Standard Disclaimer goes here... as if you haven't seen the disclaimer by now. *snort*

Author's Note: Oodles and lots of thanks to my fantabulous beta, Ladyofthemasque (and congrats on the book deal, dearest!), and to SnivellusSnape for feedback. And, of course, thank you, thank you, thank you to all you fine folk who are still hanging in there with me as I forge ahead in this epic. Your reviews make my day! I will say that this chapter was very draining to write, as I hope you'll understand once you've read it. These characters wring my heart when they suffer, and this chapter bowled me over. I hope you enjoy it, even though some parts are a downer! Sorry for the longer time in posting, and please check my Livejournal for update info: http://pern-dragon.livejournal.com/ *luffs all the readers* :)
Nicole aka Good_Witch

Chapter 47- A History Lesson

Hermione noticed that Harry and Ginny were fairly distant over the weekend. Harry had reverted to his sulky demeanour, avoiding everyone and scowling when spoken to. Finally, it was Monday morning, and Harry was at least attempting to be civil at breakfast, thanks to a stern talking to by none other than Neville.

Neville had spent some time ruminating on Hermione’s words, stiffening his resolve to stop being afraid of Snape, and he had used his newfound courage to approach Harry in the dormitory before breakfast Monday morning. He had waited until everyone else had gone, and then he had barred the door with his arm when Harry had tried to leave.

Scowling, Harry had growled, “Out of the way, Neville,” trying to shove his arm down.

Neville had resisted, stepping into the doorway, face white but set as he said, “No. I have something to say.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry had glared at him. “Move, now!”

Neville had shaken his head and taken a deep breath. “Not until you shut up and listen!”

Harry had reared back, blinking in astonishment at his usually reticent friend’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Curiosity overtaking anger, Harry had taken a step back, muttering, “Fine. What?”

Heaving a sigh of relief that Harry had retreated, Neville had cleared his throat and stammered, “You need to stop treating everyone badly. We don’t deserve it. Especially Ginny. She’s your girlfriend, and you should be nicer to her.” At the end of that statement, he had paused, gazing at Harry with trepidation, wary of how he would react.

Harry had simply stared at him. Seeing Neville stand up for himself and others was such a rare occurrence that it served to make Harry re-evaluate the situation. Processing his friend’s words, he had mutely blinked at him.

Neville had taken the opportunity to continue. “Look, I know you hate Snape. I know he’s been a git. But, if the girls say he’s changed, why not take the chance to see if they’re right? People can change. I have.”

Harry’s eyes had narrowed in annoyance and consternation. “You were there. You heard what he said! How has he changed?”

Neville had swallowed nervously before retorting, “Just because he said something like that doesn’t mean he’ll do anything. The girls may be right. Maybe he’s just goading you. You can’t honestly say you haven’t done the same sort of thing with Malfoy.” He had paused to fix a stern eye on Harry. “I witnessed some of it myself.” He had locked eyes with Harry, refusing to back down until Harry had looked away first, sheepishly stuffing his hands in his pockets. Relaxing a trifle at his seeming success, he had added, “Look, we’ll see how he acts at rehearsal. I think I may just show up to see for myself if he’s changed as much as the girls claim he has. But in the meantime, stop being such a prat to everyone. You wouldn’t want to put us in mind of another great git, would you?” He had tilted his head meaningfully, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry had glared at him, obviously incensed at the comparison. He had opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, frowning. Finally, he had deflated, sighing loudly. “All right! I get it. Fine. I’ll stop acting a prat. Let’s go eat, okay?” He had rolled his eyes, aggrieved, gesturing past Neville, and Neville had grinned in relief.

“Sounds good. Let’s go.” Smiling to himself at the success of his ploy—especially without getting pounded—Neville had traipsed down the stairs on light feet.

Harry had kept quiet almost all the way down, until they were about to enter the Great Hall. Then, he had punched Neville’s arm and said, grinning, “Good on you, mate. Look, I promise I’ll stop sulking. Last thing I need is for you to go all Mrs. Weasley on me again.” He had sniggered and shot a lopsided smile at Neville, who had jerked away, startled at Harry’s buffet.

Rubbing his arm to ease the sting, Neville had smiled shakily back at Harry before quipping, “Good, because I don’t think I’d look very good with red hair.”

Both boys had laughed as they entered the Hall, and Neville had seen the girls eyeing Harry warily. They had exchanged a grateful look at Harry’s apparent better mood, and smiled brightly at both boys as they had taken their seats.

Harry had immediately turned away with Ginny, whispering an intimate conversation, and Hermione had regarded Neville with an air of one granted an unexpected reprieve.

In a low voice, Hermione had said, “Wow, he looks like he’s finally come ‘round. Thanks be!”

Neville had leant closer to her and murmured, with no little pride, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night, and I wouldn’t let him leave the dormitory until he agreed to stop being so horrid.”

Hermione had beamed at him, causing him to flush in pleasure. “Oh, Neville, that’s wonderful! We all owe you one.” With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she had laughed and patted his arm. “You just keep it up, and you’ll be completely unaffected by Professor Snape in no time.”

Eyes round, Neville had heaved a huge sigh and said, “One can hope!”

Ginny and Harry had made up, and the rest of the day had proceeded as normal. Tuesday, Ginny went to Potions class with a definite idea. While she wasn’t willing to court detention again, she knew she needed to talk to Snape. So, she daringly slipped a scrap of parchment, on which she had scrawled, “I need to talk to you,” on Snape’s desk when she turned in her assignment. A deft twitch of the parchment sent the scrap sliding further down his desk, and Snape saw its movement.

