Title: Guilt in the Fame
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own them - JKR does
Feedback: Yes please! lina_wilson@hotmail.com
Author's notes at bottom.

~*~

She always wore robes of the sternest black to the first feast of the school year. She was young, younger than the other teachers, and she didn't want a single student to look at her and believe she would be an easy target. She needed to stamp her authority from the beginning.

“You really should wear more colour, Hermione.” Albus told her as they took their seats. He was clad in robes of resplendent purple. “It would brighten up the room.” He was worried - as worried as she and Severus were - and it hung in the air.

The older students were the first to arrive; pushing and jostling and yabbering madly in the dash to grab the best seats. (Everyone wanted to see the Sorting, of course.) The seats at the front of the tables were left empty, in the usual practice, vacant for the new students who would soon come walking through the large doors.

Severus strode in ahead of all the students (all of them too small and too short for their own good). He had talked to them out in the enterance way - probably scaring them half to death.

“Why do you scare them so much?” She had asked him.

“I've always scared first year students. It's tradition, you see. I've been doing it since I started teaching.”

“But scaring them on their first day at Hogwarts? Before they've even had a chance to sit down?”

“Scaring them now saves me the bother of scaring them when they turn up for their Potions class.”

“You don't particularly like small children, do you?” She asked.

“Not particularly.”

Despite the talk Severus had given them, this cohort of first years seemed more confident than those that had gone before them. It was probably, Hermione mused, that this lot were too young to remember the last spate of attacks, that the only way they could know about the darker days was through tales and secrets told by their parents.

The first years gathered at the front of the teacher's platform, their eyes focused on the tattered Sorting Hat. Hermione could feel the whole room shift forward in their seats as the ancient relic began to move - the hat was still a highlight of the Hogwarts' year.

But Hermione found her mind drifting as the hat began its song (to a tune strangely reminiscent of old Muggle pop music - she wondered what music Albus listened to during the school break). Severus' words were still fresh in her mind, still echoing and bouncing around her head. “The Potter boy will be coming to Hogwarts this year.”

Harry and Ginny's son was going to be her student.

She wondered how much he knew.

***

James Potter tripped over the hem of his robes as he followed the rest of the first years into the Great Hall. His eyes moved quickly to the ceiling (tonight the skies were clear and full of stars) the way his mother said they would.

“You just can't help but stare at the enchanted ceiling. It's really quite amazing, James.”

The teacher who led them in, Professor Snape (his mother had said something about a Professor Snape: he tried to remember if it was good or bad) stopped abruptly and indicated that they were to gather in front of the platform. This must be the Sorting, James thought, another thing his mother had talked about.

The hat moved and began to sing . . .

***

Professor Snape glared at random students as the ridiculous hat began to sing. He had endured too many of these little shows over the years: unlike his colleagues, he had ceased to be amazed by every new tune escaping from the hat.

It was the Sorting itself that had always intrested him more: only the Hat had a direct insight into the new students, only it knew who they really were, where they would flourish best, who would be their classmates and mentors. Only the hat could glimpse where the child's future was going to lie.

Sometimes it was predicatable. Weasleys went to Gryffindor, Bones in Hufflepuff, Malfoys to Slytherin. Other times the hat made decisions that no one would have predicted.

The last five years had produced some magnificent Slytherins. They won the House Championship a couple of times, and even turned the tables on Gryffindor to snatch the Quidditch championship. He was hoping for some comparable students.

He lifted the list he had clasped in his hand and began reading the students' names: “Ackland, Rebecca . . .”

***

“RAVENCLAW!”

Another shout from the hat, another new student hopped off the stool and rushed to their new house.

Professor Snape, in James' opinion, was taking an awfully long time to get to Potter.

He surveyed the teachers, who were all seated at the long table, watching the proceedings with interest. Curiously, he tried to match teacher to the stores his mother had told him. The Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, was seated in the middle of the table, of course; and the old ghost seated on the far left would have to be the History of Magic professor - but, to the other teachers, he could attach nothing but guesses and assumptions.

