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Harry walked slowly, too aware of the bodies not yet collected, of the earth scorched by curses, and of the sobs and the moans around him. Too aware, also, of the quiet ones – those still alive, but silent. In shock. That was how he felt, inside: the numbness taking over, shielding him from feeling. He didn’t want to feel anything. The Great Hall had been too full of both death and life, of silence and noise, of grief and joy. So, he fled.
He didn’t have any particular destination in mind when he left, just wanting to be away, but then, as his steps took him around the Lake, then closer and closer to the Forest, he stopped. The Forest – did he really want to go there again? Did he really want to go to the clearing…? No. No, he didn’t.
But Harry didn’t want to go back to the castle either. He didn’t want to stand next to the bodies of Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin… and feel nothing inside. He didn’t want to see Madam Pomfrey bustling around the survivors, or have his hand shaken and his back pounded. He didn’t…
There, standing right before him, was the Whomping Willow.
And he knew where to go.
As he’d expected, the tunnel was quiet. There wasn’t a soul alive in there, but there was someone at the other end, a dead someone who, in death, deserved some respect from Harry. He’d won the war, too. Without him… Harry shuddered – how would have things gone, without Snape? Or, worse, if Snape had actively worked against the Order and for Voldemort, instead of pretending to? He’d been a right bastard, but given all he’d done… Yes, he deserved to be brought back to the Great Hall and laid among the honourably fallen, as well. Like – like the others. Harry scrubbed his face with a dirty, torn sleeve and pushed the tree roots out of his face as he made his way through the trap door and into the Shack proper.
It smelled like death, like decay and rotten wood, and the stench caught Harry’s throat and wouldn’t let him go; he coughed and gagged all the way to the room where that cursed snake had killed Snape. There. He pushed back an old curtain and braced himself for the sight, but it was the stink of blood crawling up his nose, down his throat, almost choking him now, that hit him first. That, and only then the sight of Snape’s open eyes.
“Professor!” he shouted, throwing himself down by Snape’s side. His knees hit the tacky floorboards hard, and the shock reverberated into his teeth, making them click loudly in the oppressive quiet.
Snape, of course, didn’t reply; only his eyes stared up, glassy and empty. Dead, Harry realised. He’s dead; he just died with his eyes open. Because he was looking at me, giving me his memories.
Except, did corpses still have memories? Because a slow-moving one, delicate and almost transparent, was floating out of his parted lips, up and up like a cobra listening to a flute-player, seeking something, someone. Harry lifted the tip of his wand towards the wisp and it immediately jumped up, coiling around the wood and snaking its way to Harry’s fingertips. He watched in fascination, wondering why it was so long. One end was almost touching Harry and the other was still inside Snape. It was more alive than Snape was, at the moment.
But then Narcissa Malfoy Apparated in, making Harry jerk backwards in shock and almost sever the strand; Snape’s eyelids fluttered and Harry’s breath caught – but no, still dead. It must have been the displaced air from the Apparition.
“Mr Potter,” she said.
“Er.” He blinked at her, then at the memory; it had faded into almost nothing, just a faint wisp of the past drying out, dying out between Snape and Harry. “Why are you here?”
“To collect Severus’s body. I owe him like I owe you, for what you both did for my family. My son.” She knelt and took Snape’s hand. “They – your friends. They will desecrate his remains, in ways probably worse than the Dark Lord’s followers would do themselves. I do not wish – Potter, he’s alive! Why didn’t you say so?”
She immediately dropped his hand and cast a few diagnostic spells that Harry recognized from the Hospital Wing, before looking up and glaring at Harry.
“Step away!”
“But – I saw – the blood – he can’t be…” Couldn’t he? Hadn’t he just seen his eyelids move just a moment ago? It could have been nothing; it could just be wishful thinking after all the fear, all the killing, but… could they actually snatch Snape back from death?
“He’s got a pulse! And…” She eyed Snape’s parted lips, then the gaping wound at Snape’s neck, which was oozing blood so slowly that Harry hadn’t realised it until that moment. “And dead men don’t bleed. Step away; I’m taking him to a safehouse.” A pale blue light encased Snape and he jerked and coughed before going still again.
“Wait, what? Where…?”
But she was already gone, taking Snape with her. Harry was left with trousers sticky with the Professor’s blood and a partial memory strand dangling from his wand, oozing whitish mist from the end that had snapped when Narcissa Malfoy whisked Snape away. It curled in on itself, until it reached Harry’s fingers and melted into nothing – or perhaps into Harry himself.
“What does that mean?”
But the Shack didn’t reply.
“Where have you been, mate?” Ron grabbed Harry’s shoulders before wrapping his long arms around him, hiccuping into Harry’s dirty shirt. “I thought you were… I thought you’d been…”
Harry’s eyes fell on Fred, too pale and too still. “I’m fine; I just needed…”
He felt Ron nod against him, looked to the side and caught Mrs Weasley’s blotchy face and glistening eyes.
“Ron,” Hermione whispered. “Ron, he’s fine; he just needed… you’re fine, Harry, right?”
“Yeah.” He blinked; Hermione was a bit blurry. Then blurrier. “I don’t know?” He couldn't breathe quite right, even less so when she came closer and then her hair tickled his nose. It was the hair, nothing else, that made it hard to breathe. Right? No. No, it wasn’t. “Hermione?”
She made a small noise and squeezed Ron and Harry even harder.
“I… I don’t think I am.”
Months later, Harry would have been at pains to remember what happened in the early post-Battle days.
He could vaguely recall a lot of talking, planning, crying; there were funerals and speeches and handshakes, and then there were tight hugs, a constant wall of redheads protecting him from the press, and food. The food didn’t appeal much, but Mrs Weasley kept putting it in front of him with red-rimmed eyes and he couldn't say no, so he did his best and choked down as much as he could.
He knew that there were teams assigned to rebuilding and repairing Hogwarts, that Healers were talking to everyone who wanted to talk, that Hermione wanted to go to Australia for her parents but didn’t want to leave the Weasleys, to leave Ron. He knew he should think about what he’d be doing in September, about the offer to join the Aurors; he worried about his godson, about George. He was relieved that Ginny was too heartbroken to try and rekindle their relationship right away, though he felt guilty about it.
Mostly, though, he slept.
He had never imagined he could be so tired, and yet there he was, sleeping the time away. He vaguely wondered if it was normal, but then he’d died, so he figured that would take a lot out of any bloke, right? And no one seemed to think it strange; they all left him to it. He had no dreams, no nightmares either; he’d expected he would, but… no. He just slept, ate to make Mrs Weasley smile a bit, told Professor McGonagall that yes, of course, he was considering his options for the future, told Madam Pomfrey that yes, of course, he’d tell her if anything was wrong. They both were too busy to prod for long, and he was happy to be mostly left to his own devices.
When September came, he went back to Hogwarts; Hermione was coming back, Ron was following her example, and Harry figured he ought to as well. Why not? He wasn’t up to facing other Auror trainees as The Boy Who Lived And Also Got Special Treatment, and the Headmistress had promised all returning students would have separate dorms or private rooms if needed, and more leeway regarding the rules. No curfew for them, and all veterans – most Seventh Years included – could skip class as needed.
Harry felt he wouldn't need to; he felt fine, a bit detached maybe, but mostly fine. Still, not everyone was.
In the end, he did request a private room, because while he didn’t have nightmares, he didn’t feel comfortable sharing a dorm any longer. The noises that had been comforting before – Ron’s soft snores, the sound of a quill on parchment, of pages turning – were terrifying now, because they could stop. They could stop at any time, and he couldn't take it. The idea of more death, the idea of not being able to stop it… No, he’d be better on his own.
He hoped the Headmistress wouldn't think he was requesting special treatment, but she told him every one of the few returning Eighth Years had also asked for a private room, including Draco Malfoy. Harry winced; he hadn’t thought the ferret would dare to show his face around Hogwarts again.
When they first crossed paths, they stared at each other for a bit – Ron glaring over Harry’s shoulder, Draco glowering right back, before just… deflating.
“I don’t want to fight any longer,” he said.
“Maybe I want to.”
“Ron…” Hermione turned to Draco. “It’s not that easy. You can’t just erase all you did.”
“No. No, I can’t. I was wrong; my parents were wrong, and we…” His eyes went unfocused, his lips pinched. “I don’t want to erase it; I want to…” He grimaced, like the words wouldn’t come. Harry noticed the thin, silvery scar running across one cheek. I did that, he thought.
“They’re looking for volunteers to help with Hagrid’s enclosures,” he said.
Draco nodded. “I can do that,” he said, before hurrying away.
They had been coolly civil to each other ever since, and while Ron and Hermione avoided him as much as possible, Harry simply ignored him. It worked, for a time.
The private room turned out to be both a curse and a blessing: a blessing, because no one realised when things started to go sideways. A curse, because no one realised when things started to go sideways.
As October was drawing to a close, Harry felt he had things well in hand: he consistently got decent grades, decent enough to get into the Auror program on the same basis as the other trainees; he’d also had a few offers to join Quidditch teams after school even though he wasn’t playing for Gryffindor this year. Rumours of his flying had reached some ears, though, and he still practised with the team – but he didn't want his name and fame to outshine Nikki, the promising third-year Seeker. And also, he didn’t want to be captain, and he was pretty sure they’d ask him to be captain. It was Ginny who headed the team now, and it was good that way. She was great at it, and he wouldn’t have been. She deserved to shine on her own merits, which somehow she took to mean he was dumping her when he told her that. He didn’t try to correct her; he thought it would have been dumping if there had been anything between them but there hadn't been since, well, since before everything. She’d felt otherwise, apparently, which came as a surprise to him. Still, they’d agreed to part ways that Harry had believed already parted, and that had been that.
All was well.
Except… well, except those strange, intrusive dreams – daydreams, really – he kept having. As soon as he started to zone out over an old book about counter-poisons or the magical properties of plants from Madagascar, weird visions would start to play behind his eyelids. At first, he didn’t think much of it: Binns droning on about a Troll war, brooms zooming everywhere over the Quidditch pitch. A schoolteacher dressed in the kind of clothes Harry had only ever seen on TV, because they looked like they’d gone out of fashion before he was even born. A softly boiling cauldron, a sneering, good-looking man with pale blond hair and cold grey eyes, a sullen-looking woman with thick black brows.
And, one day, a young girl appeared who couldn't be older than the first years; she had a bright red plait and her eyes… Harry dropped his quill, splattering ink everywhere. That girl was his mum.
Ever since May, Harry had done his best to avoid thinking about those memories, and about Snape’s not-death. He’d told everyone that he hadn’t found Snape’s corpse but that there had been traces of a magical fire, and brought back some ash from a rotten side table he found in the shack and burned himself. Everybody else assumed Death Eaters had found Snape’s body and set it on fire for his betrayal, and he didn’t tell anyone otherwise, not even Ron and Hermione. If Snape had survived, he didn’t need the Ministry or reporters or an angry mob going after him; Harry owed him that. He cleared his name, got him a posthumous Order of Merlin, and gave the phial of memories to Kreacher, telling him to hide it.
He was tempted many times to try and find them again, or simply ask Kreacher to bring them back, but he remembered the Mirror of Erised. He longed to see his mother again, young and carefree; but the few memories of her Snape had given him were surrounded by painful ones, and he didn’t want to jump into a Pensieve and replay those few minutes again and again, carefully avoiding the darker stuff so he could lose himself in a past he never knew, a past that wasn’t his, not really.
So he’d tucked all of it away in his mind, and as the months went by he thought about it less and less. All that had happened during and after the Battle he papered over with the most mundane things – that Transfiguration Essay that was due next week, Teddy’s first wobbly steps, Sunday roast at the Weasleys’. It worked fine, until the red-haired girl.
It wasn’t a memory that he saw in May; actually, he'd never seen it before. She was running along a dirty-looking river, giggling, her plait flying behind her; Harry was running after her, waving a stick like a wand and shouting made-up spells like Blasto-Tree! and Aqua-whirlum! Then he tripped on something, barely breaking his fall with his hands and jarring Harry out of himself – no. Not out of himself.
There, getting to his knees and staring at his torn-up palms, is a young Severus Snape in all his greasy-haired glory, wearing fraying, ill-fitting clothes and biting his lip. He is trying not to cry, Harry realises, but when Lily turns back and looks at his hands, gently turning them this way and that, he does cry – a single fat tear that he hastily wipes off before shrugging his fall off and standing up.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he mumbles.
“No, but you should put something on it so it doesn’t get infected and make your hands fall off.”
“They’re not going to fall off!”
She looks impish as she grins at him, tugging him forward by the wrist. “Come on, we have that red stuff at the house.”
“There’s alcohol at mine.”
“You shouldn’t disinfect a wound with the kind you drink, Sev.”
“Well I’m sure he’d drink yours too.”
“But he’s not there.” She leads him to a road and Harry follows them, entranced.
“Maybe he’s not, but Tuney will be.”
“She’ll be doing something sensible like covering her schoolbooks.”
Their voices are fading and Harry walks faster, faster until he’s running, but they still grow further and further away from him until he’s blinking at the Library’s bookshelves.
That was when he remembered the broken strand of memory he’d somehow absorbed in the Shack, all the other strange visions he’d had, and started to put two and two together.
Lily’s pulling him forward and his hands are hurting, but he’s trying very hard to pretend they don’t. When he looks down at them, he sees they’re badly scraped, and that small bits of gravel and dirt are embedded in the skin. His mum would magic it all away and make him all new again with a wave of her wand if he went home; his dad is probably at the pub right now and what he doesn’t see, he can’t be mad about. But Severus doesn’t want to go home; mum is always sad, and his room is small and dark, and the window is broken.
So he follows, and when they get there Lily’s mum cleans his hands the Muggle way, with something that stings and leaves his palms smarting and red, and then she asks if he wants a snack. She always asks if he wants a snack.
“No,” he replies, like he always does. He doesn’t want charity. “Thank you.”
“What about you, Lily?”
He can see it; he can see the way her eyes linger on him. She knows he doesn’t eat three meals a day, even if he’s never told her. He’s not surprised when she replies, “Are there some of Gran’s scones left?”
He tries to eat slowly, to take his time with the jam and the cream and the scones like Lily and Petunia and their mum do, but he's so hungry, and it’s so good. Tuney sneers at him when he curls a little too closely around his plate, and he sneers right back. Once he’s got a wand, she’ll fear him; he’s sure of it.
Mrs Evans gives him a little bag with another scone and some candy – Cadbury Eggs, a Mars bar. He’s lucky his dad isn’t home when he reaches Spinner’s End, and his mum doesn’t really pay attention to him as she chops the wilted vegetables she’s managed to get from the grocer’s for cheap. They’ll have thin soup for tea, but he won’t go hungry tonight. Maybe he’ll manage to sneak the scone to his mum, if his dad falls into a drunken stupor early.
Severus woke up with a gasp, clutching at his throat and struggling to breathe.
He choked and wheezed for a few moments before catching his breath, rolling to his side in the too-large bed with the too-soft sheets. The sun was just starting to peek over the hills, and its first rays were stabbing through the thin curtains and making the silver threads of the coverlet shine. It was early, too early to get up, but what else was he supposed to do?
You can rest now, Narcissa had said, You have all the time in the world to recover. No one knows you’re alive but us and the Potter boy. That had not been very reassuring, but said Potter boy had kept mum about Severus’s continued survival, so perhaps he had acquired some discretion. Unless he thought Severus had been too far gone to survive and had died after all?
Ah, it didn’t matter. Nothing much did, these days. Once he had recovered enough to leave his bed, he’d focused on regaining his strength, starting with longer and longer walks through the Manor grounds. Narcissa usually walked with him, and when she couldn’t, she sent an elderly elf to keep an eye on him. He’d have resented it if he hadn’t needed the help a few times when he’d overestimated how far he could go. No, that was a lie – he still resented it, even if he shouldn’t. He was, after all, a petty bastard.
Still, he was alive, free if only because most thought him dead, and he still had his wand. He could go anywhere, do anything. And he would, if only he didn’t have those… those spells, for want of a better word.
“Draco will be home for the week.”
“Hm.” Severus kept a steady stir, counter-clockwise, and focused on the slowly shifting colour of the potion.
“He’ll be happy to see you so improved.”
“Hm.” Lilac, to blue, to – slowly, very slowly, as it should be – green. Ultimately, it would be Killing Curse green, not that Potions books described it that way; most Potioneers were not Dark Arts practitioners, after all. Although Severus was – had been. Was. The Dark Mark would always be on his arm, like it would be on Draco’s and his father’s. Speaking of…
“I think he’s got his eyes on a young lady, as well.”
“Isn’t he a bit young?”
“Well, you know I had my heart set on Narcissa quite early, and hers on me as well.”
His heart, eh? More like his ambitions. Not that they weren’t a good match, but Severus was well aware of the politics behind a very thin veneer of avowed affection. It wasn’t only the Slytherin families that followed old traditions, and in that as in many things, they were no better than the Muggles they so despised. Severus remembered the history lessons of his Cokeworth school, and the books he used to read later on, during the long summers away from Hogwarts.
