A summons to Albus’s office never boded well. Severus threw down his quill and nodded to the house elf who had delivered the message. It vanished from his office with a pop, leaving him to take a moment for mental cursing before reluctantly standing. Invitations for tea, while irritating, were delivered in person and meant nothing more dangerous than idle, irritating conversation about subjects Albus thought Severus only pretended to disdain. A summons, however, meant Albus had a problem. And, Severus being what he was, he never got the nice, simple problems, only the difficult, messy problems with difficult, messy solutions.

Snarling the password at the griffin outside Albus’s office, Severus wrapped his robes around him for a comforting moment of self-defence as the stairs carried him upwards. So fortified, he knocked on Albus’s door.

“Come in, come in,” Albus called genially.

Severus rolled his eyes heavenward in a plea for strength and opened the door. It wasn’t that he disliked Albus precisely, he even mostly respected the man. It was just that try as he might he couldn’t bring himself to like him. They were just too dissimilar. Albus always saw the best in people and gave them second chances they didn’t deserve when Severus knew perfectly well that most people were blithering idiots and giving them a first chance to betray you was a foolish idea. Albus believed in things like the sanctity of childhood and that really everyone was a good person deep down, while Severus knew from personal experience that some people weren’t allowed childhoods and some people were scum no matter how deep you dug. And while Severus had no problem with people being happy and was quite fond of a bit of happiness himself every now and then, Albus’s persistent in-your-face cheerfulness got on his nerves something awful.

“Ah, Severus, do come in.” Albus beamed at him in greeting and Severus tried not to sigh; cheerfulness was all very well in its place but surely a sane person could not be that cheery all the time? “Do sit down, have a seat. Sherbet lemon?”

Severus took the seat but not the sweet. Albus knew very well he had no taste for sweet things but, as in so many things, seemed to think that if he just persisted he could change Severus’s mind. It was as if who Severus was wasn’t acceptable to Albus’s happy little world so he had to change him into something that was. Severus was quite content as he was and didn’t want to be changed, thank you very much. Unruffled by the curt refusal (Severus had tried politeness to begin with but soon gave up), Albus gave a knowing smile that said ‘Ah, but I know one day you will let down your defences and show that you are really a sweet person’. Severus managed, with great effort, not to glower.

There then followed the obligatory small talk (time wasting, Severus called it). How was he, what had he been up to today, how were his lesson plans coming, did he still plan to be at Hogwarts until the end of the week or would he be finished up earlier than that...

“Enough, Albus,” he said finally when his patience started wearing dangerously thin. “What is it you want of me?”

Albus looked faintly hurt. Severus, with great heroism, refrained from rolling his eyes. The man did so love to come at things indirectly, dancing around the point for hours rather than cutting straight to the heart of the matter. Maybe it was an age thing: he’d seen so many hours he didn’t mind wasting a few of someone else’s. Or maybe it was just an Albus thing: he loved his games and his carefully laid plans all unfolding quietly to a neat and complete whole so that he could look over the outcome with a benevolent twinkle and think how wonderful he was. (And yes, Severus was cynical and paranoid – and proud of it – but that didn’t mean he was wrong.)

“Ah, always down to business, aren’t you, Severus? Perhaps when you are older you will learn to take the time to enjoy some of the small pleasures in life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Albus, I have a great deal of work waiting for me in my office and I don’t intend to spend another two weeks working on it. Especially not when the Brewers’ Conference starts next week. If you have something to say to me then just say it.”

Albus sighed reproachfully (Severus refused to feel reproached) and handed him a sheet of cheap paper over the desk. “I have received this.”

Severus read it with a raised eyebrow and managed not to start dancing on the desk in joy. “So? The boy has the right to refuse tuition here if he wishes.” And Severus would be delighted if it came to pass, since the anticipation of having to cope with James Potter’s son in his classes made him look forward to the new school year with even less enthusiasm than usual. Unfortunately, he knew Albus too well.

“He is Harry Potter.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” Severus muttered, then fell silent when Albus aimed a look at him over his spectacles.

“He must come to Hogwarts. If he goes untrained in magic then upon Voldemort’s return he will be defenceless. And neither Voldemort nor the Death Eaters will offer him any mercy for lacking the ability to defend himself.” Severus hated it when Albus managed to make a rational argument (by sheer coincidence, as far as Severus was concerned, rather than because he was thinking rationally; Albus, like most wizards, had a poor grasp of logic). “I want you to go to him and convince him and his family of the importance of his attending Hogwarts.”

“What!” Severus rose out of his chair in shock. Even for Albus this was going too far.

“Severus, it is time for you to put aside this childish rivalry and focus on the greater good.”

Severus bit his tongue so hard in his attempt not to explode that he drew blood. Attempted murder and persistent bullying that in adults would have resulted in a jail sentence for assault was always in Albus’s mind just high-spirited behaviour that Severus should be able to get over. The blinkers that man wore! Aware that there was nothing he could do to change Albus’s mind, Severus managed to choke down his anger lest he bring forth a gentle and long-winded lecture on the benefits of forgiveness and moving on. “And if I will not?”

