He'd been dreading this day all summer. Dreading the day where his own heart would be broken all over again, when Lily's son would be walking into the Great Hall and Sorted. And the boy wouldn't have been his parents' child if he didn't end up a Gryffindor. Severus Snape braced himself as the doors to the Great Hall flew open, and Minerva led the children in. There, halfway down the group, that had to be him, had to be James's son. The face, the hair - everything smelled of the spoiled brat who had made his own school days a misery. And the eyes - as he had been told, the eyes were hers. Lily's.

Severus dragged his own eyes away, unable to bear the sight. He had seven long years to go; he could wait for this punishment.

But then...

He glanced along the lines of First Years, then snapped back to one girl in particular. Bright-eyed, bushy-haired, she walked in staring around her as if this was everything she had ever expected. Her clothes under the robes were more Muggle than Wizard, but her face ... it looked like someone he had known a long time ago, a woman he had known when he was barely out of Hogwarts himself. The girl must have felt his stare, and lifted her own eyes to meet his, and Severus had to look down at his plate in a hurry to avoid making a spectacle.

Because it couldn't be. Could it? It had been too long.

Sheffield in winter at the very end of 1978 was bitter. Cold. The sleet soaked through the thin and worn coat Severus Snape clutched around himself as he stumbled down the road.

He'd started in Glasgow, hauling barrels of beer out of a grimy pub cellar for a week for Hogmanay parties. There was that cheap bus down to Carlisle and a night or two washing plates in a greasy spoon so scummy even the rats wouldn't eat there. He'd caught a lift with a couple of guys in an old VW Beetle as far as Blackburn. The lift was supposed to be to Birmingham, but they stopped at a grotty motorway stop. Severus had gone to the loo while they were filling the car, but when he came out they were gone, and the owner had interrogated him for ages about who was going to pay for the petrol. Severus was speechless, mainly because his bag with his other pair of jeans and spare t-shirt was in the car, and it was only his furious reaction that convinced the owner that he was innocent of the fraud. The owner saw an opportunity and got three days' worth of work out of the skinny teenager before Severus got sick of being sworn at and grabbed a lift with a truckie who was heading south. That went all right until they were close to Sheffield and the truck driver suggested a payment for the lift that didn't involve cash – as they slowed to turn a roundabout Severus leapt out the door and rolled down the small slope to end up in a pile of snow at the bottom. The truckie swore and drove on, uncaring.

Limping into town, Severus thanked Merlin that he had no broken bones, just a few bruises, and still had his virtue, such as it was. He wished he didn't. He wished he'd said something, done something, told Lily how he really felt about her, but when he heard she was married to that git of a Potter, he'd snapped. And run. Run out of Hogwarts, where he'd been visiting Slughorn (and hoping to get a job), headed for the Muggle world, and hadn't wanted anything to do with Wizards or Witches or …

And then he'd found himself in the middle of Scotland in the middle of bloody winter, without money or more than one change of very worn clothes. And now even that was gone.

He staggered down the Pennistone Road, and tried to ignore the wet misery his thin coat was causing. One simple warming spell, a few incantations – but no, he wouldn't go that way again. He was done with magic. He'd find a place in this town and make something of himself. He knew the area – or at least something like it. His own town had been like this. Grotty. Poor. Full of abandoned shops and broken chairs on the kerb and broken bottles in the ditches. He knew how to fit in, and he knew that within a month he'd have an accent like the locals and no-one would ever know.

And it wasn't as if anyone would ever look for him.

He wasn't watching where he was walking by now, the cold drawing him into himself, and he stumbled over a raised cobblestone and fell into a couple who were arguing outside a pub. Next thing he was being held by the collar and punched hard by the man, while his companion was screaming for him to stop hitting the poor thing …

And then it all went black.

Severus woke to a pounding headache, a very sore nose and the sound of water running. He opened his eyes cautiously, the light near him dim enough not to make the headache worse. But the place …

He was in a small bedroom, with peeling paint and a bed with scratchy blankets and a pillow that smelled as if the rubber was about to grow its own legs and walk out of there. Severus grabbed the pillow and threw it away from him but it was too late – he sneezed loudly and his head felt as if it would fall off. He grabbed his head in his hands, and moaned loudly, uncaring that anyone would hear him.

