Chapter One: The Year of Reconstruction
"Come, Severus, we are going out." Minerva swept into his study and began bustling around, collecting books and stacking them neatly to be re-shelved, before he had even registered her presence. So much for war instincts, he thought grimly to himself. Then again, can anyone anticipate this woman?
"I am not going anywhere, and certainly not with you," he said with enough sharpness to drive home his resolve.
"Certainly you are. It has been a year, Severus, and there is much more to life than all of this fruitless brooding. I really must insist." She inspected a scrap of parchment before setting it aside, in a growing pile of similarly useless odds and ends.
"Insist as you like, but I have a research project that cannot wait." He turned a page in his book after glancing through the door at the cauldron bubbling sedately in the next room.
"That project?" With a swish of her wand, Minerva had cast a stasis spell, "There, it's all taken care of. I'm sure it will wait for your return."
"Damn you, woman!" Snape jumped to his feet and rushed to the next room, examining his project and her spell.
"Don't bend yourself out of shape, Severus, I included intermittent stirring charms in the working," she called from the next room, the sound of books thumping back onto shelves punctuating her words.
"You know it doesn't have as good of an effect as real stirring." He muttered, entirely too aware that he sounded rather sulky.
"And you know that your project is as much an exercise in futility as all of this hiding you're doing, my dear man. There are only so many ways a potion can be improved, Severus." As the last book flew into its place on the shelf, she dropped her wand hand and turned to regard him as he stood, uncharacteristically without a retort.
"Nevertheless, it still feels too soon to dance upon the blood-soaked Earth, Minerva." He muttered quietly. If she had not been so good a friend or so fierce a comrade in the war, he may not have spoken at all, but as it was it took a great deal of effort to say. She moved towards him before speaking.
"Severus." She stopped, reaching out a hand to grip his bicep, now standing straight in front of him and looking into his eyes with a small, sorrowful smile. "Sometimes, we don't know we can dance, until we hear the right song." And you'll never hear any songs, staying in your dungeons, she did not have to say.
He knew it, he had become increasingly disturbed by his own behavior over the past year. After so long fighting a grueling war on two fronts, he had often fantasized of what he would do when it was all over. Travel and indulgence had been chief on his list; a steady stream of his salary had been put away for the days of leisure he dreamed of after the war, providing he survived at all. He now had more than enough to travel the world in style twice over, and yet…
As it was, it had been a year exactly since the Dark Lord's demise—tonight was the anniversary, no doubt why Minerva was pestering him—and he had barely left Hogwarts in all that time. Initially, he had been recovering from grievous wounds, but over time he had stayed more and more in the shadows, withdrawing from everyone. He no longer taught potions (and hadn't, thankfully, for several years), but retained his quarters at Hogwarts by the grace of Albus' foresight and concern. Although he had inherited his mother's family estates when an estranged cousin—the last of the line—had died in battle, he had found no motivation to tour his holdings or look over the scrolls detailing his new wealth.
Even receiving the Order of Merlin, First Class and the invitation to the award ceremony had not moved him, nor made him feel as he had expected. Instead of pride, or warmth, or even grim satisfaction, he had felt nothing. Rather—he had felt like a 7th-year receiving a muggle primary school sticker on an essay; underwhelmed, underappreciated, and over-worked. The Order of Merlin had been placed gracelessly on the rather crowded mantle in his sitting room between a peculiar vase and a portraiture of his mother, turned face down. It had been gathering dust ever since, and he had not once remembered to look at it.
He had resolved to begin his travel arrangements that very spring, but—at least initially—the reconstruction of Hogwarts and rebuilding after the war had taken priority. There had been medi-potions that needed expert brewing in outrageous quantity, ward growth and repair, children to comfort or provoke into maturing, and most importantly, endless rounds of testimony that would leave him a free man. It was only in the past few months that there had truly been nothing to do, and even more recently had he realized that he was stalling—and hiding. Disgusted with himself, he broke free of Minverva's hand and turned away.
"I suppose you're going to the Three Broomsticks, along with the rest of the faculty," he said with enough sarcasm to make it clear that it was not at all his idea of 'fun', although what did consist of fun for Severus was a mystery even to Minerva. Knowing him, it was most likely something the rest of the wizarding world considered absurdly dull; she did however admire his ability to find even the dullest subject endlessly fascinating. She cleared her throat.
"Actually, a few of us are getting together at a place in Edinburgh for dinner. Afterwards, some of us will probably continue to a pub. I will be content if you will stay at least through dinner, although of course, you would be welcome to linger as well." She tried to hide the faint smirk, and failed, but he did not fault her for it.
"Very well, Minerva," he huffed, and went to change.