“Pureblood, I assume?”
“He hasn’t said, but he knows his duty.” Lucius cleared his throat. “Not that there’s anything wrong – but the traditions, you understand.”
Severus curled his lip. “Of course.” Pale green now, and he slowed his stirring. “A Muggle-born or, Merlin forbid, Muggle wife would be a stain on the Malfoy family tree. Even a half-blood…”
“Severus.”
“What?”
“Severus, you know I’ve always thought highly of you.”
“Do I?”
That was it, the perfect Avada Kedavra green. He extinguished the flames under the cauldron and gently lifted the rod out, wiping it as he went so not a drop fell from it and disturbed the potion.
“You are not responsible for your mother’s choice, and…”
“We’ve had this conversation before; let’s not have it again.”
Lucius looked at his manicured nails, then gave Severus his most earnest expression. As if Severus didn’t know all too well what was in Lucius’s mind, at this point. He bit off a snort and started cleaning his tools.
“Even the Weasleys are still keeping their line pure!”
“Most of them, yes.” He set phials in a row next to the cauldron and prepared to decant the potion.
“I’m trying. I realise that I went too far in some things, but I can’t pretend…” He sighed. “I wouldn’t forbid Draco to marry a Muggle-born, if only for political reasons; it would help the family name, in the current climate. And I think Narcissa would not disapprove either.”
“She’s made peace with her sister, hasn’t she?”
“Andromeda, yes. Young Teddy–” he grimaced at the name “–is already showing signs of strong Metamorphmagus abilities.”
“Muggle and werewolf blood in the child, and yet he will be powerful. You should, perhaps, encourage Draco to marry a Muggle, or perhaps a Veela.”
“Let’s not get too carried away.” Lucius watched him pour the potion into the phials, though of course he didn’t lift a finger to help. “What about you, Severus?”
“Me?”
“What about carrying on your fine Prince legacy?”
“I don’t bear the name, and there’s no legacy to speak of, as you well know. An obscure family, with nothing to its name.”
“Come on. Princes have been fine wizards and witches for centuries; there’s no need to dismiss…”
“I am not having that conversation with you either.” He carried the cauldron to the sink and started scrubbing, manually; magic could disrupt its properties, and Severus was nothing if not scrupulous with his tools.
“But you… Severus!”
His mum ties his hair and waves her wand over it so it won’t escape the knot.
“There, I think you’re ready.”
He squirms; the shoes are too tight, and his feet hurt. He doesn’t tell her, though; they’re already spelled within an inch of their life and he thinks they might disintegrate if she cast another Charm at them.
“Mum, why do we have to go?”
“Severus…” She sighs and crouches in front of him. “They’re your grandparents; I’m sure they’ll be very happy to meet you.”
“We never went before.”
“But we’re going today. Remember; you have to be on your best behaviour.”
Be polite, quiet, and above all do not mention your father; yes, he remembers. “What if they don’t like me?”
“They'll like you; you’re a strong young wizard already.”
Severus looks at his hands. He doesn’t have a wand yet; he’s too young, but one day… one day, he’ll have a wand. It’s weird, to be wearing formal wizard clothes, to be scrubbed like he’s never been; there’s not even dirt under his nails, and his hair is clean and combed. He feels a bit uncomfortable, like he’s not himself. But he’s going to meet his grandparents, and they’re wizards, too. They’re going to give him sweets, and they’ll be nice, right? That’s what the other kids at school say grandparents are like.
He’s hopeful, even if he finds it a bit strange that he’s never seen them before. But he takes his mum’s hand and closes his eyes as she Apparates them away, and he trusts her.
“Harry! Harry, wake up!”
“Uh?” He flailed a bit and almost fell from the couch in the Eighth Years’ common room, barely avoiding slapping Hermione in the face. “Oh, sorry; I wasn’t quite there.”
“You fell asleep over that book, mate. Not that I can blame you.”
“Right, yeah.”
Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron but mostly looked concerned. “Are you okay, Harry?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, it’s not the first time this has happened; maybe you’re not sleeping well…?”
She was fishing for something; Harry frowned – ah, right. She thought he was having nightmares, and was trying to get him to talk about it. But nightmares weren’t the problem; the problem was those visions he had that were… well, that were someone else’s memories. A supposedly dead someone, too. He’d managed to corner Malfoy the week before in the Library, and he’d confirmed that Snape was alive and at the Manor. Not fully recovered, but getting there, and not eager to let anyone know about his survival.
“He thinks he’ll get thrown into Azkaban by the Aurors, or killed on sight by, you know. The other side.”
“He won’t; he’s a hero!”
“He’s made a lot of enemies on both sides, and not a whole lot of friends.”
“I’m not sure staying with your parents is helping.”
Draco had raised his eyebrows, though he hadn’t protested. “It’s not like he has anywhere else to go. His house is a dump; if it’s still standing, that is.”
And, well. What could Harry have answered, anyway?
So Snape was alive, and his memories were invading more and more of Harry’s waking hours, and it was starting to be a problem. It was happening at random times, and he was either suddenly thrust mid-memory or it ended abruptly, severed like the thread that had crept up his wand in the Shack had been when Narcissa had Apparated away with him.
“I’m sleeping fine,” he told Hermione.
She didn’t look convinced. “But maybe not enough?”
“Come on; he’s not reading mouldy old books all night long like some people I know,” Ron said.
“I don’t read mouldy old books all night long!”
“You totally do.”
“How do you know what Hermione does all night long?”
Ron turned as red as Harry’s jumper, but it threw them off Harry for now as they pretended they didn’t share a bed most nights while Harry threatened to tell Mrs Weasley.
Harry woke up panting, and hard. Extremely hard.
He clutched his blankets and tried very ha… tried his very best to focus on his breathing, on calming down, on everything but what was happening down there, and what he’d just dreamed of. What he’d just seen.
Of course, he was failing horribly.
All he could see, burned on the inside of his eyelids, playing in front of his mind’s eye, inescapable, was just – pale limbs, four legs, four arms, two dark-haired heads. He couldn't see who the other person was, but Snape had been with another bloke. Snape had been having sex with another guy. Snape was into dudes, really into dudes, and there had been at least one dude who’d been really into (wrong word, wrong word – Harry bit his lip) Snape. Shit. The noises… Harry turned on his side and and wished he could unsee, unhear it all, but the muffled moans, the sighs, Snape’s unmistakable voice and the other bloke’s murmurs; the sound of the sheets rumpling under them, of flesh against flesh, of the flashes of skin in the semi-darkness…
Fuck; he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep if he didn’t do anything about it.
Harry slipped his hands in his pyjamas and bit his hand as he came, hoping he wouldn’t remember that dream-memory but knowing he’d never forget.
“Potter.”
Harry turned around and saw Malfoy leaning against the tiled wall, watching him come out of the shower and openly checking him out. “Malfoy!”
“What?”
“Just… don’t!” Harry grabbed his towel and wrapped himself in it. “It’s rude.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Of course I am!”
“I didn’t see anything to be ashamed about.” The bastard smirked, deliberately lowering his gaze to, er. Something that was under the towel now.
“What do you want?”
“Pushy, aren’t we? Fine.” He pushed away from the wall and held out Harry’s shirt, politely looking away, now. “I’m supposed to ask you to come to the Manor.”
“No way. I’m not going back there.”
“It’s Snape.”
Harry snatched his shirt from Malfoy’s hand and put it on awkwardly, hoping the towel’s precarious hold on his hips wouldn’t fail him. “What about him?”
“He’s, er, sick. Kind of.”
“Sick?” Harry pulled up his boxers under the towel, ignoring Draco’s raised eyebrows at his hopping and squirming. “I thought he was getting better?”
“He’s mostly recovered from the snake bite, yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, he won’t say, but it's got something to do with you.”
“How would you know, if he won’t say?”
“Everybody knows he gave you some of his memories, right? You made sure it was public knowledge.”
“Don’t make that face; I had to, to clear his name.”
Malfoy sniffed. “Perhaps. Anyway, he keeps having these spells, and my parents are worried. At first he just seemed to be tired or lost in his thoughts, but it’s getting worse; Father says…” He cleared his throat. “From things Snape’s said when he was having one of those spells… he’s recognised the memory.”
“Death Eater stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah.”
Draco nodded, his jaw tight.
“But what’s that got to do with me? Apart from the whole, you know, Voldemort thing.”
“Don’t say his – right.” He took a breath, clenched and unclenched his hands. “Nevermind, he’s dead; I know he’s dead.” He looked rattled, as if just hearing the name out loud was enough to bring back all his fears.
Harry didn’t much like that it made him feel sympathy, but there it was. “He’s not coming back,” he said.
“I know,” Draco replied, annoyed – with himself or with Harry, it was hard to say. “ Anyway, whatever’s happening with Snape, it’s got something to do with you because you share some of his memories, and because you’re having the same problem.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry tightened his shoelaces so much he couldn’t feel his toes, but he ignored that for the moment. “I’m fine.”
“I saw you in the Library the other day; you stared at a blank parchment for ten minutes straight without moving, and then you…”
“Right, fine, I was there.” He’d started crying, because it had been a memory of a young Severus Snape and his mother, playing and laughing together as they piled building blocks into impossible shapes that could only have held together thanks to magic. The memory had cut off when Petunia had barged in and kicked everything down, but Harry had felt so grateful to see his mum again. “It was the middle of the night; what were you doing in the Library?”
“I couldn't sleep.”
“Right.”
“So, will you come? Mother wants to call a Healer but Snape refuses; he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s alive, but maybe if you met…”
“What am I supposed to do? I’m not a Healer either.”
“You could give him back his memories. Mother thinks it could help.”
“I’m not going back to the Manor, and that’s final.”
“Grimmauld Place, then.”
Harry blinked. “It’s empty.”
“I know. And it’s yours.” Malfoy sneered. “It should have stayed within the Black bloodline, but your dogfather decided otherwise.”
“Hey!” Before he’d even consciously formed a spell in his mind, Harry’s wand was already in his hand and pointed at Malfoy. “Don’t speak like that of him! It was his to do as he pleased, and it’s not like you need more money anyway!”
Draco’s hands jerked up as he looked nervously at Harry’s wand. “It’s not like you need more money either, but no. I was thinking of my aunt Andromeda, and my cousin.”
“Ted? He’s my godson.”
“I know. My mother is helping them, but they don’t have a lot; my aunt was cut off from the Black inheritance.”
“Yeah.” Harry sheathed his wand again, shaking his head. “No, you’re right; it should be theirs. I don’t want it and I should give it back to them, but it’s all stuff I haven’t had time to think about. But I will; I swear.”
Malfoy shrugged, his eyes still on Harry’s hands in case he drew his wand out again. “You’ve been busy.”
“Right.”
“Right.” He shuffled back, looked up. “So, what do you say? About meeting at Grimmauld Place,” he added at Harry’s confused expression.
“Er, I don’t know. Just him?”
“He won’t come by himself, but Mother should be able to convince him.”
“You and her, that’s fine. Not your father.”
Draco sighed, looking out of the window. “No, not him. But you can’t bring Granger or Weasley either; I don’t think it would help.”
“Hermione’s really smart!”
“And not the Weasel? Oh come on; put that wand down – you know I had to say it!”
“You’re a wanker.” Harry crossed his arm, tapping a finger pointedly on the wand resheathed up his sleeve. “But no, I’ll be there alone. I haven’t told them, anyway. They don’t know he’s still alive.”
“You haven’t?”
“Who do you take me for?”
“Someone who’s close to his friends.”
Ah. Harry looked at the scuffed toes of his shoes. “Yeah, it’s just, I figured he deserved to be left alone, so I didn’t tell anyone.”
Malfoy nodded, bit his lip. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“I guessed so.” He turned and walked away, but stopped at the door to look over his shoulder. “I’ll write to Mother and let you know when they’re coming.”
“Malfoy…”
“Hm?”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?”
He shrugged. “We’ll know that when it happens,” he said before sauntering away.
It really wasn’t very reassuring.
It took a while to convince Ron and Hermione that, yes, he wanted to go to Grimmauld Place over the weekend but that no, he didn’t want them to come with him. He tried to suggest he wanted to spare Kreacher the extra work, which only convinced Hermione, and that he needed some time alone to think, which made Ron give him a thumbs-up and wish him good luck with Muggle dating, for some reason. He even offered to give him some tips, but Harry declined.
All in all, it was easier than he’d feared, although Harry suspected it was because his friends planned to spend the weekend, er, practising the tips Ron had mentioned. When classes were over on Friday afternoon, he packed a few things – some textbooks, a few clothes – and hopped on his broom to fly outside of Hogwarts’ wards and Apparate to London.
Once he got there, he found Kreacher busy in the kitchen; since he’d got Harry’s letter about getting visitors – Black-related, too – the elf had thrown himself into a frenzy of cleaning and cooking, and Harry thought the house had never looked so good. Well, it still didn’t look nice and welcoming but it was much less dusty, and sunlight was pouring in from the freshly-cleaned windows. Harry settled in the library, spread out his homework on the large table, and nibbled on some of the sandwiches Kreacher brought him.
And then, a commotion at the front door drew him out of the library at a run.
“You said we were going to a family house,” Severus pushed out through his clenched teeth.
“We are. This is a family house, Severus.” Narcissa gave him a tight-lipped smile and tightened her grip on his arm as she followed Draco inside.
He’d never thought he’d have to come back to this cursed house, even if it looked like the portrait of Walburga Black had been silenced for good; the wall where it used to hang was scorched, well, Black.
“Why?”
The thump of feet on old carpet, and a voice he wished he didn’t recognize: “Er, hi.”
“Narcissa.”
“You know why we’re here,” she said.
He only glared back in answer.
“Mr Potter,” she said. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“You invited yourself, but–” he shrugged “–that’s fine. Er, Kreacher’s prepared a lot of food, so if you’re hungry…”
Severus scowled; he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to be here. Most of all, he didn’t want to be around Potter; he’d had enough of the boy over the past seven years. Almost eight now.
“I could eat,” Draco said.
“And I think Severus should be shown his room in case he needs to rest.”
“Severus,” he gritted out, “is right here, and can talk for himself.”
“You can, but you won’t.”
“I am perfectly able to…”
“You’ve been on your feet, brewing, all day; you know you’re still recovering.”
“I need an income to repay your hospitality.”
“They’ve been at it for months,” Draco whispered loudly to Potter, “just ignore them.”
“Right. But I didn’t think you'd stay long enough to need rooms; I don’t think any are ready.”
“Of course I prepared three rooms, Master Harry; I was told to do so by Mistress Black.” The shrivelled little thing looked straight at Severus and added, “Yours is where you used to stay.”
“Fine.”
“It’s the green bedroom that you’re familiar with.”
“Yes, I got that the first time.”
“I didn’t change anything, even if Master Regulus was a pure-blood and you’re not.”
“How comforting.”
“It is the same as it was twenty years ago.”
“Yes, thank you, Kreacher.” He hoped thanking the malevolent little beast would get him to stop, even if it left a sour taste in his mouth. “I shall go, then, since you all think I’m an invalid who needs to lie down like a consumptive maiden.”
Fuming, he stomped up the stairs but misjudged the last one; he caught himself on the bannister but Potter grabbed his other arm. “Careful, sir.”
“Unhand me.”
“Okay.” Potter released his arm and took a step back, hands raised; horribly aware of the eyes of both Narcissa and Draco on them, Severus made his way to Regulus’s old room, the one he’d avoided ever since Regulus’s death, even when he came on Order business, even when he had craved some privacy after a summons from the Dark Lord and before giving his report to Dumbledore and his cronies.
But Potter followed him, watching him like a hawk, like he didn’t trust his greasy git of a teacher, the nasty old Death Eater who escaped Azkaban, to play nice.
“I’m not going to kill you, Potter.”
“As if you could.” At Severus’s slightly wobbly whirl and raised wand, he added, “Okay, fine, you could, if you wanted to. I just don’t think you want to.”
“You’d be wrong.”
“Fine, you’re the meanest, baddest, scariest guy around. Better?”
Severus searched the boy’s face; his words sounded mocking, but his face… he was smiling, a smile that was nothing like the smirk his father constantly sported, a smile like he meant it more like good-natured teasing. But Potter hated him; didn’t he? As he should, especially if forced to welcome Severus to his home. “What are you playing at?” He was tempted to cast Legilimency, of course, but even Severus, who had quite a lot of experience about bad decisions and poor impulse control, knew better than to listen to that little voice.
“Nothing. It’s just, after having seen so many of your memories, it’s hard to not see you as a human being.”
“You haven’t seen much, then.” He didn’t remember which ones, exactly, he’d given him back in the Shack, but so many? It couldn't be true.
“I saw my mum a lot. I wanted to thank you for that, by the way; no one ever told me much about her, apart from you.”
“I didn’t tell you anything.”
Potter shrugged and followed him inside Regulus’s room. “Tomah-to, tomay-to. So why did Kreacher… Oh. Oh.”
“What?” Severus had his wand out again, scowling at every dark corner.
