To Stay the Shadow
- Vain
03.01 – 04.27.2008

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Standard Disclaimer:
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

Summary: SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

Warnings: SS/HP slash, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is NOT Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

Rated: R

Length: roughly 25,400 words.

Notes: This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

Prompts: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; Genre: Angst

Special Thanks once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my invaluable betas Venivincere, Alisanne, & Ziasudra for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to Bethbethbeth and Tsujton for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would never have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

Plagiarism is no one's friend.

Enjoy!

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Part Four:

To Recommence

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BONDSMAN, n. A fool who, having property of his own, undertakes to become responsible for that entrusted to another to a third.

Philippe of Orleans wishing to appoint one of his favorites, a dissolute nobleman, to a high office, asked him what security he would be able to give.
"I need no bondsmen," he replied, "for I can give you my word of honor."
"And pray what may be the value of that?" inquired the amused Regent.
"Monsieur, it is worth its weight in gold."

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Voldemort officially delivered the Wizarding World its first full-blown war in sixteen years on a peaceful Thursday morning, two hours before dawn on August 1st, 1996. It was a belated birthday present to Harry. Aurors had gone to the house on Privet Drive to bring Harry Potter into custody at the Minster's insistence and found themselves facing Death Eaters and a contingent of banshees. In the ensuring battle, Little Whinging was quite literally wiped off the face of England and every wizard and witch found the violence that had been looming since Harry Potter's return to their fold suddenly cresting over them in one great wave of bloodshed. Wizard and Muggle alike, Voldemort attacked without compassion or discrimination, killing entire families. Not even the infants were spared. And over every house and on the field of every battle where Harry Potter did not emerge, a glowing message was scrawled on the walls or across the sky, or even into the earth itself, laying the slaughter at the young man's feet and trying to goad him to come out of hiding.

But Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. At the stroke of midnight on July 31st, the world's savior had walked out of the well-kept house on Privet Drive, walked calmly down the street, and Apparated with a loud crack. No one had seen hide or hair of the boy after that; even his closest friends vouched ignorance. That claim, however, was quickly negated by the fact that Hermione Granger, Ronald and Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom all vanished on the first of September when Hogwarts open black-draped gates to admit a noticeably smaller collection of solemn, hollow-eyed children into its well-guarded and warded halls.

From his position at Voldemort's side, Severus was torn between being frustrated to madness by the disappearance of Potter and his little entourage, and actually admiring the dunderhead for somehow vanishing so cleanly and completely.

He had sworn to Albus that he would protect the boy and stand by him and he had every intention of doing so. The oath was sealed with a bloodless Avada Kadavra and etched into stone along with Albus's white tomb. The Headmaster had kept his end of the bargain. Draco was so rattled by the old man's death and Voldemort's halfhearted Cruciatus Curses in reprisal for the boy's failure to kill him and Snape's necessary intervention, that he'd turned spy shortly after the battle on Privet Drive, weeping like a child into Headmistress McGonagall's skirts. Two days later, after the defecting Malfoy was inducted into the Order of the Phoenix, Albus's portrait deigned to share the exact nature of Severus's apparent betrayal with the Order.

Once everything had settled back into some semblance of order, Draco would later tell him that it had not gone over well. Frankly, Severus didn't care. Albus was dead, his apparent charge was missing entirely, and Voldemort was so thrilled with Severus for killing the aged Headmaster that he rarely let the Potions Master out of arm's reach. In his younger days, when he was stupid and power-hungry, Severus would have gladly given up a limb for such treatment. Now, though, he only wanted to escape it. Escape, and find Potter and discharge this damn debt that weighed him down.

With Severus feeding Draco and the Order information from Voldemort's side, one would think that the war would end fairly quickly. Voldemort's growing lunacy however, and the sheer, unparalleled amount of power that the Dark Lord brought to bear kept everyone on their toes, even his own allies and followers. And as time passed, Voldemort seemed to become more and more unhinged and more and more determined to find the boy. "He's got my soul, Severus!" the old serpent would hiss. "I know it. I can feel him coming."

