Fathers and Sons

Fathers and Sons

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News

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As soon as Michael's parents had disappeared to deeds unknown -- at least he desperately kept telling himself that they were unknown, and that he didn't really want to know, either -- the teen glanced around his bedroom again, sighing. There wasn't much he could do with his time. Due to his extreme boredom at the Dursleys, he had finished all his homework for the summer so soon that even Hermione would have been proud of him if she'd known.

Hermione. It was a bad move, thinking about her. And yet, he couldn't help himself, couldn't help wondering whether she still liked him, even though he was not really Harry Potter anymore. And Ron, of course. What would he say? Given the redhead's temper and his extreme dislike for Michael's Father, it couldn't be any good, Ron's reaction. He could just hope that it wouldn't be too bad.

A voice in the back of his mind, one that resembled rather much that of his Father's, told him to stop this idiocy and get over it. Another voice, much like that of his Dad's, told him that if he still cared about his friends enough to care, then they must still like him, too. However, he couldn't be that easily convinced now. When his Father had said that about Sirius, it had been all sensible and clear. However, now, with nobody around to tell him that, Michael was finding it rather hard to believe. Seemingly the unsure trait of his Dad's wasn't as imaginary as it was inheritable.

Sighing, Michael walked over to his trunk to do what he'd pushed further for long enough already. Taking his -- no, Harry's presents from the trunk he carried them all to his bed. For a moment he just sat there, unknowing what to do. Then, he decided to just open them, as nobody else certainly would do that.

The ones from Hagrid and Tonks were easy enough, being a bit less personal. Colour-changing ink, sweets, that kind of stuff -- nothing that could hurt him. With a sad smile he noticed that his Dad had given him a Potions text book, knowing well how hard time he had with the subject. Smirking at the unwitted irony of that, Michael finally moved to the most difficult presents.

Ron and Hermione. His best friends, the first two people of his own age he had ever befriended. Swallowing, he reached out for Ron's present, then slowly made to open it. After a moment, the wrappings revealed a pair of Quidditch gloves, designed for a Seeker, with the initials "HP" embroidered on them.

"There's a sticky charm on the gloves," he read from the note attached to his present. "With that, you won't fall off your broomstick midair anymore, as these won't slip off the broom unless you want."

For some inexplicable reason, Michael felt his stomach flip at the mere mention of flying. It wasn't excitement, no -- rather, it was a mix of nausea and fear. 'Oh, fabulous,' he thought. 'I seem to be afraid of heights.' How fitting, indeed. Harry Potter was a skilled Quidditch player, but Michael Snape was an acrophobe. Wondering if any of the other changes would be so drastic, Michael hesitantly reached out a hand for the present he had got from Hermione -- a mere envelope.

Hermione, he discovered, was definitely her old self. She'd sent him a note telling that she'd payed for a year's subscription of the Daily Prophet for him, and he would start getting the paper in a few days. "So we'll know what you are officially up to," Hermione's note ended.

Michael gave that a humourless smile. Just like Hermione, trying to cheer him up. A pity that it didn't work.

The teen sighed. Well, he would have to tell his friends sooner or later, so he'd better get to it to find out whether he did have friends anymore. With this in mind, he took the quill and the colour-changing ink Tonks had given him, fished some parchment from his trunk, and then walked to his desk and started to write.

After quite some time, he looked at what he'd written. It wasn't ideal, but hopefully good enough.

"Dear Ron and Hermione," the letter began. "Thank you for the birthday presents you gave me. Unfortunately, I had to debate with myself for quite some time before opening them. You see, I've just made a startling discovery -- one you might want to know about, too.

First things first. To put it briefly, the Potters were not my real parents -- they were only adoptive ones. Yes, Hermione, there is a story behind it, but it's too long to be explained now.

Now, the Adoption Charm has been removed from me, and I look like what I would have grown up to look like if I hadn't been adopted. If you want to know what I look like now, you can simply imagine Professor Snape's face in Professor Lupin's body. No, I'm not kidding. I look just like Professor Snape -- I even have The Nose. And as for why I look like these two people, well, that is easy. You see, Professors Snape and Lupin are my biological parents.

