dueltastic

Title: Circumstances of a Small and Accidental Nature (Chapter 7 of 8)
Author: dueltastic
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Minerva McGonagall/Severus Snape, cast of thousands




Chapter 7: Minerva McGonagall and the Trials of a Teenager

Snape threw his cloak onto a chair and settled into the sofa with a loud sigh of relief. "Well, that's sorted," he said. "We've finally packed the boy off to boarding school for the next seven years. Tonight we'll go out to a very nice restaurant, have a few too many drinks, and engage in some very loud and not-at-all-child-friendly sexual practices."

"That's all well and good, Severus," said Minerva, "but I'm afraid we run the boarding school we've just packed him off to, and will rather be expected to turn up for the Welcoming Feast ourselves."

Severus glared. "No restaurant, then," he said.

Minerva mulled this over. "I think that sounds fair," she said. "Provided you've got some Sober-Up and hangover potion. I don't fancy my Defence Against the Dark Arts professor teaching while utterly pissed on the first day of classes. Did you have a particular set of child-unfriendly sexual practices in mind?"

Severus's eyes glittered. "Yes," he said.

The corners of Minerva's lips twitched upwards. "I see," she said. "Very well. Ten o'clock, Professor Snape." She turned to go to the Great Hall.

"Headmistress," said Severus, with smug expression and a slight incline of the head, as she passed him in a swirl of green robes.



A new semi-childless existence demanded new routines, and, over the next few years, small adjustments in the roles as parent and teacher. Minerva McGonagall's legendary fairness came to include - purely for practical reasons, mind - one occasional exception, while Severus Snape, who was well-practised in treating some students more equally than others, at least learned to be slightly discreet about it. The three of them settled in quite easily to the new arrangement, which, truth to be told, was a smaller adjustment for their family than for most wizarding families.

Snape could be forgiven, perhaps, for thinking he had this parenting business sorted, despite the accrued cynicism of three decades of teaching adolescents. But one day, as he stood in the hallway between classes, he heard his son's voice use the word "mudblood". The boy was standing with a group of his second-year friends. Snape remembered promising Minerva, years ago, that he would never hit the brat, and this was the first time he'd struggled to maintain his control, even in the face of the (exceedingly convincing) threat she'd made if she found out he, or anyone else, had laid a hand on her child. Fortunately, he'd never promised her he wouldn't drag the boy angrily by his collar into the nearest empty classroom, and give him the dressing down of a lifetime.

Apparently, the sound of his shouting had carried out to the hallway, because after about ten minutes, when he finally had the boy looking suitably sorry for what he'd done, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it, Minerva pushed into the room and closed the door behind her, not waiting for him to speak. She looked from him to the boy cowering by the desk with tears running down his cheeks.

"Is there a problem here?" she said to Snape. The tone was a warning, and seeing this room as if from her eyes, with a frightened boy in front of him, wet-faced and hiding behind a shaggy curtain of black hair, the uneven sobs in his ears, he'd never felt more like his own father in his life.

"No, Mum," whispered the boy, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"No, we're done," said Snape, shortly. "Severus, go with your mother." At least his father had never let it go as easily as that.

Sev ran into Minerva's arms and clung to her. "I said a really bad thing, Mum," he said, through tears. "I'm sorry."

"Ah," said Minerva, looking at Snape while she comforted the boy, "I see." Snape gave the faintest of nods and looked away. "I think we can finish talking about it later, Sev," she said to the boy. "Now you know. Your father loves you. He's very angry, but he loves you. Now go give him a hug and get back to class, there's a good boy."

Snape was amazed the boy did it, and didn't open his mouth while Sev hugged him, for fear he'd start yelling again.

When the boy had run out of the room, Minerva turned to him. "Try not to do that again, would you?" she said tiredly. "I suppose it was to be expected when the day came, but let's not repeat it."

Snape nodded again, still not quite ready to speak.

Minerva put a hand on his arm and kissed his cheek. "He's a good boy," she said. "He will understand."

"My son, Minerva," said Snape. "My son."

"He's a child, he was probably just repeating something he heard," she said. "He knows better."

"Yes," said Snape. Then, "I've got a class to get back to as well." He stormed out, hoping the sixth-years would give him even the slightest reason to assign them all detentions.

On the bright side, when word spread through the student body of what Snape had done to his own child for using the slur (with perhaps a few embellishments to the story along the way) and of the punishment essays he'd assigned to the rest of his classes that day, they had none of the usual repeats of the problem for the rest of the year.



The following year brought Hogsmeade weekends, and the combination of spending money, free time with his mates, and the run of the village. And as well as Sev knew Hogsmeade, having all but grown up there, there were new delights to be discovered: going to Honeydukes sweet shop when it wasn't his birthday, and actually buying something in Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, rather than just trying all the displays while his mother spoke with Mr. Weasley.

He found, however, that he had been one place that none of his friends, not even the older ones like Teddy, had been.

"It's nothing special," said Sev. "It's not even that nice."

"Yeah, but you've been inside," said Throckmorton.

"My mum went to talk to the owner," said Sev.

"You've met the owner!" said MacMillan.

"Yeah, but..." said Sev.

