Chapter 3
Harry’s fifth year. Severus' POV
The jar of cockroaches slammed into the wall beside Potter’s head. The boy’s horrified eyes locked with Severus’, his frantic gaze pleading as he scrambled for the door handle and fled.
Severus leaned heavily against the desk, his breath ragged, his mind spiraling out of control. Potter saw. He saw... damn it to hell! Bugger all! How had he let this happen?
After a moment, he bent over, one hand clutching at his throat as he fumbled desperately for a calming draught.
Where the hell was it? His breath grew more rapid, louder, his eyes widening in panic. Both hands scrambled at his chest, as if he could force the air back into his lungs.
Fear tore through him as he gasped for breath. Spots blurred his vision, and the only sound in the cold, silent room was the frantic rush of his own inhalations, each one more desperate than the last.
Minutes passed, agonizing and long, before he felt a hand on his back. A paper bag was pressed to his nose and mouth, and a stern, calming voice instructed him to breathe.
“That’s right, Severus. Slow, deep breaths. Good. That’s good.”
Slowly, painfully slowly, his surroundings began to sharpen into focus. The cold dungeon floor beneath him—wait, when had he sat down? The soft rustling of robes, the unmistakable scent of cockroaches making their way down the wall… and then, finally, he focused on the figure beside him.
“Shit.”
Pomona Sprout raised an eyebrow from her place on the floor, perfectly at ease—as if she were a student, not a head of house at a renowned school of magic.
Severus squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying, desperately, to gather himself enough to survive what was sure to be an unbearable conversation. With a resigned sigh, he decided to just get on with it. If he could get through this and retreat to his rooms, maybe he could deal with the rest on his own.
“What are...” The rough edge to his voice startled him, and he cleared his throat, steadfastly avoiding her gaze. “What are you doing down here?”
Pomona’s eyes flickered toward the cockroaches oozing down the wall, then returned to him. “I had planned on coming down to speak with you about the remedial potions class you’re offering Mr. Potter. I have other students who could benefit from it as well. But I see now,” she motioned toward the mess, “that whatever happened here must have been rather... explosive, even for you.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between them.
“I suppose you think I owe you some sort of explanation.” Severus sneered. Now that the near-death sensation had faded into a distant memory, embarrassment crept in, tangling with the rage that still simmered beneath the surface.
Ignoring her, he closed his eyes and began tucking the emotions away behind his shields. One by one, like brightly colored orbs, he tossed his rage and embarrassment down a well in his mind, hearing each one whistle as it fell, feeling the sharp plunk of each hitting the water below. Finally, he covered the well, watching the lid blend into the forest floor before opening his eyes again.
Without the volatile emotions, the memories of the last hour stood out starkly like standing stones. Once again, when it came to the boy, Severus always seemed to revert to a furious teenager. All the hard-won discipline deserting him when faced with a Potter.
Lifting his gaze he met Pomona’s soft brown eyes. Something about her in that moment reminded him of Eileen, and without quite knowing why, he heard himself speak before he could question it.
“I wanted to like him.”
“Who?” she asked.
Severus was quiet for a moment and then came to a decision. “Potter Senior. He was...” Severus hesitated, struggling to find the words. With a sharp inhale, he forced out the long-kept secret. “He was...is, my grandfather.” He looked up at her, not quite believing he had uttered that sentence aloud. “When I knew him, my father’s name was Harrison Sirius Prince.” He met her bewildered eyes with a heavy, burdened look she couldn’t interpret. “But you would know him as Harry James Potter.”