They seem to forget him after that day. There are fragments of conversations that he overhears once more. Rumours of policy change, reassignments, new rules and new laws. He's quite confident that none of it will affect him, and he allows himself to forget everything that he hears.
He doesn't know what to think when, one day, they come for him. For the longest time he stares at the bag that is deposited on the floor. He recognizes it: it contains his clothing from the day of his arrest.
"You should change."
He's surprised to be left alone in his cell while he dresses. And he still doesn't know what to make of it all. It's neither good nor bad, it's… strange, that's all.
It takes him a while to remember all that – the normal human clothing. The socks and the laces on the boots. The collar of the undershirt – all mended and even cleaned. The buttons of the black robe. He stands up, feeling like an impostor, a fake human that doesn't belong in these clothes.
He waits patiently for the cell door to open again.
"Come with us. You have a visitor."
For one brief insane moment, Snape thinks of Albus – as if somehow he's managed to forget that Albus is dead. Then he remembers and lets out a brief, hoarse laugh.
He's given an odd look, but nobody makes a comment, and they walk the dark hallway in silence.
The waiting room they let him into is brightly lit, clean. He's pointed to a chair, which he takes, while contemplating that one strange word – "visitor".
The guards – Snape finally notices they're wearing the Auror uniforms – leave the room, and Snape is alone again.
He doesn't have to wait long. A minute later the door to the room opens and a sound of footsteps is heard.
Snape lifts his eyes and stares at his visitor speechlessly. And realizes one thing: he still remembers Potter's face, after all.
Potter, standing in the doorway, stares back at him for a moment or two, then strides towards him, pulls up an empty chair and straddles it to sit across from Snape. Potter's chin rests on the back of the chair.
"Snape," Potter says, his voice guarded.
Silently, Snape looks at the man who sent him to Azkaban two years ago, and doesn't know what to say.
He's got nothing.
Certainly, there's no anger, no resentment, not even the very childish desire to ask something along the lines of "why" and "what have you done to me" and "will you believe me" – nothing like that.
There's only waiting and listening.
Snape waits and listens.
"You look like crap," Potter says bluntly. "How do you feel?"
He recognizes Potter's words to be a question, but he doesn't know how to answer that. He simply stares at Potter's face, surprised by how much older Potter looks now. It appears odd that someone so young – how old is Potter, anyway, nineteen? – should look so tired.
Potter's tone softens a bit.
"Are you all right?"
Snape misses the meaning of that question altogether, he's too absorbed in studying Potter, fascinated by the level of detail his mind soaks in. Potter's clothes are Muggle – blue jeans, winter boots, a long black raincoat – unbuttoned to reveal the dark-green sweater with a dragon pattern… that sweater seems familiar, somehow….
"Snape, do you… actually understand me?" Potter probes, insistent.
Snape gives a small nod at that, still staring at Potter's sweater. He wonders suddenly whether the woman who's knitted it – must have been Molly Weasley – is still alive. Or – for that matter – who else is still alive, of those Snape used to know.
"How long has it been?" Snape asks.
"Two years," Potter seems startled by the question, but regroups quickly. "Well, a bit longer than that."
"The war?"
"Ended two weeks ago. Voldemort is dead," Potter says. When Snape doesn't react, he adds: "If you don't believe me, take a look at your Mark. It's… well, it's all gone now. Just the scarring left, nothing else."
Snape obeys automatically, rolling up the sleeve, baring his left forearm. Potter is right, of course, the Mark has faded to almost nothing.
"See?" Potter says.
Snape nods absently. He knows he should be happy, or at least relieved, but all he feels is an incredible weariness, and that makes it almost impossible to process that simple fact: "It's all over."
Somehow it doesn't surprise him to find out that Albus was wrong about Potter needing to die for the war to be won. Yet another miscalculation on his part, and, perhaps, it is a lucky thing that Snape was never there to give that one final message to Potter…
"Why are you here?" Snape asks.
Potter opens his mouth to answer, but they're interrupted when the door to the waiting room opens again. Snape lifts his eyes.