He felt rather than saw someone sit on a chair beside the bed, and a warm around went around him as a glass of something was put in front of him.

"Drink. It will help the pain."

He sipped. It was bitter, whatever it was, aspirin and something else, but he drank it anyway and the throbbing slowly subsided to something bearable. The light grew brighter, and he realised it had been shaded with a teatowel thrown over a shocking pink plastic shade. The person beside him emerged from the shadows; a woman close to his own age with a flicked-back fringe and long legs in a short dress. She smiled hesitantly, and offered a glass of plain water.

"Any better?"

He ignored the question, his level of tolerance being somewhere around the zero mark. "Where the fuck am I?"

He saw her flinch, and the smile died off. "You were unconscious, with no identification, and I didn't know what else to do. You're in my digs."

Severus just stared at her, nothing sensible coming to his mind which was still having trouble thinking clearly. She jumped up, the noise of her heels on the floor sending another jab of pain through his head.

"I'll make tea. You do drink tea, don't you?"

He grunted, and she took this as a positive and went to fill the kettle. He took the five minutes it took for the water boil to look around the flat – and realised that the word "digs" was a huge exaggeration. "Hole" would have been better. It was one room, a sink and hotplate at one end making up the kitchen, while a battered table in the centre was obviously the study, the dining room and the box room. By a tiny electric radiator in the corner was a small wooden clothes horse with sodden black clothes draped over it in an optimistic attempt to dry them. There wasn't even a separate bathroom – the facilities (such as they were) were a battered bath and a toilet behind a worn plastic curtain. He could see the pedestal of the toilet under the curtain, which didn't quite make it to the floor.

And then his host came back, a chipped mug in her hand, steaming and scented like heaven.

'Sorry, there's no milk. But sugar should be good for you."

Severus sat up carefully, and took the mug, feeling the heat working its way through the thick china. She sat back on the chair and watched as he sipped the tea, and she seemed to realise when the warmth and the taste made him a little more human.

"I'm Jean. This is my place."

She was short, but well rounded, with bright sparkles in her eyes that came and went like the glow in a fireplace. Her hair seemed to dance in the slight draught that wafted through the room, and although her clothes had obviously come from a second-hand bin somewhere, she'd done things with them, with scarves and ribbons, to make them interesting. Bohemian.

"Why here, though. Why did you bring me here?"

She blushed and bit her lip. "We didn't want to call an ambulance. Bill's been in trouble a few times now, and the police would have locked him up in a trice. And …"

"Bill? The one who hit me?"

"He didn't mean to."

"HE FUCKING WELL DID!" Severus was surprised at how angry he was, especially now that he had someone he could be angry at – or about. She cringed and looked away from him, and he recognised the reaction. His mother had done that when his father had yelled at her. He could tell Jean was expecting a blow, but to his surprise instead she thought for a moment and nodded.

"You're right. He did. He's a brute and a bastard and I should have left him months ago. That's why we were arguing last night – I told him I'd had it and I needed to get on with my studies and finish my degree." She took a deep breath and looked back at him. "And he only ever wants me around when it suits him, and he borrows my money – not that I have much – and he h... he's not very nice. So I told him it was over. And then you stumbled into him and I could tell it was an accident. But he hit you. Twice. And then he dropped you in the snow and legged it, and Ted the barman helped me carry you up here."

She smiled, and her whole face lit up and was suddenly beautiful. "But I still don't know who you are."

"Severus."

"That's an unusual name."

"I was named for a Roman Lawyer. Or a saint or something. My grandmam was Catholic." He'd never told anyone that, but she seemed amused by the explanation.

"Lucky you. Although I bet you got teased when you were younger."

"A bit." He closed his eyes in pain, and the memory of being enchanted upside down and his underwear being visible to the whole student body flashed in front of him.

She leaned over and hugged him, and then was sitting back before he could react. "I wanted an unusual name. I hated this name. Wanted to be something exotic. If I have a daughter I want to call her something fancy like 'Perdita' or 'Beatrice'."

The room was getting darker, and Severus realised he must have been asleep for most of the day. "I should leave."

