Desperate Measures

Snape had been expecting the summons to the Headmaster’s office. He had known that Granger would have to go to Albus with the child and known just as surely that Albus would have to follow up with him. Well, it was an inconvenience, but nothing more. The brat certainly wasn’t his, and while he had ruled out a student prank, he wondered if perhaps one of the girls had managed to conceal her condition from the staff and had somehow birthed the child on her own. Of course, that did nothing to explain why an unknown House Elf would bring the baby to him, but unless the mother turned out to be a Slytherin, it wasn’t his problem to sort out the details or to see to the child’s proper disposition. For the moment, Minerva was still Deputy Headmistress and Albus was Headmaster, and that meant that this mess was none of Snape’s concern. He would simply tell Albus as much and recommend that he call the Ministry’s Department of Orphans, or Mary Poppins, or whomever else he wished to call so long as Severus Snape was left well out of it.

For he had told Granger the literal truth. There was no way the baby could be his. His last affair had been brief and had ended in unpleasantness (didn’t they all?) two years before. Furthermore, the woman in question had not hailed from the sort of family that would have House Elves as their disposal. He saw no reason to discuss any of this with Albus, however. Had a toddler been left on his doorstep, the information might have been relevant. As it was, all Albus needed to know is that nine months prior, Snape had been engrossed in an experiment involving Mermaid hair.

"Severus." Albus looked unusually solemn, a look Snape hadn’t seen him wear much since the war. Frankly, he’d missed it. He found a twinkle unbecoming in a man of Albus’s years.

"Albus."

"Thank you for coming so quickly." The Headmaster ushered Snape toward his regular chair. "I suppose you know why I wished to see you."

Snape nodded. "I suspect it’s to do with the infant abandoned in the dungeons. Granger must’ve brought it to you."

"She did," Dumbledore nodded. "It is a boy, by the way. Poppy has examined him and found him to be in good health. Hermione has agreed to care for him for the time being."

Snape supposed he was meant to feel guilty for calling him an it, but really, he couldn’t see what possible difference a pronoun made in this case. He passed over the gender issue without comment and moved on to the fact that Hermione Granger was caring for the child. That surprised him. Frankly, Granger hadn’t seemed to know much more about what to do with an infant than he did, and it wasn’t her problem any more than it was Snape’s.

He relinquished his position of indifference and gave in to his curiosity on that point. "Why would she do that? Shouldn’t the child be given over to the proper authorities?"

"We may well wind up doing that very thing," Dumbledore agreed. "But I’m curious as to why the child was left with you. Have you any thoughts?"

"If you’re asking me if I’m the father, Albus, the answer is no."

"You’re positive about this?"

"Absolutely. I should think you would be willing to take my word on its own merits, but if you require more proof, I would remind you that I hardly left the grounds last summer."

Dumbledore smiled slightly at that. "It doesn’t take very much time to make a baby, Severus, and it can be accomplished on the grounds."

"I’m perfectly aware of how babies are made," Snape snapped. "If you attempt to give me a lesson on the birds and the bees, I shan’t be responsible for my actions."

Dumbledore chuckled at that. "No, my friend. I believe you. And yet…"

"And yet what?"

"I can’t help but feel the child must have some connection to you. Professor Granger was quite clear about the fact that the Elf believed the child belonged to you. Is there some family member, perhaps? Someone who would have left her child in your care?"

"Certainly not. Anyone who knows me even slightly would know better than to leave an infant in my care. I refuse to believe that I might be related to anyone that foolish."

"Severus…" Snape looked at the Headmaster expectantly, but Albus stared into his ubiquitous teacup as the silence stretched and took Snape’s patience with it.

"Yes?" Snape asked, irritable.

"I’ve never asked before. I thought that you wouldn’t want to discuss it with me…I didn’t want to bring up something that might be most painful." The old man stroked his beard, and then went on with more certainty. "But I think that – under the circumstances – I must ask…what happened to your son?"

It occurred to Snape that it was a privilege, really, to be present for the official cracking up of a venerable old wizard like Albus Dumbledore. To actually watch him go ‘round the bend, as it were. He figured he’d be giving interviews for months, and the whole thing likely would guarantee him a chapter in the revised version of Hogwarts: A History. Granger would probably want his autograph.

"My what?" He snorted both at the ludicrousness of the suggestion and at the mental image of himself giving autographs. "Albus, what are you on about? I have no son."

"Oh dear. I was sure that you knew." Albus put down his teacup, and at the look on his face, Snape began to have the first fear that maybe the Headmaster wasn’t cracking up. But, no – he had to be. Because Snape would know if he had fathered a child.

Of course he would.

And he hadn’t.

Mermaid hair, damn it. That was all he’d done the previous summer.