Suddenly Professor Snape's voice seemed to get louder and James realised that it was his turn to try on the Sorting Hat . . .

***

“James Potter.”

Hermione could hear a slight quiver in Severus' voice as he read out the boy's name. It was barely there, just a minute change, impossible, probably, for anyone other than herself to hear.

Except Dumbledore. It was obvious that he too had heard the change in the Deputy Headmaster's voice. Hermione caught Albus glancing at her briefly before shifting his gaze to Severus and the boy.

The boy. James Ronald Weasley, if she remembered correctly. The only son of Harry and Ginny Potter.

He looked like Harry, with messy hair falling into his green, bespectacled eyes and his thin frame swamped in his brand new robes. His hair was red, though, an obvious result of his Weasley heritage.

He walked forward to the stool and carefully placed the hat on his head. As the hat began to move, Hermione realised that every one in the room was leaning forward - everyone wanted to know what the hat would say.

It seemed to last forever. She watched the boy sitting up straight on the stool, watched him listening carefully to the hat. Suddenly the hat lurched and called out:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The boy took the hat from his head and ran down to the Gryffindor table. Severus looked back at her, a concerned look briefly crossing his face.

***

She was sitting next to his fireplace when he made it back to his bedchamber. She looked old and tired, and he could see the strain of the past etched on her face.

“Another Potter for me to deal with.” He kept his voice light. “Another Potter in Gryffindor who'll probably flaunt all the rules and drive me crazy.”

She smiled as he brushed her hair off her shoulder, as he prepared a cup of steaming tea and sat in the chair next to her. “He looked just like Harry” she said softly.

He snorted. “And Harry looked just like his father. That is the second time that I've been forced to go through that little ritual.”

She put her cup down and rubbed her eyes. “How do I handle this, Severus? How do I deal with the son of my old best friend - my dead best friend? Surely he must know who I am. I'm in all the books.”

He shook his head. “I don't know.” It was easy for him - he would treat the boy the same way he treated his father and grandfather. But then, the Snapes had never gotten on well with the Potters, and he didn't have to deal with the child on a day to day basis. “You will work it out though.”

“Can I stay?” She sounded like a school girl and he briefly remembered the uniform and always raised hand of her youth.

He should refuse her. She was submerged in her own twisted history, a place which had no room for him. He should say no, gently push her away, and ask her to return when she was living in the present again.

“Sure.” He was too weak for his own good.

***

It didn't take James long to realise he was being treated differently to other Gryffindor first years.

The older Gryffindors were seeking him out, introducing themselves and making oblique comments about his father. Students from other houses also made a point of saying hello, and some third year Hufflepuffs ambushed him at the breakfast table and asked him to sign their battered copies of “Potter: The True Story”.

The Head of the House was treating him differently too. It seemed that Professor Granger was unable to look at him for more than a few seconds and that she was unwilling to make eye contact. Her name felt terribly familiar to James, and he made a note to revisit his father's biographies.

***

It was her custom to see the new Gryffindor students one at a time. It gave her the chance to know them, to learn who they were and how they would fit into the House. It was, she felt, usually one of her most enjoyable duties as Head.

But this year she was dreading the interviews.

The boy poked his head around the door first. The red hair seemed strange to her - wrong in a way that she really couldn't explain. His glasses were more oval than Harry's had been, but his eyes were the exact same shade of green.

“Come in please, Mr. Potter.” She thought the words would be hard to say, but they rolled off her tongue with remarkable ease.

She realised that the boy was anxious, that his hands were balled into tight fists and his shoulders were hunched. For a moment he reminded her of herself, of the way she had felt when she first got to Hogwarts. But he moved, sat down in front of her, and the memory was gone.

“Mr. Potter . . .” she started and stopped. Usually she asked the students to talk about themselves; to tell her about their family background and their magical experience; to ask her any questions they had.

But this was Harry's son and she already knew about his background.

“Excuse me, Professor Granger,” the boy spoke quietly, but with a confidence beyond his age. “Your first name, it wouldn't be Hermione, would it?”