"That was, perhaps surprisingly, easier than I had expected," Minerva addressed to the room, which made no reply.
"You failed to mention that Black would be in attendance," Severus growled stiffly to Minerva, who waved her hand at him as the entered the back patio of the surprisingly beautiful restaurant. The interior had high ceilings, dark wood paneling and low, tasteful lighting, and the French doors opened onto a large patio overlooking the river. In the mild autumn evening, the river and watercress could be scented from the patio, providing a fresh, pleasing fragrance.
"You two worked well enough together during the war, if you excuse all the bickering. Just be certain to sit far enough away from him; no one here wants to be caught in between the two of you when you start squabbling."
"I do not squabble, that cur is—"
"Severus!" A voice called—was that Molly Weasley? Oh dear Merlin, what had he gotten himself into?
"Severus, it is you, how wonderful it is to see you out and about. Are you planning on joining the younger ones at the pub later on, then? I know Charlie and Bill would appreciate having someone steady like you along."
Severus could not decide whether to be insulted to be lumped into the same category of people he thought of as children, or flattered that she felt he would be welcome among them. As he had never had a taste for flattery, he settled on the former. "I hardly doubt I could be of any use whatsoever. I am far too old to be getting sloshed on a Monday at the local pub."
"Nonsense, Severus, you're only thirty-nine. You could be my little brother!" He felt his cheeks warm slightly, absurdly embarrassed by the idea, and bowed his head.
"Very true, Molly. However, I still taught most of your sons when they were children, one not even a few years ago." He replied. Molly made a dismissive gesture.
"Nonsense, Severus. You know how long we live. Compared to Albus, we are all terribly young, still! Do think about joining them, it won't be all young men; Remus, Tonks, and Minerva were all planning to attend, I believe."
He made a gesture of concession and a promise to think on it before she would let him take his seat. He chose a spot next to the rail dividing the patio from the river, content to drink his wine and watch as the others mingled, often standing and moving about to speak to one-another. Harry Potter was insulated as ever by his two best friends, and Lupin and Black sat to Granger's right, speaking intently to one another. It was nearly a reunion of the entire Order of the Phoenix, in fact. Those missing were either known for being reclusive, or dead.
He was surprised that no one had accosted their party yet, accustomed as he was to the fame of Harry Potter and those associated with him (which, after the trails, included himself—a fact he was decidedly uncomfortable with). Looking more closely, he saw a glint, then a shimmer, in the air between their rancorous group and the rest of the diners on the patio.
Someone planned this dinner and tailored it to be the most comfortable for all of us—us…veterans, he thought, almost pleased by the idea. It would indeed be terrible manners if he were to leave too soon. Expecting to feel bitter obligation or contempt at the thought, he was surprised to only find himself mildly amused.
These changes in his mood and disposition had left him feeling so wrong-footed and unlike himself that, in part, they had caused his withdrawal from society over the past several months. He knew intellectually that he was struggling with post-war effects (though he refused to call anything in relation to his life anything so absurd as 'traumatic'), but it was not something that could be resolved through intellectual rigor; this he instinctually understood.
He recognized that his sense of disquiet stemmed from a loss of purpose, and a mutation of self; now that he was no longer walking a narrow path between death and espionage, he had lost hold of who he was. Having been required to be a very specific person for so long, he had a hard time understanding who he was when unburdened by necessities of war. Even when the changes in his disposition were not something the outside world generally viewed as negative—like an increase in tolerance—he still found it disquieting to find himself a changed man, and not be able to say from whence the change came.
"What are you thinking about?" A voice asked him, and he turned to his right, startled, to realize Harry Potter had at some point come to sit next to him.
"If I was ever in the mood to share my thoughts with you, Potter, I am certain you would not be able to comprehend them. Spare us both the trouble, and go back to your friends." The insults came to him easily, like water, and he was gratified that this, at least, was familiar ground.
"What if I'd like to trouble myself?" Potter asked, a small smile on his face as he sipped his firewhiskey. This was not familiar ground, and Severus' pleasure in the familiar was abruptly cut by that smile. His stomach went hard and knotted like oak.
"I am hardly concerned with where you put your miniscule efforts, Potter, as long as it is not directed at me." That ought to get him to leave.
"I don't know," Potter had the gall to give him a measuring look, holding his eyes a beat too long before looking away across the river, "I've always found you rather interesting." At this, the young man managed to ruin his cool demeanor with a blush and a glance back at Severus to see how he was received. Severus smirked rather cruelly, feeling intrigued despite himself. Looking down at the table, he saw that the server had kept him in wine without him noticing, and he had already had several glasses more than he ought.
