Scar Mates

FIRST CONTACT

Snape sat at the desk in his office, listening to the students beginning to arrive in the adjoining classroom.

He idly reached over and picked up the first year syllabus-not that he needed to review his class notes. He'd just finished the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw class fifteen minutes before. It was his least favorite class: the studious, focused Ravenclaws versus the earnest, easily distracted Hufflepuffs. Both groups were well-behaved and predictable, and because of this, he looked forward to the next group of students whose natural antipathy toward each other made their classes volatile and amusing.

Of course, he showed no favoritism among students, except for a few select Slytherins. This, of course, was expected of him as their head of house. No, for the most part, he universally presented the same intimidating personage: inscrutable, aloof, sarcastic, and unapproachable. He had been this way from his first teaching year, and now reputation reinforced these already alarming personal traits. He was a legend to be feared. This thought made him smile. It certainly made his classes easier. He rarely had to deal with misbehavior like some of the more lenient and compassionate teachers.

In the beginning, he had argued with the Headmaster over the pairing of the houses. He'd rather have had the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs together, thus pairing the Slytherins and Ravenclaws. It seemed a more equitable pairing. As it stood, the first class had bored him to distraction, and although he would be wide awake for the next one, even their antics had become predictable over the years. But Dumbledore had firmly resisted any change in the pairings, blandly reminding Snape that the only house that stood a chance against Slytherin machinations was the Gryffindors, who were quite quick to defend their honor. Sometimes his primary roles in this pairing seemed to be those of referee and medic.

As he stood, briskly smoothing his robes, his eye fell upon the roster for the upcoming class. His breath caught as he spied a name halfway down the list: Potter, Harry. Damn! How could he have forgotten? He'd mulled over it enough last evening that he'd had difficulty dropping off to sleep. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he attempted to center himself as he warded his mind. Then, picking up his class material, he threw open the door to the classroom.

One could hear a pin drop as he made his way to the front of the classroom. He took his time at the small

lectern, arranging the roster and lesson plan for the day. When he finally looked up at the class, he was gratified to note the frog-in-the-lamplight expressions gazing back at him. He started the class by taking the roll, pausing at Harry Potter's name. No better time that the present, he thought, to test the waters.

"Ah yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new---celebrity."

Well, that was a start. He'd said the name and added a note of sarcasm as well. He finished calling the roll and set it aside. Now he studied the class. Most dared not meet his eyes, or squirmed in discomfort when they did. One Slytherin gazed at him boldly. Draco Malfoy. Snape had known it was him, Lucius Malfoy' s son, the instant he had stepped forward for the Sorting. Obviously sharing the same physical characteristics to a fault, they also shared the same haughty manner, the same sneer of derision, the same condescension. He knew he'd have to treat the Malfoy boy with care, given his own history with the father, and the likelihood that they would be in close contact in the near future.

This brief parenthesis on the Malfoys aside, he continued his visual inspection of the first years, and felt a small shock of surprise as his eyes locked with those of Harry Potter. As the emerald eyes appraised him, he felt a catch in his throat. He struggled to not be the first to look away, and was relieved when the boy flushed and looked over at the bushy-haired girl beside him, and none too soon. Snape began to feel the first hint of a burning sensation in his forearm. Standing stone still, he looked away from the boy, composing himself and concentrating on the warding once again. He addressed the class.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He was almost whispering, relishing the almost hypnotic control he had over them now. He was in his element.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids..." he droned on, the words dripping like honey off his tongue, lulling them into a false sense of security. "...if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Their heads snapped up at that. The little girl next to the Potter boy had sat up straight on the edge of her seat, her mouth making a perfect little "o". Well, he thought to himself, time to take the plunge.

"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"I don't know, sir," the boy replied.

So far so good. After several more questions, Snape was elated. The sensation in the Dark Mark had ceased, and the repeated volley of questions had not seemed to cause any ill effect, except for the boy's touching chagrin at being singled out for interrogation. As he watched the boy's distress, he saw tears well up in those green eyes, and again felt that same catch in his throat. It was enough. He'd learned what he needed to know. The boy, however, startled him when he replied just as Snape was ready to move on to the next victim.

"I don't know. I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

Snape's eyes widened in shock. He was incredulous. This boy, this Potter, had had the audacity to defend himself. Of course it could not be tolerated. After silencing the spatter of twittering laughter with a glare, he put the boy in his place with a verbal dressing-down and the taking of a point from Gryffindor.

After setting them to their first potion-making task, he strolled the aisles, watching them fumble through the lesson. He thought of Potter's last response. He has cheek, that one. I was, regrettably, rather hard on him, but I had to discover from the outset if we could handle each other if a little emotion were put into the mix.

His heart softened a little as he studied the back of the boy's head. Yes, he mused to himself, he's James Potter's son, at first glance, the spitting image of him. But those eyes, the eyes are unmistakably his mother's. I wonder if he knows this? He should know how much he looks like her. Even as he allowed himself to think on this, he felt the Mark begin to prickle. Still standing behind the boy, he started when the boy put his hand to his forehead, absently rubbing the scar. So, he thought, even simple empathy must be avoided. He passed the boy, closing himself off mentally as he did so. Moving down the next row, he made a display of praising the Malfoy boy's potion; storing up good favor with the senior Malfoy would probably work to his advantage. If he seemed cool to the new Gryffindor celebrity, well, that wouldn't hurt either.

When the inevitable potions disaster occurred, he used this opportunity to take another Gryffindor point. This time the Potter boy opened his mouth to protest, but then reconsidered. Snape noted with satisfaction that neither of them appeared to have felt even the slightest twinge this time.

When the class was finally dismissed, the professor slid down in his chair, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. He regretted that he would have to treat the boy so harshly, but he knew it was necessary in order to protect them both. And seeing that the Malfoy boy was now in the same equation, his firm stance with Potter would more than likely prove valuable in recommending him once again to his former associates.

This was going to be exhausting.