"I know how dearly you love to fancy yourself omniscient, Albus, but perhaps this is one area in which I have more information than you do. I can assure you that I have no son."

"And I can assure you that you do…or did, at one time," the Headmaster said gently. "His name went down for Hogwarts the minute he was born. When the time came for him to start school here, we made an effort to contact him, but even the school owls were unable to locate him. I didn’t question you about it at the time because, as I said, I thought the subject might be a difficult one for you. With the way things ended between you and Diana, and the way you were affected by her death…well, I just assumed that the child had been given up for adoption and that you preferred not to discuss him."

"Diana…" Snape blanched and gripped the arms of the chair. The reaction was an admission in itself, and he loathed himself for it, but he seemed to have temporarily lost his powers of suppression.

"The school records listed a male child born to Severus Snape and Diana Fletcher. He would have started at Hogwarts in 1989."

"No." The denial fell from his mouth and landed in a helpless sprawl, impotent in the face of Albus’s evidence.

"I am so sorry, Severus." The Headmaster laid a gentle hand on Snape’s arm. "I wouldn’t have even mentioned it had I not thought that it might have some bearing on the present situation."

"You bastard," Snape rasped, wrenching his arm away and standing up in one fluid motion. "How could you keep something like this from me for all these years?"

"I truly believed that you knew."

“No,” Snape whispered, retreating across the room to stare out the tower window. The rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his jaw gave away the rage still coursing through him.

"The child would have had to have been conceived toward the end of your seventh year here," Albus said softly. "Do you agree that such a thing would have been possible?"

He nodded almost violently, still facing the window. "Yes. Possible, but not likely. We were…careful." A part of him wanted to laugh hysterically at the fact that he, a man in his mid forties, was being made to feel like an errant schoolboy as he justified a sexual relationship with his girlfriend. They had been young and in the throes of first love, or what they had believed was love at the time. They had indulged their raging adolescent hormones. They were neither the first nor the last couple to do so, but he had a feeling he was the first to be hauled into the Headmaster’s office thirty years later to talk about it.

"Hmm," was all the opinion Albus chose to express.

"So, if this is true…" Snape began harshly, facing the Headmaster once again.

"It is."

Snape glared. "If this is true, then the child would be twenty-six or seven now, if he lived."

"Twenty-seven, I believe."

"And you think this baby might be…"

"Your grandson, perhaps?" Albus suggested. "I don’t know, Severus. He might just as easily be completely unrelated to you. I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you this. I assumed Diana had told you…that you had made whatever decision was made together."

"She…" Snape shook his head and then cleared his throat in an attempt to find his voice. "No. She wouldn’t have told me."

"I see." Albus looked thoughtfully at the man before him. "Would you consent to a blood test, Severus? We could tell immediately if you and the child are related."

Snape shook his head and took a step back, as if the Headmaster might produce a needle that very moment. "Not now, Albus. I need time to think about this."

"I understand," Dumbledore said gently. "However, I have concerns about leaving the child in Hermione’s care for too many days. If you are interested in finding out if you and he are related, it would be best if you came to that decision fairly quickly."

"Can’t you find someone else to take care of it?"

"I could - and will if the need arises. At the moment he will remain with Hermione. Poppy cast a lactation charm, you see, which means that Hermione is the only one here able to feed him. If the child is at all magical, the mother’s milk could make a difference in his later abilities."

Snape tried to find it in him to care whether Hermione Granger was inconvenienced, and he failed completely. He was much too busy feeling sorry for himself and angry at Albus to work Granger into his schedule. He turned his back on Albus and headed for the door. "I’ll let you know something in the next day or so. Surely Professor Granger won’t mind playing house for that length of time." He stopped just short of slamming the door behind him.

 

§ § § §
 

Snape fled to his rooms, scattering students like frightened sheep without even noticing their presence. Once he achieved the sanctuary of his dungeon quarters, he sank into his favourite chair beside the fire and gave in to the reaction that had been threatening ever since the Headmaster had made his astonishing revelation. His legs trembled, and his hands, and the parts in between felt queasy. He wanted a drink – desperately – but didn’t trust himself to pour it, so he reached for his wand.

He gulped and waited for the alcohol’s first soothing effects before even attempting contemplation.

He had a son.

Twenty-seven years ago, at any rate, he’d had a son. If he’d lived, the son would be a grown man now, fully formed in mind and body – a finished product – without Snape ever having made any contribution beyond a single sperm unwittingly given. He felt an odd mixture of anger and relief at the thought. He’d never had the slightest desire to raise a child, yet he resented being deprived of the opportunity to say so. What could she have done with the child to have hidden him so thoroughly from the wizarding world? She hadn’t raised him herself – of this he was sure. He had witnessed her death, which had been three years after the child’s birth, and no one had given any indication that she was leaving a child behind.

