assured himself.

Whatever his stated reason for standing in the middle of the potions classroom, he clenched his fists in fury at Belby’s absence. The man wasn’t in his office either, and Severus had no intention of searching the school for him. A small voice told him that Belby was most likely in the staffroom or speaking with Minerva, but he ignored it in preference to comfortable irritability.

Something in the corner of the room caught his eye and a quiet suspicion began to form as he waited. Peaking out of the gaping holes in the sides of the filing cabinet standing unobtrusively against the wall, he could see something familiar. He stepped over to it, and hexed the drawer open expectantly. In the scuffed metal frame, the drawer’s label read 1975-1985.

In a rare moment of frivolity, he had spent a fair piece of his first real paycheck to purchase a leather bound notebook with an infinite page spell which he had used as his potions journal. Some time into his second job in a pharmaceutical potions laboratory, he had lost it. To add insult to injury, he couldn’t remember what he had written in it well enough to reconstruct any of it. He had lost two years worth of work along with the notebook, and had cursed himself roundly and repeatedly at the time. It had amazed him for years that he couldn’t remember anything within its pages either.

Yet it sat innocently amidst the notebooks and loose diagrams in the filing cabinet drawer. His ill temper disappeared. Vengeful satisfaction was an emotion marginally preferable to bleak rage, in fact, it almost approached happiness. His lips twitched into a cruel smirk. Carefully, he lifted his old notebook out of its nest of papers and rubbed his finger across the cover. Then he stopped. Should he take the notebook, and risk Belby accusing him of theft, or trying to Obliviate him again? He had no doubt his colleague would discover that the notebook’s disappearance when he repaired the filing cabinet. He could take the entire contents of the cabinet, as further proof of the man’s intellectual theft and to obscure his own identity (after all, if he stole only his own notebook, it would be simple to deduce that he was Severus Snape and not Sebastian Prince.

He smiled triumphantly and hefted the notes out of the drawers and stacked them on the table. He could come back for the Doxycide later. He would purloin these first.

Secure in the knowledge, once he stopped to consider it, that Belby wouldn’t dare involve the other teachers in trying to recover the notes lest he run the risk of one of them examining the notebooks and discovering that they belonged to someone else, Severus floated the ponderous stack out of the dungeons and into his office. On the way, he wondered what ideas Belby had stolen from him. It explained quite handily why he couldn’t remember any of his notes, which was a relief, he was quite proud of his ability to research, but he still felt compelled to review his notes. A sudden curiosity welled up inside of him.

He levitated the bundle of notebooks and papers into his office and they came to rest on the top of a bookcase. Seated safely at his doxy infested desk, he contemplated revealing to Minerva the notes and their contents. It would be delightful to see Belby sacked. That alone would make it worthwhile.

Something in him recoiled from telling Minerva, however. He could hold it over Belby’s head, or simply keep it to himself, the heady knowledge that he could ruin the man’s reputation at any time. Yes, he decided, satisfaction spreading through him, he would keep the notebooks a secret. He poured the memory of finding and retrieving the notes into his pensieve where it couldn’t be Obliviated away and left his classroom to search for Belby. He still needed that doxycide.

~*~

Harry balled his hands into fists and stared furiously at the Charms book, blinking back stubborn tears. The words blurred on the page, and he shut it, disgusted. He obviously wasn’t going to get anything else done, and he just couldn’t go back to the dormitory and face Ginny right then, so he piled his papers into his bag, shelved the book and stomped out of the library, barely noticing as Madam Pince admonished him for his treatment of her library. He had a vague idea of confronting Snape, but he didn’t know what to confront him about. He stared fixedly at the floor, not knowing where he was going, and not caring much about where he ended up.

Before he realized it, he stood before the one eyed humpbacked witch, and with a sharp jerk, he drew his wand to speak the incantation that would open the hump. He tapped the hump with much greater force than was necessary, whispering, “Dissendium,” and watched the hump slip away impatiently, revealing the staircase beyond. He had just clambered into the hole when he heard someone call his name.

“Mr. Potter.” Harry dropped his wand. It clattered down the stairs, bouncing off each step on its way to the bottom. He turned for a moment, hesitating whether to retrieve it, but instead chose to set his jaw and face Snape. “Running away?”