He shot a questioning glance at Ginny as he quickly covered the scrap with one hand. She gave a slight nod at the note, before turning to fetch her materials for the day’s assignment.

When everyone had turned in their homework, Snape finally lifted his hand, peering at the scrawl. He maintained a blank expression, even though he was surprised at her venture. Casting a quick glance over the working students, he settled himself at his desk, sifting through the stack of assignments. Pulling Ginny’s from the pile, he glanced vaguely through it. Vanishing the scrap, he stood and said, “Miss Weasley, join me for a moment.”

Ginny eyed him, startled. The rest of the class looked on curiously. Nodding, she strode up to his desk. “Yes, Professor Snape?”

Snape gestured at her assignment and frowned. His voice low, he said, “Just what is the meaning of this? Clearly, you did not devote your full attention to this assignment. Would you care to explain yourself?” He held her bewildered gaze for a moment, until his ruse became clear.

Ginny’s eyes lit up with comprehension, and she rose to the challenge. Affecting humiliation, she muttered, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been worrying about other things. I didn’t understand some of the concepts, and I know I turned in unsatisfactory work.” She hung her head in pretend shame, inwardly grinning at his dissembling.

Snape sniffed and heaved a put-upon sigh. His tone was stern and aggrieved as he said, “You will stay after class, Miss Weasley, and I will re-explain the assignment. You will then re-do it, and I will generously accept it tomorrow for three-quarters credit. Is that clear?” He gazed down his nose at her, and she looked up, nodding quickly.

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I appreciate the opportunity, Professor.”

Snape rolled his eyes and waved her away. “Indeed. Continue your work, Miss Weasley, and be sure to give it your undivided attention.”

Looking down humbly, Ginny murmured, “Of course, Professor,” and hurried back to her seat. She pointedly ignored her tablemates who tried to ply her with questions, and Snape assisted her in that task by glaring at those who were pestering her, scowling forbiddingly. Fortunately, they subsided quickly.

When class was over, Ginny meekly made her way up to Snape’s desk, hands clasped in front of her, gazing at the floor. As soon as the last student was gone, Snape flicked his wand at the door, shutting it firmly and locking it. Then, he turned to Ginny, who was now gazing up at him in appreciation, a crooked grin on her face.

Unnerved by her grin, he uttered a flat, “What?”

Ginny shrugged eloquently and blithely voiced a cryptic, “You.”

Snape frowned, eyes narrowing. “What about me?”

Hastily, in an effort to abort the impending Snape attitude, Ginny said, “That was just brilliant, is all. I wasn’t sure how to get to you, but this was a great idea.”

Mollified, Snape grunted and jerked his chin at her. “Very well then, what’s so important?”

Ginny sobered quickly. “I just wanted you to know that your comment to Harry at rehearsal really stirred up a hornet’s nest.” Snape curled his lip in disdain, and Ginny barrelled on. “Seriously! He was really upset, and Hermione said she’d try to talk to you about it.” At Snape’s instant reaction of alarm, Ginny nodded sagely. “Exactly. I tried to play things off to the others that you had changed since the end of the war, especially with this whole play thing, and that you were even decent to me in detention, but they’re still wondering why Hermione should have any effect on you, and why her talking to you should make any difference!” She gasped for air at the end of that one long statement.

Snape frowned, drumming his fingers on the desk in agitation. He was silent for a long moment, then said, “Do you think anyone suspects?” He eyed Ginny keenly, as if his eyes were laced with Veritaserum.

Ginny shook her head slightly. “I don’t think so. But I don’t know. I am trying to get them to start viewing you differently, so they don’t think any changes are strictly the result of Hermione’s influence…” Snape’s lips twitched. “But, if we’re to convince people that you’ve really changed, you’ve got to stop harassing Harry like that!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed coldly. He spat, “Do not presume to reprimand me.”

Ginny closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. In a placating tone, she replied, “I’m sorry. Really! I’m not trying to lord over you. Just consider it advice from a friend.” She gazed at him imploringly, brown eyes candid with warmth and appeal.

Snape relaxed a trifle, sliding his eyes from hers. “So, Hermione is supposed to talk to me?” Ginny nodded. “Well then, I suppose that if she’s lecturing me about the care and handling of your precious Potter, at least I won’t be badgered with questions.”

Ginny bit back a retort in Harry’s defence. Inwardly, she mused on the delicate handling needed for this prickly specimen, and marvelled at Hermione’s apparent success in that venture so far. Wisely saying nothing, she simply gazed at Snape until he looked back at her.

Cutting a glance at Ginny, Snape muttered, “Very well then. You’ve made your point. I shall expect to hear from Hermione on the matter soon. Off with you.” With that, he flicked his wand at the door, opening it, jerking his head at Ginny to leave.

Ginny obediently gathered her things and hastened to the door. Peeking down the corridor, she said, “Thank you for revising the assignment with me, Professor. I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Thank you, sir.” Nodding at him, she ducked out the door and down the corridor against the flow of students who were on their way to Potions for the next period.

Snape sat at his desk, chin propped in one hand, leaning on one elbow, the other hand drumming on his desktop. He frowned in thought, wondering what Hermione would have to say to him when next they met. Wishing he could dare to pop into her room, he forced that mutinous thought back; he was unwilling, in light of this newest incident, to take even the slightest chance that he should be caught. Firmly shutting away the wistful desire to be with his love, he turned his focus to his approaching class.