"It has to be you," said Gillingham firmly.

"What?" said Sev. "No. No way."

"Yes," said Prewett. "You're the only one who's been inside."

After a few nudges in the direction of the door, Sev peered into the Hog's Head, and then walked in, trying to look as tall as he could, and sat on a stool at the bar. The bartender, a man with long grey hair, a beard, and penetrating blue eyes, looked at him sideways.

Sev put his Galleon on the counter. "Firewhiskey, please," he said.

"Black hair, too skinny, bit of a natural scowl behind that all-too-innocent look... no points for guessing whose lad you are," said Aberforth. "Friends put you up to it, did they? Watching at the window?"

Sev nodded.

"Right, then," said Aberforth, turning to look through his collection of bottles. "Won't give you firewhiskey. You'd embarrass yourself for certain. Drop of wine won't hurt you, though. Reckon your mum would say that's all right. You tell your mates I don't serve just anyone, though. You tell them it's a special service for the Headmistress's spawn. Ancient contract, tithes to the school, summat. Think of something convincing, shouldn't be hard for a boy with your Da."

"Thank you, sir," said Sev, watching more than a little gratefully as Aberforth cast a few extra sterilizing charms on the glass before he poured.

"Now, lad," said Aberforth, putting the drink down in front of Sev. "Reckon we need to have a talk about doing what folks tell you."

"Oh, no, sir," said Sev earnestly. "I've been here before, it's not dangerous. My mum brought me when I was little."

Aberforth squinted. "Hrm. Little fellow in short pants, hanging onto his mum's skirts, as I recall." He nodded. "Still, lad, there's quite a few mistakes waiting to be made by a boy with convincing friends. As your Da could no doubt tell you. Speaking of your Da, boy, never let it be said I turned a son on his father, but good judgement and Severus Snape were never on close speaking terms, save for when it came to your mum, and maybe even not then. Reckon you might think twice about what he tells you to do, lest your mother says so, too. Don't get me wrong, boy, I like your father, but you're still young yet. Stick to doing what your mum tells you."

"Everyone does what Mum tells them," said Sev, sipping from the glass of wine.

Aberforth let out a short, barking laugh. "Reckon they do," he said.


Two days later, just after closing time, a dark figure loomed in the doorway of the Hogshead, black cloak swirling into the night.

"Deputy Headmaster," said Aberforth, rubbing down his counter with a rag and a sterilizing charm. "Professional visit, is it?"

"Am I given to understand that you not only served my thirteen-year-old son, but told him not to obey his father?" said Snape in a low voice.

"Personal visit, then," said Aberforth. He got out two glasses and poured a measure of Firewhiskey into both, gesturing for Snape to take one.

"I'm not known for my tolerant attitude towards members of the Dumbledore family," said Snape peevishly.

Aberforth barked out a laugh. "Bit of an understatement, that, I'd say," he said. "You've nowt to worry about. I served the lad a mouthful of wine to make him look good in front of his friends, and sent him on his way with the sound advice that, like most young men, he could do worse than to listen to his mother."

"And unlike most young men, you specified that 'worse' would include listening to his father," said Snape with a scowl.

"Come off it, Snape," said Aberforth. "I've known you since you were his age, you've about the business being a parent that I have being minister of magic." He sipped his firewhiskey. "Not done too bad a job of it so far, I suppose. Nice lad, your boy. Polite. Clever. Growing into the nose."

Snape grunted.

"More pleasant than you'd expect," said Aberforth, "given that his parents range from sullen to sharp. If it weren't for that nose, I'd suspect Minerva ran out and got herself in the family way with some actually nice bloke, and somehow got you to step up for it."

"Yes, because that version of events positively exudes Minerva's particular brand of Gryffindor ethics," said Snape. He picked the other glass off the counter.

"True enough," said Aberforth. "Good woman, that one, whatever else she might be. Only thing I can fault her for is her judgement about my brother. Who got the job done in the end, I suppose. Not bad for that reckless little shit. Mind, he left the rest of us to do most of the heavy lifting."

Snape snorted in amusement.

"Minerva, now," said Aberforth. "Practical-minded. Hard. Good things in a woman."

"Yes," said Snape, dryly. "Apparently I live with a paragon of feminine virtue."



One fine Saturday morning the following spring, Minerva exercised her perogative as Head to release one of the fourth-year students into his parents' custody for the day. Conveniently enough, Severus McGonagall's parents didn't have to travel far to pick him up.

Minerva put on her cloak. "I'm taking the boy to Hogsmeade, Severus. Would you care to join us?"

"Yeah, Dad," said Sev, hovering next to her. "You should come. It's nice out."

"Where are you going?" said Snape, leafing idly through the April issue of Moste Vyle Potions Montheley.

"The tailor. He needs a kilt," she said.

Snape looked up sharply. "You must be joking," he said. "You wouldn't dare inflict your bizarre tartan fetish on our son."

"I haven't any choice," said McGonagall, her lips twitching upwards slightly. "He is a McGonagall, after all. With all that it entails."

Snape snorted. "Bloody Scots," he said, with the faintest trace of a smile.