Harry snarled as he levered himself out of the humpbacked witch. “No,” he retorted defensively. “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours anyway.”

“I’m your teacher, Potter; it’s my job to make sure you don’t get yourself killed doing anything… stupid.” Harry hated the way he paused for effect, and he balled his hands until his nails dug into his palms, his face flushing a livid red.

“Voldemort’s dead!” Harry cried. “Who’s going to kill me?”

Snape flinched very slightly at the name, but didn’t provide an answer. Harry swung himself back into the hole in the witch’s hump and stepped deliberately down the stairs, the hair on the back of his neck rising even as he descended. “So you are running away,” Snape sneered.

The wand shook in Harry’s hand as he gripped it hard enough that his knuckles turned white and bloodless. “I am not running away!” His voice echoed strangely in the underground staircase as he shot up the steps.

“Really,” Severus queried derisively, peering down into the tunnel below the witch’s hump, “then what were you doing?”

Harry heaved himself out of the hump, glaring up at Snape and trying to speak nonchalantly. “I fancied a walk.”

“You’re not wearing a robe in this weather?” Severus glanced at his clothing and snorted, “You don’t need the Dark Lord to kill you boy, you’re perfectly capable of catching pneumonia on your own.” He spoke quickly and precisely, gratified at how quickly Potter’s hackles rose.

The hump ground shut with an audible groan, trapping the hem of Harry’s shirt. He yanked at it and swore as it tore.

“Language, Mr. Potter.”

“Why are you even here at all?” Harry begged resentfully.

Severus’ smile held no real pleasure in it, only spite. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

Harry sputtered and his flush became blotchy. He hadn’t intended it that way at all. It had always seemed as if Snape had known what he was doing and where he was, even when he had no reason to know it. Snape’s constant ability to find him when he was where he shouldn’t be had infuriated him since first year. “Couldn’t you just go away?” he snarled.

“No.”

“Why not?” he retorted, folding his arms. “Term hasn’t started yet; you can’t give me detention.”

“As I said before, Potter, I’m protecting you from yourself!” He snatched Potter’s arm away from his chest and held it firmly in case the boy bolted.

Harry tugged on his arm, clenching and unclenching his fist as his fingers began to tingle. “Let go.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do, keep me here all night?”

“I’m going to take you back to your common room.” Harry flushed mortified at having to face Ginny, and having her see him dragged back to the common room like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“If you let me go,” he said, trying to pry Snape’s fingers off his arm, “I will go to my common room alone!”

“No.” Severus swatted Potter’s other hand away and pulled him forward. “I don’t trust you.”

“That’s funny,” Harry seethed, “I don’t trust you either.”

Severus yanked him forward, pulling him along behind him, his hand tightening around the boy’s arm with rage. Something feral glimmered behind his cavernous black eyes, and Harry shivered. He strode purposefully and swiftly down the corridor, and Harry stumbled trying to pull him off balance. “You don’t have to trust me, Potter, You just have to obey me.”

Harry jerked his arm down when Snape wasn’t expecting it, breaking his grip. Taking advantage of his Seeker reflexes and longer legs, he sped down the hallway and turned into a classroom as soon as he was out of sight.

Severus swore and took off after him, wishing he could strangle the boy when he caught him. His boots reverberated around the hallway as he ran, jarring him with every thunderous step.

Harry might have stayed hidden, safe in the shadows of the dusty unused classroom, if he hadn’t heaved a sigh of relief as he heard Snape pass his door. It banged open abruptly, and Harry tried to rush past him, but Snape caught him deftly. Harry struggled, being taller, if as weedy, but Snape pushed him back and shut the door. “You are a fool.”

Harry didn’t dispute him, “And you’re a bully.” Snape’s eyes narrowed into slits as he panted from exertion. “Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, pointing his wand. The wand sailed out of Snape’s hand and Harry caught it.

“Potter!” Snape hissed, “Give it here.”

Harry held both wands close to his chest and backed away to the far side of the room. “You can have it back when you let me go.”

Snape swore and locked the door. “Language, Professor Snape,” Harry mimicked angrily.

Severus’ teeth ground together. “Return my wand this instant!”