****** *************

Ginny had reported to Hermione on her covert conversation with Snape. Thus, when Hermione went to Potions class the next day, she knew that he was going to expect some sort of contact about the issue. And, of course, she was prepared. She had spent time the night before writing him a note which she included with her homework that morning. The supposedly blank pages were attached to her assignment, and she cut a pointed glance at the parchment when she deposited it on the stack on his desk.

Snape merely met her gaze for a moment of acknowledgement before turning his attention to writing instructions on the board for the day’s work. When everyone was settled and involved in their potions assignment, he sat back in his chair and snagged her parchment from the stack, separating the blank pages from the others. Wordlessly, he pointed his wand at the pages and cast Aperio. Hermione’s writing filled the pages.

“Dearest Severus,” it read, “We really must talk about Harry before this Friday’s rehearsal. I know Ginny already told you, and I know it’s likely the last thing you wish to discuss. But, it really is important, if we’re to sow good seeds betimes regarding public opinion about us when we make our relationship known. I’m sure that by now it’s practically second nature for you to make quips like that to Harry—and any other people who annoy you—but I know a different Severus Snape, and he doesn’t feel the need to belittle and threaten others at every turn.”

Snape paused and glanced up, feeling both as if he were chafing at her restraints and pleased that she had brought out the better side of him. He watched her work for a moment, admiring her calm and efficient manner, before turning back to her letter.

“I guess I just don’t understand why you would go out of your way to say something like that. I mean, you already admitted that you don’t hate him any longer. I know you cared for his mother, and I know you and his father never got along, but I firmly believe that you two could call a truce if you’d only allow it. There’s really no good reason to continue antagonizing each other. I can’t help but wonder how much more there is to the story that caused you to dislike Harry and his father so much. I’d love to learn more about you, love. You know that. Maybe it’s time to get rid of such festering resentment and hostility by purging those memories by sharing them with me. I want to be able to understand the enigma that is the man I love. So, to that end, I’ll stop badgering you about getting along with Harry and move on to another important issue.”

Snape clenched his jaw, peering up through his lashes at the class. He hated the roiling feelings that surfaced with the memories of all that he had suffered at the hands of James Potter and his cronies. She doesn’t understand. It’s not something I can just shake off. As he gazed blankly at the students, a small voice sounded in his head. Well, if she doesn’t understand, perhaps you should tell her just what you went through! She may be right about purging the residual pain. Can you truly let her in to understand all that made you who you are today? She loves you. It would certainly be a clear demonstration of your love for her if you shared those most intimate memories with her.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Passing one hand over his brow and rubbing his eyes, he swallowed back the uncomfortable sensations swirling within him and focused back on the note.

“I’m sure you remember just how many questions I managed to come up with on that scroll. Most of them were fairly general—the kinds of things you could ask anyone. But, I’d really like to take the time to learn about your life. You know, things like:
What were your parents like?
How did they meet?
What did they do for a living?
What ended up happening to them?
What did you do while you were here at Hogwarts?
What did you do after you finished?
How did you get into Potions?
How did you get involved with the Death Eaters?
What brought you back to the good side?
How did you manage to survive and maintain your sanity all those horrible years of leading a double life?
I know… I’m terribly nosy. But you’re just so fascinating to me; I really want to get inside your head… among other things…
I couldn’t help it! I haven’t said anything even remotely racy to you in a while, but it’s never far from my mind, dearest. I’m just trying to keep it at bay so I don’t drive myself crazy with need while we’re forced to wait. There’s only so much I can do to take the edge off, and it really doesn’t compare…”

Snape’s brows shot up at her naughty innuendo. It was rather a shock to see such a change after so many serious questions. He bit back a wicked grin at her lascivious confession, doing his best to ignore the tingle in his trousers at the thought of her “taking the edge off.” Clearing his throat and composing his expression, he read on.

“Anyway, you know I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me, of course. Although we both know that my life history is nowhere near as interesting as yours.”

Nor as desolate and wretched. His bitterness reared its ugly head and a caustic voice within him said, Perhaps if you tell her the details of your blighted youth, she’ll stop hounding you with more questions! He scowled and shoved the letter away, sulkily casting Celo under his breath. Needing to get away from the invasive queries, he shot to his feet and started stalking around the classroom, looming over students as they worked.

Hermione dared to eye him questioningly, but he simply glared at her, in full irritated Potions Master persona. Shrinking away from his glower, she focused on her assignment, loath to do anything that might further sour his mood.

Is he so upset from reading my letter? He was reading it, wasn’t he? Oh, I do hope he isn’t this angry about Harry. I’m really not looking forward to getting into a row over that.

Eventually, Snape returned to his desk, sinking into his chair and leaning back in it, one elbow on the arm of the chair, fingers braced against his cheek and covering his mouth as he stared around at the students, lost in thought. He didn’t read any more of Hermione’s letter, nor did he attempt any grading. He simply sat, brooding, until the period ended and he barked a dismissal at the students.

Hermione refrained from trying to get his attention. She could tell he was in no mood to deal with her. Hoping he would work through whatever had him so grim, she left with the rest of the class.

Snape’s thoughts whirled all day long, and that evening, he forbore going to dinner in favour of secluding himself in his quarters, Hermione’s letter in front of him and a blank sheet of parchment staring up at him under his motionless quill. He was completely still, so submerged within his memories that he didn’t even notice when the house-elf from which he had requested a light meal appeared, placing the tray on the other end of the table. He didn’t hear the soft pops of Apparition, and he eventually became aware of the aroma of the soup and toast a few feet away.