Severus had never been sure quite how to react to such ominous statements and Voldemort had never really expounded on them within his hearing.

Once the man had even literally paced the confines of Riddle Manor and cursed Potter and Dumbledore from dawn to dusk. Even as his madness grew, however, he stepped up the attacks . . . and so too increased the toll the war took on the country, both wizards and Muggles, as the violence blurred the lines of race, breeding, and creed as the death toll crept its way into the thousands. Even the Muggles knew that something was wrong, the Continent and the States were treating England like an international pariah, and despair was settling over the land like a black cloud. It was all the Ministry and the Order could do to keep pace with the Death Eaters and the tension between the two organizations did little to aid the cause.

Then, on a cold, rainy evening on the 15th of October, 1996, a small contingent of black-clad wizards was caught breaking into the home of Rufus Scrimgeour. A fierce battle ensued, during which the thieves' leader-apparent managed to find and hopelessly destroy a priceless book written by Rowena Ravenclaw. The Minster, however, managed to capture and unmask the young man, revealing the prodigal Harry Potter. Upon seeing their friend's face revealed, the other stood down and were promptly identified as the Granger, Weasely, Lovegood, and Longbottoms scions, each looking a good deal more hardened than a year ago and decidedly unhappy about their capture. They went quietly with the Aurors to the Ministry dungeons.

Scrimgeour's ruthless determination and the careful application of Veritaserum extracted a story about Horcruxes, "special training" under the eye of some unknown contact of Dumbledore's, and a rather harrowing account of the group's less-than-Ministry-approved activities that would never be released to the public. It was only a good deal of paper shuffling, subtle threats, and blackmailing on the part of Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall that freed the six former Hogwarts students.

Whatever the circumstances of their return, the sight of Harry Potter did wonders to rally the people . . . And struck terror into Voldemort and the Death Eater. The violence was stepped up and for a moment it seemed as though the whole of the wizarding world teetered on anarchy. And then Harry Potter retaliated.

The Battle of Knockturn Alley turned the tide of the war, but it also killed something in Potter. Years later, the boy would share the whole story with him, but then Severus only knew that the Light was suddenly escalating the war at a mad pace and Potter was leading the charge. And the Dark Lord was losing his mind. What Potter and the Light did not regain through strike after strike, Lord Voldemort lost due to his own growing psychosis, so that when Potter did finally face him—the boy hardened by war, honed by suffering, and ruthless in his grief and his need to avenge a death Severus was not yet aware of—the tables had turned. No longer was Harry Potter a scrappy underdog, surviving by luck and vague, disorganized guile; no, now they were equals. It was that, more than anything, that the Dark Lord was unprepared to face.

In the end, it didn't matter. On a warm summer morning a year after Potter's returned to the Wizarding world, Draco Malfoy ended Voldemort's cursed life with two small words. With the last of his Horcruxes destroyed, the former Tom Riddle did not stand a chance before the power of the Elder Wand. Voldemort himself destroyed the final bit of his soul when he tried and failed to kill Potter with an Avada Kedavra. The blood magic initiated by Lily Potter's sacrifice held true and the only thing within the boy that could be destroyed was the last remnant of the Dark Lord's soul. Realizing what that meant before anyone else, Draco successfully disarmed the Dark wizard and reclaimed the wand he'd fairly won when he disarmed Dumbledore in the tower that fateful night and cast the curse almost before his former master could respond. Almost. Voldemort's last word was 'Ectus' and it cost Draco his life in a wash of blood, but the boy had won the war for them in an instant.

Severus was not sure it was worth the loss—particularly when he'd sacrificed everything to keep the arrogant, hopelessly talented Slytherin alive. He'd never thought a Malfoy would be a martyr.

There was the clean up, of course. The Death Eaters, werewolves, and Dementors did not take the loss of their leader lying down and they had nothing left to lose. A ferocious battle followed, destroying a portion of the Forbidden Forest and raging over the Quidditch pitch. It would take years before the castle grounds recovered. It was a small blessing at least that the walls were never breached. In the end, Voldemort's forces did not stand a chance—not with an impassioned band of Gryffindors leading the way, leaping into the fray where even the most seasoned of Aurors flinched. Potter fought like a man who had nothing to live for.

