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Severus Snape had been called a great many things over the course of his life. Boy. Snivillus. Wizard. Slytherin. Death Eater. Spy. Double Agent. Professor. Headmaster. None of those names or titles meant anything to him. Not really. None except the Head of Slytherin House.
He had failed at a lot of things. He was an awful friend, a terrible Death Eater (hence his status as a double agent and spy), an admittedly dreadful professor, and Merlin, the less one said about his tenure as Headmaster, the better. But he was good at being Head of Slytherin. Whether the rest of the students and professors at Hogwarts knew it or not, Severus loved his Slytherins. He protected them, guided them, tried his best to give them options, choices he never had.
Horace Slughorn, on the other hand, was such a Slytherin that he neglected the students in his care. If they weren’t talented, didn’t seem likely to leave a legacy worth remaining in contact over, they weren’t worth his time. If he was just a professor, Severus might understand Horace’s treatment of the Slytherins. But as a head of house, he was meant to be more.
Slughorn’s shortcomings weren’t the point though. Severus knew the war was coming to climax. He suspected within the next month, some confrontation would happen. The signs were there. There was a stirring in the magic of Hogwarts, as though the castle itself was reinforcing wards, strengthening stone and mortar. The Dark Lord knew the end was coming too. There was an itch in the air. An insanity in the Dark Lord’s eyes that seemed deeper and more sinister - more frantic, than before.
Severus was tired. He had a list of things to do as long as he was tall. Sleep was nowhere on that list. He wasn’t Dumbledore. He was glad of that. But now, with war looming, he wished he had even a sliver of the old headmaster’s strategy. So many things had to go a certain way. So many pieces had to fall into place. So many people had to be in the right place at the right time. Severus was no chessmaster. No war general. He was a pawn. Perhaps a particularly skilled pawn, but a pawn all the same. There were times, like this, when he wished that the war wasn’t in his hands. But who else would have been able to do what Albus had demanded of him?
He couldn’t afford to think that way. Couldn’t afford to wonder.
A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. A student sent to him by the Carrows, no doubt. He should have Avada’d them rather than let them into this school.
A small slip of a witch entered at his command. Her skin was pale and her hair had grown from its typical sleek bob to a tangle past her shoulders.
“Miss Parkinson,” he said smoothly.
“Headmaster,” Pansy murmured. “The Carrows sent me. I’m to tell you I am a disgrace with a weak stomach and not worth the magic my wand grants me.”
“I see,” Severus said, even though he didn’t.
“I didn’t crucio Longbottom or Lovegood, sir. You are to see to my punishment.”
He rather thought that was a success on her part, not a failure. But he didn’t say so.
“Your classmates,” he said slowly,” what do they think of these detentions set by the Professors Carrow?”
Pansy didn’t meet his eyes. “They do as they are told, sir.”
What a diplomatic answer. A Slytherin answer. Perhaps, Miss Parkinson would be able to take some worry from his mind. No one would protect his Slytherins in the events to come. He couldn’t. Slughorn wouldn’t. None of the other professors would think to try.
“Correct me, if I am wrong, Miss Parkinson, but I don’t believe that is the question I asked.”
Pansy looked up, then. Her eyes searched his face with the piercing distrust of a young woman who had to grow up too fast, had to make choices no one should have to.
“My peers will do what it takes to prevent word of disobedience from getting back to their parents,” she said at last. And that was an answer. A rather revealing answer for all that she didn’t say.
No doubt there were a few students who truly believed in the motivations of their parents and the propaganda of the Dark Lord, but her answer suggested that most had realized that whatever world the Dark Lord wanted to create from the ashes of wizardkind was not a good one.
“There will come a time, Miss Parkinson, where I will not be able to protect you. You must do what you can to keep your fellow Slytherins out of this fight. It is not cowardly to choose not to participate.” Pansy’s fingers twitched. The only sign that what he said unnerved her.
“No one else will protect us, will they,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Salazar, she was too young to be so jaded.
“Slytherins will always take care of their own,” was all he said.
There was a steely determination in her pale green eyes that hadn’t been there before. Her posture, already correct from years of Madam Parkinson’s stern instruction, got even sterner. “Yes, sir,” the witch agreed.
He waved his hand, dispelling the silencing charm he had cast over the pair of them.
“If you are too weak stomached to draw blood, Miss Parkinson, the least you can do is clean it. Report to Madam Pomfrey for your detention every night for the next two weeks. Get out of my sight.”
Pansy’s shoulders hunched as though she had received the scolding of her life. She met his eyes one more time before fleeing from his office without a sound.
Severus’ shoulders relaxed with her exit. Come what may, his Slytherins would be safe. One task was delegated. The rest, he would attend to himself.
———————————————————
The residents of Hogwarts listened in fear as the Dark Lord demanded that the students hand over Harry Potter. It was time. The war had come to their very doorstep.
Pansy looked at her Slytherins.
She looked at Theodore Nott, who’s father would more than likely be at the Dark Lord’s side. She looked at Theodore’s hand, gripping a thick wooden staff that helped him walk. His father was as cruel as his master.
She looked at Tracy Davis. A halfblood with a muggle mother. Joining the Dark Lord was not an option for her. Joining the side of the light wasn’t an option either. The “good guys” would never trust a Slytherin.
She looked at the little first years. Too young to have to pick a side in a war they knew nothing about. She had heard the whispers, the curses hurled at every Slytherin as they walked from their dormitories to class and back again. The students called them Death Eaters. Little eleven year olds who could barely cast a levitation charm. They were no more Death Eaters than a flobberworm was a butterfly. Not that the professors had bothered to correct the assumption. Pansy looked at the broken window of the Great Hall through which their Headmaster had fled during his fight with McGonagall.
Their Headmaster was gone and couldn’t protect them. Slughorn wouldn’t protect them. None of the other professors would think of the Slytherins, would consider that they might fight against their fathers. In this castle, Slytherin meant enemy, whether they truly were the enemy or not.
She watched Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle sneak off from the Slytherin table. They made their choice. And as the Dark Lord’s threat echoed in the silence of the Great Hall, Pansy Parkinson made hers.
“There he is,” she shrieked, making her voice as shrill and obnoxious as it had been in her youth. Heads whipped toward her. “There’s Harry Potter, hand him over!”
Every single wand in the Great Hall was pointed at her. First years to professors. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw alike, turned their wands on her as she stood up on the Slytherin table, alone, pointing a shaking pale finger at the Boy Who Lived.
“Horace, escort the Slytherins to the dungeons to wait out the battle,” McGonagall spat, eyeing Pansy in disgust and barely controlled rage.
Before Pansy could say Quidditch five times fast, the whole of Slytherin House was ushered promptly from the Great Hall and down to their Common Room.
They were safe.
She did as their Head of House had asked.