“I’ve seen this room before.”
He rolled his eyes and put his wand away. “You own the house.”
“No, I mean yes, but I saw it… I saw you… er. Here?” Potter blushed.
“What do you – ah.” Severus’s stomach dropped to the basement and he gripped the bedpost; he could feel himself swaying. “I… have been here before.”
“With… Sirius’s brother?”
He closed his eyes. “So it’s true, what Narcissa believes. You…” He fought it, but no matter how hard he fought, his magic flared up and the mirror above the mantel cracked. “Fuck.” He fumbled his wand out but the outburst had drained him and he sat heavily on the bed, watching his shaking hands resting on his knees, the wand that had rolled away from him. He had survived, yes, but with his mind broken, his privacy invaded by Harry Potter of all people – he had no secret left; he had no prospects, no income, no house, and he didn’t even have his full health. He depended on charity and secrecy, a secrecy that relied on the Boy Who Lived’s mercy, on the goodwill of a boy of barely eighteen years who had seen all the worst of him, who knew all his flaws and his shame and…
“Professor? Professor, can you hear me?”
He fell backwards on the bed, laughing hysterically, taking great big gulps of air behind the hands covering his face.
“Professor?” Potter pulled his hands away and stared down at him; he had one knee on the bed and his weight made the mattress dip enough that Severus could feel his body angling slightly towards it. “Professor, are you…?”
Severus snorted. “Am I what? Am I all right? Am I sane? Am I a professor?” He shoved Potter away and scooted further back on the bed, sitting cross-legged and watching Potter watch him. “None of these things.” He let his head rest against the wall and closed his eyes, well aware that he was baring his throat to the boy. He could see it in his mind’s eye, how his hair would fall back, how the nasty scars that Nagini’s bites and venom had given him would be visible, creeping out from under his turtleneck like poisoned tentacles trying to choke him. They crawled up from his shoulder to his jawline, and one reached mid-cheek, an angry-red, too-smooth vine on his plaster-pale, ravaged face. He certainly had never been Witch Weekly material, but now he looked like nightmare fuel.
“Oh,” Potter said. “Well, you could be. Slughorn doesn’t want to stay.”
He opened one eye. “Yes, the Board would love having a Death Eater and Dumbledore’s murderer teaching their children.”
“We had Quirrell, several actual Death Eaters, and bloody Umbridge as teachers! And a ghost.”
“And Lockhart.”
“He wasn’t very smart.”
“No, but at least he was pretty.” Potter was quiet for a few moments, and Severus opened both eyes to look at the boy. He was gaping. “What?”
“You thought he was pretty?”
“I thought he was an idiot.”
“A pretty idiot.”
“Your point, Potter?”
“I just didn’t think you, uh, noticed that.”
“What do people notice about Granger?”
“Um, that she’s really smart.”
“See, Potter? You immediately thought about her intelligence. One notices in others what one lacks.”
The boy blinked at him until the words finally connected with their meaning in his addled brain. “Hey! It’s not what I first noticed.”
Severus huffed.
“It’s not! And you’re not…”
“Shut up, Potter.” Severus really wasn’t in the mood.
“She liked Lockhart, though; she thought he was good-looking and everything. Well, at first, anyway. So, is that why you liked my mother? Because you thought she was pretty?”
Oh, that was worse. “Don’t you have guests to deal with?”
“Yeah, and you’re one of them.”
“Not by choice.”
“Well, I didn’t choose to have your memories hijacking my brain either!”
“Do you think I want to have my privacy invaded again and again?”
“I had to see all your Death Eater stuff! And – and what you did here!”
“You’re making it sound like the latter was worse than the former.” Severus raised an eyebrow, enjoying the look of discomfiture on the boy’s face. “I would have thought someone your age would not be so much of a prude.”
“I’m not a prude!”
“Is it because it was two men?”
“No!” Potter looked down, deflated. “No, it’s not. I don’t… that’s fine.”
“Ah.” Severus eyed him, eyed the slight blush on his cheeks, the embarrassment visible on his face, and had a rare moment of magnanimity; he changed the subject. “I apologise for the Death Eater stuff, as you put it.”
“Yeah, well, you didn’t send it on purpose.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Yeah,” he repeated.
Potter scratched the side of his nose, eyes still on the faded green coverlet, and Severus took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He’d filled out a bit, which was unsurprising now that he wasn’t running for his life, freezing and half-starved; he looked healthier. His jaw had lost what little roundness it still had two years ago, and he really, really needed new glasses to fit his less childish face. But he was still a talker, unfortunately.
“I bet you have nightmares, right? I have them, too. I know I could ask for some Dreamless Sleep, but I don’t want… I dunno. I’ve had them for years, on and off; I can cope.”
“Don’t you want to stop the nightmares?”
“Yeah, but… But if I did, then those I dream about would die again.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Potter.”
“I can’t; I can’t do that. I can’t let Tom kill him again.”
“Him? He killed many; who are you… ah. Your fourth year.”
Potter nodded.
“Digg…”
“Don't say it! Don’t say his name.”
Severus blinked. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“I really don’t, Potter.”
“It was my fault; if I hadn’t…”
“If you hadn’t what? You were fifteen and Diggory was barely older; none of what happened was your fault.”
“I told you not to say his name! He deserved better than…”
“Than what? Than being the Dark Lord’s first victim? Than dying an unjust death, than…”
Potter’s head snapped up, his eyes glistening. “I killed him! If I hadn’t been here… It was my fault.”
“It wasn’t.” Severus wondered if he should reach out and touch him, or if he should keep his distance. Potter looked like a tidal wave of hurt had just crashed over whatever walls were usually between what haunted him and the façade he showed the rest of the world. But those walls were much eroded when it was just the two of them, and while Potter had seen more of him than he’d seen of Potter, he knew. He knew more than enough. “Diggory was young, intelligent, kind, and had a bright future ahead of him. He was also handsome and athletic, and overall someone to look up to, as I’m sure you did. And he died because of the Dark Lord. He died because the Dark Lord ordered his death, and you had to witness that.”
“He died because I was there!”
“He died because he was a bright young wizard who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. And you have to live with that memory, among all the others you have to live with. Don’t think I don’t know what it is to live with someone’s death weighing on your conscience, but remember that in your case, your guilt is misplaced.”
Harry was silent for a long time, wiping his cheeks several times. “So is yours,” he finally said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“So is yours. Dumbledore made you promise.”
Snape laughed, a horrible, bitter laugh. “Oh, Potter. Do you believe he is the only one to have died at my hand, my wand, my potions? My words, even?”
“You didn’t kill my mum either.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You tried to save her.”
“And I did a piss-poor job of it.”
Potter shook his head. “You kept your word. I’m alive because of you, and Voldemort is dead because of you. That’s not piss-poor.”
“Don’t be nice, Potter. I don’t think I could survive it.”
That made the boy smile, at least, and Severus thought he could feel the oppressive gloom of this conversation, this room, this very house, lift a little. “You’re unkillable.”
“Says the Boy Who Lived Twice.”
“Ugh, please don’t.” Potter glanced around the room, then back to Severus. “Look, if you don’t want to stay in this room, I can ask Kreacher to put you up in another.”
Severus shrugged. He didn’t want to be in this house at all, whatever the room. At least this one brought back some not entirely unpleasant, if bittersweet, memories.
“I understand that since you and Regulus…”
“Stop.” They’d had more than enough of a heart-to-heart already, and Severus needed to recover from that one first.
“But…”
“Stop right here or I’ll Obliviate you, and I can’t guarantee my spell won’t leave you like Lockhart.”
“Was he that pretty?” Potter asked abruptly. “Regulus, I mean. I only saw a picture of him, and in your memory it was too dark.”
Severus bit his lip and tried to remember that strangling Potter would be silly after all the years he’d spent trying to keep him alive. “Yes.”
“Did you love him?”
He curled his hands into fists. They’d been so young. Idiotic young Death Eaters who’d taken the Mark to please the wrong people. They’d both turned away from the Dark Lord, although Severus had never known the extent of Regulus’s betrayal, and Regulus had never known his, of course. They’d both had doubts, confided in hushed whispers in the dark, but they’d never told each other how deep those doubts ran. But Regulus – he’d had long, agile fingers, a sharp mind, and he had been a deft hand at Charms; he was always polite, charming, with a crooked smile that…
A distant thump vaguely registered in Severus’s mind, and then a presence; bright, energetic, but wary, too. He remembered Regulus’s soft hair and his unblemished skin, how he looked up to Severus and touched him eagerly, smiled at him openly – and at the same time, he could feel Potter’s curiosity battering at the doors of his badly-Occluded thoughts. Potter was probably not even aware of how strong he was, of how forceful his desire to know, to see more would make him a terrifying Legilimens, if he only wished to pursue it.
The contrast was breathtaking between his decades-old memories and the very alive young man in his mind – no, a boy; he was almost the age Regulus had been when he died. Did that make him a boy, or a man?
Severus groans, pushes back against the living essence that has no business poking around in Severus’s mind; he strains, he gasps, he seizes a rope and pulls himself out of his own memories only to be thrown into another roiling mess of them. But they aren’t his; they are alien yet not wholly unfamiliar and – oh, no. He closes his eyes futilely against the noises and images that Potter’s mind is throwing at him, a haphazard series of scenes that slam into him like angry ocean waves trying to drown him, bashing him again and again against the rough rocks that surround Azkaban.
He lets go of the mind rope and lets himself drift away.
He woke up to hushed voices surrounding him, soft, worried murmurs that had him trying to sit up before he’d even managed to open his eyes.
“Ah, you’re back with us at last.” Narcissa caught his shoulders and pushed him back, and Severus blinked and rubbed his eyes until they focused properly on her face.
“What…?”
“You and young Mr Potter were talking, and you had another, ah, incident.” She sat on the bed, her posture as straight and perfect as ever. “Both of you, I mean. He recovered earlier than you did, but he’s still quite shaken. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m a prisoner here.” He glared at her as he batted her hands away and sat on the edge of the bed. Someone had taken off his shoes, and his socks, greying and almost see-through in places, were on full display. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t; the situation must be resolved.”
Resolved? It had never been so bad before, and there was one very obvious cause. “It’s worse with him around, ergo: I’m leaving.”
“You can’t.”
“So I am a prisoner?”
“Of course not; don’t…”
The bedroom’s door creaked open and Severus looked up – and froze.
“Hello, Severus.”
He swallowed, feeling eleven again. Her stern face, her tight bun, her thin lips…
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. It was pointless; no sound would come out.
“After all these years working together, after making me believe the worst of you, after letting me believe you dead… How could you!”
Somehow, Narcissa had disappeared and Minerva McGonagall was now right next to him, flinging her arms around him, shaking him and berating him and holding him – Dumbledore’s most trusted deputy, the Head of Gryffindor for decades, prominent Order member, and now Headmistress of one of the oldest and most prestigious schools of magic…
Her emotions were buffeting him; he didn’t know how to react. “Are you crying?” He thought she was, but why…? “I killed him. I really did.”
This only prompted her to more tears and more wiping of tears, but still no curse, which only increased his bafflement.
“Headmistress?” he said.
“Oh, Severus.” She pulled away from him at last, and he shivered. “You know my name; you’ve used it for years.”
This didn’t answer his question. Why was she here? Who called her, and for what purpose? “Yes,” he replied. That, at least, was a safe answer.
“Narcissa Malfoy called me. After you and young Harry had been unconscious for almost two days, she sent her son back to Hogwarts; I brought Poppy and Harry’s friends with me.”
He grimaced; there went his peace.
“Oh, don’t make that face; Poppy’s examined you, but Mr Weasley and Miss Granger don’t even know you’re here. Well, not yet; I somehow suspect they will soon learn about your survival, whatever your feelings on the matter.”
“I… two days?”
“It’s Sunday evening. Oh, I’m so angry with you both – how could you and Harry not tell anyone what was happening?”
“How is he?”
“He’s doing better than you; he’s been awake since this morning. But you – oh, Severus, I’m so glad you’re alive.” She gripped his hand between hers, and it was – at that moment, it was too much. He fought it all he could, but he couldn't stop it, the way his chest seized, his throat tightened, his vision blurred; how he gasped and bit his cheek. His hand crushed the Headmistress’s and he curled in on himself, forward and inward and… and she caught him.
No one had ever caught him before.
Harry watched Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey as they joined him, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Mrs Malfoy in the kitchen. He tried to read their faces, but he couldn't decide if their closed expressions meant anything good or bad.
“How is he doing?” Malfoy asked.
“How is who?” Ron crossed his arms and scowled at Draco, but Hermione squeezed Ron’s shoulder and he sat back, loosening his stance though not losing the scowl.
“You have to promise to keep it a secret, for now. I know I can count on you, it’s just, you know, dangerous.” Harry looked down at the worn table.
“Dangerous for whom?” When he didn’t reply, Hermione repeated, too gently, “For whom, Harry? You, or that other mysterious person?”
“Uh, yeah. And you, too.”
“I thought this kind of stuff was behind us!”
“It’s related.” All eyes turned to Malfoy, who shrugged. “It’s true.”
“The Dark Lord isn’t coming back,” his mother added. “But the ripples of his death…”
“No need to be so dramatic.” McGonagall swept her eyes around the table. “Harry, I think this is your story to tell.”
“Right. Um…” Ron and Hermione’s intense focus made him falter, but he glanced at McGonagall and remembered he was supposed to be brave. “So, you know that Snape – Professor Snape – he gave me some of his memories, right?” They nodded. “So, I went back to the Shack after the battle; I was trying to clear my head, to have some time on my own to, you know, sort through things, and, er.” He paused, looked at Ron. “I’m sorry; I know I should have stayed with you.”
“Nah, Harry, mate, no; no one thinks that.”
“Okay.” Harry thought that, but he kept that to himself. “So I was walking around, and I ended up in front of the Whomping Willow and I thought, well, I thought I should bring Snape’s body back to the Great Hall.”
“You said there was no body there.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “But there was? And he wasn’t dead?”
Harry nodded. “He was… well, I thought he was dead at first; the blood…” He shook his head; nothing would ever erase the sight and smell of the blood, coating everywhere and everything, almost choking him. “But there was one last memory flowing out of him.”
Narcissa blinked at him, her only concession to surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. I had come in to take Severus’s body away, before one or both sides decided to desecrate it. I wasn’t expecting Mr Potter there.”
He smiled a little. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting you either.”
“And neither of us expected Severus to draw a breath, I’d wager. At any rate, when I realised he was alive, I Apparated with him to a safe house, then took him to the Manor. I didn’t think he’d be safe, otherwise.”
Pomfrey huffed. “I’d have treated him, just like I’ve treated all the injured I saw.”
“You, perhaps. But I imagine both sides wanted him to pay in such a fraught moment, and I didn’t want to risk his safety.”
“But when you took him away, you cut off the memory strand between us. It had latched onto my wand and when you Apparated, it snapped.”
“You can cut a memory?” Trust Hermione to focus on that.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re supposed to, but the bit that was on my wand just seeped into me, and that was that.”
“Creepy,” Ron mumbled. “Wait. Is that why you’ve been having these weird blanking out moments?”
“Maybe? I didn’t pay attention to it at first, but then I started to realise what I was seeing… it wasn’t just my imagination, it was a bunch of memories, but they weren’t mine. And they were never complete.”
“Severus has them, too. He was mostly comatose for weeks after the battle, and he wouldn't talk at first.”
“He thought we’d kidnapped him to kill him,” Draco said.
“Brutal.”
“We hadn’t, Weasley. Keep up.”
Ron flipped him the bird and McGonagall frowned. “Boys,” she said.
“Sorry,” they muttered.
“Narcissa?”
“Thank you. It has become steadily worse; he hasn’t fully recovered yet, and while we indulge him and let him pretend he’s working for his upkeep, he’s far from well. He had been stretched too thin already before Nagini, and the venom and the blood loss were just the final straw.”
“Quite the straw,” McGonagall said.
“Indeed. But those… visions, dreams, memories, call them what you will – they hit him hard. He sometimes faints, and it takes him a while to come out of them. Lucius has had to close off the laboratory to him, or he’d have had an incident again, a seizure really, while brewing a delicate potion.”
“Again?”
“He had one there once, but Lucius was with him, and disaster was averted. He spends most of his time in the Manor’s library, and he’s helping Lucius with one of his projects… No,” she added forcefully, “nothing to do with what you think.”
“They’re designing wards,” Draco said. “Just wards. You can quit your angry caveman act, Weasley.”
McGonagall cleared her throat and Harry hid a smile behind his hand.
“I asked Potter to meet us – my mother, Professor Snape, and me – because the Professor was getting worse.”
“And I said yes because I could tell I was having more and more of those, um, moments.”
“Not seizures? Harry, how bad is it?”
“For me, it’s mostly dreams, while I sleep or when I’m, er, bored. Visions, but not like with Voldemort, you know? I even see my mum, sometimes.” And other things, more unpleasant things, but he didn’t want to mention them in front of his friends. He’d monopolised their attention too much already.