“Yes Mr. Potter, I am Hermione Granger.” She wondered how much he knew and where he had picked up his information. She, along with Harry and Ron, had provided information for a few historians - serious, plodding academics who wrote serious, plodding tomes. Still the market place was full of trashy, gushing accounts of The Boy Who Lived and The Man Who Couldn't - all of them more notable for their flashy covers than any sustainable facts contained inside.

“So you knew my father, then?” His eyes were big and he reminded Hermione of Harry again - of the way he would light up at the slightest bot of information about his parents.

“Yes.” She said simply. “I knew him quite well when we were at school.” He was my best friend, were the words she thought, the words she was unable to say. He was my best friends and your mother was my friend also. And, before it all fell apart, I thought I was in love with your uncle. And I confided in your Grandmother more times than i can remember.

She wanted to tell the young boy everything.

Instead she reached across the desk and gently patted the boy's hand. ”There's a lot to tell you about him, James. But that's okay, we have seven years to cover it all.” She withdrew her hand. ”Why don't you tell me about yourself, Mr. Potter? What were you doing before you came to Hogwarts?”

***

The boy sat in the back row, between Hubert Hingles and Laura Shirple. He mixed his Potions cautiously, but correctly, and the Potions Master had few occasions to correct and admonish him.

Sometimes, though, as Severus Snape berated some incompetent, he realised that the boy was watching him. Watching, observing, studying: seeing all through those bespectacled green eyes.

They were Lily's eyes, every bit as much as Harry's had been.

More than thirty years had passed since Lily had died. There were things that he had long forgotten - the way her hair smelt, the way she wrinkled her nose when things went wrong, the way she wore bangles that clattered on her wrist. There were other things too - her laughter, the way she talked, the colour of her hair - that were beginning to escape his memory.

But the eyes continued to haunt him.

He had realised, as he had addressed the letters to the first years, that he still had a debt to pay to the Potter family. Just like James the elder, Harry had done him the extreme disservice of saving his life. It was a debt that Severus had been unable to pay during Harry's life time - a debt that was now carried from father to son.

Severus Snape always repaid his debts.

***

James sealed the letter to his mother and picked up a fresh piece of parchment.

'Dear Uncle Ron,

Thank you for your parcel. I am enjoying Hogwarts a lot, especially since the Sorting Hat put me into Gryffindor. . . '

He had only met his Uncle Ron once, five or six years ago. The rest of their relationship was based on letters - long, friendly letters which he kept in a tin under his bed; and short, sad letters which his mother confiscated and he didn't fully understand.

'Professor Granger is my Head of House. She's been telling me lots of stories about when you all were younger. It sounds like you and her and my Dad got into a lot of mischief when you were all at Hogwarts. . . '

The Professor had invited him to her office a few times, and they had shared cups of tea while she talked about his father and his uncle.

'My other teachers are quite good too - though Professor Binns is very boring and our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is brand new and doesn't quite seem to know what she is doing. Professor Snape is a little scary, but Professor Granger says that he is not as scary as he used to be. . . '

Sometimes, when he left Professor Granger's office, he saw Professor Snape waiting to go in. She watched him a lot too, especially during meal times.

'She said that he used to get quite angry with the three of you. Maybe he is getting nicer as he gets older, because he's always nice to Professor Granger unless there's a Quidditch game on . . .'

Someone had thought he should be on the Quidditch team because his father had been. James had said no, though, he preferred Wizard Chess to Quidditch.

'I'm so glad I get to see you at Christmas time. I have a lot to tell you . . .'

Author's Notes:

Title from Lord Byron's 'Stanza's for Music' : “I speak not - I trace not - I breathe not thy name, / There is grief in the sound - there were guilt in the fame”

Thanks to Jacinda who read this half asleep, Liz B who laughed and made good suggestions and told me it was good, and Amanda who read it in the middle of her gathering (I think the Sorting Hat's song was to an N'Sync tune, Amanda *g*) .

I will be continuing this story - but not in a strictly narrative form. You'll just have to keep following the Tearstains Universe and the many, many stories I have planned.

Feedback - lina_wilson@hotmail.com