“Please, Severus. Who better than you to impress upon him the very real danger posed to him if Voldemort does return, as we both know he will, and seeks him out?”

“I’m sure Minerva would be more than pleased to—”

“She is busy with the other first years. There is no one else I can trust to make the boy understand the importance of this. He must come to Hogwarts, Severus.”

“Fine.” He turned and walked out of the office without bothering with further conversation, waiting until he was safely in his portrait-, ghost-, and house elf-free chambers before letting out the snarl. You always find the way to twist the knife a little deeper, don’t you, Albus? Not only was he expected to accept James Potter’s son in the school but now he had to convince the brat to even come.

-

Number 4 Privet Drive was a patterncard of respectability in a street of identical, monotonous, upper middle class snobbery. Severus squashed his sneer and rang the doorbell. The woman who opened the door bore little resemblance to Lily but the faint hum of wards on his skin assured Severus he had the right house. “Mrs Dursley?” he enquired politely (contrary to popular belief, he did have perfectly good manners, he just didn’t bother using them most of the time).

“Yes,” she admitted suspiciously.

“My name is Severus Snape. I’m here to talk with Mr Potter about a letter he sent to Hogwarts.”

A look of distaste flickered across her face and she darted a look over his shoulder as if worried someone would hear him. “I suppose you’d better come in then,” she said reluctantly, stepping back. She closed the door behind him and ushered him down the hall into the sitting room. “At least you know how to dress like a normal person,” she said with grudging approval, looking him over. “Wait here, I’ll get the boy.”

Severus sat on the too-clean couch, wrinkling his nose fastidiously at the persistent smell of cleaning products and rapping his fingers impatiently on the armrest.

“There’s someone to see you,” Mrs Dursley’s slightly shrill voice came in through the open window. A murmur even Severus’s sharp ears couldn’t catch. “About that Hogwarts nonsense. Go wash your hands.”

“Nonsense?” Severus repeated to himself in a dangerous murmur.

A minute later a small boy walked in, rubbing still damp hands on his shirt, to stare at Severus. Severus frowned back, unimpressed. Harry Potter was a miniature version of his father, the same messy hair, the same shaped face. His eyes were Lily’s, though, and the glasses he favoured, rectangular rather than round, changed the shape of his face enough that he didn’t look exactly like James. Severus chose to ignore this, instead focussing on the similarities, noting the disobedient set of the shoulders, eyeing with distaste the dirt stains on the boy’s shorts and knees.

“I’m a bit grubby, sorry. I was weeding. Aunt Petunia said you wanted to speak to me?”

Mrs Dursley came in and frowned at Severus. “And?”

And people thought he had no manners. “Mr Potter, is it true you don’t wish to attend Hogwarts?”

“Um, yes.” Potter glanced at his aunt and then met Severus’s eyes. “We decided I didn’t need to.”

Severus proceeded to explain, eloquently and in great detail, just how wrong they were. Potter sat on the edge of his seat, wilting noticeably and shooting helpless looks at his aunt while Mrs Dursley’s lips grew thinner and thinner.

“This Voldemort man won’t come after us,” she informed him primly when he’d finished. “We have nothing to do with your world.”

“He doesn’t care about whether you have magic or not,” Severus told her with forced patience. He had just said this. “He will come and if Mr Potter doesn’t learn magic to defend himself—”

“But the boy doesn’t have any magic! He never did any of the freak things Lily used to do.”

Merlin save him from morons wizarding and Muggle. “If he received a Hogwarts letter he has magic,” Severus bit out. He turned away without waiting to see the effect of this and glared at Potter. “You will come to Hogwarts if I have to drag you there myself. Am I understood?”

The boy looked white but said steadily, if quietly, “Yes, sir.”

“Then I shall see you on September the first. Be there, Potter; if I have to come and get you I will not be pleased.”

Scowling, he stalked out of the house and apparated away at the first concealed spot he found. Joy of joys, he had managed to convince the brat to come and plague him at Hogwarts. Albus owed him for this.

It wasn’t until he was back in the castle with his interrupted paperwork that it occurred to him Mrs Dursley had said something odd; a strange word she’d used, wasn’t it? Severus couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was and since he didn’t really care he gave it up and forgot about it.

Unfortunately he couldn’t forget about Potter, a wizard child in that very Muggle house surrounded by what were, if Mrs Dursley was any example, very Muggle people. The brat – curse him for putting Severus to all this trouble – needed to go on the Muggleborn orientation. Sighing, Severus heaved himself out of his chair and went in search of Albus. At which point he hit an unexpected roadblock.

“Is that really necessary, Severus?” Albus asked. For Albus that was practically a flat-out ‘no’. “He’s hardly a Muggleborn.”

Severus tried to recover from the shock of finding Albus wasn’t prepared to do everything possible to pamper his little Golden Hero. “Raised by Muggles? He’s as good as.”