“But why didn’t you tell us anything?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. It didn't seem like a big deal at first, and you were, er, you know…”
“Canoodling?”
“Not helping, Malfoy.” Although Ron’s blush was a little amusing to watch.
Hermione, however, was not so easily distracted. “But what happened on Friday, then? We were only told that you were unconscious.”
“I talked a bit to Snape, and I think our physical proximity triggered something.”
“You had another half-memory?”
“Yeah, but it was much more intense, and I felt him push me out of his mind except he ended up in mine, and I think we shared a bunch of stuff from my memories too. I don’t really remember much, just a few images, but they were mostly from my life, not his. I mean, I’ve seen way more of his life than I ever wanted to see, but I also never wanted him to see that much of mine.”
“An accurate assessment, Potter.” They all turned as one body to see the man himself, Severus Snape in the flesh, standing in the doorway under his own power, if a bit unsteadily.
“Professor!”
“I’m no one’s professor, Granger. And I’m not some specimen to be discussed in absentia, either. If distance is the key, then distance I shall take, and then keep.”
“Severus, you can’t just…”
“At least wait until you’re stronger!”
“No, I understand.” Narcissa’s clear voice cut through the confusion. “I have a small house…” She left the table to take Snape’s elbow and lead him away, presumably to discuss whatever house she’d just mentioned.
“You know he wouldn't have let us help,” Pomfrey said, catching McGonagall’s arm to keep her in her seat.
“I thought… after earlier, I thought perhaps he would.”
“You know him.”
McGonagall nodded with a sigh.
“He’ll need time.”
“What about Harry, though? Can’t you put back the right memories in the right place?”
“I doubt it, Miss Granger. The split happened in such a peculiar way that I don’t think it’s ever been studied or even imagined before. If Mrs Malfoy knows where he is and Mr Potter needs to see him again, we’ll be able to get in touch easily. But given what happened on Friday, this is perhaps for the best, at least for now.”
“But…” Harry thought of his mum, of all the questions he wanted to ask, of long pale limbs in the dark. “What if I want to talk to him?”
But no one thought he should talk to him, not after what happened the one time they met. Snape was whisked away to parts unknown by Narcissa Malfoy, and Harry returned to Hogwarts with too many questions in his head and not a single useful answer.
He thought that being so close to each other, almost touching, sharing more of their thoughts than they ever willingly had before, had changed something; he was pretty sure some of his own memories had spilled into Snape’s mind. It had felt like they were in each other’s heads, but also like Snape had been fading, fading, a voice growing fainter until Harry caught something, the hand of someone drowning. The hand had been light-fingered and pale, scarred in places; he’d known whose hand it was, but then everything had just melted away again until he woke up to Hermione’s concerned frown.
Back at Hogwarts, he tried to focus on his studies and on his friends to put it all behind him; it didn’t work so well. Hermione was visibly refraining from asking every day about his head, his dreams, his visions, but she wasn’t the only one with questions. Ron eyed him intently at times, and McGonagall asked him up for tea once a week, always skirting around the question but never asking directly.
And Harry, well. Harry wished he didn’t see so much.
He found himself in the Slytherin dormitory twenty, twenty-five years ago; he saw a much younger, much more human-looking Tom Riddle charming his followers; he saw an awkward Regulus and an even more awkward Snape flirting. He saw his mum again, saw an unexpected side of Lucius Malfoy as he was cooing at baby Draco, saw Snape sharing a drink with McGonagall and talking Quidditch.
But there were other things too, and some were new to Harry. Or, perhaps he managed to be more aware of what was happening, that peculiar sharing that he and Snape had, and that Harry was now fully aware of. He witnessed another Death Eater meeting, the capture and murder of a Muggle, Snape leaving Hogwarts and returning to Voldemort after Cedric’s death. He saw how Snape faced Tom’s displeasure, how he gritted his teeth and crawled at his feet and got Crucio-ed for being late, yet still pledged his allegiance. How he came back to Dumbledore but stopped in a bathroom first, making sure he got all the blood out of his clothes and off his face before trudging up the spiral stairs. He’d bitten his tongue during Crucio, and a few over-eager Death Eaters had kicked him, thinking to please Riddle – it hadn’t, and they’d got punished for it too, but the sound of Snape’s ribs snapping – that sound stayed with Harry for days.
Still, it wasn’t all bad, and Harry enjoyed just being a student, being able to learn about magic without the constant threat of Voldemort always hanging over his head. He practised drills with the Quidditch team, visited Teddy on some weekends, had parties with other Eighth and Seventh Years in a Room of Requirement that they’d worked hard to restore to what it used to be. The teachers probably knew they had smuggled in some booze, but thanks to Draco’s Hangover Potion and Hermione’s study plans, they were all bright-eyed and ready in class, surprise test or no.
However, even though he had a private room, even though he knew a lot of his other year-mates were pairing up, he found he didn’t really feel like it. None of them really made his palms sweat, his breath catch. Yeah, Zabini was really handsome; sure, Ginny was smart and very, very good on a broom, but… no. Something was missing. A lot of the time, he thought about the Half-Blood Prince, how he’d made Harry laugh, helped him improve at Potions, been curious and fearless, too. Which, sure, had meant Sectumsempra, but, well, Harry was aware of his own dark streak, too. And he wanted – he wanted someone like that, someone sarcastic and funny, someone who taught him things that no one else would, someone who knew what it was like to feel alone in the world too.
Of course, the Half-Blood Prince was Snape, and that certainly put things into perspective. Snape was, well, he was Snape. He wasn’t just the evil, greasy professor from the dungeons any longer, not after Harry had seen so much of him, not after their conversation in Regulus’s old bedroom, but… yeah.
Anyway, all of this was a mess, and Harry decided that reading Ron’s Quidditch magazines would be a much better use of his time than pondering whether he was doomed to stay single forever. But those magazines were filled with pictures of really good-looking athletes, sometimes with their shirts off or a bit sweaty, and Harry – Harry was not even 19, and he had a private room, so it was easy to let his body take over, easy to let his hand slide down, down, under the covers, under his pyjamas; easy, so easy to drop the magazine and close his eyes and think about those strong thighs, taut abs, to picture them moving together, to imagine thin lips on his, to think of long, dark hair brushing his face, strong, stained fingers gripping him. It was so easy to fantasise about dark, dark eyes boring into his and closing in the last moments, lost in his own pleasure.
He let his breathing slow down, wondering where that feeling of shame was coming from, and opened his eyes to stare at the red fabric above his bed. He moved to rub his face and found his cheeks were damp, as if – had he cried? What…
And then he heard it, felt it, felt the anger and rage and shame resonating through his entire being: Get out of my head, Potter!
The backlash was violent enough that it left him unable to leave the bed for hours, but as soon as he could he grabbed a quill and some parchment, before rushing to the Owlery.
In Narcissa’s small cottage by the sea, Severus would sit and listen to the sound of the waves for hours on end. He refused to have a house elf stay with him, but she sent the one he’d grudgingly befriended while at the Manor every day to check up on him. Carli brought food, fresh clothes, did some cleaning as needed, and a few times, Severus even managed to convince the elf to walk with him on the beach.
Carli was old, even for a house elf, and he’d seen a lot over the years; Severus was entertained by some of the stories that he was pretty sure most Malfoys would prefer to keep under wraps: a scandalous affair here, a Squib child there… nothing that Lucius would ever willingly speak of, although it was nothing that wasn’t common to all pure-blood families.
But when Carli left, Severus returned to his brewing and reading and writing. He wondered if anyone would ever read what he had written; it had started as a way to put his thoughts in order once he woke up, but it was shaping up to be something else entirely. Memoir seemed too strong a word, but – how did Tom Riddle gain power? What was so seductive about him? What did Death Eaters actually do; how did you join them? How did they feel, when he returned? What did Severus have to do, in order to be an efficient spy?
He didn’t like to dwell too much on all that, but it was still better than what happened when he finally fell asleep – images of his own past, a past he was already rehashing during his waking hours, were now replaced in his dreams by Potter’s life: an older Petunia locking him under the stairs, his cousin chasing him down the street… Watching Diggory die, watching Black fall through the veil… the boy had seen too much at too young an age, and in spite of the prophecy, in spite of Dumbledore’s plans or perhaps because of them, against all odds, he’d survived.
Severus was glad of that. He was young, and he was Lily’s son; how cruel would it have been to have her death, her own sacrifice only give her child just long enough to die again, and never long enough to live for himself?
He just didn’t want anything to do with Potter again, but of course, Severus’s wishes had never counted for much, so he had to deal with the memories, the dreams intruding whenever he let his mind rest for a moment. Keeping it busy was the only way to go, and knocking down Dreamless Sleep before bed helped keep the visions at bay… until one particular night.
He’d been sleeping, his body heavy and smothered under as many blankets as possible, their weight anchoring him to the world, to the present, to his own body. And then, he was violently jolted out of his slumber, all his nerves like on fire, images of Quidditch players slowly coalescing into one particular body that was much less athletic bombarding his mind as he felt himself responding to a stimulation that was happening – no, no, he would keep his own hands away, he wasn’t a horny, hormone-fuelled teenager wanking over a magazine, he would not let – he could not lust after – it was Potter; Potter was aroused, Potter’s arousal was flooding him, flooding them both, and Severus dug his nails into his palms and groaned as his own body betrayed him, following Potter’s path to completion even as he fought against it with all his mind, all the power of his mind – but all his Occlumency skills couldn’t do anything when he and Potter had shared so much of themselves, willingly or not, and just as Potter was coming so was Severus, both riding Potter's high and drowning under an ocean of shame that he couldn't stop it, that he’d just become the worst kind of pervert and had been unable to stop any of it.
Get out of my head, Potter!
The next morning, Severus contemplated filling his pockets with rocks and walking into the ocean, like that Muggle writer. Or, perhaps, he could brew just the right kind of potion, one that wouldn't leave any trace, or one that would make it look like he’d had an aneurysm burst in his brain, perhaps. Who would think it strange, after all? Even magical people had aneurysms; it wouldn't look odd. And his death would certainly make Narcissa’s life easier; she’d have her cottage back.
But Carli arrived right as he was selecting ingredients, and his plans for a swift death had to be postponed; Severus didn’t want to upset the old elf. Except said old elf was coming in with more than fresh food and pressed clothes; he was also holding a letter.
“For you,” he said, holding it out. Severus rarely got mail here; Minerva wrote from time to time, and Poppy asked about his progress and threatened to visit, but nothing more. Everything was sent to the Manor, since Narcissa’s cottage was spelled to remain hidden.
But as soon as he saw the writing on the envelope, he could tell it wasn’t from the Headmistress or matron; he recognised the handwriting, and his gut seemed to turn upside down and inside out; he barely kept control of his stomach. If he’d had more than tea, the nausea would have won out.
“Thank you,” he croaked, and sat to open and read it. He owed it to the boy, to Lily’s son whose privacy he’d invaded.
He read it, and then he sat for a long while, not quite knowing what to think, what to say, what to do.
Potter had sent a letter to apologise. It said he hadn’t thought his activities would reach Severus but that he should have anticipated it, that he was now planning to read up on Occlumency and would practise emptying his mind as he should have years ago, that he hadn’t wanted to breach Severus’s mind. That he hadn’t wanted to cause shame, or distress, or hurt, and that he knew spelling out those words would upset Severus, but that he wanted to be very clear that he, Harry, was responsible, that his thoughtlessness was to blame, and not Severus. That he was sorry, really sorry, and to let him know what he could do to make sure it didn’t happen again.
If he hadn’t been quite certain Potter would never talk about any of it with Granger, Severus would have thought the boy unable to write that kind of letter on his own, but even though he knew so much, too much about Potter, he was wrong. Evidently, the boy could still surprise him.
There was another piece of parchment in the envelope; Severus shook it out and raised his eyebrows: Potter was asking if they could write to each other, sometimes, if Severus wanted to. I figured that maybe if we talk about stuff because we want to, it’ll be easier to deal with it when it happens and we don’t want it to, you know? Because we’ll have already shared stuff. Does it make sense? Potter would never win awards for his prose, but at least it was legible and its meaning clear enough.
Severus, on the other hand, was very much unclear about how to proceed.
It took him the entire day to decide on a reply, but finally, when Carli came in the following morning, he could hand the elf his own missive, a short Mistakes happen. Don’t repeat them. The books you’re looking for are in the Restricted Section, fourth shelf from the top, on your right as you come in. SS
He couldn’t decide whether he wanted Potter to write to him, whether he could stomach sharing even more than they were already forced to share, but he also couldn't deny Potter’s idea made a gut-churning sort of sense.
If the boy wrote back, then he’d answer. If he didn’t… well, then Severus would not have to worry about how to proceed.
Of course, Potter wrote back.
At first, simple thanks for helping him find the right books, then questions about this chapter or that one, then about Potions, about Defence. He asked how Severus was, told him about a Quidditch match Slytherin won, talked about repairs in the castle. He even called him Sir, after trying Professor and Severus shutting that down swiftly, since that time in Grimmauld Place hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t a professor any longer, and had no desire to ever be one again. He just had to find out what he could be, after so long, after having gone from student to teacher so quickly. He hadn’t had a lot of time to think about other options, and he hadn’t expected to survive the war anyway. Perhaps, he mused, he could write his own textbooks; he had both the expertise and the classroom experience, after all. Or perhaps he could expand the little side-business he had going thanks to Narcissa, who had found a way for him to sell bespoke concoctions under an alias. Not very legal, but at least he could repay her somewhat, even though she insisted he owed her nothing.
He did.
He even owed Potter, much as it pained him to admit it; the boy had got them all rid of Voldemort, had avenged his mother like Severus never could, and had found him, almost but not quite dead, in the Shack. He’d believed him when he rightfully should not have, should in fact have ignored the memories Severus had let seep out of himself in a desperate bid to get Potter the information he needed.
Perhaps, in the next letter, he ought to suck it up and tell Potter all of that. Short answers about Potions and mind magic were one thing, but this… this would be more personal, and he didn’t really want to get personal with Potter. Although, he thought, watching the tide slowly eat its way up the beach, they had already shared Potter’s wanking session, and one couldn’t really get much more personal than that, could one? Severus still found it hard to believe that the boy had apologised, and yet he had.
Once the water had reached the tip of his boots, he turned back towards the house and began composing his letter.
Potter had replied with his usual simple and enthusiastic prose, but with a surprising vehemence. The war would have been lost without Severus, he said, and Severus deserved recognition. He asked when, or if, Severus would reveal his survival to the public, said that he and Minerva had made sure Severus would not face a trial and was, instead, recognised for the work he did.
And then… and then, he asked if he could come visit. He talked to Draco these days, apparently, something that Draco described as clever political manoeuvring on his part, while Potter made it sound like a goody-two-shoes reaching out to a former nemesis (although Potter, of course, would not use these words). And Draco had told him that the house was not Unplottable, that there was no Fidelius Charm over it, that it was possible to go there, provided his mother and Severus himself agreed. Of course, Narcissa had already done so, because she could see the benefits of giving Potter what he wanted; all that remained in the way was Severus’s own assent.
He didn’t give it for weeks, pointing out that Potter should focus on his studies, enjoy his last year at Hogwarts now that the looming threat of the Dark Lord was gone for good, and just do whatever any regular eighteen-year old boy would do. As long as it didn’t mean a repetition of what happened that one time, of course, but if it hadn’t in months, it could only mean Potter had mastered enough mind magic to block his waking (and wanking) activities, at least. They still occasionally shared dreams when both of them were asleep, but it was happening less and less often, something about which Severus was very relieved – and presumably, so was Potter.
But all of this came crashing down about a week before Potter’s NEWTs.
Severus had gone hiking along the cliffs a good, steep two hours away from the house; he could have Apparated, naturally, but he felt the exercise would do him good, so he climbed there the Muggle way, with only a stick and decent boots to help. He hadn’t anticipated, couldn’t have anticipated, that as he was inspecting a rare plant and assessing it for use in a potion or two, the whole cliff would collapse under his feet and send him tumbling down to the rocks below. He had just enough time to think Cushioning Charm as something hit him in the head, and he lost consciousness.
Harry had been doodling on his Defence notes in the Library when his head split in two – or at least, felt like it. He curled over the table and groaned, and dimly heard familiar voices calling his name.
“What’s happening?”
“You all right, mate?”
“Of course he’s not; look at him!”
“Is he back? Is he back?”
“Harry, is it your scar?”
And then the pain stopped abruptly. He blinked at the concerned faces surrounding him, including the pale, pointy one peering out from between bookshelves, looking even more worried than Hermione. He shook his head at Draco before turning to his House mates.
“No, it’s not him; it’s different. And it’s over.”
“What is it, then? You should go to the Hospital Wing; this isn’t normal.”
“It’s…” Harry glanced at his friends, then at the rest of the table. “You know, I think I’ll just take a walk, clear my head, yeah? Get a bit of fresh air.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Look, as long as you’re not dying and it’s not You-Know-Who again, you can have your secrets.”