"Where would you go?"

He hesitated, and she nodded. "You don't have anywhere, do you?" He scowled at her, but she continued. "You have 27½ pence, a ragged handkerchief and wallet with no identification at all. Your clothes are ripped and almost falling apart, and you smell like you've been living in them for a week. You're not from around here, although you're not that far from your home. And you're on the run from somewhere." His scowl went from annoyed to death glare but she just stared back at him. "And you talk in your sleep. Whoever Lily is, she deserves a slap."

"Don't you talk about her like that!"

Jean got up and took his now-empty mug back to the sink. "Anyway, your jeans aren't fit to be worn again, and it's New Year's Eve. I'd go and buy you a pair at the Oxfam shop, but they won't be open again until the day after tomorrow. So, like it or not, you're stuck here."

Then she turned back to him. "And I'd like my bed back tonight please. That couch is hell."

That night, he slept on the couch. She'd made him move there before she went out for the New Years celebrations, and he hadn't moved when she came back home, smelling of cheap alcohol and crying. He'd just watched as she quietly washed her face, then lit a candle on the table. From the tiny bedside table, she took two frames that had been face down since he arrived, and opened the backs of them. The smell of burning filled the room, and she muttered as each was reduced to ashes, then started when she noticed his eyes dancing in the flames.

"You must think I'm a terrible person." Jean's face was a flicker of white, shiny patches where the water hadn't dried off yet, and shadows.

"Bill?"

"Not any more."

The last of the photos dissolved into ash, and she dropped the glowing cinders onto the tabletop, cursing as they scorched the battered wooden surface. Then she dropped her face into her sooty hands, and it didn't take all of Severus's years of watching his mother to know that she was sobbing. He got up, wrapping the thin quilt around himself as he moved silently to her side and gently took her hands away from her face. As he had suspected, the shadows were the early stages of a very nasty set of bruises, the sort that wouldn't show properly for a few days but which stung all the same.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

She hesitated, then turned her face away as she lifted her pullover. Her left side was spotted with bruises and cuts, most of them nearly healed but one new mark oozing blood.

Tucking the quilt around himself like the toga of his namesake, Severus quickly assembled hot water and a washcloth. She watched him, silently, until he came back to sit beside her and started gently raising her pullover once again.

"You've done this before."

"My mother. My father was …" He couldn't think of a way to say anything, so started carefully washing the wound. There was enough sticking plaster to put a soft pad over it, then he carefully washed the soot and ashes off her face. She sat like a small child, passive and quiet, until he finished up and took the bowl off to rinse.

"You're very good. You should be a doctor."

"And how would I do that?"

She smiled at him as he sat opposite her, goosebumps on his shoulders. "I got a scholarship to do dentistry. You should be able to wangle something."

"I didn't do my A levels. Or even my O's. I had a … different sort of school."

"The street." She searched his face, and apparently his expression was enough to confirm this. Severus shivered, and Jean's almost-smile flew away as if taken by the cold draught across the floor. "I'm so sorry. It's freezing tonight, and here I am keeping you up and …"

At this, she glanced over at his makeshift sleeping spot, the worn slats on the back showing through the broken stuffing. Severus watched as she took a deep (and slightly painful breath), stood, then held out her hands. Mystified, he took them, and she pulled him up to stand in front of her.

Then she kissed him.

He drew back, surprised. "What? Why?"

"It's not pity, get that straight." Her eyes were bright in the candlelight, and her expression vacillated between serious and amused. "Some of this is because it's cold, and it'd be a harsh host let a body sleep on that couch on a night like this, especially that couch. Some of it is a thank you for listening, for not condemning, and for fixing me up."

Then she kissed him again.

"And most of it is because I want to."

She took the incredulous young man's hand, and led him, drew him to the narrow bed. There, she kicked off her shoes and went to strip off the pullover, but the cold breeze changed her mind. He sat on the bed, pulled her down to lie beside him, and wrapped the quilt around both of them.

"Don't. It's too cold, and I think you're too injured for anything. Tonight, we sleep, but warmly."

"Warmly." She smiled at him, then kissed the end of his nose. "No need to wake early. First one up makes the tea. Deal?"