Albus peered at him over his spectacles. Severus radiated immobility on the point. “Very well, Severus, as you wish.” This was accompanied by a gentle sigh and in a tone supposed to inspire immediate contrition, not to mention a retraction of the request.

Severus felt immediate irritation. “I do wish.”

Dear Merlin, what are you trying to do, kill the boy? A Muggle-raised child thrust into the heart of Hogwarts without any sort of guidance would be at the mercy of all those around him; a Muggle-raised hero would be even worse. And whatever else Potter might be, he was a student. He deserved protection.

-

“Neville!” Gran’s voice was sharp. “Don’t wander off!”

“I wasn’t, I was just—”

“Come along, come along. You don’t want to get lost again.”

Neville sighed and trailed after Gran through the bustling crowds that filled Diagon Alley. He’d only ever gotten lost once and that had been scary, sure, but he’d only been three. He wasn’t three any more and sometimes he thought he’d really really like to get lost again. Only this time he wouldn’t let himself be found.

“I think we’ve got everything on your Hogwarts list now... And no, we’re not going near a Quidditch shop,” Gran said swiftly, even though Neville hadn’t said anything and had barely even let himself glance longingly in that direction. “First years aren’t allowed brooms. We’ll see about next year.” Yes, Neville could imagine: the oldest, slowest, and above all safest broom she could find. “Your father was such an excellent chaser,” she continued with the faint smile, the most smile she ever gave, that only memories of his father could summon up.

Then she glanced at Neville and the smile faded. He could almost see the thought ‘But of course we can’t expect that from you, can we?’ He looked away so he could scowl without being told off and kicked at a cobblestone. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t his dad! He was sure he could be good at things too if she’d only give him a chance. But no one ever gave him a chance, everyone had forgotten he wasn’t five years old any more. If the Hogwarts letter hadn’t come Neville was pretty sure his entire family would have happily gone on believing he was five until he reached fifty and died from boredom.

“Oh, look, there’s Minerva. She must be showing some Muggleborns around.” Neville obediently looked, staring glumly at the boy and girl trailing in Professor McGonagall’s wake as she pointed something out. He wondered if they had parents, real parents who hugged them and were proud of them and didn’t live in a hospital. Parents who knew who they were. He wondered if people treated them like five-year-olds or if they had the kind of parents he’d read about in books, who let their children grow up. He wondered if they had any friends and if they’d mind being friends with him. He didn’t have any friends.

“Neville! Neville! Stop dawdling, I want to get this shopping done before Elvira arrives!”

Neville sighed and hurried after Gran. Maybe going to Hogwarts would change his life. But in his short eleven years Neville had learned that no matter how much the scenery and the people changed, he was still just clumsy, foolish Neville. No friends, no parents. Just him.

He enviously glanced back at the two Muggleborns, now following Professor McGonagall into Ollivanders. That reminded him of something important and he tugged on Gran’s sleeve. “Gran? What about a wand? Don’t I need a wand too?”

-

It was the last week before term began and all the teachers had returned to school; most were in a huge rush with last minute arrangements for their classes and Severus felt righteously smug. He hadn’t rushed off immediately to take a holiday, he had got on with his work even though it meant spending a few extra weeks at Hogwarts. And now he was calmly going about the last of his arrangements with easy languor, enjoying being one of the few not rushed off his feet. Taking his final class lists to Minerva, Severus strolled through the Charms corridor at nonchalant, unhurried speed, just to annoy Filius, who glanced up at the sound of footsteps outside his office, looking harassed, before hurriedly burying himself (almost literally) in his last minute paperwork. Severus smiled and walked on.

He didn’t get very far, though. The familiar tingle of magic on his arm made Severus drop his pile of parchment in shock. Not because it hurt, which it didn’t, but because it had been nearly ten years since he last felt that tug, ten years of longing for it and hoping it would never come. Oblivious to the scattered papers at his feet, he pulled up his sleeve and stared at the tattoo etched on his left arm. The Dark Mark, people had called it, despite the fact it had initially been a mark of love. Gingerly, uncertainly, not knowing whether the predominant emotion in him was joy or despair, Severus touched the Mark with a shaking finger and instantly knew the location he was being called to. It was a request, not a summons, the way it had always been; never the demand of a leader, but the asking of a—

Severus swallowed hard and headed for the stairs, abandoning his forgotten papers. He had to get out of the anti-apparation wards, he had to answer the call. He had to know.

Apparation took him to a place he’d never been before, some nondescript forest, probably somewhere in the midlands by the trees, and Severus looked around. Had it been some kind of joke? Had he imagined it? Where was—?

“Severus. It has been too long.”

He spun. A man stood behind him, clothed in simple brown robes but wearing the familiar face with its warmly intelligent blue eyes under neat black hair. He wasn’t dead! He wasn’t gone! Severus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, he just fell on his knees. “My Lord,” he whispered.

Hands pulled him up, gentle and strong as they had always been, setting him firmly on his feet. “No, Severus. I told you, never you. Don’t kneel to me.” Voldemort smiled. “I’ve missed you, little brother.”