And Severus fought because it was the only thing he still knew how to do.

The day was long and bloody and when it was over, it felt more like the end of everything than the beginning of a safe new world. Everything seemed bloodied and broken, including the boy who was supposed to save them all.

Like the scarred, churned up fields surrounding Hogwarts, Potter did not escape the war unharmed. After the Final Battle—a proper noun now, thanks to the efforts of the Ministry—Potter lay still and unresponsive in Saint Mungo's for several weeks. Whether it was serendipity or Dumbledore plotting from beyond the grave, Severus was assigned to the bed beside his in the small private room. With most of their beds full and the press clamoring for even a sliver of information about the so-called war heroes, the Final Battle's wounded were ensconced under heavy guard on the highest floor of the hospital, two and sometimes three to a room.

It was Minerva and Kingsley's influence that saw Severus in such pleasant accommodations. Though unconscious at the time, he would later learn that the Aurors had originally wanted to take him to Azkaban straight away. It was a lucky thing, too. His lungs had been badly damaged by a Backfiring Jinx from Lucius. In the long run, however, Severus would have to count himself the winner; he was comfortable in a bed at Saint Mungo's. Lucius had been subjected to Veritaserum and would soon be fodder for Dementors. The long convalescence aside, Severus got the better end of things, even if that convalescence was spent with Potter.

Minerva and the oddly helpful medical staff provided him with books when he asked and felt well enough to read, but mostly Severus thought of Draco. His mourning was a quiet thing, punctuated by the pain of his physical recovery and the mixed blessing of Draco's death. He'd failed the boy, of course, and failed him horribly. But in death, Draco had found both the peace and the respect he'd always craved in life. He was a hero of the highest caliber. He and Potter were both honored as saviors. And most of all, he'd seemed . . . ready when his ending came. Severus had been at his side at the time. He knew.

Voldemort had raised his hand to strike Severus down, finally recognizing him as a traitor and believing him to be the true master of the Elder Wand. He'd been prepared to die in that moment—was almost anxious for it. But then Draco was there at his side with a surprising calm 'Expelliarmus,' and the wand practically leapt from Voldemort's hand to its true master. After that, there was nothing but a wash of green light, but Draco's curse was first and true. The boy had died with a small smile on his face, even as his body was torn to shreds in an instant by Voldemort's last, desperate spell. It seemed as though the boy was finally free of the demons that had plagued him since taking the Mark. As Severus stood by, stunned by both his own survival and the wreckage of the young man he'd known since infancy—a young man who, moments before, had stood strong and alive at his side—he couldn't help but envy Draco his peace. He doubted he would ever know such a thing.

Narcissa came to visit him once. He awoke to find her sitting by her bed, looking pale and drawn. Broken. She had not participated in the Last Battle and had not been charged with any crime, but she was defeated as surely as if she had been put into Azkaban along with her husband. By the door, he could see an Auror standing guard, watching them.

He moved to say something, but his lungs were still too weak, the spell having scorched their insides. Instead he gasped softly. She smiled at the attempt, a thin, fragile expression. It did not suit the cold beauty for which she had been famed in their youth. She touched his cheek and her hand was cold like marble. Then she leaned over and kissed his brow lightly and departed with another sad smile and the crumbled remnants of her regal air. Only the faint scent of her perfume remained as evidence that she had come. He did not see her again and somehow knew that he never would, though it would be several weeks before word of her suicide was made public.

Left alone with Potter, at first the Potions Master did his level best to ignore the ungrateful whelp. This was surprisingly simple as Potter was unconscious for the first several days and then was either asleep or unresponsive to anyone's inquiries after that. But then the days rolled into a week, then two, and then three. Severus slowly recovered from his war wounds, but Potter just lay there, refusing to respond to anyone. The get-well cards lessened to a trickle and the visitors slowed to even less than that until only Granger, Weasley, Lovegood, and Longbottom would visit. There was little to be gained in talking to a wall, after all.

