Elisus

Summary: The war is over. Severus Snape is hailed a hero, because he was the one who saved Harry Potter's life. People admire and adore him. So why has he seemingly disappeared?

I really wanted to write something different, and this suddenly hit me in the middle of last night. I thought, why can't I do things the other way around? So here is my latest offering - the title is in Latin, and I believe is meant to read "shattered" or "crushed" depending on the translation website. I think I aiming toward the former of those. Anyway, contains violence and is very much a character drama story, so will contain much angst and hurt/comfort…just in a way you have never seen from me before!

I will also add, this is AU, and is set after the Second Wizarding War. All will become clear as time progresses. The story also features Severus and Albus in the typical SS19 relationship — r.e., much admiration and even, dare I say it, love between the two of them. Voldemort does not appear, for he has been destroyed. This really is a story of many firsts!

Enough of the blathering author's note, which I do not even know if people read! I hope you enjoy, and obviously it goes without saying that reviews really do help me, I read every one and really do take note of what you say! I write for you, my wonderful readers, and that will never change.

Enjoy ~ SS19

Chapter One:

"And so, you are defeated. You see your hero? He falls. I shall destroy him, your saviour, your Chosen One." Lord Voldemort laughed a high pitched cackle and raised his wand. "Say good-bye to those you love, Harry Potter."

But the spell would not hit. It was never going to hit. A black whirlwind of robes and a flash of pale skin placed itself between Harry and Voldemort, head held high, hardly flinching at the red light that would surely kill him. He murmured two words, so all could hear, two words, three syllables, just two small words. Two words. "For Albus." And then there was the pain.

But the distraction was enough, enough for a young wizard to grasp his wand and this time, he would not be stopped, for he could not be stopped.

And then, it was all over.

It was the clattering of envelopes onto a doormat that caught his attention initially. He walked down the stairs and surveyed the pile of letters that seemed increase with every passing day. Varying sizes and thicknesses somehow managed to find their way to him, despite his attempts to remain invisible. No one had, as yet, tried to track him, to find out where he was located. He was glad of that, at least. He bent to pick up his letters and heard his bones creak and crack painfully. Another night on the floor had caused the cold to seep into his very skeleton, and he knew it could not sustain such abuse for much longer. He thumbed through the post, seeing his name repeated so many times. That, of course, was no surprise. He was apparently a hero now. So the newspapers said. It was peculiar, he mused, for once he had been nothing more than scum, and now he was adored and admired, his praises sang and his name used with a revered tone. How perceptions could change so easily, from just one action. Both extremes made him uncomfortable.

All he had done was been in the right place at the right time, and although he knew it had been intentional, he liked to pretend that he had not stepped between the two nemeses.

He walked into the living room, pausing to examine himself in the mirror. He had to check the scarring every day after all, perhaps because he still clang to hope. Hope that, one day, the marks would fade. His shirt was unbuttoned and he no longer favoured his collars because they irritated the still tender skin — and it made him scratch, which was no good at all. The scars and almost shiny skin covered his neck and upper torso. The result of a curse that had been meant to kill, and yet, his protective spell had lessened the effects somewhat. He was lucky to be alive.

Or perhaps unlucky. He was not really sure, any more.

His eyes fell instead on the new injuries. His left cheek marred by fingernails, dangerously close to his eye. Bruises circled his thin wrist from a hand that had gripped too tightly for too long. He turned from his reflection and threw the letters into the fireplace, watching them burn. He was no hero. He did not deserve to be a hero. He did not wish to be considered a hero.

Pouring a glass of crystal clear, cool water from the tap, he contemplated the bare and almost barren heathland that stretched out to the horizon. The window panes were dirty, he mused, wondering if he could chance cleaning them. That would mean finding water and a bucket and a sponge, of course, for he had put his wand away in a locked drawer. It was too dangerous to carry a wand, for the safety of both him and the cottage's other resident. A bird, something large and unsightly, swooped across the clouded sky and he watched it, wondering if it were a falcon or something else of that type. He hardly saw any wildlife, here. They knew to stay away too. He put the glass down and unconsciously stroked the bruising on his wrist, swallowing and wincing when his dry and sore throat complained. He ought to eat something, he supposed, but the idea of food no longer appealed to him. It simply did not agree with him — and he did not wish to spend any more time crouched over the toilet bowl, tasting the foul acid at the back of his throat. He had done too much of that since the war had ended. Vomit and tears were unpleasant.

He drank another glass and looked down at his bare feet. The kitchen tiles were cold and unforgiving. He had decided to stop wearing his boots when the laces had become a means to an end, and that was too risky too. His toenails were misshapen and worn. He had always worn too tight shoes.

His head shot upward when he heard the crash from upstairs and he winced despite himself. He raised the glass to his mouth, suddenly frightened to the very pit of his stomach, forcing himself to take another mouthful. The banging and clattering that could only represent destruction continued. He looked at the dining table and the Daily Prophet that lay closed and folded, delivered a few days before. He normally threw them away because the memories were too harsh for his companion and it caused relapses that were dangerous. His name, a question, and a large question mark. Was he dead?

"Severus!" A voice, twisted with all sorts of terrible things, seemed to howl from upstairs. He picked the paper up, staring at his photograph, staring so hard, wondering where they had found it, for he hated photographs… The shout again, and he knew he could not ignore it. He put the paper in the bin and headed for the stairs, massaging his sore wrist all the while.

He turned the handle of the door to the master bedroom, narrowly ducking as something with much sentimental value was thrown at his head and shattered into tiny pieces. He inhaled slowly, calming his raging nerves, as he stepped further into the room. Glass cut the bottom of his feet, and he wished in retrospect that he had removed the pictures from the wall. He had hoped they would be safe. Apparently not.

There was a bundle of robes in the corner of the room, curled into a small ball, arms wrapped around knees and a face hidden away. The body, for that was what it was, was shaking violently. It sounded as though it may be sobbing, but he could not tell. He knelt before the figure and reached out a hand, touching a clothed arm. "I'm here. What's the matter?"

A face looked up at him, and it was nearly unrecognisable from what he remembered. He felt the agony in his chest as pity and hatred combined to create some cruel force that was so powerful. Blue eyes fixed on his, seeming only to recognise him from afar, across a great distance. He tried to smile reassuringly, but he guessed the expression was warped.

"Severus?" The voice whispered.

He brushed a hand against wiry grey hair and nodded, only trusting his voice when he was sure it would be strong enough not to buckle under emotional stress. "I'm here, Albus. I'm here."