“It’s not a secret; I just…”
“Here,” Luna said, holding out a piece of parchment. “If your head hurts again, put it on your forehead, and it’ll tell you why. It found out there was a Wrackspurt hiding under my bed last week!”
“Er, thanks, Luna.” Harry took the parchment, shoved his notes back in his bag, and left the Library with a hopefully reassuring smile for Ron and Hermione.
As soon as he was out, he ran to his room and threw his schoolbag in a corner before grabbing his broom; all he knew was that something had happened, and that he had to get there right now. He didn’t get much, just that Snape had had some sort of accident, a flash of great pain and then nothing. And it was that nothing that terrified him.
Harry opened the window and flew out, heading for the gates where he could – where he could… crap. He had no idea where he was supposed to Apparate; how was he going to reach Snape? He closed his eyes and tried to focus, to find that thread that linked them together, but it was shut down; the one time he actually needed it open it was like yelling at the wide, wide ocean.
Wait.
Snape had mentioned the ocean, and cliffs; he’d said something about looking over at an island, about the ruins of an ancient Wizarding village… But in spite of all his efforts, Harry couldn’t get anything more precise than somewhere in Cornwall. He could almost, almost feel Snape, but it wasn’t enough. He groaned in frustration and opened his eyes to see Malfoy, coming to him from the castle’s direction. The ferret was raising his eyebrows and there was a faint sneer on his lips, but Harry wiped it all out of his pointy face as he grabbed Malfoy’s shirt and shook him.
“Where is he?”
“Let go of me, Potter! What…”
“Where?”
Malfoy shoved him away and crossed his arms. “You’re unhinged, Potter. Where what?”
“Where who! Where’s Snape?”
“You know where…”
“Where is the house? Something happened; I have to get there!”
“Something? Something related to your fainting spell earlier?”
“Ugh!” Harry managed not to hex Malfoy tight there and then, but it was a close call. “I don’t have time for this!”
“I can take you to the cottage.”
“No!”
Malfoy looked pissed off, as if he didn’t like to be turned down. “Take it or leave it.”
“I have to be there now!”
“Why would you refuse my help?”
“I’m not – you can’t – we don’t have time for this!” Harry heaved a sigh before nodding. “Fine. But if he’s hurt…”
“If he’s hurt what? Should I promise not to steal him from your loving embrace or something?” Malfoy extended his arm for Harry to grasp so they could Side-Along.
“It’s not like that,” Harry tried to say, but the words were swallowed by their Apparition on a wide beach surrounded by tall cliffs on both sides.
They looked around the area but nothing was immediately obvious.
“Can’t feel him,” Harry muttered.
“So you still share that link, then?”
“We can generally keep away from each other's minds now, but earlier in the Library I felt him; I felt something bad happened and then nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound good. I’ll go check the house,” Malfoy said, pointing at a path winding away from the beach, “and you can get on your broom and check the surroundings.”
Harry nodded; that made sense. He got as high as the cliffs, then slightly above, and started looking for… a body? No, not a body. Snape wasn’t dead; he’d know. He was certain he’d know, couldn't imagine otherwise. He flew for a while, going back and forth, checking the bottoms of the cliffs, too, until he reached an area where part of the cliff path had collapsed. It was recent; there was no fresh grass, no moss or lichen on the freshly disturbed dirt and rocks. But there was a large pile of rubble at the bottom, right in the path of the rising tide. If Snape was under there somewhere, and he was still alive, he’d soon be drowned.
Harry angled his broom downwards and rushed to the large boulders that were slowing down the waves’ progress. He went as fast as he could, but he could very well be too late; it felt like something was gnawing at his insides.
But finally, he sensed it – Snape’s magic, pulsing from somewhere underneath all the boulders, pebbles, and dirt. He landed where it was strongest, and took cautious steps towards an area where the rocks… hm. He gave one a cautious little poke, then a harder one, and the rock bobbed slightly.
“What…?”
After a bit of trial and error, and as the water was creeping closer and closer to his trainers, he found out the best way was to charm the rocks as he went. That way, they would float up and gently land a bit further away instead of crashing down, as they tended to do once he got them more than a foot away from where he was pretty sure Snape was.
And, finally, he reached black fabric. More frantic now, driven by the rising tide and by the knowledge he had almost reached Snape, he cleared most of the remaining rubble off and tried to cast a diagnostic spell, but he was too frantic and the results flashed too quickly to let him see anything. He could see some blood on the rocks underneath Snape, but he was hovering over them like he’d cast a featherlight Charm on himself and the rocks surrounding him. Or perhaps a cushioning Charm? Still, at least one rock had managed to hit him on the head, perhaps right before the spell was cast; half his hair was sticky with blood and plastered to the side of his face. His clothes were torn too, and Harry saw abraded skin through the gaps. But he remembered Luna’s piece of parchment, and for lack of a better idea, he dropped it on Snape’s forehead. Immediately, words started to appear; it found a concussion, two cracked ribs, a lot of bruising, and a twisted ankle probably from when the cliff collapsed… But overall, Snape was – not quite fine, he was pretty banged up, but not about to drop dead.
He’d be all right.
Harry flew back to the house, with Snape on a hastily-conjured stretcher beside him, after sending his Patronus ahead to warn Malfoy of his return. He went slowly to make sure he didn’t jostle the stretcher too much, but he didn’t want to take too long either; what if Snape took a turn for the worse, somehow? What if…
But he’d already reached the house, and he could see Malfoy waiting for him.
“Your stag said he was fine, but he looks pretty bloody to me, Potter. I should have called my mother.”
They both led the stretcher inside and settled Snape on a bed; Malfoy ran his wand over him and made humming sounds that told Harry nothing.
“What are you doing?”
“He’s got at least as many potions here as Pomfrey keeps in her cabinets; I’m trying to see which ones he needs.”
“Something for his head, I guess?”
Malfoy sneered. “Something for his head, indeed. And something for the blood loss, for the brain swelling, for the torn ligament in the ankle, and of course antiseptic bruise paste for all the lacerations.”
“I didn’t know you were into healing.”
“I’m into potions, that means knowing when to use them as well as how to brew them. You’re really an idiot, Potter.”
Harry scowled, but let Malfoy do what he wanted; it wasn’t like he would hurt Snape, or at least Harry didn’t think so. And Harry knew a few things, too. “He taught you, when you were a kid.”
As expected, reminding Malfoy that Harry knew more about him than he was supposed to was a good move to annoy him. “What if he did?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” He started uncorking phials and measuring out doses that he spelled directly into Snape’s stomach.
“What should I do?”
“Whatever you want, Potter.” Before Harry could retort, Malfoy had sent the jar of paste in his direction, and Harry was grateful to his Seeker reflexes for preventing it from smashing in his face.
“Gee, thanks,” he muttered, but he dutifully rolled up his sleeves and went to wash his hands. He brought back a basin of warm water and a cloth, and looked down at Snape. “Er.”
“Yes, Potter, you’ll have to take his clothes off.”
“All of them?” Ugh, did he have to sound so squeaky?
Malfoy smirked, that little weaselly arse. “I thought you’d grown pretty… intimate, these last few months.”
“Shut up. It’s not like that.” Harry ignored Malfoy’s smirk and aimed his wand at Snape’s lightweight coat so he could start to remove the outer layers. “Shouldn't he wake up? I mean, if he’s still unconscious, it’s bad, right?”
“I gave him a sedative potion; it should keep him under for a few hours at least.”
“Is that safe? Aren’t you supposed to check he, er, remembers who’s the president?”
Malfoy stared at him. “What?”
A huff came from the bed, and both of them looked down. “I think your sedative sucks,” Harry said.
“It’s not mine; it’s his.”
Another huff, then a grunt. Dunderheads echoed in Harry’s head, and he bit back a grin. “He’s waking up.”
“What…” Snape managed in a harsh whisper.
“The cliff collapsed under you; we found you and brought you back here.”
His eyes still closed, he patted the bed under him. “Here. You… how?” His words were a bit slurred, like he’d taken a good knock on… well, he had, actually. Harry winced at his thoughtlessness before replying.
“Er, I felt it. When it happened.”
Snape sighed. “’f course.”
“It was real scary, too; sudden pain and then nothing. Everybody thought Voldemort was back.”
“Potter!” Malfoy hissed, right as Snape winced.
“What? He’s dead; I’ll call him however I want.”
“Sh’d leave.”
“Wait, what? No!”
Snape tried to sit up but his arms were too shaky, and he had to accept Harry’s help to settle against the headboard. “NEWTs.”
“They’re next week; we’ll be fine.”
“And I warned my mother; she’ll make sure McGonagall doesn’t send a search party for Potter to check I haven't murdered him.”
“As if you could.”
“Hey…!”
Long fingers wrapped around Harry’s wrist and he stopped talking to look down at Snape. His black irises were barely visible; his eyes were just slits.
“Look, sir, you shouldn't be on your own right now, but…”
“He is not on his own; Carli is here,” a new voice piped up.
Harry had never seen that elf before; it looked ancient.
“Mum sent you, didn’t she?”
The elf nodded. “You do not have to stay.”
“But I want to!”
Malfoy blinked. “There are empty rooms here; no need to yell, Potter.”
“I didn’t yell!”
You did, a voice echoed in Harry’s head. Please refrain. Snape’s eyes were tightly shut and he looked like he was in pain; Harry remembered that loud noises might not be the brightest idea at the moment.
“Right, sorry. I’d like to stay, though, if you don’t mind. I don’t like it when people… you know.”
I’m not going to drop dead.
Malfoy smirked. “Is that your Saviour complex again, then?”
“Oh, can it.”
“It’s fine, Draco.”
“Are you sure?”
Snape’s fingers twitched and his wand, miraculously intact, slid down from his sleeve to his hand. “Not powerless.”
“I could stay, too.”
“Your mother said…” Carli piped up.
“Yes, yes, I know what she always says. I’ll go, but please send me updates twice a day.”
The elf nodded, and Harry tried not to show his surprise at the interaction between house elf and Malfoy heir; he’d have expected the ferret to be rude and unpleasant, but he was, if not warm, at least polite.
With a final glare at Harry and a few more murmured words in Snape’s ear, he finally Apparated out, and now it was just the two of them and a house elf who immediately left them, muttering something about preparing a room for Harry.
“So, uh, I’m staying.”
Snape raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, right. Can I, though?”
A bit late for asking.
“Are you talking in my head because it’s easier?”
It’s quieter. Not easier; my head is throbbing.
“Can I try?”
“Yes.”
Hi!
That got Harry a wince.
“Too, er, strong?”
Snape nodded gingerly.
“Okay, I’ll work on it then. Er, so…” his eyes fell on the basin of water, and he remembered what he’d been planning to do. “I was about to wash the blood off you and apply the bruise paste.”
I don’t need help.
“You got a serious hit on the head, and Carli is busy. It’s starting to smell like food, actually.”
Not hungry.
“You know I know how you are with food, right?”
“Fuck off, Potter.”
“Right, glad to know you’re all right.” Harry sat on the bed and warmed the water back to a more comfortable temperature before starting to mop Snape’s face. The blood was almost dry and quite sticky, and had made a mess of Snape’s hair.
There are spells for that.
“But it’s nice to have someone help sometimes, don’t you think?”
Snape scowled, but he let Harry clean his temple and forehead with no more than a surly expression. After a while, though, Harry had to ask.
“Why didn’t the potion work? The sedative Draco gave you, I mean.”
He should have known better.
Harry grinned. “Well, can’t disagree; he’s a wanker.”
“Potter…”
“Aw, you should let a guy have his fun, yeah?” That got him a vicious glare and he raised both hands, making water drip from his wet cloth to the bed. This didn’t improve Snape’s mood, of course. “I didn’t mean that kind of fun, all right? Anyway, I’ve stopped, er, touching myself since that one time, so.”
“Stopped?” Snape pushed Harry’s hand away when it reached his face again. Potter, you’re eighteen; that’s not healthy.
“Look, not everyone can snog good-looking blokes at eighteen, okay?” Harry had never forgotten that memory of Snape and Sirius's brother Regulus having what looked like a pretty good time in Grimmauld House. It had featured in a few of his dreams and fantasies since, even though he had managed to refrain from acting on them ever since he projected his wanking session on Snape.
Who, at the moment, was staring at him with a mixture of horror and disbelief at Harry. Even if I were not suffering from a concussion, I think I’d still be speechless, Potter.
“Er. Good?” He aimed for a cheeky smile, but probably only managed tremulous.
Not particularly, no. But you’re not wrong; Regulus was handsome.
Snape wasn’t and had never been what would be called handsome, but he had… something. Presence, intensity, power; even now, recovering from having a cliffside fall on him and slurring his spoken words, his dark eyes were enough to make Harry shiver. Not in fear or rage as during his school days, no, but more like… like… well. He had strong suspicions that if his wanking session had reached Snape, it was because he’d been thinking of Snape – more than thinking, actually. And it had been so strong it had broken through whatever mental walls he’d believed he had back then.
“I kind of miss it, you know.”
“Miss what?”
Harry made a crude gesture, and from the way his cheeks heated, he probably also blushed like a tomato. Very adult, he thought. Very mature.
Snape sighed. What you saw… Potter, you’re young, famous, a hero; you’re not entirely stupid and you’re… Amazingly, he looked away, as if he were embarrassed. Snape, embarrassed! You’re good-looking and athletic. It wouldn’t be hard to find casual partners.
“I don’t want casual. I know that people look at me, that I’m an Eligible Bachelor…“ He snorted. “But I don’t connect, really. I mean, yeah, I have friends, but I don’t… It’s too much. There’s too much.”
Try the Muggle world, then. They would have no idea of what you’ve gone through, but they wouldn't treat you like the Boy Hero either.
“Hey, I’m not a boy anymore!”
Snape’s lips twitched, and he settled back against the headboard.
“I know you weren’t either. I saw…”
“Stop.” His hand waved Harry’s thoughts aside, and he pointed at the phials that Malfoy had left on the bedside table; one floated into his open palm. I can manage, and Carli’s here. It’s not my first concussion, and it’s precisely because I’ve used and abused many of these potions before that my personal dosage needs are above what Draco assumed. Go back to Hogwarts, get ready for your NEWTs, and don’t think about me. I’m the past, Potter, not the future.
“I want to stay. I’m ready, and…”
“Go, Potter.”
Harry looked down at Snape’s drawn face, his pinched mouth. He was still in pain, and while he managed their conversation well enough via the link that had grown and matured over the months, now was probably not the best of times to ask all the questions he’d wanted to ask in person for ages.
So he nodded, dropped the cloth into the basin, and quietly left the room.
Finally, the boy was out.
Severus aimed his wand at the curtains to close them, wincing at the spike of pain in his skull at the use of magic, and started to methodically take all the potions he needed to hasten his recovery. Draco had brought the right ones, and probably given him the regular, recommended dosage, but Severus needed more than that, more than what a man of his weight and stature (tall, perhaps, but rather bony) who hadn’t got the snot beaten out of him as a tyke, who hadn’t kept the dubious company he’d kept ever since, who had never managed to stay out of trouble and harm, would need.
As he slowly got out of his clothes and slid under the covers, he wondered what Potter had meant, earlier. I know you weren’t a boy either, he’d said, I saw… He saw what? Was it just a reference to seeing him and Regulus, or was it something else? Severus couldn't be sure of what Potter had, or had not, witnessed of his life; pretty much everything ought to cover it, but there was no way to tell, and it set Severus on edge. It shouldn't; none of that was under his control or even Potter’s, and contrary to all expectations, the boy – not a boy, Potter had insisted – had been pretty decent throughout.
Yes, Potter was right: he wasn’t really a boy any longer; he’d seen and done too much, been tasked with too much, and come out on the other end victorious and with all his life ahead of him, but with too much past weighing him down. No wonder he hadn’t found better than his hand; at least it wouldn’t betray him and run to the press, or misunderstand his darker moods.
Severus lay down and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep and forget everything for a while, including the pounding headache that the potions hadn’t yet got rid of, but he could still hear Potter talking quietly to Carli, hear the soft pop of the elf coming in to make sure Severus was still alive and to leave a bowl of soup in the room, hear the waves outside, the outer edges of an ocean forever vast and relentless and unconcerned by short-lived humans and their small lives and even smaller worries.
Finally, he drifted into dreamless sleep.
The morning light was faint, but enough to make out the shape of the desk under the window, the back of the chair tucked beneath it. He sighed and rubbed his face, pleased enough that the worst of the previous day’s mishap was behind him; his head felt heavy, but he managed to sit up, stretch, then stand up without any problem. He wouldn't go on a hike or work on volatile potions for a few days, but he’d be fine.
He eyed the bowl of soup that Carli had left there the night before; under the stasis and warming Charms, it had kept throughout the night. He wasn’t hungry, but he should probably eat something, so he sat at the desk and started on the broth. He wondered if Potter had gone back to Hogwarts after all, or if he’d stayed. The boy, the young man, was hard to read, and at the same time transparent; Severus wondered if Potter thought the same of him. He couldn't decide if that thought was reassuring or terrifying.
