Scar Mates

ON A CLEAR DAY

Minerva McGonagall sat in her chair in silence, listening to Severus Snape's complaints about his teaching schedule. She sighed. This had become a yearly event. She considered that in the future she should just schedule this autumnal start of term meeting with him, instead of waiting for his annual request. They normally dispensed with his petty concerns very quickly, then settled in for tea and biscuits. She knew that she was the one staff member besides the Headmaster with whom Snape felt comfortable. They were the only ones who knew of his defection from the Dark Lord, and of his pledge to work for the Order as a clandestine agent. To everyone else outside the Order, he still carried the taint of having allied himself with Voldemort, even though he had been cleared of all charges. She suspected that he made excuses to come and confer with her. He was much too proud and private to accept an invitation that was merely social. Although she did not entirely understand his reticence, she knew that the Headmaster did. He had explained much of it to her after the fall of Voldemort: the circumstances of Snapes's enlistment, his covert betrayal, and subsequent self-loathing. After the death of the Potters, it was only through Dumbledore's gentle perseverance that the young ex-Death Eater did not succumb to despair. As such, she had a soft spot for the young man, and on the occasions they spent together, they enjoyed a reserved camaraderie, punctuated by barbs and witticisms galore. It was obvious that they both enjoyed this verbal repartee, slinging insults at each other's houses.

As Severus took a breath to sip his tea, she glanced idly out of the office window. Her eyes widened in surprise, and her teacup rattled in its saucer as she stood abruptly to her feet.

"Great heavens! What on earth..."

Quickly skirting the desk, she moved to the window where Snape joined her in concern. Hovering on a school broom just outside the window, his arm pumping up and down in victory to the students watching below, was Harry Potter. In his hand he held a small ball, and after a few seconds, he expertly glided the Cleansweep down to the waiting crowd.

"What was that all about?" Snape asked. "I wasn't aware that Potter would know how to fly,"

he said, half to himself.

McGonagall's eyes were flashing as she moved back behind her desk

"You didn't see it all, Severus. I saw him streaking towards the window at an incredible speed. He braked just in time, and pivoted to catch the ball. It was expertly done."

She was now grinning unreservedly.

"I wonder who taught him to fly," Severus murmured, a sinking feeling in his chest.

"Taught!? I think not, Severus. Did you see him catch that Remembrall? He pivoted on a dime. You know what this means, don't you?"

"No," he replied dourly, "but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Gryffindor has its new Seeker!" she exulted.

"Wonderful," he mouthed.

The next afternoon found the two professors again sipping tea in McGonagall's office. Snape was finding it difficult to stomach her exuberance over the new Gryffindor Seeker. The question of his being a first year had been rapidly dealt with by the Headmaster, who ruled that there was no impediment there, although first years were not usually considered for the house teams due to their lack of skills and immaturity. Potter would be the youngest Seeker in a century, and Snape was surprised to discover that although he did not appreciate this new threat to his own house team, he also found that he was glad for the boy. He himself knew the experience of growing up without real parents, and had also witnessed firsthand how the Drusleys had treated the boy. He thought there was a certain justice in the boy catching a break, although he'd be damned if he'd let on to McGonagall that he felt this way. The boy came by the Quidditch genes honestly, he thought.

"Severus...Severus, are you under the influence of one of your experimental potions? You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"Hmm, well, wool-gathering, I imagine. I'm sorry. You were singing Potter praises and I was supposed to leap for joy at this new challenge to this year's Slytherin house cup?" He gave her a disgusted look.

She ignored him and said, "I was just telling you that it would be nice for the boy to have a decent broom. The school brooms are fine for classes, but all of the team players have their own. What do you think? Would it be highly inappropriate for the staff to procure one for him?"

She peered at him anxiously, twisting her hands in her lap.

Oh, ho, he thought, she's soft on him. If we're not careful he'll have us all wrapped around his little heartstring. Minerva, more than the other heads of house, was more inclined to become personally involved with her charges. They all had students, of course, that had become their own little pet projects, he included, although he usually took on the mantle of anonymity. He thought of the look on the Potter boy's face the night before in the Great Hall, as students came to slam him on the back in a congratulatory initiation. Keeping up appearances, he had lowered his head with a scowl, but, truth be told, he'd felt a small burst of pride in the boy, then immediately afterward, a start of surprise. Oh, marvelous. As if the scar connection isn't enough. Now I'm being invaded by sentimental urges for the underdog. Minerva was feeling urges to coddle the boy, and at no slight expense to herself. Well, two can play this game.

"Actually, Minerva, it was my intention to suggest such a thing. I was thinking about the new Nimbus 2000 I saw just last week in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. I can make arrangements this afternoon, if you like, and I...ah... would be willing to, er, pay for the item as well." He finished with an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

McGonagall gaped at him.

"Severus, I don't know what to say. How absolutely thoughtful of you! I must admit I'm surprised that you'd offer such a service." She paused here, studying him, then let a small smile pull up the corners of her mouth.

"I'd like to do it for the boy. I have my reasons, which are none of your business, of course. You are not the only one who, on occasion, comes to the aid of a child in his house."

The smile had become a playful grin. "He's not in your house, Severus."

"Don't push it, Minerva. The offer can be withdrawn as foolhardily as it was made." He almost snapped at her.