He shook himself from his reverie, clearing his throat and scrubbing his face with both hands before heaving a deep, cleansing breath and shoving the parchment out of the way. He pulled the tray closer, determinedly dipping the toast into the cooling soup and eating. It was a rather half-hearted attempt, and after a few bites and sips, he stopped, stomach roiling under the alimentary assault. Firming his resolve, he Summoned a tea service, managing a faint smile as he mixed a steaming cup laced with honey and lemon.

Pushing the trays away, he once again positioned the parchment to begin his reply to Hermione’s letter.

“Hermione, my love,

There are many things in my life that are very difficult to talk about.

That extraordinary understatement out of the way, I will admit that I understand your desire to learn about those same things. In an effort to show you how deeply I care for you, and how much I am willing to… no, suffer really isn’t the word I’m looking for… ah, here we go: endure, I am writing this missive to you, to at least give you a bare-bones outline of my history, without subjecting you unnecessarily to the horrid, painful details. I must say that I feel almost exhausted just thinking about this task, but it must be done, and Severus Snape is not a man to shirk his duty.

My mother, as I have said, was a witch, née Eileen Prince. Her family had a small market/ herb shop in a factory village frequented by both wizards and Muggles. To the Muggles, it was simply a family-owned market that also happened to carry a wide variety of plants, grown in the family garden between the shop and their home. To the wizards, it was a reputable shop for quality herbs and ingredients for potions, saving them a trip to Diagon Alley. She had no siblings.

My father, Tobias Snape, was a Muggle who lived in the same village. He worked in the factory nearby, and he came to the shop each day to buy something for his lunch. According to my mother, as soon as she finished Hogwarts, she worked the front counter of the shop, preparing to take over the family business. Somehow, they became friends, and then lovers. Once I was old enough to understand, my mother told me she and my father had begun meeting in secret, behind her parents’ backs. They apparently descended from a very old, thinned-out branch of a Pureblood wizarding family tree. She knew they would never approve of her relationship with a Muggle. Supposedly, Muggles were fine to do business with, just not to marry.

Unfortunately, they were not careful enough in their liaisons, and she became pregnant with me. My father wanted to marry her right away and take a flat near the factory. He had no idea my grandparents would be so averse to their union. When my mother told them the situation, they fought bitterly. Disgraced by their daughter’s indiscretion, they turned her out, telling her never to darken their door again. Hurt, and dreading the confession she knew she had to make to my father, she only told him that they objected to their relationship and had disowned her when she refused to terminate both the pregnancy and her relationship with my father. Of course, properly indignant and full of righteous anger, he immediately put his plan in action and took the flat, marrying her in a civil ceremony within days.

Once they were living in such close quarters, it became more difficult for her to hide her heritage, especially when he asked her why she was so fixated on ‘a stick.’ Finally, she sat him down and explained that she was a witch, desperately afraid he’d leave her too. Obviously, he didn’t. But, things were never the same after that.

My father was a fairly simple man. Not devoid of intellect, just… uncomplicated. He was one of those people who see things in finite terms of black and white. My mother’s ‘secret’ made things complicated. He didn’t particularly care for that. He also felt betrayed. When the truth was finally out, my father reproached my mother for deceiving him. Then, when he had her demonstrate her abilities, rather than being impressed or proud, he pulled away even more, resentful that she had gifts he could never have.

I learnt very early on that the strange things my mother could do were not normal. It was like a shameful, dirty little secret we had to hide from the neighbours.

My father kept advancing in the factory. He quickly became an engineer, adept at fixing the machinery that kept the factory going. He had a gift—working with his hands. But, until his salary increased to match the respect he was given at work, my mother took a position in a florist shop. She always had an affinity for plants, and she used to talk fondly about Herbology classes here. I was very young when we moved to the house at Spinner’s End, not far from the river beyond the factory. It was bigger than the flat, but it was clearly a working-class neighbourhood.

I went to primary school, but I didn’t have many friends. I felt so guarded, with our family secret, and sometimes things would happen that I couldn’t explain—and that didn’t make me very popular either. Anytime my parents found out about these occurrences, my father would get this grim, closed look on his face, and my mother would get nervous, waiting until he was out of earshot to whisper to me that it was only because I was like her, and when I got older, I’d learn to control it like she did. I remember the day she let me hold her wand. When I flicked it, a shower of multi-coloured sparks burst forth, and I was terrified and excited. She hugged me tight and told me that she was proud of me, but I still needed to be as ‘normal’ as I could possibly be around my father. He didn’t approve of ‘foolish wand waving.’

I wasn’t a Muggle, but I wasn’t allowed to really be a wizard either. It was a very trying way to grow up.

Obviously, the other children didn’t know what to make of my random bursts of magical energy, and I was labelled ‘weird.’ I retreated into books, learning to read at a young age, and practically devouring everything I could get my hands on. It wasn’t long before I was reading at a level far beyond my age group. I daresay you could understand what that was like, my dear.

A few years after we moved, my grandparents died, which was rather a shock to my mother. But, what was more shocking was that they had actually included her in their will. It was then that we inherited an extensive library of old wizarding books, most of which included the Dark Arts. I spent as much time as I had available to me reading about the wizarding world. It was like a beacon, a light at the end of the tunnel, something to strive for.