When he was done, he cast Scourgify on himself and his clothes, glad to see he could perform simple magic without feeling like his skull was splitting in two, and left the house for the beach. There were few things in the world like the shore in the early morning, that long, empty stretch of sand, with nothing and no one but the birds and the shells and the constant and ever-changing waves. He walked barefoot, like he used to near the river in Cokeworth as a tot, but the beach here was much more pristine than the muddy banks of the river that carried filth from the steel mill, the sewers, and the landfills upstream.
The sea breeze was biting and slapped his hair back against his face, but he didn’t mind. He knew where he was going; he could hear the sand rustling as the waves hit it again and again. When he reached a large boulder, a lone relic abandoned there by long-gone glaciers or perhaps by a prehistoric flood, he walked around it and made for the hollow that the sea had dug into it. The sunken area was protected from the wind but left one facing the ocean, cocooned in the sound of the waves echoing against the rock that was still uneaten, uncrumbled, undecayed by the slow but unstoppable power of the water.
Sometimes, when the tides were high, the boulder would be submerged, but most of the time, the waves would just lap at one’s feet, reminding whoever was sitting there that drowning was just an angry or simply uncaring sea god away. Reminding Severus that nothing, no one, could escape death, but that he could choose to give himself to it just by closing his eyes and letting himself be submerged, forever, his body slammed against the unforgiving rock again and again until the fish ate his flesh and the molluscs ate his bones.
But he would not meditate on any of his fanciful daydreams today: someone had found his spot.
“What are you doing here, Potter?”
“I’m watching the sea.”
Severus kept standing, looking down at the wild hair made even wilder by the wind. Though, perhaps, Severus wasn’t one to talk this morning. “I thought you might have gone back to Hogwarts.”
“I said I was staying, didn’t I?” Potter scooted to the side and patted the still-dry sand next to him. “Come on, there’s enough room for the two of us.”
What use would fighting serve? Severus was tired of fighting, after all. He sat.
“You look better.”
“I am.” He cleared his throat. “I would be remiss if I didn’t thank you, and Draco, for yesterday.”
“Well, I figure it’s a thing, you know? We’re a thing, you and me. You saved my life often enough.”
“You and I.”
“Uh?”
“You and I, not you and me.”
Potter laughed, even knocked his shoulder gently. “Nerd,” he said, not unkindly. “How did you learn to talk like that?”
Severus pretended he didn’t understand the question. “Talk like what?”
“All posh-like.”
“Books.”
“Ha, why did I even ask?” Potter picked up a pebble, smooth from the waves, and turned it in his hands as he talked. “You know, back when I had your old Potions textbook, I thought wow, this Prince guy is so clever, so funny. I think I had a bit of a crush, really.”
“I can’t imagine learning that it was yours truly landed very well.”
“Yeah, but in the end it was just one thing among so many. The end of that year was… something. A lot of things, actually.”
“Quite.”
“The year after that as well.”
“I trust this one is less eventful.”
“Well, it’s not as life-and-death, so there’s that. But…” He dropped the pebble and turned to Severus. “There are still revelations that I didn’t expect.”
“That is also because you’re eighteen. And because you didn’t have time for those revelations, before. It’s a time of self-discovery, Potter; no one is born knowing themselves perfectly. It’s trial and error throughout one’s life, but the first few decades can be brutal.”
“Ours were. Brutal, I mean.”
Severus sighed, and raised his knees against his chest. It was a somewhat childish posture, he knew, but Potter had seen him murder, weep, (almost) die, and worse; what was a defensive, childish posture in the face of everything else? “They were. But in a week, you’ll be free to do as you please. I imagine you’re not going back to your aunt’s, for a start.”
“Well, I’ve thought about going back just to, I don’t know, tell her what I think of what she did, but it wouldn't change anything, would it?”
“No. She could never forgive you, just like you will never forgive her.”
Potter gaped. “Forgive me? What did I do to her that she should forgive?”
“Not you, but what you represent. She lost her sister twice: when magic took Lily away from her, then when she died. You were born a wizard; you were born in your mother’s world. You had everything Petunia had ever wanted – her sister’s love and attention, and her magic. You were special, like Lily and unlike herself. Having you with her meant she had to live with what she lost and what she never had, and she’s built her whole life around that.”
“Crikey, don’t make me feel sorry for her; I don’t think I can take it.”
“She doesn’t deserve your compassion. Understanding doesn’t mean accepting, much less forgiving.”
“I think I understand you pretty well, by now. And I–”
“Potter.”
“You know my name’s Harry, right? Anyway, I understand, and I accept, and I forgive.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Harry Dunderhead Potter, that’s me.” He winked at Severus, cheeky as always. “And you can’t make me take it back; I do. I’ve been in your head too much not to.”
“You forget I’ve been in my head for even longer.”
“And you don’t forgive yourself?”
“I never really considered it. For what purpose? I didn’t think I’d survive; there was no point.”
“And you call me an idiot? It’s been a whole year and guess what? You’re not dead after all. You’ve had plenty of time to do the brooding thing.”
Severus sputtered. “The brooding thing?”
“Well, you can’t stalk the corridors at night all dramatic-like, with the robes flapping and everything, like you did back at Hogwarts, but all the soulful gazing at the sea counts as brooding, if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you. And who told you about… that?”
“Carli. He’s worried, I think.”
“He’s not.”
“He is. Narcissa is, too.”
“Doubtful.”
“She likes you. She came in late last night, actually, but she said we should leave you to sleep it off. Told me a few interesting stories, as well.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Well, I did. I hate to say it, but I like her. Or rather, I like her better than Draco or Lucius.”
“They’re all victims of their upbringing, Potter. Some managed to extricate themselves from the worst of it, some didn’t.”
“Like Sirius and Regulus?”
Severus closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the rock. “In different ways, I suppose.”
“And like you.”
“Please don’t compare me to your godfather.”
“I don’t think he’d have let you crash at his place like the Malfoys did when your dad kicked you out.”
“Given that his own parents were on the verge of doing the same to him, I doubt it.”
“You know what I mean.” Potter’s body was a long, warm line against his flank, and Severus shivered.
What were they talking about? Ah, yes. The memories of his teenage self were still more vivid than he’d like, after all this time. “I was an idiot; I knew there was a risk he’d see me.”
“You only kissed a guy!”
“Potter, this was more than twenty years ago, and Cokeworth in the seventies was not Soho or the Castro.”
“The what?”
“Go to a library, Potter. A Muggle one.”
“You’re not my teacher anymore.”
“Thank Merlin,” Severus stage-whispered. It made Potter snicker, which in turn made something twitch in Severus’s gut. He could see, could feel it coming, and he knew he was powerless to stop whatever was happening. That twitch was a harbinger of much, much worse, and he hoped Potter never learned of it.
“I think your father was a right wanker.”
“While you’re more of a left-handed one, if I remember correctly.”
Harry’s head whipped so fast Severus feared he’d snapped his own neck. “Holy crap, are we joking about it now?”
Severus let himself smile, showing a little bit of teeth. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t think they would believe me.”
“There’s that, yes.”
Harry laughed, before standing up and brushing the sand off his bum with his hands. “Care to go back?” he said, holding one out to haul Severus up. “I think Carli’s preparing breakfast.”
“At least you’re perpetually hungry like a proper eighteen year old should be.”
“Oi!”
Potter returned to Hogwarts the next day, sufficiently reassured that Severus wouldn’t drop dead in his absence. He wrote every day, and Severus, against his better judgement, replied every day as well, and at length. Narcissa came to check up on him and raised her eyebrows at the suddenly expanding pile of correspondence on his desk, but he refused to elaborate, and she didn’t ask.
She told him what he already knew – that none of the examiners dared ask Potter or any of the other Gryffindors to demonstrate anything in the DADA practical, that the Weasley girl challenged Draco to a duel just to show off that she could fight. That the students all paired off, regardless of House affiliation, and in a way proceeded to organise their own practicals.
Narcissa seemed to think it could be the sign of a budding relationship between her son and Ginevra, as she was calling her now that an alliance with the Weasleys made sound political sense. Was it the girl Lucius had mentioned all those weeks ago? Severus couldn’t care less, really. What he wanted to know about was Harry, even though he had his letters, even though Minerva herself had sent him his former students’ OWLs and NEWTs results. He wanted to know what Harry wouldn’t say, but what everybody else would see: his lithe movements on a broom, which Severus remembered watching from behind a window as Harry flew over the ocean, a testament to his health and athleticism. He wanted to hear about the way his lips parted when he was surprised, read about how his eyes crinkled a little, when he smiled. When he was happy.
Ah – and that was the crux of the matter. Potter was a young man now, full of life and promise, albeit one with more hardships in his past than most would at his age. And a not inconsiderable number of those hardships were Severus’s fault, too; how could he… how could he dare wish they’d meet again? Selfish, it was selfish of him.
But he’d always been selfish, hadn’t he? He’d always wanted more than he had, than he could have.
It had never ended well.
Potter’s last letter said he would visit soon, but Severus decided to be proactive. He’d abused Narcissa’s hospitality long enough, and it was high time he faced the real world, not the safe little bubbles of Malfoy Manor or a secluded cottage by the ocean. He had his own house, after all, certainly not as grand as Malfoy Manor but sufficient for his needs, and he was now well enough to live on his own. He had been for a while, if he were to be honest with himself.
So he packed his few remaining possessions, left a phial of Joint-Eeze potion for Carli with a thank-you note, and Apparated away.
Spinner’s End hadn’t changed in a year. It was still dark, heavy with memories, familiar. At least it was familiar.
He added a few layers of spells to his security wards, checked the gas bottle in the kitchen, and cast a few cleaning and freshening Charms while he was at it. He sighed at his empty cupboards, and after unearthing his debit card and stash of Muggle money, he changed clothes and popped to Tesco, wondering what the Malfoys would make of the eye-searing bright lights, the garish boxes, the rows and rows of processed food.
They would be lost, and hiding it under disgust and contempt, probably. But Severus had grown up here, a magical child in the Muggle world, and as much as he’d hated that world, he still knew his way about it. He had kept up with Muggle life and learned new skills as needed, enough that he could pass for a somewhat eccentric loner, perhaps, but nothing stranger than that. His neighbours already thought he was an odd one, after all.
And, like many things in both worlds, money helped. Narcissa and Minerva had conspired to make sure he could still access his funds even if his continued survival was kept under wraps, but then there was also what they didn’t know about – what he’d put in a Muggle bank over the years, little by little. Not a lot, but hopefully enough to start over. He just had to decide how.
Beans, toast, cheddar, tea, crackers, eggs, some cheap veg, milk… He ducked behind a large lorry parked behind the petrol station and spelled his purchases small enough they’d fit in his mother’s old string bag, before making his way back to Spinner’s End.
Perhaps he could leave the country, start over far away from Wizarding Britain, forget about Hogwarts, Death Eaters, Headmasters, and Potters. Perhaps he could leave it all behind.
But when he set the bag on the kitchen table, he saw a Hogwarts owl waiting for him on the windowsill, and he knew he wouldn’t.
He brewed all morning, still using Narcissa’s scheme to sell his potions, and in the afternoons he’d go out for a walk, sometimes Apparating to a forest, a moor, or a bog; he’d always liked foraging for ingredients himself. In the evenings, he’d read, sometimes write; he’d draft future experiments or reply to Minerva’s owls.
He had stopped answering Harry’s. Potter’s.
Severus couldn't tell if it was to discourage his own infatuation or Potter’s curiosity, but he was… He didn’t like to admit it, but he was afraid. Potter had seen too much, knew too much, and the whole past year had simply been too much, after several years that had, also, been too much. And Severus had let it go on for far too long. He had encouraged their correspondence; he had talked much too freely with him. He tried not to think about that time he’d been thrown out of sleep and straight into Potter’s wanking session, about Potter’s hints that he… that he… No, no, the point was not to think about it; it was precisely the opposite. He was not to think about Potter, Potter’s dreams, Potter’s fantasies; even if Severus was all too aware of them.
He was not to think about Potter’s nightmares, either: the Dark Lord’s return, of course, Black’s death, Diggory’s. He’d had a crush on that Hufflepuff boy, even if he’d been too young then to realise it. That those were not even the worst of what he’d gone through, and that in spite of it all he’d come out with a much better heart than Severus, and a much purer soul, was a testament to Potter’s strength.
Severus rubbed his face and went to the postage-stamp-sized yard at the back of the house; he hoped that some back-breaking gardening, Muggle-style, would chase those thoughts out of his mind. Maybe it would even work, this time.
Given Severus’s usual luck, and fate’s insistence on ignoring his needs and wants, Potter himself knocked on his door one evening. Severus pretended he hadn’t heard it and kept working on the bed of medicinal plants he was preparing, but Potter was no idiot. Well, not always.
“Hullo,” he said.
Severus grunted at the mulch.
“You put up fancy wards out there.”
“Not fancy enough, evidently.”
“Eh, don’t take it personally; even Gringotts couldn’t keep me out.”
Severus looked up from his trowel and glared at Potter. Or tried to, because to his horror, he wanted to smile, and wrangling that expression back before it could escape took most of his focus. “Why are you here?”
“Well, you’ve stopped replying to my letters.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
Potter huffed, and sat beside the flowerless flowerbed. “What are you doing?”
“Have you already forgotten all you learned in Herbology?”
“Aw, come on, I’m just chatting; what’s got your knickers in a twist?”
“Move.” Severus picked up a hand rake and knocked it against Potter’s ankle, not looking up.
“You’re pissed off; why are you pissed off? What did I do?”
“It’s more what you didn’t do, Potter, namely: taking a bloody hint.”
“What, that you stopped replying?” Finally, Potter moved, but only to sit cross-legged right where Severus had been about to cover an area with more mulch. “I wondered what was wrong, and when you didn’t snap out of it, I thought I’d drop by.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He started mulching around Potter.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” Potter tore the rake from Severus’s hand and grabbed his shoulders, giving them a good shake while he was at it and making Severus’s teeth rattle.
“Unhand me right now.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Severus snarled and stood up, loosening Potter’s grip on him but not entirely getting rid of him; Potter followed Severus’s movement and, standing on the flowerbed, actually looked down on Severus. “Potter…”
“Snape. There, we’ve established we know who’s who, good start. Look, I actually came to give you back your memories, you know, the original ones you gave me? I said so in the letters. But you never replied, so I reckoned I’d better come and see. Because,” he added, his hands moving to Severus’s ratty old shirt and pulling him closer, “I could tell you were here, and I could tell you were not sick. But I couldn’t tell why you were pretending we’re not friends.”
“Did you fall on your head recently?”
“Did you? What’s made you so cranky all of a sudden?” Potter patted his head, loosening Severus’s carefully tied ponytail and dislodging several locks that promptly fell in his face. “You did get your skull bashed in not so long ago.”
“Potter.”
“Harry. I know you call me Harry sometimes.”
“No.”
“Yes. In your head.”
“I do not.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “Am I the more mature one here?” He grinned a crooked grin, one white eyetooth peeking from behind full, pink lips. “I think I am.”
Severus swallowed. “Fuck off,” he rasped.
“Nah.” He let Severus go and took a step back, looking down between their feet. “Need a hand?”
“Are you looking for a job? I don’t have an opening.”
“I’m not.” His eyes travelled up Severus’s body, pausing just a little too long to be innocent around his midsection. “But the offer’s on the table anyway,” he added once he’d reached Severus’s face.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
“And you think you come off as closed-off and aloof, and yet.”
Severus clamped down on his impulse to retort with something, anything, so that he didn’t let Potter have the last word, but he knew better. He planted a foot on the flower bed and snatched the trowel back from where he’d planted it earlier, grabbed the rake and the bag of mulch, and carried it all back to the shed. It looked barely big enough for a broom and a shovel, but a few spells had made it large enough inside to hold everything he needed to grow his own ingredients.
He focused on everything but Potter, on the weight of those green eyes between his shoulder blades, on the ghost of these warm hands on his arms, his head. He’d always had long hair, but few people had ever touched it: his mother to comb it, Lily to braid it, Regulus to grab it, hold it, hold him. He shuddered at the memory of it, at how Harry’s – Potter’s touch had reawakened that longing in him.
A weakness, of course.
He tore the shed door open and failed again to focus on anything but Harry – until all the hairs on his body raised up and he cast a rough, all power and no finesse, wandless shield just in time. The shed exploded around him and his first thought was – Harry? He snarled at himself, at the attack, at the lack of answer and slid his wand out from his sleeve, casting a Disillusionment Charm on his person as he stepped out of the remains of his shed, reduced to matchstick-size bits and a few still-enchanted boards that used to hold his precious seedlings and tools.
Harry was still standing on the flower bed, but the flower bed looked scorched and like a small tornado had just torn through it. Harry himself was unscathed, his expression fierce and furious.
What was that?
“Dolohov!” Severus yelled, both in reply to Harry and to challenge that arse-licking, sadistic knobhead.
“Come out, come out, you cowards!”
That was not Dolohov. Macnair, I’d wager, Severus thought at Harry. There might be more.
“I’m not afraid.” Harry came to stand next to Severus, their magic mingling and swirling around them.