He didn’t need to wonder why she hadn’t told him. That, at least, was clear enough.

He rarely even had occasion to call her to mind anymore. She was there, he knew, buried deep in his subconscious, a single thread woven into the frayed fabric of his existence. Perhaps once a year she would emerge in his dreams, and he would acknowledge her face and voice and touch as something elemental in his history. But in the daytime, that face was obscured by time and other experiences; he’d found some spectacularly creative ways of screwing up his life, and Diana was one of the earlier casualties.

Before she became a casualty, however, she had given him some of his happiest months, thanks to the passion that flared between them during their seventh year at Hogwarts. He’d had more accomplished lovers in years since, but what he and Diana had lacked in finesse they had made up for in sheer joy of discovery. His students wondered how it was that he was always able to find them during their little snogging sessions. They thought he used magic, when in fact, all he needed was his memory. There wasn’t a secluded corner at Hogwarts that he and Diana hadn’t discovered, and as a teacher he returned to those same places to award detentions and strip Houses of points. It wasn’t quite as pleasurable as what he and Diana had done there, but neither was it without its own compensations.

He poured his third drink - his hands were somewhat steadier now - and closed his eyes and allowed the memories to overtake him.

 

§ § § §
 

“Mr Snape, you’ll work with Miss Fletcher.” Severus nodded at Professor Sprout and turned briefly in the direction of the girl in question. He couldn’t remember her name. Dorothy or some such, he thought. She gave him a shy smile, which he didn’t bother returning.

She caught up to him after class, tugging lightly at his robes to get his attention. “Excuse me…Severus?”

“Yes?” He deliberately kept walking, knowing that she would have trouble matching his long stride.

“Erm, I was wondering when you wanted to get together…for the project I mean.” She had started fairly strong, but her voice petered out and sounded a bit breathless at the end, though whether that was due to nervousness or the effort she was making to keep up with him he couldn’t tell.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, making a deliberate effort to sound bored.

“Well, er, there isn’t one, I suppose - not for the paper anyway - but we should probably plant the seeds some time in the next week if we want them to mature in time.”

“Be my guest,” he said, stalking off. He wanted to laugh; if he played his cards right, the swotty Ravenclaw would do all the dirty work and he could simply write a brilliant paper at the end. He was near the top of the class in Herbology, but he didn’t particularly enjoy spending time with his hands in the dirt. He appreciated the importance of Herbology as a source of Potions ingredients, but that was the extent of his interest. He was pleased to have been paired with someone who was smart enough to do the job right and pathetic enough to let him take the credit.

Or so he thought.

It was two weeks later when she approached him again. She still gave the impression of someone who was screwing up her nerve, but this time she stood her ground when he attempted to keep walking, and he was forced to stop and turn back. “What is it?”

“I’m going to be in Greenhouse Four this afternoon at three. The seedlings need to be re-potted.”

“So?”

She took a deep breath. “So if you want to take credit for this project, you need to meet me there to help…please.”

He stared at her, saying nothing. He’d inherited his father’s eyes, and he knew well that his stare - their stare - had the power to intimidate. She bit her lip under its dark force but stood firm, waiting on his answer.

He hadn’t expected that.

“Fine,” he said, eventually. “I have Quidditch practice though. Better make it three-thirty.”

“All right.” She’d smiled at him then, but it wasn’t the triumphant smile of someone who knew she’d won the round. It was just…friendly - something he knew he didn’t deserve. She repositioned her glasses and turned to go. “I’ll see you then.”

“Er…”

“Yes?” She paused, clutching her books to her chest.

“Sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Diana.”

“Oh. I’m Severus.”

She smiled again. “I know. See you this afternoon.”

 

§ § § §
 

He went straight from the pitch to the greenhouse, arriving sweaty and dishevelled from practice. They were playing Hufflepuff in two weeks, their last game of the year, and his mind was still on the strategies they had discussed when he found Diana Fletcher working quietly among the seedlings.

"Hi,” she said shyly, looking up as he walked in. “How was practice?”

“Pretty good,” he answered. The truth was that he was an average player at best, happy to have finally made the team in this, his sixth year. There was no reason to tell the girl that, however. She probably didn’t know enough about Quidditch to know a good player from a bad one.

“What position do you play?”

“Chaser,” he answered, with some measure of pride. “Do you like Quidditch?”

She nodded. “I’m not a very good flyer, but I like watching the games, especially when Ravenclaw is playing, of course.”

He scowled his opinion of her House team, still smarting from Slytherin’s loss to Ravenclaw the month before, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he turned his attention to the plants. “This looks good,” he admitted, glancing over her meticulous work. He knew he should apologize for not helping sooner, but apologies didn’t come easily to him, and he hoped the compliment would be sufficient.