I was a good student, a fact about which my father was proud. Finally, there was something I could do that both parents appreciated. The day I got my Hogwarts letter was a singular day in my life. My parents had frequent rows, and my father was prone to yelling and belittling. Over the years, my mother just shrank under it more and more. She refrained from using her magic, and she just cowered away from him whenever he would fly off into a temper. Gods forbid I got worked up enough to be subject to a stress-induced burst of wandless magic. Those incidents were the worst.

My mother actually dared to tell my father, the day I got my letter, that at least I would be going to a prestigious school where I would learn to control my gifts. He suddenly went quiet, and I had never been more afraid of him in my short life. The venom in his eyes when he pinned me with his gaze froze me to the spot, and the hiss of his voice when he said that I’d be better served learning a trade, knowing how to actually do something, being a man instead of wasting time on mumbo jumbo… I’d never heard him sound like that before, and it made quite a lasting impression.

I escaped to my room, and I vowed that I would somehow do both. I would manage to make both of my parents proud of me, even as a wizard.

When I came to Hogwarts, I was overwhelmed. Unfortunately, what with the way the other children had treated me in primary school, I never really had developed good social skills, and since I felt like I was hopelessly behind everyone else who knew more about being a wizard than I did, I wasn’t quick to make friends. I didn’t even know much about the Houses. My one, all-encompassing thought was to become the best wizard ever, and to make my parents proud. I suppose it was that driving ambition that caused the Sorting Hat to place me in Slytherin House. Even when I was in school, Slytherin and Gryffindor had a sort of instant rivalry. It didn’t take long for Potter and his cronies to pick me as their target.

Because of my inhibitions, I didn’t adapt as quickly as I had hoped to charms and transfiguration. I needed extra help early on, a fact which Potter’s gang used to their advantage. However, I was an instant star in Herbology—thanks to my mother’s affinity, which she encouraged in me—and I was almost as quickly a force to be reckoned with in Potions. You see, Potions was a skill one could learn and practice, one that could be enhanced by a gift in using one’s hands. My father could actually respect that.

Albus worked with me early on to bring my wand work up to snuff. How swiftly I came to idolize the man… I’m sure you can understand; you know him. He filled the gap my father left open.

Whenever I would go home on holiday, I would carefully tailor my reports of school to whichever parent I was around. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized just how much my mother’s magic had suffered. It had atrophied from disuse.

At school, as I excelled more and more in Potions, I began being courted by some other Slytherins, older than I. They flattered me and made me feel important. They were my friends. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that they were Riddle’s followers. They were very smooth with their anti-Muggle sentiments. They had to tread carefully, seeing that I was a half-blood. To my shame, they seeded their ideals in the fertile ground of my resentment of my father. You see, as I recognized how much my mother had declined due to his forbidding attitude about magic, I started to blame him for her condition, and I became ashamed of my Muggle heritage, since my father was such a closed-minded specimen.

My rebellion to his autocratic ways led to my downfall, and the worst mistake of my life.

My father was killed in an accident in the factory toward the end of my fifth year. By the time I was home on summer holiday, my mother had almost withered away. I was all she had left, and I wasn’t around during term. I think that her self-esteem and her identity had crumbled so much under my father’s tyranny that she couldn’t move on without him. As my final two years at Hogwarts passed, I feared for her sanity and her life. She no longer used any magic, always repeating her litany about not wanting to upset my father any time I urged her to practice again.

Riddle’s gang pulled me in deeper too. I was so angry at my father for doing that to my mother, and I felt sick every time I had to deal with her in her state. With them, at least I felt powerful. I wasn’t helpless. I was encouraged to continue my Potions studies, so I could join the ranks of his most trusted, valued disciples. Gods forgive my vanity, and all the destruction it caused.

I finished at Hogwarts in June of 1978, and by early 1979, I had taken the Mark. I joined several other Death Eaters in a flat while I worked in my Apprenticeship. Riddle’s anti-Muggle endeavours increased. He instigated an attack on Muggleborn wizards, killing several. It was at that point that Regulus Black had second thoughts. In truth, so did I. But, we were too firmly entrenched to be able to escape. Regulus tried it, and he was killed that year.

I was scared. I had thought it all to be mere rhetoric. I wasn’t prepared for there to actually be murders. It seemed to send Riddle into a bloodlust. He called us all together more and more, instigating attacks and planning more ways to infiltrate the Ministry. He spewed his pure-blood propaganda at every turn.

Then he began including blood-traitors.

My mother was on the list. According to Riddle, she was the worst kind of blood-traitor. Not only did she sully herself by marrying a Muggle, she insulted wizardkind even more by not using her magic, by letting it deteriorate to the point of extinction. She was worse than a person who was born without magic because she had the gift and refused it.

Riddle ordered the attack on my mother in early 1980. She was killed, and the Dark Mark was set above the house. I found out about it after the fact. With her death, Spinner’s End passed to me. I kept it, but I didn’t return there. I’ve thought many times that I should just sell it, but I can’t. I just can’t.

When my mother was killed, I didn’t know what to do. I knew that I had to pretend that it didn’t bother me, or Riddle would just as soon kill me too. That’s when my practice at self-control really came into play. I told you, love, that the reasons I had for developing my self-control and patience weren’t happy ones.

I couldn’t think of anywhere to turn. I was alone. No mother. No father. Then, I remembered: Albus. The man whom I had so often wished had been my father, making me wonder how much happier my life would have been if he had been.