“Potter? There’s Potter here too?”
“That’s good; two birds with one stone and all.”
“You… you realise we can hear you, right?” Harry’s amused bafflement bled through his voice, and Severus couldn't help smiling a little. When that cheek wasn’t aimed at him, he had to admit – at least in the privacy of his mind – that he enjoyed it.
“I’m not afraid of you!” Macnair shouted. “Neither of you!”
“And your wards are crap, Snape!”
They were not, but the shed had always been a weak point; there were old coal mine shafts running under Cokeworth, now flooded but still easy enough to navigate with a little magic, if you knew what you were doing. For a dedicated spellcaster who knew about them, sending a magical grenade through the underground maze was child’s play, and one of the shafts ended precisely under the shed. He’d reinforced it, but not as much as he could have, because it would have been a glaring signal that there was a suspiciously-well protected residence right here.
At least there wasn’t a shaft under the house itself, and the wards would not let Macnair or Dolohov through unless Severus was dead.
How did they learn about the shafts?
Severus ignored Harry and curled the fingers of his free hand into a loose fist, letting his magic pool there. “Go away before I kill you both.”
“Or we could deliver them to Azkaban?”
Ugly laughs answered them. “As if it could hold us! You’re naïve, Potter.”
“We’ll do like Malfoy, claim we defected!”
“Or fake our own deaths, just like you did, Snape.”
“Except we’ll be better at it.”
“And not end up sucking up to the Boy Who Lived!”
They’re unhinged.
They’ve always been. Severus contemplated his options. He could take the fight to them, but in the moment he would go through the wards he’d weaken them, just for a second but long enough for a spell to be aimed at Harry. He could… “Fuck!”
Harry had just walked through the wards.
Severus’s wards slid over his skin like cool water; just like when he’d come in, they accepted him and bowed to his will easily. Harry closed his eyes and let instinct guide him, feeling for the malevolent, oily feel of the Death Eaters’ magic and letting it show him their location. Magic had always spoken to him, and after all this time, he’d learned to listen.
Harry aimed his wand at the ground right under one of the attackers and said, “Reducto.”
The ground exploded and – Macnair, he thought, shot through the air, but before he’d even landed he was firing back, and suddenly Harry was duelling two Dark wizards intent on his death. He may not have thought his plan through after all; Sev – Snape was going to kill him, possibly even if he died. Harry was pretty sure he’d find a way. He was good at grudges, Snape was.
Harry cast a spell on himself to hide his magic, ignored the seething he could feel from Snape, and fought in earnest for his life; not even ten seconds in, he realised there were more than two of them.
Loud thoughts about stupid, foolish Gryffindors made him smile, but he didn’t reply; they weren’t meant for him, more like Severus grumbling to himself as he – ow!
One of the attackers got a lucky hit in, and Harry hissed. Well, a graze more than a hit, but it still burned, and it had hit his wand arm; Severus was definitely going to kill him. Except, where was he? Dodge, shield, Petrificus Totalus!, duck, Severus?, crouch, ow!, run, Impedimenta!, but he couldn’t aim as well as he’d like to. He knew where they all were, but as soon as he thought he’d pinpointed one they disappeared, as if Confunded.
A yell was abruptly cut short behind him, and he heard a scuffle to his left.
And then that cool, soothing, familiar magic again, so close he could almost touch Severus; he turned his head to follow him and a vivid green curse whizzed past Harry’s nose, missing him by an inch.
Tempting fate to see if you can live thrice, now? Severus was absolutely pissed off, his mind-voice biting and cutting; Harry refocused on the fight. Finally, he had an opening; he disarmed Rabastan Lestrange and whirled to point his wand at – at – he dropped his arm.
“Severus,” he said.
“What were you thinking? Oh, wait, you were not – you just…!”
Harry didn’t let him finish; he threw his arms around Severus’s shoulders and breathed him in, joy bubbling in his chest. “You’re okay!”
“You’re an idiot,” Severus replied, but his voice was low, intimate, the words whispered in the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry’s heart swelled until he became aware of how stiff Severus held himself, his arms held rigidly to his sides.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” Harry let him go and looked him over; his eyes zeroed in on Severus’s bloody – literally bloody, you couldn’t see the skin under all the red – hands. “What happened?” He made as if to take them in his, but Severus shifted away.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You call that nothing? You’re hurt!”
“It’s not mine.”
“Not yours?” Now that he knew what he was looking for, Harry could see the wet shine of blood all over Severus’s dark clothes. He was covered, absolutely covered in blood, not just his hands; it was like he’d bathed in it. “You look like a slaughterhouse.”
Severus barked a laugh. “You’re not far from the truth.” He flicked his hand and a long knife appeared in it. “Death Eaters can’t ever imagine dirtying their hands; non-magical attacks are their blind spot. And it turns out I’ve got some skill with sharp knives.”
“You… stabbed them?”
“Among other things.”
Harry blinked.
“I fight dirty. I fight to win. This,” he said, his eyes flicking over a waste ground that looked like it now served as an informal dumping area for the neighbourhood, stretching from the last houses on Spinner’s End to the river down below, “this is not play-duelling Lockhart. This is life or death, and I don’t… I’m not you, Harry. I’m not a brave soldier facing my opponents heads-on; I’ll slit their throats before they know I’m here if that’s what it takes.” Severus flexed the fingers of his free hand, and Harry watched the flickers of magic gathering there. “Not that I ever slit anyone’s throat before today, but Dolohov was aiming at you. I don’t care about playing fair if there’s too much at stake.”
“Ah.” So you did it for me?
“You should call the Aurors, let them deal with all this. Tell them they attacked you; tell them they fought each other.”
“They attacked you, actually. And you haven't said how they knew about the shafts.”
“Pettigrew must have found out when he was living here. It doesn’t matter; I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” Don’t you dare!
“If they knew I survived, others might as well. And I…” I can’t trust you’ll keep away from me.
“What a load of crap.” Harry grabbed Severus’s hand, blood and all, and led him back to the house; he sent a Patronus as he went, but didn’t let go until they were inside and he’d shut the door behind them. Severus’s hand was ice-cold in his, and tacky. The blood was drying on his skin, on his clothes; there were splatters on his face and in his hair, too.
They sat on the old sofa, quiet, their fingers still entwined, until a deep voice spoke through the front door.
“May I come in?”
Severus sighed, and the wards shivered and let Kingsley Shacklebolt in.
“Gentlemen.”
“Hullo.”
“Minister.”
Kingsley took it all in: the scent of blood, Harry’s singed sleeve, their hands resting together on the cushion.
“So you’re not dead after all.” He didn’t sound very surprised.
“I lied.”
“It appears that you did, yes. I can’t really blame you; right after the battle, you were safer dead than alive.”
“And now?” Harry asked. “What about now?”
“It’s up to you. What happened outside? I’m about to send a forensic team, but first I must ask: is he back?”
“No.” Severus rolled his shoulders and freed his hand from Harry’s; he bared his forearm to show them the Mark was so faded as to be almost invisible. “Some of my former associates found out I was not quite dead, and decided to get their revenge. They didn’t expect Potter.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting Harry either, not here. I take it you’re, ah, friends?”
“It’s complicated,” Harry said.
Severus covered his face with his hands. “Don’t make it sound worse than it is.”
“Okay. It’s not complicated.”
Kingsley’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I only came to return something that belongs to him.” A few pops outside announced the arrival of the Aurors Kingsley had mentioned.
“I’ll buy that, for now. Look, I don’t want to interfere in the investigation, but I’d like to know: what should I keep out of the public eye?” He looked at Severus. “I can try and keep your survival out of the papers for a little while, at least, but an attack in a Muggle neighbourhood, from these folks…”
“The fact that I’m not dead is going to come out sooner or later. It doesn’t matter; I can just,” he waved a hand, “make myself scarce.”
Harry didn’t like that at all. “No.”
Of course, Severus ignored him and started picking at the dried blood stuck under his nails.
Kingsley looked at them both, lips pursed. “You shouldn’t disappear entirely; there’s going to be an investigation, even if we keep it under wraps as much as possible. Do you have alternate lodgings, if you feel you must relocate? I’ll make sure that your privacy is respected, but after today you may want to…”
“I don’t.”
Harry sighed loudly. “Yes you do; come with me to London.”
“I am not stepping foot in that cursed house again.”
“Then go to the Malfoys.”
Severus finally turned his head to look at him, lips slightly parted in shock. “The Malfoys. And why exactly should I repay Narcissa’s kindness to me with reckless endangerment of herself and her family?”
“Reckless… right, because now you know there might be a bunch of deranged, curse-happy Death Eaters after you? Well, the Manor’s still standing, right? I don’t think they’re very popular with that same crowd, and yet they’re fine.”
“You could go to Hogwarts,” Kingsley said. “I agree that going to the Malfoys’ isn’t a good idea, but I’m sure Minerva has room for you, especially in the summer. She knows, doesn’t she? She knows you’re alive.”
“She does.”
“Well then. Hogwarts will be safe, and much more of a neutral ground than the Manor. And you must know your way around it better than any of those who want you dead.”
“I’ll help you pack.”
“I’m perfectly able to take care of myself, Potter.”
“I’m offering anyway.”
Kingsley cleared his throat. “Hogwarts it is, then. I’ll make sure the team in charge of this investigation knows where to find you; please don’t fake your death again.”
Severus worked his jaw, but eventually jerked his head in an approximation of a nod; it must have been good enough, because Kingsley left the house to do some Minister stuff. He used to be an Auror, and the temptation to go and see how the team was doing must be strong. Harry was glad he’d chosen not to become one. He still didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he didn’t want to spend his days running after murderers; he’d had enough of those. Well, not all murderers; technically, he was a murderer himself, and so was Severus. Even Molly Weasley!
Harry bumped Severus’s shoulder before speaking, and saw a small smile appear for the briefest of moments. “I still have my room there. At the school, I mean.”
“I thought you lived at Grimmauld Place.”
“I hate it there. I’m working on it so I can leave it to Teddy and Andromeda and not feel like I’m cursing them with that horrid house, but I, er, drift.”
“Drift.”
“Yeah, I’ve spent some time at the Burrow, and I visited Charlie in Romania, but in between, I go back to Hogwarts. McGonagall said there were several of us who needed a fall-back place at the castle, and that she was happy to provide.”
“So you’ll be around.”
“So I’ll be around.” Harry bumped Severus’s shoulder again. “Can’t get rid of me that easy, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve come to realise that.”
“So, can I help you pack?”
“There’s not much to pack.”
“I’ll still help you. Come on, give me your hand.” Harry stood up, arm extended, but Severus ignored it. Instead, he was staring at his own hands, rubbing them slowly together as flakes of dry blood detached from his skin and fell at his feet like ash. “Severus?”
“There’s blood on my hands.”
“Yeah, we’ll wash it off first.”
“It can’t wash off; it’s inside, too.”
“Pretty sure it’s outside.”
“I…” He shook his head and turned his hands palms up. I killed before; you saw me kill. But not like this. Severus raised his head, looking over Harry’s shoulder. They would have sensed me, if I’d used magic. Through the Mark. So I used a knife.
“How – oh. Voldemort’s built-in safety net?”
Severus nodded. “I think it’s what warned me just in time; I knew something was wrong and raised a shield before I could pinpoint what, exactly, I was reacting to.”
“I’m glad you did. I’m glad you raised that shield.” You would have died, and I don’t want you to die.
Harry watched Severus’s Adam’s apple bob, his chest rise and fall as he breathed in and out, deeply.
Finally, his eyes met Harry’s. “Can you send a message, without mentioning me, to Hogwarts? To Minerva? I’d rather not risk it myself.”
“I will.” Harry took Severus’s hands in his, and gently tugged; Severus finally stood and followed him into the cramped bathroom. “You can wash off a bit, and I’ll let McGonagall know I’m coming with a friend.”
Harry closed the door as he left Severus to it, keeping an ear out; once he heard the water running, he scribbled a note and called Kreacher, who grumbled a bit when he saw where he was.
“Can you deliver this to the Headmistress?”
“I can.”
“Please?”
Kreacher scowled, but he snatched the note from Harry’s fingers and disappeared with a pop. He liked to keep up the grumpy façade, but he was happy Harry was working on Grimmauld Place and that Black family members would soon live there again, so Harry didn’t take the elf’s glares too personally.
Eventually Severus emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp but most of the blood removed, even from his clothes. He’d probably used magic to get it out of the fabric, but Harry had guessed right: Severus had preferred using water on his own skin rather than a spell.
“What do you want to bring?”
“I have an emergency bag ready; everything else can wait.”
“It can, but it doesn’t have to, and we don’t know when you’ll be able to come back.”
Severus looked around, his eyes pausing on a few items – a Muggle photograph, a miner’s lamp, a small, roughly-carved wooden owl. Harry picked up each of them and set them on the table. “Anything else?”
“You shouldn’t indulge me in this – sentimentality.” He looked disgusted with himself.
“Uh huh. Anything else?” Harry repeated.
Severus reached out and a wand flew into his hand from behind a bookshelf. “My mother’s wand,” he said. “A spare is always useful.”
“Yes, yes, very practical.” Not sentimental in the slightest, of course. “Do you have your bag?”
“A moment.” Severus pointed his usual wand at the floor, and a small rucksack appeared. He picked it up, enlarged it, placed the extra items in it, then sized it down again. “We can Apparate from a spot by the river; no one will see us.”
“Well then, let’s go.”
They made several Apparition jumps before reaching the outer edge of the Forest, far enough away from Hogsmeade and the castle that their arrival should remain a secret. They trudged through the trees, careful not to disturb the plants and animals there – Harry had no desire to cross Acromantulas, after all – until they could see the castle’s towers and spires greeting them, restored to their former glory after a year of repairs.
Severus stood there for a long while, taking it all in.
I didn’t think I’d ever see Hogwarts again.
Harry slipped his hand into Severus’s elbow. “You know, it never gets old. Whenever I come back after a few weeks, it’s like I’m a first year all over again.”
“If you love it so much, you could probably get a job and stay here on a more permanent basis.”
“Hm. I’ll think about it. What about you? Would you come back to teaching?”
“Not for all the Galleons in the world. After the last year… no.”
“Yeah.” Harry couldn’t say he didn’t understand. Hogwarts was the home of his heart, and yet he wasn’t sure he could come back long-term, at least not in the near future. The war, the fighting, the deaths… it was all too close, for now. “Ready?”
Severus’s muscles tightened for a brief moment under Harry’s hand, and they walked on.
They didn’t see anyone as they reached one of the smaller entrances to the castle and moved on to the Headmistress's office. The gargoyle stared at them, and Harry stared back.
“Er… Lemon drops?”
Severus rolled his eyes, and set his palm over the gargoyle’s head.
“Welcome home, Headmaster,” it said, a bit grudgingly, before letting the door open.
“Headmaster?”
“I hope Minerva didn’t hear that,” Severus replied as the spiral staircase led them upstairs.
“You hope I didn’t hear what?”
There she was, hands on her hips and fighting a smile.
“The gargoyle thinks he’s the Headmaster.”
“Well, it can be a for-life kind of job. Oh, Severus, Harry, I just had a rather cryptic message from the Minister and I’m all kinds of worried; you have to come in and tell me everything. What happened?”
Severus was quiet for most of the conversation, and monosyllabic when he had to answer. Between the fight earlier and returning to Hogwarts, he had retreated into his mind and didn’t let a lot through, but Harry knew. He knew how wrong-footed, how overwhelmed Severus felt, and he didn’t push. McGonagall seemed to understand it too, and didn’t push either; she told them Severus’s old quarters hadn’t been emptied, and that he’d find everything as it used to be. She didn’t comment on their hand-holding, either, but Harry didn’t miss the way her eyes kept straying to it; there would be questions later.
They left her office with assurances that they could stay as long as they needed, and now here they were, footsteps echoing in the empty dungeon corridors as they made their way to Severus’s quarters.
“It’s quiet. Is it always this quiet?”
“Slytherins aren’t as rambunctious as you lot,” Severus replied with a small smile. “But the dungeons are seldom this quiet near the dorms. However…” He touched the corner of a tapestry, and stones rearranged to form a doorway. “However, I chose quarters in a different area.”
“This is far away from the classrooms and your office. And the dorms.”
“Oh, there are pathways that even you don’t know about. And I had Charms to alert me if I was needed in the dorms, for example.”
“Do you miss it? Being Head of House, I mean.”
Severus pursed his lips in thought. “I didn’t hate it. However…”
“Yeah?”
He sighed. “I was stuck here for too long, I think. Hogwarts, Slytherin… I’d like to be – I’d like to see beyond that. I can’t ever escape it entirely, but I can try.”
“I get that.”
“I thought you might.”
They reached a dark, narrow corridor with bare walls: no tapestries, paintings, or even empty frames. Nothing, no one to spy on the spy, Harry realised. Well, not quite no one; the Bloody Baron was hovering ahead of them, and turned around when they got near.
“Welcome back,” he said, his chains jangling as he glided closer.