You can shut your mouth now, Hermione, and wake Ron up. This is not a joke. I'm really a son of Professor Snape and Professor Lupin -- although Dad isn't really a professor anymore. Well, he isn't a Lupin anymore, either. Instead, we're both Snapes now. Yes, they are married.

I truly would appreciate it if you would respond to this letter. However, I will also understand if you don't want to have anything to do with me ever again.

Yours,

Michael Severin Snape"

Now, he took the letter, got up, and walked to Hedwig's cage. "Come here, girl," he said softly. "You do still like me at least, don't you? It doesn't matter to you whose son I am, right?"

The owl hooted softly and tugged affectionately on his long hair with her beak. Taking that as a yes, Michael smiled briefly and gave her the letter. Glancing around, he noticed that the enchanted window, which would not allow an owl go through, was the only one of its kind in the room. Well, they were underground, true, but surely his Father had a way of receiving and sending mail. The question being now only, where and what was that way?

"Hedwig?" he asked. "You don't happen to know where the nearest window is, do you?"

The owl immediately flew to the door of his room and hooted. As Michael opened the door, he saw his owl flying through the public are of the quarters and past the thankfully silent door of his parents' room. Then, to his great surprise, Hedwig flew simply into the seemingly solid stone wall.

After blinking a couple of times, Michael understood what was going on. 'An enchanted window,' he thought. 'Well, it figures that Father wouldn't want his dark reputation to be spoilt by him having a window in his quarters.' Then, with a grin, he thought, 'Let's see how long it'll take from Dad to redecorate the whole place. He'll be done when the school starts, I'm sure -- if not earlier."

He was just about to return to the boredom of his room when his eyes caught something really interesting. To be exact, a bookshelf full of, obviously, books. His eyes lighting up, the teen immediately headed towards this treasure. Picking an interesting-looking book about the uses of half-tamed dragons in hunting in the Middle Ages, he curled up in a comfortable armchair and started reading.

It wasn't until much later that his peace was intruded. Hearing a low chuckle, he looked up, and saw his parents standing in the doorway of their bedroom, both looking rather amused -- and thankfully dressed.

"Somehow, I'm not that surprised," his Father said, smirking. "Although I have no idea how I will survive if I'm overdriven by two bookworms. This wolf here is quite enough to drive me crazy at times."

"Oh, shut up, Severus," the said werewolf huffed, although he didn't sound really annoyed. Then he turned towards Michael. "I'm sorry, but you have to abandon your book for a moment," he said. "You see, it's the dinner time already, and we should be heading to the Great Hall by now."

"Oh!" Michael stood up. "I completely lost the track of time. Time seems to go really fast today."

"Well, come fast, you, then," Severus said mildly. "I can't deny that I rather enjoyed their expressions earlier today, and I don't think that the shock value has disappeared already. So, do hurry to the best of your might, Son. I'd like some more amusement today."

"How on Earth did you marry that kind of a man, Dad?" asked Michael mildly as the three Snapes made their way towards the Great Hall. "He seems to get all his amusement out of sadistic torment of others."

"That's the unfortunate downside of being interested in only tall, dark, dangerous men," replied the werewolf just as calmly. "The variety of characters isn't that big. The only tolerable and available ones back then were he, Kingsley, or Sirius, and as Sirius was straight as an arrow and I do prefer greasy hair to no hair at all, well, it was him or nobody." Somehow, he managed to say all this with a perfectly straight face.

When they reached the Great Hall, not a few teachers 'eeped' at the sight of Michael. Sighing, Michael sat next to his parents -- there was only the Staff Table available -- and tried to ignore his Father's suppressed smirk. Yes, Severus Snape definitely did enjoy tormenting his colleagues in any way available.

After a moment of glancing up and down the table, however, Michael noticed something odd -- well, something odd beyond all the weird glances he was getting. "Headmaster Dumbledore?" he spoke up.