It was spring of 1980, and I was nearing the end of my Apprenticeship. I didn’t know what to do, since I obviously didn’t want to put my skills at Riddle’s disposal, but I also didn’t want to be killed as a traitor. I contacted Albus, asking if I could meet with him at his convenience. He asked me about what I had been doing with myself. I told him my Apprenticeship was almost done, and then I mentioned my mother’s death. The amount of sympathy for my loss and approval of my achievements nearly drowned me in its intensity. Albus told me to meet him at the Hog’s Head for a drink and some time to visit, as he was going to be there interviewing someone for a teaching position.

I went to meet him, and the bar man told me he had taken a room for privacy. When I went up, I didn’t know that Albus was still interviewing Trelawney. I heard her Prophecy as I arrived. Suddenly, I had even more weighing on my conscience. Once Trelawney left, it was all I could do to remain coherent as I poured my soul out to Albus, begging for help, for a way out.

He gave me one, but it was a way out with an exceptionally long path. I count myself lucky that I made it all the way down that path alive.

It was that night that I came back to the Light. Albus outlined a way for me to be a spy for him, helping him to defeat Riddle. He suggested that I take one more year of study to get my Potions Mastery, after which he could hire me to teach. In the meantime, he began an intensive course of teaching me Occlumency. He was surprised and impressed to find that I had already developed a fairly strong rudimentary form of that skill by the way I had grown up, tightly controlling my magic, my words, even my thoughts. It was a crash course, but my desperate need for salvation spurred me to great lengths very quickly.

Riddle was pleased with my advanced course, and he left me alone in deference to my studies. He wanted me to serve him as a Potions Master, and praised me for my dedication. September 1, 1981: I began my tenure as Potions Master at Hogwarts, at the tender age of 21.

It was difficult. There were students in my advanced level classes that had been my Housemates while I was a student! And, while I loved learning, I found that I was not as keen on teaching. I doubt you’ll find that surprising in the least…

October 23rd, I went to Albus with the information that Riddle was planning an attack on the Potters, based on his knowledge of the Prophecy. You can imagine my relief when the Fidelius Charm was performed the next day.

Well, I’d not recommend you imagine my horror and grief at learning that they had been betrayed, and that Riddle had killed the Potters. When Riddle tried to kill Harry, and the curse rebounded onto him, every Death Eater felt it. In a frenzy, I tore about, finding out what had happened, where he had gone. It was mere moments after he had killed James and Lily that I arrived on the scene. The house was in shambles, and I could barely breathe for fear of what I would find. I couldn’t find Riddle anywhere, but I came across James, dead. Then, I found Lily… dead. Harry was alive, and I knew I had to get away before I was found at the scene of the crime.

Apparating away from Godric’s Hollow, that was the closest I’ve come to splinching since I first learnt to Apparate. As soon as I re-appeared, I hit the ground, unable to feel my legs anymore, and unable to stop heaving. I wished I could have Obliviated myself then and there, but I didn’t dare.

I still owed James Potter, as much as I loathed it, a life debt. Lily had been a friend of sorts. I cared for her. Even my precarious position as a spy hadn’t been able to save them. But, all was not lost. Harry still lived. I had too little to look forward to if Riddle succeeded in his plans, and I had nothing left to lose but my own miserable life in my attempts to thwart him. I vowed that I would do whatever lay within my power to protect Lily’s son so he could fulfil the Prophecy and rid the world of the evil incarnate that was Riddle.

I did.

Albus put me on the path to atone for my sins, and my journey is over. But, after so long, it’s like I have to learn how to live again, without the guilt hanging over my head. It is… difficult. But, my love, you have shown me what my new life can be. I finally have something good to look forward to, to anticipate with joy.

You wanted to know what my life was like. Now you know what has made me the man I am today, the man you claim to love so dearly. I hope that now we can both put my past behind us, and focus only on the future, our future.

Now, in that vein, I shall end this with a request…

Instead of my collecting you from the Great Hall after dinner as usual, can you manage to meet me earlier? I will wait for you in my office as early as six. We have much to discuss, and I feel we should likely benefit from a reasonable amount of time in which to do so.

Don’t worry about replying to tell me if you’ll be able to make it here early. I’ll be waiting regardless. Be sure to express my gratitude to Ginny for her assistance in delivering this to you. I’ll not be in a position to do so when I give it to her.

I am eagerly awaiting seeing you again, beloved. Until then, I hope you are well, and I shall dream of you in my arms.

Yours,
Severus”

As he finished signing his name, his quill slowed to a weary stop. The tip bored into the parchment, leaving a spreading blot of ink while his head drooped forward onto the desk in exhaustion. He hadn’t realized that he had fallen back into his adolescent habit of writing furiously with his nose mere millimetres from the page. Lank locks draped along either side of his face, spreading over his writing.

He sat there for a long moment, hand almost spasming with cramp, eyes closed as he breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of parchment and ink. Eventually, he sat back, hissing at the crick in his neck. Gingerly releasing his quill, he stretched his fingers, shaking his hand from the wrist while the other hand reached up to rub at the knotted muscles joining his neck and shoulders.

Frowning at the blot of ink, he picked up his wand and tapped it on it, Vanishing the unsightly blemish. He leant his head back, letting it stretch his neck in the other direction, dangling his arms to each side. Staring at the dark stones of his ceiling, he idly wondered what time it was. Heaving a huge sigh, he turned to look at the time.

That late? Blast! I’ve missed my rounds… Ah, no matter. I daresay this task was more important than searching for miscreants.