When they would come, Potter would turn away and remain mute, staring blankly at the wall just above Severus's bed. This did not curb his friends' enthusiasm, of course, thus forcing the former spy to endure an hour or two of their prattle before a mediwitch would and shoo them out. Once, Granger had foolishly tried to rope him into their discussion—an attempt that quickly ended with a well placed comment about the love bite on her neck. The Ravenclaw among them was wiser in her attempts to engage him, however. She would occasionally sit by his bed silently as the other chattered on, and once she left him a small bottle of a Sweet Dreams potion. Lovegood, if he recalled correctly, had always excelled at potions.

As week three rolled into week four and the recovery of Potter's mind lagged behind that of his body, Severus had decided he'd had enough. If he had to endure Ronald Weasley reenacting any more of his favorite Quidditch moments, he would surely go mad. And so, he waited until the mediwitches did their late-night check and verified that all the lights were out and then took his wand and whispered, "Aguamenti" in a soft voice.

A jet of clear water shot out of midair, perfectly targeted to sleeping Potter's face. The young man jerked awake with a yelp and flailed comically for a moment when the act earned him a jet of water right down his throat. Severus chuckled silently and cut the spell short before he accidentally drowned the idiot boy.

Red-face and sputtering, Potter turned to glare at him, his green eyes flashing in the pale moonlight shining through their shared window. "Think this is funny, do you?"

Severus watched him without replying. The moonbeams fell fully over Harry's bed, leaving Severus sitting in the shadows. It gave him a perfect view of the boy's face. He'd seen it in the papers, of course, but not really in person—not up close like this. Potter had spent most of their convalescence together with his back to Severus whenever the Potions Master had been awake to see it and, to be honest, Severus thought that he was well familiar with Harry features.

Looking at him now, however, in the pale white light, he was not so certain. The war had aged Potter. Previously unmarred, his face was now scarred with a thin line colored an angry red. It sliced down his left temple, angling towards the cheek and down towards his throat. While a bit fearsome to behold, it also somehow softened the boy's features and gave him a less . . . obstinate look. The lack of glasses was also notable. It made the boy look older and oddly mature for such a small change. It also made his eyes more visible. They looked greener than Severus recalled.

Potter growled, an odd sound. "Well?" The boy was always so easy to rile.

Severus leaned back on his pillows (it was still hard on his lungs to sit upright) and smirked unpleasantly. "So the great Harry Potter deigns to speak to us lesser mortals." His voice was nowhere near its normal disdainful drawl, but it got the point across quite well. "Should I be honored?"

Potter's face twisted unpleasantly in the silver light, the expression pulling unattractively on the two scars marring his face. He turned away, lying down again on his wet pillow with a sullen air. "And what do you know of it, Snape?"

For a moment the former spy considered offering to dry the pillow. The boy's wand had been shattered at some time during the chaos and he'd bound with another, but this one was withheld from him until the mediwizards felt it safe for him to begin practicing magic again. Considering his refusal to talk to anyone thus far, Potter had not yet been given that permission. The young man's antagonistic air did not particularly move Severus to kindness though. The only reason he had even ventured this intervention was because of his promise to Albus. That, and he was certain that the pandering of the brat's friends and fan club would never provoke a reaction.

Finally Severus rolled over a bit, shifting to more comfortably observe his reluctant roommate. "What do I know about sulking self-pity?" he retorted derisively. "Not as much as you, it would seem. How long are you going to continue this, Potter? Celebrity will only go so far in excusing bad behavior."

Burning emerald eyes alight with anger turned his way and Severus felt a thrill of pleasure at the sight. He enjoyed needling Potter to such an extent that it was almost counterproductive, but it was well worth the extra aggravation.

"You really like to kick a man when he's down, don't you?" the boy snapped back bitterly.

"While you, Mr. Potter, may enjoy hearing Weasley and his chit natter on for hours on end whilst you stare blindly at the ceiling, too full of yourself to condescend to speak to them, I would like to spend the remainder of my convalescence in peace."

