Private Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The dungeon was silent, summer break was here which meant the school besides some teachers and the ghosts was practically deserted.
Except in the dungeons dwelled on particular professor, one who had save for very rare occasions never left the school grounds over the last thirteen years thanks to his perceived guilt in events during Voldemorts rise to power.
The school had become his sanctuary, his last safe ground as it were in Magical Britain.
Not that he minded since this gave him ample opportunity to experiment with his own potion formula's or even the creation of some new spells to add to his already impressive repetitore.
This also was his safe place, the one place in all the world, he could let go.
Let his mind be free from keeping up the act.
Where he could think and speak openly about his son without anyone else being around to overhear.
Oh, Merlin help him.
He closed the door with a soft click, flicked his wand to lock it, cast four privacy charms, three muffle wards, and one anti-eavesdropping hex so obscenely overpowered that even the portraits two corridors over winced as they fell within the range of his spells.
Then he sat.
Very slowly.
Very carefully.
As if afraid his chair might betray him.
He placed the morning Prophet on his desk.
Smoothed out the creases.
Adjusted himself more than once to get comfortable in his chair.
Inhaled once, sharply.
And then began to read.
Front page:
BRITAIN NAMES YOUNGEST SEEKER IN NATIONAL HISTORY — 13-YEAR-OLD PRODIGY CASSIUS SNAPE SELECTED FOR NATIONAL TEAM - BRITAIN LONGS FOR THE WORLD CUP.
Snape made a noise.
Not a dignified noise.
Not even a particularly human noise.
Somewhere between a strangled choke and the squeak of a poorly-oiled door hinge.
He covered his face with both hands.
"Oh… sweet merciful Salazar… he did it…"
He doubled over.
This was it.
This was the end.
If anyone—ANYONE—saw him right now, the persona he had spent decades crafting would collapse like soggy parchment.
Because Severus Snape was smiling.
Grinning, even.
Possibly glowing would be the right term for what was happening to the previously dignified professor, and self-proclaimed Half-Blood Prince.
"Top of his class… two years running," he muttered into his palms. "Outstanding in all his subjects, even in my own potions class i tried to be as hard on him as i could and yet—"
He stood abruptly, pacing behind his desk like a caged panther experiencing pride-induced delirium.
"Hogwarts Quidditch Cup—two years in a row. And not even with a complete team." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Lily, my love, we've created a monster together, he was only a Genius, and Prodigy at Quidditch. Chosen heir to an ancient family surpassing either of our own lineages combined."
He stopped, grabbed the Prophet again.
Tapped the headline.
"But NOW—NOW—this. National team. NATIONAL. Bloody NATIONAL!" His voice cracked.
Actually cracked. "Youngest Seeker in British history to be chosen for Nationals—my son—MY son—"
He let out a sound that, if witnessed by another human being, would have required a full Obliviation squad.
He collapsed into his chair again.
"…Of course he did," Snape whispered, pride swelling so hard in his chest it almost hurt. "He is my son, after all. And hers. Anything less would be an insult to our combined genetics."
He tried—tried very hard—to scowl.
To frown.
To regain even a shred of his carefully cultivated dourness.
It lasted three seconds.
Maybe two.
Then—
A soft, helpless laugh escaped him.
"Oh, Cassius… you brilliant, impossible child…"
He leaned back, staring up at the stone ceiling.
He could picture it so clearly:
Cassius dueling like a force of nature, eyes cold and sharp—Cassius flying like a streak of silver in a storm—Cassius accepting national robes all while receiving honor and adulations from the Ministry officials—
Snape shook his head, the fondness so warm it bordered on painful.
"Everything he sets his mind to, he masters," he whispered. "Classes. Duels. Quidditch. National bloody Quidditch—"
He laughed again.
"He will outshine every single other in this world of ours, i knew it from the minute i saw him with my own eyes."
He stopped.
All he was saying was how he truly felt but he could never admit it, not out loud and in public at least.
Something was going on, behind the scenes, something he wasnt privy to.
His connection to Lord Voldemort had been severed thanks to his son.
But in doing so his usefulness to Dumbledore had also run its course as he was not more use as a spy seeing as how his 'master' beleived he had betrayed him.
But when given a choice between the three Severus would chose his son 100 times out of 100 chances.
But one thing still tugged at his mind.
The boy bore his name, and yet for two years Lily had not once approached him, no that wasnt right, she was instead openly hostile to the boy.
He'd looked into things as much as he could with his underworld contacts and all he could find was that both boys were left to grow up on their own, Harry with her family, while Cassius seemed to have been sent to an orphanage.
Perhaps the boy resented her for that decision, after all any family is better than no family, but why would she not tell him.
While not father material to say the least, she could ahve at least given the boy to him to take care of, on his salary he could ahve hired a nanny or something to give the boy a proper home growing up.
If given that chance can you believe just how much more impressive his boy would be if he was raised first hand by the potion master himself?
Looking up Severus's eye caught the clock.
Damn.
Has it been an hour already.
*Sigh*
Enough for now i suppose, it's time to go back to work, that Draught Of Everlasting Death wont brew itself afterall.