"Be that as it may, the boy's fourteen. He's a young man and he needs some proper formal clothing," she said. Sev rolled his eyes behind her.

"Don't roll your eyes at your mother," said Snape. "Proper formal wear does not mean a pleated skirt, Minerva. For either sex. And what on earth does he need it for?"

She smiled indulgently, and wandered over to Snape's armchair to rest a hand on his head. "He's fourteen, Severus. It's fifteen years since the battle. You know what a fuss the ministry made at the tenth, memorials and speeches and the like. I rather think they'll expect us to bring him along this time."

He stared up at her like she'd announced that the Dark Lord had risen again, and then he returned to the article on brewing instructions for inflicting a particularly virulent form of pox on the unwitting drinker, with extensive footnotes on the side effects. "Bad enough we had to fight it," Snape muttered into his journal, "without the Ministry making us commemorate it every five years."

"Yes, it's a terrible price we pay," said Minerva unsympathetically. "Are you going to join us in Hogsmeade, dear?"

He grunted. "Lunch. At the Three Broomsticks. One o'clock. No tartan on the boy."

Minerva kissed the top of his head. "Of course not," she said. "We'll see you there. Come along, Sev."

"Bye, Dad," said Sev, putting on his own cloak.

Snape snorted. "Bloody Scots," he said again, aiming it at the boy. Sev grinned at him.

So, really, it came as no surprise to Snape when, after a pleasant and leisurely walk from the castle down to the village, which was marred only slightly by the biting Scottish winds, he pushed open the door of the Three Broomsticks to see the boy sitting at a table next to Minerva, drinking a butterbeer and wearing his mother's tartan scarf.

Snape waved his wand to transfigure the tartan into solid black with particularly elegant serpentine figures in green and silver, and made a small noise of approval before sitting down beside Minerva. He took her hand under the table, and snorted in amusement as the boy cast a rather good Finite on the scarf. Minerva smiled, holding his hand under the table, and brushed a few strands of graying dark hair away from Snape's eyes.

"Well?" said Snape to his son. "Did your mother successfully trick you into wearing a skirt?"

"Kilt," said McGonagall, with a note of amusement. Rosmerta arrived with a pot of tea, three mugs, and two firewhiskey hot toddies, and McGonagall nodded her thanks.

"It's probably almost black enough for you. Mum said I could wear one of your coats with it and look like a Snape, too," said Sev. "If I asked you for one. It's way better than dress robes!"

"Probably draughty," said Snape disdainfully. "And I doubt you want to go around looking like a Snape at a memorial for the Battle of Hogwarts. It's not a particularly healthy place for it." He poured the tea with his free hand, holding onto Minerva with the other.

"Mum said it would be fine, she didn't think the Aurors would still be looking for you," said Sev, taking a mug of tea. Minerva hid a smile behind the warmed firewhiskey.

"I'm pleased your mother has such confidence in my ability to remain a free man," said Snape, glaring at her. Sev grinned, and Snape snorted. "Ridiculous boy," he said. He took a mug of tea to warm his free hand.

"We've got lunch waiting, Severus, if you don't mind the chicken and mushroom pie," said McGonagall, and Snape nodded his approval. "Are you hungry, Sev?"

"Oh, rather!" said Sev. He took off her scarf and shrugged out of his cloak.

"He's fourteen," muttered Snape. "Of course he's hungry."

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," said Sev.

"That is the general concept of lunch," said Snape peevishly. "Minerva, are we sure he's passing all his classes?"

"Oh, hush, leave the boy alone," said McGonagall. "And yes. Although his History of Magic grades could be better." She looked meaningfully at Sev.

"Yes, Mum," he said, ducking his head. "But I'm doing well in Arithmancy! That's much harder. And Professor Vector's not dead."

"However alive or dead your professor might be is no excuse for your performance in class," said Snape. "Professor Binns is..."

He struggled for the proper way to finish that sentence, and McGonagall supplied it. "Rather past his sell-by date," she said. "But he's a professor at this school, and so long as that is the case, which I fear may be another few centuries, deserves the full respect of his students. He may be a bit... dry, but he is an excellent and dedicated educator. He taught both your father and me when we were students, you know."

"But I don't even understand how he reads our essays," said Sev. "He can't touch them. His hands pass right through."

Snape and McGonagall gave each other sidelong glances. "Yes, well, there are some questions to which we don't need the answers," muttered McGonagall.

One smoked haddock, a chicken and mushroom pie, and a fish and chips later, they sat around over Rosmerta's treacle tart, at least a slice and a half of which ended up on Sev's plate, and a fresh pot of tea. Snape put down his tea and turned his head, brushing his lips across McGonagall's forehead for the briefest of moments, invisible from nearly every line of sight. Except, of course, for that of the fourteen-year-old boy rolling his eyes across the table. Snape glared.

"Don't roll your eyes at your father, dear," said McGonagall.

"You could get a room," said Sev, taking another forkful of treacle tart.

"We've got one," said Snape. "Which we're not sharing with four other nosy, tattling boys for the next three years, putting us one up on you."

Sev glared at his father, and dug back into the treacle tart. Minerva hid a smile and sipped her cup of tea.


On to Chapter 8.