Potter rolled over stiffly, his injuries seemingly aggravated by his earlier activity. "Then get another room."

Severus scowled. He'd forgotten that Potter was just as good at irritating him as he was at irritating Potter. "There are no other rooms, something you would be aware of if Granger's words had managed to penetrate that thick skull of yours."

Potter ignored him, apparently deciding to revert to his formerly mute ways. Several moments passed as Severus's vexation grew. He was hardly anyone's first choice at offering comfort. Having rarely ever received such a thing, he had no inclination or affinity for giving it. Still, he was trying. Someone had to snap the boy out of his malaise, and while he didn't have any concrete clue as to the cause of the boy's current behavior, it was clear that the young man was not happy. And Albus had been right, the boy did deserve something in his godforsaken life.

He mulled over the problem for a moment before it occurred to him that someone had been conspicuously absent on the battlefield . . . and in the few Order meetings he'd attended: the one bearable Weasley child. And also, Potter's erstwhile girlfriend, if he recalled correctly.

Severus frowned, evaluating the man hunched over in the bed across from him in a slightly different light. This was the part of the story where the hero and the love of his life were supposed to ride off into the sunset together. That was how it had worked for Potter senior, and yet his spawn remained alone. Ginevra Weasley had actually been one of the few Gryffindors he could stomach. If she were alive, she'd have been here at Potter's side at least once. Or her louse of a brother would have mentioned her at least once in his prattle. Merlin knows that the boy had talked about everything else. Severus didn't even bother to read the Prophet anymore—Weasley was turning into a walking digest.

But the question remained, where was the girl?

He eyed Potter closely for a long moment and then released a silent sigh. If there was no delicate way to prod at the wound, then he may as well plunge into it headlong. "How did she die?"

Potter flinched as though struck. The act was more of a confirmation than any verbal response could have been.

Seeing an opening, Severus pressed on. "It was Ms. Weasley, wasn't it? Who did it?" The girl had been too fine a witch to stumble foolishly into her death, Gryffindor or no.

The silence stretched on between them as Potter seemed to ignore his questions. Severus merely waited, staring at the back of the boy's head and waiting for him to crack. Patience was one of the few virtues he possessed, and in situations like this, he possessed it in abundance.

Finally, after perhaps five or ten minutes of quiet tension, Potter sighed faintly. ". . . Lestrange," he whispered at last. The name seemed to flow out of him, like steam releasing from a valve. It floated low to the the floor and Severus found himself nodding. Of course. Bellatrix.

"Knockturn Alley," Potter continued, seemingly unable to form whole sentences. His voice sounded thick and his breathing seemed heavy.

Ah. Bellatrix had died in that battle, her body torn apart by a force that only the Dark Lord seemed to understand. The loss of his most loyal follower had been a severe blow to Voldemort.

Potter remained silent after that, his meager supply of words apparently exhausted for the moment. Severus considered rolling over and going back to sleep . . . and maybe drying Potter's still-wet bed and clothes . . . but something held him back. It was a morbid kind of curiosity, but he saw something of himself in Potter in that moment. He wanted to dig at it—bring it to the surface. Make it bleed.

"Did you love her?" The words rolled off his tongue before he could reflect on them. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded curiously flat. He wished he'd had a moment to find a way to inject some sort of false scorn into it.

Across from him, Potter's shoulders were so tense, it was a wonder the boy didn't shatter. For a moment it seemed like he would ignore the question, but then he rolled over unexpectedly. His face was devoid of emotion, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "Have you ever been in love, Snape?"

Something within Severus recoiled and his first instinct was to lash out at the bold question. But he then he was suddenly painfully aware of the Dark Mark still emblazoned on his arm, the tattoo remaining despite the fact that the magic that had put it there was forever extinguished. The sensation of it clouded his thought for a moment and he suddenly found the truth slipping from his lips. "Yes. Once." It was a whisper, as though he were sharing some great secret. And he couldn't look away from those damned eyes. "But it was a long time ago. Before you were born." The words were offered as though they were an excuse and for some reason, the older wizard felt a painful and suffocating sense of shame roll through him.