A tall man, limping, approaches them and stops a few feet away. It takes Snape a long minute to recognize him – the once familiar face is horribly disfigured by scars, and the mane of once tawny hair is now all gray.
"Mister Potter, I must protest this…" Scrimgeour declares, but doesn't elaborate what exactly it is that he's protesting.
Potter doesn't turn around.
"Minister. You caught up with me. I thought you would."
"You've got no jurisdiction in this matter!"
"I'm the Head of the Order," Potter says matter-of-factly. Snape is surprised to realize that there's no triumph in Potter's tone – just weariness. "Snape was a part of the Order. We try and punish our own. That's the way it is." Potter falls silent for a while, then adds: "If memory serves me right, you didn't seem to mind when I dealt with Tonks myself."
"That was different."
"It wasn't. Look, this really isn't negotiable. I'm not leaving him here - he's to be transferred to a proper detention facility."
"The new detention facility isn't going to be ready for three more weeks," Scrimgeour continues to argue.
"Then he's going to St. Mungo's. Which is where he should be – I mean, just bloody look at him. He can barely piece two words together."
"St. Mungo's overcrowded – I don't need to tell you that, you've brought most injured there yourself," Scrimgeour's voice softens slightly. "They won't accept someone who's… reasonably well."
Potter shrugs. "I'll work something out."
"Such as?" Scrimgeour nearly growls, like a dog with a bone that he's not about to let go.
"I'll bloody take him to my own house and guard him myself until the new detention facility is ready! Is that all right with you?!" Potter seems to finally have lost his patience.
Scrimgeour sighs.
"We need to talk about this some more. Now that the war is over, we can't have two systems of justice running simultaneously."
"I realize that," Potter concedes. "And yes, we need to talk. But I'm still doing this. Snape is the last one. And he's ours to deal with."
Scrimgeour gives Snape a quick, disdainful once-over and his mangled lips quirk in disgust.
"I doubt Snape considers himself one of yours," he says finally. "But tell you what. If he accepts your authority in the matter, you can have him."
A long silence falls then. Snape waits and waits, and nothing is said, and it finally dawns on him that they're waiting for him. Potter is looking at him quizzically, thoughtfully.
Snape considers it. The military justice is never more merciful than that of the civilian world, but it does have one decided advantage: it is always swift. And Potter… simply put, Potter seems too tired to drag out any sort of punishment for years and years. The thought of a death sentence – the most likely outcome at this point – doesn't inspire fear, but for some reason, brings with it the faintest twinge of nearly childish resentment, but that resentment vanishes as quickly as it appears, giving way to a sense of rightness.
"Snape?" Potter asks quietly. "What do you say?"
Snape nods. It seems fitting, somehow, that this whole thing, having began with Potter, will end with him.
"I accept your authority. I will go with you." It almost aches to say that, but Snape manages to force the words out.
Scrimgeour huffs and shakes his head, but gives the door a quick rap. Snape stares at Scrimgeour's hand, closed in a fist, and notices it misses the index and the middle fingers.
An Auror enters the waiting room, Scrimgeour says something to him – the voice is barely audible, nearly a hiss, but Snape hears "Order's prerogative" and "going with Potter". The Auror seems unsurprised. He walks up to Potter and hands him a small packet. Potter unwraps it.
Snape finds his breath shortening.
This – does hurt. Seeing his own wand in Potter's hands.
For a quick moment Snape fully expects Potter to snap it in half, but Potter simply pockets it and motions for Snape to follow him.
Snape stands up.
At the door, Potter lingers briefly and casts what seems to be an apologetic glance at the Minister. Scrimgeour mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and then adds, mildly:
"Well, Harry, I hope you know what you're doing."
"Me too," Potter concedes. "Drinks Saturday night?"
"If I can get away."
"See you at my place then. If you can."
"Yes."
Potter nods and leads the way.
Snape follows him, barely able to credit that he's about to get out.