"Really, Potter? Interested in your old potions professor?" He had aimed for acerbic mockery, but somehow his voice conveyed his genuine amusement. Certainly he wanted to embarrass the boy and make him squirm a little, but really the idea was too absurd, too comical, to really be good fodder for insults.
"So what if I am?" Potter sounded almost belligerent, almost angry. Severus glanced at him again, this time taking the time to appreciate the young man's growth. Now eighteen, Potter was—there was truly only one word for it—virile. He radiated energy, from his tan lines to the edges of his perpetually messy hair. I should feel tired just looking at him, he joked to himself, only to once again find that the opposite was true—he felt strangely electrified, as though on the precipice of a cliff or standing in front of a large wave. Potter was certainly attractive, that was not in question.
"I'm in no mood to deal with your pranks, boy," he snapped—or tried to, but the wine was making him redolent, and it just came out as a drawl. Strangely, Potter took a chill at the same moment, goose bumps rippling up his arms in the dim light.
"It's not a prank, Snape, but I see why you might think as much." Potter responded ruefully. Finally, seeing that the young Weasley boy, Ronald, was shooting him odd looks, he got up hastily. Severus declined to stand, looking up at the young man with a strange sense of unflappability, of calm. "I hope you'll come to the pub with us later," Potter said, absurdly, before making his way back to his friends.
Black sent Severus a suspicious glare as the young man returned to his seat, but Severus once again felt no offence, injured pride, or hate as he would expect. The idea that Severus would want to harm Potter after all he had done to ensure his success and continued existence was absurd. Thus, Blacks glare prompted only the barely-noticeable irritation of a nearby irrational mind and childhood nemesis; unpleasant, but not overly concerning.
Dinner was surprisingly excellent, and Severus made note of the establishment for himself so he could at some point in the future return. By the time the groups were splitting up in front of the restaurant—one towards home, the other, the pub—he was pleasantly drunk and feeling a strange sense of recklessness. Who cared, really, who he was after the war. Perhaps he could be the type of bloke who got drunk at the pub with his mates, although the assembled group could not properly be called 'mates'.
It took very little urging from the elder Weasleys and the polite invitations of Remus and Tonks to go along to the pub, and Black's muttered complaints merely convinced him to go all the more—anything that irritated Black was worthwhile, after all. He did however decline to order more than a pint, which he nursed slowly as the rest of the group drank at a steady pace. It was greatly amusing to watch the increased inebriation of the collective group, particularly when it came to Potter, who it turned out was an incredibly sympathetic drunk.
"Oh Harry, we love you too!" Granger was saying; the trio were involved in some sort of group hug that seemed to not have ended for a solid half hour, so far. Severus would have been disgusted by the display if he hadn't been keenly aware of all the three had sacrificed, in the war. Despite age or appearances, the war had aged and damaged all three of them in different ways, and although Severus would kill himself before admitting it, he knew somewhere how worthy, how deserving they all were of each other's friendship. Despite common assumption, Severus knew very well how important such friendships were, and he felt a familiar but unwelcome pang at the reminder of Albus.
However, the pain did not last long, and Potters drunkenness was amusing. The young man was always portrayed in the paper and public as the quintessentially stoic hero, and it was satisfying to know that he, Severus Snape, as always knew the truth of the matter.
His mostly pleasant revere was shattered when a hand grabbed him rough and hard by the shoulder. Unthinking, he turned, reaching for a wand in unfamiliar clothing. His enemy sneered at him, and for a dizzying moment he wasn't sure whether he faced a bloodied Greyback on the field of battle or a drunken stranger in a bar. He reacted violently, more violently than he ought, shaken and enraged.
Suddenly there was a body between himself and the offender, and when the other man had been pushed off, staggering down the bar (a bit bloodied, but that's what happens when you assault Severus Snape, anyway), the young man turned to Severus with an expression of flushed concern. Severus could only stare at Potter, breathing raggedly. For a moment, their eyes locked, and a memory passed between them.
They stood in tatters on the mud-churned field, panting and staring at each other, wands held in nerveless fingers. Harry took a step towards him, tripping on a body—The Body—on the ground between them. Snape caught him up automatically, and the younger man took a deliberate step forward, placing a foot squarely on the back of the Dark Lord—or, what was once the Dark Lord.
He banished the memory, deeply unsettled, and realized they were still stating at each other as if entranced, and Potter was too close to him, improperly so. A blush spread over the young man's cheeks and Severus looked away, gripping his wand through his robes more tightly. He turned without a word, navigating deftly towards the door.
"Be well," he almost thought he heard the young man mutter, before he was out of earshot and out of the building, breathing in the chill, calming quiet of the night. This was not, he decided, an experience he wanted to repeat.