Potter continued to watch him, seemingly oblivious to the maelstrom his simple question had ignited in his companion. " . . . What happened to her?"

"I . . ." He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away. He felt naked and exposed underneath that calm, hard gaze and had an overwhelming urge to cover himself. "I turned around one day and she was no longer there." I chased her away. ". . . She died." Because of me. "I could not save her."

Potter continued to stare for a long moment before looking away. Severus felt as though a weight had shifted once that gaze was gone and exhaled loudly in the quiet of the room.

Potter rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "I couldn't save her. I was right there . . . and I couldn't save her. She had been aiming for me, but Ginny lept out and tried to disarm her." He swallowed heavily. "Tried to protect me. That woman killed her just to hurt me and laughed while Ginny fell. It was my fault."

Severus looked up, the flat words cutting him despite the dispassionate tone. ". . . It was a war, Potter. And Bellatrix was a madwoman. Even before Azkaban she was . . . not stable. I'm sure there was nothing you could have done."

"I could have stopped her from coming," he retorted stubbornly.

The Potions Master snorted. "Weasleys, Mr. Potter, are nothing short of a force of nature. Besides, would you have deprived her of the chance to be by your side?"

Part of him would always wonder if he would have drawn Lily into the darkness with him, or if she would have saved him. She had loved him, he was sure. Perhaps only for an instant, but in that instant his life had been complete. That might have been enough to save him in those days, before the world twisted in such a horribly wrong way.

The young man looked over at him with an expression that was something like surprise and maybe . . . understanding? Then his eyes narrowed slightly and his nose scrunched up in a familiar way. It was the same look Potter wore when hunting for the Snitch, or seeking to find new rules to break in his asinine attempts to play the hero. Severus did not particularly like having such a look directed at him.

"Do you still love her?"

The older man thought for a moment before choosing his words carefully. "Her sacrifice is the only reason that I still live."

The truth of the statement conjured another throb of regret. How much simpler his life would have been if he had died beside Draco in the mud that day or a thousand days before that. But life rarely took Severus Snape's preferences into account.

He refocused his attention on the boy, needing a distraction from the desperate longing to rest. "And you, Mr. Potter? Do you love her still?"

He watched as the boy clenched his jaw. "Yes."

Severus nodded, having expected no other response. "Then why do you refuse to honor her sacrifice?"

The boy blinked, clearly not understanding.

"You waste away in here," Severus continued. "You deny yourself every pleasure. You refuse food. You ignore your friends. You do nothing but sleep. Mourn her, Mr. Potter. Never forget her. Live your life for her, but do not forget to live it." He stressed the last part with a strange kind of passion that seemed to startle them both, but he did not hesitate as he continued. "Ms. Weasley wanted you to live and no doubt be happy. Do not waste that gift or disrespect what she has freely given you."

Potter was silent for a moment, staring hard at Severus as though seeing the man for the first time. And perhaps he was. The whole discussion had made the Potions Master feel raw, like he had reopened an old, festering wound.

Irritated with himself, the older wizard laid down, abruptly deciding he was done with the discussion at hand. He had spent too much of his life under Albus's employ. The man must have rubbed off on him in some strange, uncomfortable way.

He was half asleep when Potter next spoke. While he did not reply to the hoarsely whispered, 'Snape? … Thank you,' he did mutter a drying charm for the boy's pillows and clothes before tucking his wand back under his own pillow. It was really his fault the sheets were wet, after all.

The next day found Severus beginning physical therapy to work on rebuilding his lung capacity. The effort took the bulk of the day, and by the time he was brought back to their room, Potter was apparently asleep or malingering again. He was too exhausted to care and fell asleep straight away. He was quite grateful anyway; the last thing he wanted to do was continue the previous night's awkward conversation.