“Baron.” Severus stopped and looked up at the ghost. “I am not Head any longer, nor even a mere professor, but the Headmistress has granted me shelter at Hogwarts. Mr Potter here will have full access to my old quarters, too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, and will make sure you are not disturbed.” He frowned. “Peeves is as annoying as ever, but I shall keep him away as well.”
“Thank you, Baron.”
“You are welcome. You honour our proud House, and I shall repay your loyalty to Slytherin in whatever way I can.”
Snape nodded and they watched the ghost drift away through a wall, chains clanging more and more faintly until silence finally returned.
“Cheerful bloke.”
“Much of Hogwarts’s history is darker than we can imagine as wet-nosed, wide-eyed first years. Much of wizarding society, even. Come in,” he added as he opened a door that hadn’t been here a second earlier.
“I think I got my hopes too high, when Hagrid came for me and told me I was a wizard.”
The door disappeared behind them, leaving only a blank wall. Severus took a few halting steps, set a hesitant hand on the mantel of a large fireplace. It was cold and dark, until Harry pointed his wand at it and said, “Can I?”
Severus shivered and turned, face blank; Harry wondered if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone for a moment. “I’m not sure you should stay. You said you had your own room here, didn’t you?”
“Why should I leave?”
“Why should you stay?”
“Because I want to.”
“Yes,” Severus said. “That’s the problem.”
“And I know you want me to.” He lit a fire and stepped closer to Severus, almost but not quite touching him. “Here,” he said, setting a small phial on the mantel, “your memories. The original ones, I mean.” He’d got them back from Kreacher a while ago, but he had never rewatched them.
“I can’t give you back your own, or take back those you shouldn’t have seen.”
“I know. That’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“I’m glad we’ve shared them. I can’t imagine – what if we hadn’t? What if you’d died, and we’d never talked?”
“What then? You would have lived; that was the point. You’d have lived, perhaps married Miss Weasley, become an Auror, had that family you’ve always wanted. There’s still plenty of time for all of that.”
“Time, yes. Desire, not so much.”
“You’re not even twenty.”
“You’re not even forty.” Harry could tell what the conversation was really about, and he’d never been good at beating around the bush. “I want to stay, because I want to be with you.”
“Harry…”
“Severus.”
Harry watched, fascinated, as Severus flushed – not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. It might have been the warmth of the fire, but it might have been something else, and from the way he didn’t look at Harry directly, from the way his eyes refused to linger on Harry’s face… Oh, yes, he was a spy, a ‘superb Occlumens,’ Dumbledore had said. He was a master deceiver; he’d fooled two of the most powerful wizards, after all, and both underestimated him, even the old Headmaster. But Severus knew better than to try to hide things Harry had already seen in his mind, in his dreams.
Still, he tried. “It’s inappropriate.”
“Why?”
“Don’t pretend to be more empty-headed than you are.”
“You’re not my teacher now; you’re not even a teacher any longer. And I don’t think anyone would believe we had some sort of affair while I was a student here.”
“I don’t think the word you’re looking for is affair.” His body was rigid, his fingers tightly curled; Harry picked up one of his hands and gently worked it open. Severus let it happen for a little while, before freeing it. “Harry… what I am, what I did. What you have ahead of you.”
“I can choose for myself.”
“What about everyone else? You might choose for yourself, yes, but what you choose won’t only affect yourself. No one lives in a vacuum, but you, Harry, even less. They’ll eat you alive for some choices, and you know it.”
“I don’t care. I died for them; isn’t that enough?”
“Everyone else doesn’t mean a vague, undefined public. It’s also the Weasleys, your friends, all the people you value in your life.” He raised his hands between them. “Look, Harry, look at them. Remember all I did to them.”
“I do. I was there for some of it, too.” He took a step forward, another, until Severus took one back, then another. Soon, his back was to the wall, but still, Harry kept advancing. “I’ve been thinking about you so much,” he said, in a low voice. “And I know you’ve been thinking about me, too.”
“I have,” he whispered.
“I haven’t had a proper wank ever since that night; do you remember? When it broke through to you?”
Severus swallowed. “Vividly.”
“I was thinking about you then. But now…” Harry slid the palm of his hand slowly up Severus’s stomach, his chest. “Now, I think if you just touch me, I’m going to explode.”
“Is that a problem?” Severus’s eyes were on Harry’s mouth, and his heart beat faster under Harry’s hand when Harry licked his lips.
“Nah, I think I can go again pretty soon.”
“How many times?”
“I dunno. We could – we could try. Er, test it.” Harry felt bold, bolder than he could have ever imagined being; Severus wasn’t pushing him away. He wanted Harry. “If you’d like.”
Severus closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened them, and finally moved.
He caught Harry’s hips and turned them around, slamming Harry against the wall; he buried one hand in his hair and pulled, forcing Harry to bare his neck. Harry shuddered, then sighed when Severus kissed him there, buried his whole face against Harry’s skin and breathed him in. Harry wrapped his arms around Severus’s shoulders and cried out when a long, hard thigh wedged itself between his legs; he rutted, rutted like his life depended on it, and maybe it did, yes, he thought, just this – Severus’s damp breath in his neck, his hair on Harry’s face, his hard prick that Harry could feel with every thrust.
He didn’t last long.
Harry was taking great big gulps of air, head thrown back and a stupid smile on his face, for a long moment, until he remembered who he was, and who he was with.
“Hey,” he said. Wow, his voice was rough. Had he screamed?
“Back to your usual articulate self, I see.”
“Shut up.” Harry wiggled a bit, wincing at how sensitive and damp he felt in his trousers, and noticed something. “You didn’t.”
“This isn’t a competition.”
“Hm.” He moved a hand from Severus’s back to his groin, and grinned at the hiss that earned him. “Nice.” He gently bumped his forehead against Severus’s before giving him a quick peck on the lips, managing not to dislodge his glasses. “I needed that, thanks. But now…”
He started on Severus’s fly. It was only early evening, after all.
Harry now smelled like him or, more accurately, the old shirt he’d borrowed from Severus now smelled like Harry. It was warm with his body heat, soft with age, a bit too large on Harry’s frame. At 18, soon to be 19, he still had time to fill out. Severus closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek a little against the fabric, feeling Harry’s hard chest under it, his slow heartbeat.
“I didn’t know you were a cat.” A hand settled on his skull and started petting him.
Severus sighed as his body, half over Harry, half not, became even heavier, even looser. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “I’m supposed to be a bat.”
“Well, the difference is only one letter.” Harry moved to carding his fingers through Severus’s hair. “It’s my birthday soon.”
“I’m aware.”
“There’s going to be a party at the Burrow.”
“Hm.”
“Come with me?”
“Harry…”
“I want you to come with me.”
Severus moved to rest his forehead for a moment against Harry’s sternum, before lifting his head fully. He looked down into Harry’s green eyes, their full force undimmed by the glasses that had been abandoned somewhere between the sofa, the bath, and the bed. “I don’t think that is wise.”
“You know they won’t kick you out.” He moved Severus’s hair to one side, baring the scars left by Nagini and brushing his fingertips over them. “It could be a first step in letting people know you’re alive.”
“Is this something I want to do?”
Harry’s finger followed the pink scar that ran up his neck, over his jaw, and reached part-way through his cheek. “You know you’re going to have to; might as well do it on your own terms.”
“On your own terms, in this case.”
“Well, I reckon if I don’t make you, you’ll never do it.” He smiled, a bit mischievous, a bit tender. “This way, I’d be with you.”
“In what capacity, Harry? ‘Hello, I found a Death Eater on my way here, but I promise he’s tame enough’?”
“Tame? You?” Harry pushed him hard enough to make him fall to the side, but before he could pin Severus down he was the one flat on his back and with his wrists caught in Severus’s hands. He laughed, he laughed, as he said, “See? Not tame,” and then he slipped out of the admittedly loose grip and brought Severus’s face down for a kiss. “I want you there as my…” He paused.
“Your what? If you can‘t even say it, it doesn’t bode well.”
“I can, but I don’t know what word to pick. Boyfriend sounds silly, lover is too mushy, partner is too much like a business contract. I don’t know a word that would fit us both. You can’t be a boyfriend; I can’t be a partner.” He wrinkled his nose. “You know?”
“Then, I suppose that settles it: I can’t come with you.”
“Yes you can. You’ll be there as my Severus; how does that sound?”
“Possessive.” And certainly not charming at all. Certainly not making Severus’s heart do a weird little dance in his chest.
“Yeah, you bet. I know what you’re worried about; I know what’s in your head…”
“Please don’t remind me,” Severus grumbled, lying on his side to face Harry.
“Well, you know what’s in mine; I’d call that fair.” He kissed the tip of Severus’s nose. “I know what I want. There’s no one I’d rather have than you.”
“You’re letting what happened between us influence you.”
“Hm hm. I mean, that’s how it’s supposed to work, right? You get to know someone, and then you fall in…”
Severus put a finger over Harry’s lips. “Don’t say it.”
“What, fall in mfff–” he pushed Severus’s hand away. “Oh, come on! You know it’s true!”
“Regardless.” He twined his fingers around Harry’s shorter ones. “If I do this… if I go to the Burrow with you, you know what they’ll think. You know what they’ll say – maybe not on that day, but later. They’ll talk to you. They’ll be nice about it, concerned and gentle, but not everyone will be.”
“I know, and I don’t care. And before you say anything, remember: I’ve been through it before, but back then I wasn’t who I am now.”
“If you say anything like I’m wiser now…”
Harry laughed. “No. But now, they can’t say anything if I hex a reporter. How does that sound?”
“Like a foolhardy thing to do; they love you now, but…”
“But love is a fickle thing?”
“It is.”
“Mine isn’t, and I only care about a few people’s love for me.”
“You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve, for all to see. It is a recipe for hurt.”
“I won’t hide in a closet.”
Severus winced. “I can’t decide whether you're brave or reckless.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Harry grinned when Severus rolled his eyes, but after some shuffling they finally settled down for the rest of the night, their hands brushing under the covers and their minds loosely connected even when not actively sharing. They were never alone.
The late afternoon was still hot, and Severus decided to sit in the shade of a tree, his back to the trunk and his eyes on Harry, who was playing with young Victoire Weasley and Teddy Lupin. After their nap, they were both full of energy, as children often are, and just watching them was exhausting.
“Amazing to think we ever were that small, eh?”
“I find it hard to believe you would; you’ve been a father many times, and now a grandfather.”
“And yet I do.” Arthur Weasley sat next to him, huffing a little. “Cooling Charms wear off so quickly, don’t they?”
“Good thing we’re wizards.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course.” Weasley stretched his arms and crossed his legs, eyes on the children. “When Harry said he’d bring someone, we weren’t expecting you.”
Ah, there it was. “I didn’t think you would, no.”
“He seems happy.”
“It’s his birthday.”
“It is. Nineteen!”
Severus gritted his teeth and didn’t rise to the bait.
“I forget you’re not a lover of smalltalk, sometimes. I can’t say it wasn’t a surprise, but it’s his choice. You’re his choice.”
“He is persistent.”
“Yes, he certainly is. But you’re both mercurial, and we don’t want you to hurt each other.”
“Understood.”
“Do you? Ah, well, you’re a smart one; I’m sure you do.” He was quiet for a while, but Severus knew better than to believe Weasley was done. He waited, patiently. He wasn’t disappointed. “It must be a relief, to have these rogue Death Eaters locked up in Azkaban. Harry said you stopped several yourself before warning the Minister.”
“Harry was there.” Severus looked down at his hands. The blood had been washed away a long while ago, but he still remembered how warm it was right as it spilled out of a living, dying, body.
“And now you can both hope you’re free from those people. Do you have any plans, now you’re back in the land of the living?”
Harry, please. “I’m considering my options.”
“Not going back to teaching, then?”
“Not for all the Galleons in the world; that time is over for me.” A Snitch zipped through the air and came to hover in front of them; Severus looked at it, then behind it. “Harry,” he said, feigning surprise as if he hadn’t just called him to the rescue.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m trying to tire out the kids but I’m the one who’s going to end up exhausted.” He plucked the Snitch from the air and waved it above Victoire’s head, who had just run to them and was attempting to climb Harry’s trouser leg to get at the toy. “Oi, Ginny – catch!” He threw the Snitch away and Victoire raced after it.
“Come sit with us, Harry; Severus and I were just chatting about your plans for the future.”
“Crikey, I was hoping to keep that for tomorrow.” He settled between Severus and Weasley with a sigh. He was still flushed with his energetic play, a happy smile on his face, and his eyes at half-mast like he was thinking of a little nap, too. So that’s what I’m saving you from. “If I survive the kids.”
Weasley laughed and patted Harry’s knee. “You will.”
“”I hope so; I have to finish things with Grimmauld Place before Andromeda and Teddy move in for good.”
“Where are you going to live, then?”
“Well…” Harry glanced at Severus before his eyelashes lowered again. “I thought I might try my hand at the renovation thing again on Severus’s house. I’ve learned a lot as I was working on Grimmauld, but I don't think it can be a real job quite yet.”
“I’m his guinea pig.”
“Ah, so you do have plans for the future!”
“I don’t think I’m at the plans stage yet, but I’m giving things a try.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well, Harry.”
Arthur Weasley stood up after a last pat on Harry’s shoulder and a nod at Severus. “Well, I believe Molly’s going to need me soon; I should see what she’s up to in the kitchen!”
They watched him walk away, Severus with relief and Harry with amusement. “It went well, didn’t it?”
“No one died, but the day isn’t over yet.”
Harry shook his head, huffing a little laugh, and lay down on the grass fully, arms crossed behind his head. “Wake me up for dinner, yeah?”
Severus rolled his eyes and took a notebook and Muggle pencil from his pocket, enlarging them and balancing them on his knee before starting to write. He, too, had not-quite-formed-but-getting-there plans, after all.
“Harry! Harry Potter!”
“Mr Potter!”
“I hate your fans,” Severus grumbled.
“Snape! Professor Snape!”
“What about yours?”
Severus grunted and turned away from the window, looking disgruntled. It was kind of charming, the way he’d frown and almost pout, but Harry wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“Well, now that your book is selling like Chocolate Frogs, I reckon you’re getting a taste of what it’s like. It’s only fair, that you’re now a celebrity.”
“Spiteful, Potter.”
“Yup.”
He could see the crowd outside, some lucky ones holding their own copies of Memoirs of a Death Eater, some fighting not to lose their place in the queue to get in the bookshop. He and Severus were waiting above the shop for the signal to go down, sign some copies, and answer a few questions, but the Aurors assigned to their security team said they should wait until things calmed down.
“I can’t imagine they’ll be that eager for the textbook; it won’t be prefaced by the one and only Harry Potter..”
“I still think you should call it Potions for Dunderheads. Everyone who ever had you in class would immediately know who wrote it.”
“You can pick the title for the Defence one; after all, you’ll also have your name on it… contrary to the Potions one.”
“Harsh.”
“Fair.”
“If those are the sort of lies you want to tell yourself.” Harry kissed Severus’s cheek and felt the muscles twitch under the skin; Severus was fighting a smile.
“All right, I think we can go downstairs now, are you – oh.”
Jen, the Auror, was looking at them with wide eyes.
“Yeah, I think we’re ready.”
“Er, I didn’t know you… were…” She blinked. “I mean, you’re…”
“We are, yeah.” They weren’t keeping it a secret, but Severus was wary of being too public about it, and Harry respected that. “It’s just not something we actively publicise.”
“Right. Er, this way, please.”
The next few months were a whirlwind of interviews, more autographs, even more articles; inevitably, one day, someone snapped a picture of them sharing a rather chaste kiss. Severus refused to leave his Cokeworth house for an entire week, and Harry had to lure him out with promises of sticking to Muggle areas for a while, to keep things as sane as possible.
But the worst didn’t happen; their relationship didn’t please everyone, of course, but the media coverage was overall balanced, and when Severus finally ventured back into Wizarding areas and didn’t get cursed the minute he stepped foot in public, he relaxed a bit.
He kept adding to his collection of textbooks, Harry started a house renovation business, and soon enough Severus was creating bespoke potions to help with the process, from removing old hexes embedded in the foundations, to making sure the wallpaper would stay bright and fresh for many years.
They made headlines when the Malfoys hired them to fully refurbish the Manor once it became clear that even the house elves’ magic wasn’t enough to deal with Voldemort’s taint. Severus told Harry he thought it was more a matter of publicity than efficiency, but Harry himself knew that it was more than that. The elves had done a fine job, but they hadn’t killed Voldemort, or fooled him for years. They couldn’t give the reassurance that Harry and Severus could.
And best of all, Narcissa bestowed on them a cottage by the sea in payment, surrounded by tall cliffs and rolling waves that lapped at a large boulder on the beach. It had been hewed and hollowed and smoothed out by the ocean, and an old elf often visited when they stayed in the cottage. They hosted Ron and Hermione’s wedding on the beach, watched their children build sand castles a few years later, then their grandchildren.
All in all, it was a good life, and neither Harry nor Severus would have changed anything in it.