"Deal." He turned her gently over, and snuggled up behind her, grateful for the warmth.

They slept most of the next day, and Jean rose at dusk to make them some hot canned soup, and toast out of the non-mouldy bits of the end of a loaf she had. The night was warm, and close, and soft gaspings and low moanings that might have had some residual aching and pain but which were mainly those of two beings finding each other. The small bed had creaked and groaned in protest, but held together long enough for them to fall back asleep, the both better for warm food and close comfort.

He woke as she stepped out from the bath and hurriedly dressed in the chill of the morning. She felt the heat of her eyes on him, and smiled as she slipped on the warm stockings and thick old jeans.

"Why so early?"

"It's Monday, you ninny. I have a lecture at 11, but I've just enough time to get out and buy some clothes for you."

"But I can't pay you back for them."

"You already have." She hurried over to him, kissed him hard, then grabbed the sweater off the floor and shook it out. Donning it quickly, she opened her purse and counted the contents. "I'll be back in half an hour." With a flurry and a too-thin coat, she rushed out of the door.

Severus indulged himself in a cup of tea, black with plenty of sugar, and as the kettle boiled he looked over the books on the table. Two hefty tomes on dentistry and anatomy made the bottom of the pile, followed by two sets of University of Sheffield course notes, and a notebook covered with a carefully-drawn colour-coded timetable. He smiled at this, then turned to the clothes rack beside the heater.

The clothes she'd found him in were, as she had stated, almost unwearable. The shirt might do as an additional under layer, but the jeans were beyond salvation, both in aroma and in shreds. Not even his socks could be salvaged. She must have washed his underwear, as it had lost a great deal of the dinginess that had plagued him for years, the result of his mam's buying only the cheapest. He'd just put the underpants on when the door opened, and Jean bustled in, carrying a large bag.

"This should fit. I checked your size." Severus blushed, but she didn't seem to realise what she'd said, and then he realised she'd meant from the tag in the jeans. She thrust the bag into his arms, then rushed to the table and grabbed the books, dropping them into a canvas haversack. "I have to run. I'll be back about four. Wish I had some sort of time machine so I could stay, but …"

"I wish too. Jean?"

"Yes?"

He was trying to work out how to say it, but the caring look in her eyes stopped him. Instead, he just kissed her, then whispered thank you in her ear. She kissed him back, then whirled out the door again.

In the silence left by her leaving, Severus just watched the door for a few minutes, until another of the draughts started him shivering. He opened the bag and pulled out the old-fashioned but warm black woollen trousers, thick long-sleeved shirt and black anorak. The trousers were too large – he knew he had lost some weight, but he hadn't had the heart to say anything to her, and they were easily kept up with his old belt, almost the only thing left of his old clothes that he could still use. There was a new pair of socks at the bottom of the bag, which felt like heaven on his feet. With this lot, even his thin coat was sufficient. Severus was just folding his old clothes back into the bag when there was a knock at the door.

He opened it to find a tall, slim well-dressed man staring at him in confusion.

"I beg your pardon – isn't this Jean's place?"

"It is." Severus said nothing more, enjoying the other man's discomfort.

"Er… and you are?"

"A friend."

"Oh. You're not Bill, are you?"

"No. And obviously you're not, either."

"Tim. Tim Granger. We're in class together, and I was hoping to ask her help with some of the … just who are you?"

"She left about 15 minutes ago. If you hurry, you should catch her."

"Right-oh! Thanks!" The man left, and Severus closed the door. In a flash, all the misery, the pain and the loneliness crashed in on him. Jean had left one notebook behind, and he opened it and tore out a page. The pen barely worked, but he managed to scratch out a letter.

It wasn't very long. But it said what he hadn't been able to tell her earlier.

"Don't wait up. I'm leaving. Your life isn't mine, and mine isn't yours, but you brought a small piece of summer into this desperate cold. Thank you."

He wanted to say more, but it just wouldn't come, so he threw the rest of his meagre belongings into the shopping bag. As he left, he taped the paragraph to the door, then picked up his coat and walked out.

Is there a place for those of us who don't belong?
Well, I haven't found it yet.

Inspiration from "The Hanging Tree by Bob Mould