He gazed down at his letter to Hermione. The perfectionist in him wanted to re-read it, but he shied away from dragging himself through all the turmoil yet again. Lips thin and tight, he deliberately rolled the parchment into a scroll, sealing it. Still acquiescing to the paranoid voice in his head, he took the scroll with him to his bedroom, secreting it under his pillow, secure that no one could find it there.

Movements slow with fatigue, he undressed, sliding between the cool sheets. Lying flat on his back, he scrubbed his face with both hands, raking his fingers over his brow and along his scalp, letting his arms fall to both sides with his hands still entangled in his hair. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep for the few remaining hours, but sleep evaded him. His mind was whirling with memories, and he couldn’t settle it enough to fall asleep.

Scowling in frustration, he snatched his wand from the nightstand and growled, “Accio Dreamless Sleep Draught.” Fortunately, he had left the bathroom door ajar, and the bottle wafted quickly into his outstretched hand. Struggling to half-sit, he downed just under half a dose, knowing he had just a few hours left to rest. Wearily setting the bottle on the nightstand, he fell back onto the pillow, flinging one arm up, resting his forearm against his brow as he was sucked down into oblivion.

***** ************

Ginny hurried to get to Potions early the next day, hoping to arrive before anyone else. When she arrived at the dungeon classroom, she peeked in, exhaling heavily in relief that it was empty. Anxiously awaiting Snape’s arrival, she jerked her gaze to the door at the slightest sound. Disappointed, she saw that it wasn’t Snape, but a classmate. Fingers agitatedly rubbing at a frayed spot on her jumper sleeve, she waited.

A few more students arrived before Snape finally entered. She stared at him, hoping to catch his eye, but he merely swept past her to his desk. Sitting with his customary flourish, he fished a scroll from his robes and shot a glance at Ginny.

“Miss Weasley, come here.”

Ginny shot to her feet and approached the desk. “Yes, sir?”

His gaze bored into her as he brandished the scroll and said, “Your make-up assignment was much more satisfactory. Perhaps Miss Granger is not the only Gryffindor with two brain cells to rub together.” The way his brow furrowed as he said “Miss Granger,” and the way he cast a fleeting glance at the scroll at the same time told Ginny that Hermione was somehow involved with this scroll.

Ginny quickly took the scroll from him, nodding faintly and saying, “Thank you, Professor. Hermione did help me. I’ll be sure to thank her as soon as I see her.” Considering the fact that Ginny hadn’t really given Snape anything but her original assignment on Tuesday, she could only assume that she was to deliver the scroll to Hermione. She made a show of stowing the scroll in her robes.

Snape’s lips thinned in silent approval and then he said, “Indeed. Be sure to pay attention in class, Miss Weasley, as Miss Granger will not always be available to assist you.”

“Of course, sir.” Ginny ducked her head and returned to her seat, once again checking the scroll in her robes, making sure it was secure.

Class proceeded as normal, and Ginny hastened to pack up her things when the period ended, catching Snape’s eye and nodding as she headed toward the door. She’d be able to give the scroll to Hermione at their next meal, but curiosity nagged her to the point that she detoured into a lavatory, locking herself in a stall and fishing the scroll from her robes.

Furtively, she unsealed it and peeked at the heading. “Hermione, my love”… Oops! Okay, definitely not for me, then. Firmly averting her eyes from seeing anything else, she re-sealed the scroll and pocketed it once more.

When they met in the Great Hall, Ginny sat beside Hermione, waiting until everyone was busy serving themselves to surreptitiously hand over the scroll. Hermione peered at her questioningly, quickly shoving the scroll into her bag. Ginny tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow meaningfully, barely jerking her head toward the High Table. Hermione’s eyes widened in comprehension, and she flashed a grateful smile at her friend.

“Thanks!”

Ginny nodded and leant closer, whispering, “I did unseal it, but just to be sure it was for you. I didn’t see anything else but your name, I swear!” As she backed away, she gazed at Hermione, eyes wide in earnest.

Hermione smirked, muttering, “I believe you. Thanks for telling me though.” She patted Ginny’s arm under the table in reassurance.

They joined the rest of the students in eating, but Hermione’s mind was stuck on the letter, wondering what it contained.

I would love to go off and read it now, but I daren’t get into it while I still have classes to focus on today. I’ll just wait until after my last class, so I won’t get distracted. Thus decided, she tucked into her sandwich, wishing Snape had come to lunch. His seat was empty, and she fleetingly worried about him, especially since he had seemed so grim after reading her letter.

Her mind kept returning to the scroll that seemed to be burning a hole in her bag, so much did she want to read it. But, she refused to open it until her afternoon classes were done, at which point she raced up to her room, shutting herself away from prying eyes.

Locking her door, she threw her things onto her desk, hastily fishing the scroll from her bag. Bouncing onto the bed, she sat back against the headboard, crossing her legs and absently stroking Crookshanks as he took up residence in her lap. Eagerly unsealing the letter, she settled back comfortably, Crookshanks purring on her legs.

Upon reading his opening paragraphs, her eyes went round in surprise and satisfaction. Finally! Oh, I’m so glad I’ll learn about him now… Her eyes raced over the parchment, back and forth, devouring his words.

Not long after she began, her expression shifted to one of pity, her lips parting as she sucked in a breath in shocked sympathy. Indignation kindled in her eyes and she whispered, “That poor woman! How horrid of them! What kind of parents would do that to their own daughter?” Blinking at her own question, she stared off into the middle distance, wondering if her folks could ever be so hateful to her, even if she were to show up pregnant out of wedlock. No. They’d likely be disappointed, but I don’t think they’d disown me. I know it’ll be difficult when they find out about Severus and me, but I’m sure they’ll eventually come around when they see how much we’re in love, and how good he is.