It was well past midnight when he woke again, this time to a strange sound. A quiet snuffling noise prompted Severus to reach for his wand before he was even fully awake. The comfortable feel of the Ash handle against his palm helped bring him to full alert and he lay still, trying to pinpoint and identify the noise without revealing that he was awake. It took him several moments to realize that the sound he heard was vaguely muffled crying. More surprised than he could put into word, the Potions Master opened his eyes and stared at Potter's bed, unable to quite believe what he was seeing. Harry Potter was lying in bed on his side with his back to Severus, crying.

These were not wracking sobs, nor were they pitiful whimpers. Instead, the boy's shoulders shook slightly in silence and occasionally a sharp, throaty inhalation would come. It was this sound that had awoken the Potions Master. For a moment, Severus stared; he had no idea what to do with this. He was typically in the position of making people cry, not comforting them. But Potter was his burden now and he couldn't just leave the boy there to cry. Alone.

In his entire life, Severus's tears had only once been met with comfort, and that was the night Lily died and he had found bitter solace in the hem of Albus's robes. Drawing on that, he slowly and painfully pushed himself into a sitting position and got out of bed. The slight noise of his rising instantly halted all sounds from Potter and the boy's body immediately tensed. Undeterred, the older man took several careful steps until he got to the other bed and then sat down on the edge of the mattress. Potter did not move and Severus couldn't bring himself to reach out and lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder as Albus had once done for him. His hands were stained with far more than potions ingredients and he knew he had little comfort to give.

Instead he looked out the window, eyes drawn towards a large waning moon. ". . . It will get better."

The comment earned him a dusty laugh from the boy, but there was no other response. After several minutes of awkward silence, the older wizard forced himself to stand. He needed to lie down again; his chest hurt and he was simply not suited to play wet nurse to a shell-shocked Gryffindor.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" Potter abruptly asked the wall.

Severus did not falter as he wearily pulled himself into bed. "I am not being kind to you, Potter. Perhaps you are simply starting to realize that I am, and always have been, on the same side as you." He jerked the blanket up with more force than necessary.

Potter turned and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. His expression was sober, something the older wizard was becoming increasingly used to. The boy never seemed to smile anymore. "Albus wanted me to trust you, you know. The whole time I knew him, he was always pushing me to rely on you."

An acerbic comment hovered on the tip of Severus's tongue, but Potter forged onward before it could escape.

"McGonagall showed me his Pensieve right before the end of it all, you know. When we were looking for the diadem. He left it for me."

Severus's heart felt frozen in his chest.

"I saw some things about you." Those green eyes bored into him. "I saw how you helped him towards the end. And how you tried to protect me." The boy's mouth twisted slightly. ". . . Should I trust you, Professor?"

The pressure on his heart abruptly eased. The brat apparently had not seen anything damning after all. But again, looking into those eyes, he lacked the wherewithal to lie outright. ". . . No," the former spy answered honestly. "But you should believe me, Mr. Potter. Everything I have done has always been for your good." The bitterness in his voice was impossible to hide and so he made no effort to try. He'd told the boy as much before, but it was always much easier for him to be the villain—especially when his hatred was an easy thing to understand in comparison to the greater evils of the world. "I am on your side, Mr. Potter—" If the boy registered that that was different than what he had said moments ago, he did not show it. "—And I have always been here for you."

Potter nodded after a moment, seeming to accept that, and rolled over.

The older wizard stared at his back resentfully for a moment. Ungrateful brat. "And I'll always be here for you," he muttered in annoyance as he rolled over to try and go to sleep again. Though he wasn't sure, he though he might have heard Potter reply 'I know." But sleep reclaimed him before he could sort the matter out.

The next day, Luna Lovegood brought him a book—something about some sort of creature called a 'Nargle.' He nodded in thanks as she placed it on his bedside; it was his first acknowledgement of her attempts at kindness. The move earned him one of her oddly sweet, vague smiles before she turned her curious attention to where Potter was finally engaging his friends in conversation. It was a bit stilted, but it was a start. And for reasons he didn't quite understand, Severus found it oddly refreshing to see life back in those striking emerald eyes.

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