She composed her face with effort, then replied soothingly. "A noble offer and I accept. How will you arrange the delivery?"

He pulled on his lower lip, thinking, then replied, "It would be best if he think the broom from you, or the school. It may prove uncomfortable for me, at some future date, to explain why I was subsidizing the boy's Quidditch career. If you would write a note to the boy acknowledging that you are the sender, I will have the shop enclose it at delivery. And Minerva, let's keep this to ourselves, shall we?"

"Of course, Severus. It'll be our secret."

Really? He thought to himself. Albus will know about it before I make it back to my rooms.

Snape stood ramrod straight at the counter in Quality Quidditch Supplies, his face bright red, as the shopkeeper wrapped the Nimbus 2000. The man had exclaimed in amazement when he was informed who the recipient was to be. Several questions later, he realized that no other information would be forthcoming, except that if tales were to be told of its purchase, a particularly nasty skin rash would find its way to his private areas. He completed the wrapping, and sullenly accepted the Galleons from Snape. The broom was to be sent with McGonagall's note by morning owl. He nodded meaningfully at the man, who glared back, then exited the shop. As he walked down Diagon Alley, he saw a large man striding towards him, towering over the other shoppers. As he was considering crossing to the other side to avoid him, Hagrid spied him and stopped short for a moment before hurrying on as he called out.

"Professor! Professor Snape!"

Reluctantly, Snape stepped to the side of the walkway and stopped, waiting for Hagrid to reach him. Conversations with Hagrid in a public place were something he tried to avoid, as he shunned attracting attention to himself, a part of the survival tactics he had learned years ago.

Stepping up to Snape, Hagrid nodded respectfully. Then placing a large hand on the Professor's elbow, inched them both to a deserted door stoop nearby. "Glad I ran in ter yeh, Professor Snape. Need teh tell yeh something. Thought yeh should know."

Snape arched and eyebrow at him. "Indeed, Hagrid. What is it?"

Hagrid swallowed visibly. "Well, it's about Harry Potter, sir. I jes thought yeh should know. Yeh know how kids are, always makin' mountains out o' molehills. I told him, I did, that he was imaginin' things. I told him and his two friends. He's probably a little scared, bein a firs year, finding out about Lily and James. I can jes imagin'..."

"Hagrid, the point, please." He stopped the man in mid-sentence.

Hagrid's face fell. Then after exhaling noisily, he continued. "It's Harry, sir. He thinks yeh hate him! I figgered ye'd wanna know."

"Hagrid," he replied smoothly, "all of my students hate me. I'm neither shocked nor concerned. In fact, I count on it. I have little difficulty maintaining discipline in my classroom. The Potter boy merits no special treatment." As Hagrid struggled to form his response, the irony of the situation was not lost on the Professor. Returning from the execution of perhaps the most charitable impulse of his life, he was being confronted with causing the boy to be unhappy. Oh, he loved paradoxes.

"Hagrid," he interrupted, as the large man was still trying to register his concern. "I assure you, the boy has not been singled out by me in any way. But he must take his lumps when they are due. Any student unprepared in my class will receive a reprimand. I assure, however, that Lady Justice is blind. If there's nothing else? Good day."

He swept past the still sputtering games-keeper, and faded into the crowd.

The next morning in the Great Hall, Snape blearily gazed out over the student tables, keeping a watchful eye on the far end of the Gryffindor table. There had been several eruptions of small clouds of pink steam, followed by hoots and shrieks of laughter. Although technically students were not permitted to perform magic outside of the classroom, the teachers often turned a blind eye to the pranks and tricks that were inevitable in a school such as Hogwart's. Most of them had participated in such goings-on themselves during their own student years, and so indulged it in their current charges. Snape, however, was not of their ilk. Having often been on the receiving end of such stunts, he was less tolerant than the other staff.

As he sat deciding whether the current fracas merited intervention, he saw the first of the post owls as they swooped down from the vaulted ceiling. He watched as they circled until spotting their intended targets, then dropped down to deposit letters and parcels. A rather large, tawny bird carrying a long brown package circled somewhat longer than the others, then with a screech, leveled off over the Gryffindor table, gliding down to drop its burden. The package skidded to a stop directly in front of a very surprised Harry Potter.

Snape watched as the excited boy ripped off the wrapping with his friends cheering him on. Abruptly the boy say back in his seat, an expression of utter amazement on his face, while his friends took up inspecting the contents. Soon a note was discovered, and several small heads bent in to read it.

Snape glanced down the staff table and caught Minerva McGonagall's eye, who gave him a conspiratorial wink. Returning the wink with a small sneer, he looked back to see the Potter boy grinning widely at his head of house, who nodded slightly in return.

Snape sat back in his chair and watched as the broom was passed from student to student, patted and caressed. As he watched the boy's face, glowing with excitement, he felt a sudden, unexpected pang of loss. The giving of a gift, and watching the pleasure it gave, was its own reward, of course. But the boy now viewed Snape as an enemy, and once again, he felt himself relegated to the outside, looking in. Over the years he had gotten used to this, but now found he rather coveted Minerva that green-eyed grin of gratitude.

He felt the Mark become warm under his shirt. With a sigh, he focused on closing his mind.

Or was it his heart?