“I told you,” retorted Harry, “I don’t trust you.”

“What do you hope to get from this Potter?”

“I just want you to let me out and go away,” Harry told him sullenly. “The question is what are you trying to get.”

Severus stopped and glared. “I want you to stop acting like a spoiled child and go back to your dormitory!”

“Well I can’t do that if you’re keeping me prisoner here!” Severus ignored the logic of Potter’s point while the boy folded his arms across his chest and gazed at him. “You always think I act like a spoiled child,” he muttered darkly.

Severus’ head snapped up and he paced the room in which he had locked them impatiently. “What would you call asking how my mother died?” he shouted, “what miserable spiteful impulse compelled you to do that?”

Harry used the few inches he had on Snape to full advantage and looked down his nose at him. Snape, who had hardly any nose left to look down, kept his eyes level. “Do you think that’s what it was?” Harry asked, almost hurt, “spite?”

Severus’ hands moved of their own accord, the fingers twitching as if trying to throttle the young man across the room from him. “What else could it possibly be, Potter?”

Harry stared at him nonplussed, trying to articulate an answer. There were so many things it could be, and so many it was, more than Harry knew the words for. Even the ones he had words for he didn’t think he could tell Snape. When he did finally open his mouth, he had no idea what was about to come out of it. “It wasn’t spite,” he said, and to his humiliation, he started shaking. “I couldn’t,” he stopped, trying to collect himself. “I couldn’t ask about Eileen just to be spiteful.” Snape moved as if to interrupt, but Harry cut him off. “Look, I didn’t ask about her to hurt you, alright?”

“Then why did you ask Potter?” he punctuated each word with a sharp puff of air as his eyebrows drew closer and closer together.

For one horrifying moment, they both thought Harry was going to cry, but he blinked back the tears stubbornly. “Don’t you think I cared about her, at least a little bit?”

Snape stopped pacing and stood in front of the door. “No,” he spat jerking his head from side to side, “I don’t.”

“Well I did care about her, I cared a lot!” At last, two tears ran down his cheeks and he swiped them away angrily. “She was smart, and funny, and she was nice to me, and I didn’t know if I would ever get back…” he stopped, uncertain and looked down into Snape’s face intently. He wished he’d stopped talking earlier. He never wanted to say any of that to Snape. His voice trembled and he hated it.

Severus stepped back into the doorframe. A thousand insults flashed though his mind, but every time he tried to use one, it disappeared. “I very much doubt you really cared, or you wouldn’t have left her and told her to marry my-” he hissed, “to marry Tobias Snape.”

“I had to!” Harry yelled, furious at the tears that ran down his face. “I had to! I couldn’t stay there and be with her; I had to go back and fight Voldemort!” He shook all over and staggered back to slump against a desk. “I had to leave things the way they happened; I didn’t have a choice!” He gazed back at Snape desperately. “I had to go home!”

Severus never lowered his gaze but glared consistently at the young man as he wept, his eyes and nose becoming progressively puffier. “Get a hold of yourself, Potter!”

Harry swallowed forcefully, his nails digging into his arms as he tried to pull himself together, feeling wretched and more than a little embarrassed. He rasped when he spoke at last, and he flushed again. “I couldn’t stay.”

Severus shot him a look that he was well aware was childish and resentful, and followed it with a recrimination that was equally so. “You shouldn’t have gone to her in the first place.”

Harry watched him dully, and then smiled a little, but sadly. “I know.”

“I don’t suppose there was much you could do about it.” Harry supposed that was the closest thing to an apology he was ever likely to get, and for Snape it was extremely conciliatory. He rubbed his wrist where a bruise began to form.

“Here,” whispered Harry, tossing Snape his wand.

“Thank you,” Snape mumbled in reply.

“I’m sorry your mother died, and I’m sorry I asked you about it,” Harry said weakly, “but I didn’t have anyone else I could ask.”

“Apology accepted.” Harry made a real effort not to glare in reply.

The first stars were showing in the sky outside the classroom window and Harry rubbed his swollen eyes with the back of his hand. “Let me out?” he asked pathetically.

“Come,” Severus said gruffly, I’ll take you back to the tower.”

They walked out, side by side, stiffly, neither daring to touch the other.