Returning to the letter, her expression was sombre as she read on. Her eyes went glassy at the terse report of his lonely childhood and the ridicule he had suffered at the hands of his peers. Her bottom lip pushed forward, and she fought to stop its trembling, blinking back tears. But, when she reached the point where he quoted his father’s opinion about “foolish wand waving,” her eyes widened and her chin dropped in stunned recognition. Good gods, so that’s where that came from! Does he even realize he’s echoing his father?

She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. At his wry comment about reading, she smiled gently. I do understand about loving to read, dearest. That’s something I knew early on we had in common. A beat or two later, she snorted. Of course you were a good student, love! It’s clear you’re brilliant!

When she came to the line, “My parents had frequent rows, and my father was prone to yelling and belittling,” she felt a frisson flash over her. Wait a minute… Why does that sound so familiar? She glanced around the room, frowning in concentration, and when she saw her desk, with parchment and quills strewn over it, it hit her. One hand flew up to cover her gasp and her brows shot upward. My letter! She remembered what she had written: “I’m sure that by now it’s practically second nature for you to make quips like that to Harry—and any other people who annoy you—but I know a different Severus Snape, and he doesn’t feel the need to belittle and threaten others at every turn.”

Oh dear, I daresay he doesn’t even realize how much he’s behaving like his father after all…

She returned to the letter, forging on to the part where he recounted his father’s reaction to Snape receiving his Hogwarts letter. She shook her head slowly. I can certainly imagine what he must have been like, dear heart. It sounds almost as if you were describing yourself. I know full well how terrifying you are when you get so angry that you get even quieter. I’ll not likely forget it any time soon…

Moving on, she paused again later, thinking, So, apparently he and Harry’s father were enemies from the start, but he hasn’t really said why or what happened to foster such long-lasting loathing!

As she read his reasoning on favouring Potions, she sat back, nodding and sighing in satisfaction that he had actually answered one of her questions so clearly. Of course, it makes perfect sense, all things considered.

She got sucked back into his tale, feeling her stomach clench in sympathy at his words, “My rebellion to his autocratic ways led to my downfall, and the worst mistake of my life.” She read on, eyes filling up again as she pictured the misery of his existence, painted in such stark terms. When she read his concise explanation of his descent into the Death Eaters, her heart ached for the simplicity outlining his logic. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she shook her head in sorrow for the loss of what his life could have been, had circumstances not urged him on the path he had taken.

She continued in morbid fascination, feeling a shudder of foreboding wash over her at his cold statement of fact: “Then he began including blood-traitors.” Before she could go on, she thought, Gods no… His mother was going to be next, I just know it. Forcing her eyes back to the letter, she felt her stomach roil with horror that her dread was right.

She began wiping at her streaming eyes, sniffling, as she persisted. When she read his directive to her that his practice in self-control and patience hadn’t been for happy reasons, she closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, sobbing for him. Crookshanks stretched up and butted his flat face against her hands, purring in comfort. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and pressed her wet face against his fur.

“Oh, Crooks, it’s just so sad! I can’t believe he managed to live through so much misery. I feel awful for badgering him so much, now! My poor, brave Severus… I wish I could go to him right now and just hold him close; I just want to keep any more sadness away from him no matter what!”

Crookshanks purred loudly and rubbed against her, kneading his paws in her lap. Hermione hugged him for a long moment more, then released him, wiping her face again and resuming reading the letter. At his mild statement, Hermione fervently thought, We all should count ourselves very lucky that you made it down that path alive, my love. Without you, I shudder to think how much worse everything would have turned out. Harry definitely needs to realize how integral a part you played in his success after all these long, horrible years.

As she read his account of the night Harry’s parents had been killed, she realized that she was almost hyperventilating, so shallowly was she panting in sadness and rising horror. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to breathe deeply, but her chest and throat felt so tight that it hurt to do so. Tears welled up again, trailing down her cheeks.

As his tale wound down, Hermione hung her head, gulping air, sniffling vainly as she wiped her face. In response to his words, “Now you know what has made me the man I am today, the man you claim to love so dearly,” she vehemently thought, I do! I hadn’t thought I could love you even more than I did, but I do! Particularly now that I know just how much you suffered, and how much you’ve given up for all of us. You are a greater man than most could ever aspire to be, my love, and I can only count myself to be the luckiest woman in the world that you love me. If people only knew just what you’ve been through, I can’t imagine anyone not loving you for it. I certainly do, among a myriad of other reasons. You are a one-of-a-kind man, Severus Snape, and I’m proud to be yours.

Heart nearly bursting with love, she continued on to his request. Of course! I’ll be there, dearest. I promise. She slowly lowered the parchment, eyes staring off into space. I’ll be sure to thank Ginny, too.

After a long while, she rolled up the parchment again, sealing it. Patting Crookshanks, she urged him off her lap so she could secret the scroll in her bureau. While there, she gazed lovingly at the picture of her and Snape, longing for the time when they could be together, unfettered by restrictions and public opinion. Sighing heavily, feeling drained by the intensely emotional revelation of her love’s history, she dragged back to the bed, sinking down onto it and curling up beside the napping Crookshanks.

With a yawn, she murmured, “You’ve got the right of it, Crooks. I think a nap will do me good.” Closing her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, she drifted off into a weary sleep.