"Yes, my boy?" the ancient wizard asked, giving him a slight smile. Well, there was a man who certainly couldn't be shocked so easily. It would have taken at least a few earthquakes to make him even blink.

"All the other teachers are here," Michael said, pressing his knife into the steak, "but I do not see a possible DADA Professor anywhere. Could you perhaps tell me who is it going to be?"

"But of course," Dumbledore replied. "The DADA Professor for the next year will be Monica Manson."

Now, there was a sudden sound of cutlery hitting a plate, and then a smack. Everybody turned around, startled. They saw Severus standing, having smacked his hand on the table, looking positively murderous. Remus had dropped his cutlery onto his plate and was not simply staring down, pale and shivering. It was obvious that, despite his intense stare, he was not really seeing anything, merely shocked beyond belief.

"Tell me you are kidding, Albus," Severus said with a voice so low that it made everybody shiver, and yet it carried over the whole table. "For the love of Merlin, Albus, tell me you are kidding."

"What now, Father?" asked Michael, shocked. "What's wrong with that woman?"

"What's wrong, you ask," echoed Severus, his voice completely void of any emotion. "Well, I'll tell you what. Take Dolores Umbridge, twist her mind a few times -- somewhere to the level of the Dark Lord -- and add some sadistic urges and extreme intelligence. Put that in a pretty body with an even prettier face, add a sweet smile and fluttering eyelashes, and you will have Monica Manson -- or a faint shade of her."

"Surely she can't be that bad," Dumbledore replied, frowning. "She was a very nice young witch by my mind." The Headmaster was now staring at his Potions Master, very surprised, and not positively.

"I have never met a human sweeter or more deadly than she," said the Head of Slytherin with deceiving calmness. "Given the choice, I would rather carry James Potter's baby than spend five minutes in the same room with Monica Manson. And Potter wouldn't even have to be resurrected for the conceiving part, his corpse would do fine for anything I care." After a pause, he finished, "I hope this expresses my full opinion of that, forgive my language, sadistic little bitch."

Michael stared at his Father, completely stunned. He didn't even hear at first when Professor McGonagall asked, her voice shaking, "And you have met her when, Severus? I've never even heard the name."

"Well, I'd be surprised if you had," spat the Potions Master, his tone slowly turning from calm to acid. "She's working -- or, rather, she has been working until now -- for the Ministry. I came across her when I was defending Remus against false accusations a few years back. There are many prejudiced bastards working in the Ministry, but Manson is the worst kind. She's their werewolf executor, and she enjoys her job. Loves it, even. I bet she's not yet forgiven me that I stopped her from killing Remus."

"I only knew that she had a job at the Ministry," Dumbledore said, frowning. "She has excellent papers, Severus, and several recommendations from people I find extremely trustable. I don't think --"

"Well, that much is obvious," Severus cut in, shocking everybody by opposing Dumbledore in such a way. Completely ignoring the ancient wizard's shocked expression, he turned towards his husband. "Are you coming, my dear?" he asked softly. Michael stared at his parents. It had to be very bad for Severus to use those words in public. And, from what he had heard, it indeed was bad.

Remus merely nodded briefly, then soon followed his husband out of the Great Hall. As soon as the door was closed behind them, the others started to talk. Some were horrified; however, most weren't.

"I bet it's just another plot from Severus," murmured Professor Sprout. "He just wants the Defence job for himself, and, knowing him, he will not hesitate to use any means to reach his end."

"Or maybe he wants that position being given to Remus," Professor Sinistra mused. "That would explain how he got Remus to act along for his plan. Otherwise, Remus never would do anything like that. He's not one to spread false rumours of other people just for fun."

Now, Michael stood abruptly, attracting many confused glances. "Forgive me," he said, a bit snappishly, that had to be admitted. "I am not going to sit here and listen to you talking badly about my parents."

Not a few of his teachers frowned and opened their mouths, but they were soon silenced as Michael gave them the Snape Glare Extraordinaire. Seemingly it worked just as well with golden hair as with black.

And then, his back stiff as a board, he hurried out of the Great Hall to find his parents.