Apparently it was because she flushed slightly at his words. “I like Herbology,” she said, shrugging slightly and reaching for another pot.

“What’s your favourite class?” he asked, doing the same.

“Well, I want to be a mediwitch someday, so probably Potions or Herbology, but I actually like most of my classes.  What about you?”

“Potions,” he said with certainty, “but Defence is a close second.”

They continued to chat as they worked, and he was surprised at how easy she was to talk to. Most girls left him tongue-tied, but Diana was so shy and reserved that he felt outgoing by comparison. She tended to keep the conversation focussed on him and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and he found himself talking more to her than he had to any other girl at Hogwarts. He walked her back to the castle when they finished and stayed with her all the way to the entrance of the Ravenclaw Common Room. He didn’t automatically begin to seek her out from then on, but neither did he attempt to shirk his responsibilities to their project. He looked forward to seeing her in the greenhouse several afternoons a week and then in the library as they began to work on the written portion of the project. In the end, they received the highest grade in the class, and he treated her to a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks to celebrate. The thought of it being a ‘date’ never crossed his mind. It was just Diana.

That day at the Three Broomsticks was the last time he spoke to her before the summer hols began, and he was surprised when, in late June, he received an owl from her wishing him happy birthday. He’d mentioned his birthday once, in passing, and he was stunned that she remembered. None of his other friends had, and his father hadn’t even bothered to come home from wherever it was he got off to these days. His mother had tried to compensate, had taken him shopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies and had the House Elves prepare his favourite dinner, but in the end the day had felt a bit flat, until a large brown owl had pecked at his window with Diana Fletcher’s note tied to its leg.

He wrote her back to thank her, and from there a correspondence began. On paper, the real Diana Fletcher emerged, and Severus realized that behind the mop of brown hair and the glasses and the shyness was a mind that even he couldn’t belittle. In addition to being brilliant, she was warm and funny, and the happiest days of that summer were the days when her owl tapped at his window. The last owl he received from her before term began had closed with the words, “I’m looking forward to seeing you next week! Love, Diana.”

Love, Diana…

He had spent hours staring at those words, scrawled across the bottom of the parchment in slightly smudged black ink. No one but his mother and grandmothers had ever told him that they loved him. Well, he supposed his father might have, back when he was very small, but up until that day, love had been something he’d only received from blood relations. Never someone his own age. Never a girl.

When he saw her again at the Sorting, it was as if it had all been decided between them. She’d grown more beautiful over the summer - at least to his eyes - and he wasted no time in asking her for a date. By the end of September, they were inseparable, and by the end of October they had taken one another’s virginity.

In a deliberate nod to the beginning of their friendship, they met in the greenhouse after the Halloween feast. He wanted so much to project an air of suave confidence, but his hands shook violently as he tried to undress her, and he managed to tangle himself completely in the folds of her robes.

“Let me help,” she said softly, reaching to unfasten the clasps.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, feeling his face burn.

“It’s all right.” She giggled then, a nervous sound that was too loud in the hush of the darkened greenhouse. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Me either,” he admitted. “Maybe we should wait?”  Chivalry demanded that he ask the question, but he hoped desperately that she would say no.

“No,” she said, reaching for his trembling hand. “I don’t want to wait. I love you, Severus.”

“I love you, too,” he said, breathlessly using the words for the first time. He would have said anything, at that point, that would have separated her from her robes, but he actually did love Diana, to the extent that a boy his age knew how to love anyone.

It had not been good for her. He simply hadn’t known enough to make it so. He was so overwhelmed by the prospect of satisfying the hormones that roared through his seventeen-year-old body that he didn’t take nearly enough care – barely paused, in fact, even when she gasped and clutched at his shoulders in surprised pain. It just felt so wonderful that his brain seemed to shut down completely as his body drove itself to an embarrassingly swift release.

Sanity didn’t begin to return until he lifted himself away from her, sticky and sweating. “You…er, you didn’t…” Damn it! He hadn’t expected it to be so awkward afterwards. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right,” she said, lifting a hand to stroke the hair from his face. “It’ll be better next time.”

In the soft words were a grace the likes of which he’d never experienced before. Undeserved...his for the taking. He had never loved anyone more completely than he loved Diana Fletcher at that moment.

Fortunately she was right – the next time was better for both of them, and it continued to get better each time. The rest of that term was devoted to the sweet exploration of their bodies’ capacity for pleasure. They shut out the rest of the world – even neglected their studies – as they gloried in each new revelation, and they parted for the Christmas holidays certain that the separation would kill them.

In a very real way, it had.