Getting out turns out to be a more lengthy process than getting in. First, there's another room, where Potter signs multiple papers. Then – another, where an Auror touches the tip of his wand to Potter's and proceeds to cast numerous spells on Snape, from time to time testing the outcome. Eventually, he declares:
"The tracking spell is keyed to the Auror office and to you personally. It is linked directly to your house wards; if he takes as much as a step beyond them, you will be alerted. Also – if he does anything the charm recognizes as suspicious. How will you be transporting him? A body-binding spell, or restraints?"
Snape fully expects to be placed in the body-binding spell and transported by Mobilicorpus, but Potter opts for restraints – metal cuffs linking Snape's wrists behind his back.
Eventually he and Potter are standing together on the pier, shoulders touching, waiting for the boat to arrive.
The night sky is overcast, no moon or stars visible, and the only thing illuminating the dock is the faint glow emanating from Potter's wand. The waves are beating against the rock and wood, and Snape stares into the ocean, squinting, barely able to see the foamy crests.
"What month is it?" Snape asks.
"September."
Potter's voice is reserved and cool. Snape wonders if Potter already regrets saddling himself with him, and doesn't ask anything else.
The boat arrives shortly; Snape feels the dock move slightly at the contact the bow makes with it. He isn't certain how he's going to make it down there, and braces himself, half-expecting to be either levitated in or tossed inside, but Potter motions for him to step aside. A series of spells is cast, immobilizing the boat and conjuring a set of steps along with railing. Snape makes it down to the boat on his own, and sits down on the small bench. Potter joins him shortly, vanishes the steps with a flick of his wand and releases the boat.
His arms, held behind his back by the restraints, are beginning to feel numb, and his back is aching, and yet, against all odds, Snape finds a small measure of satisfaction in the fact that he walked out of Azkaban on his own two feet, wasn't carried out like a pile of debris. He's almost ready to thank Potter for choosing the restraints over Mobilicorpus, but Potter doesn't seem to be in the mood to be thanked.
The boat sways, riding the waves, and Snape can't help it – awkwardly bumping against Potter, he turns around to give Azkaban one parting look. He sees the enormous tower, barely visible against the night sky, drowning in the pitch-black darkness.
Potter tenses next to him, but does nothing to stop him from looking.
Eventually, Azkaban vanishes from sight. Snape turns around, shifts uncomfortably, eventually finds the position that makes his back and shoulders ache marginally less.
Potter is silent next to him, asking nothing, volunteering no information. Out of the corner of his eye, Snape watches Potter; he's barely visible in the faint glow of the Lumos, but Snape thinks that he notices an expression of almost childish hurt on the weary face. But that hurt is come and gone, and Potter is calm again.
Snape finds himself feeling calm, too. He doesn't wonder how soon the trial by the Order will be, and how exactly he'll be "dealt with". All in all, it doesn't matter. Strangely enough, he's thinking it'll be good to get a glimpse of Muggle London again, see the world that he's forgotten by now, and that has likely forgotten him too…. Except for Potter, Snape corrects himself.
There's no resentment at the recognition that Potter holds his life in his hands now, and at how final that feels. Potter hasn't forgotten, came to take back his own – to try and punish; it's personal with Potter, maybe that comes with being the Head of the Order… and then again, it always has been that way between them.
There's a small measure of comfort that comes with that thought, and then, Snape doesn't think of anything else.
Snape wakes up feeling sore, warm and disoriented all at once. For a quick second, he almost fears that he's dreamt the whole thing: Potter coming for him, Potter taking him out of Azkaban… He opens his eyes, to realize that he's still on the boat, though the boat isn't moving anymore, and he himself has managed to slide to the floor and fall asleep, his head pressed against Potter's knee for support.
What comes as a shock is that Potter hasn't pushed him off, has thrown his own coat over Snape's shoulders. And even cast a warming spell of some sort.
Snape doesn't know what to make of it, but he isn't given time to process this strange turn of events: a Lumos Maxima pierces the darkness, and Potter's hand rests on his shoulder.
"We've arrived. Come on. Let's go."
Snape sits up straight, then slowly brings one knee forward and rises to his feet. Potter's coat slides off his shoulders and onto the floor. Potter picks it up without saying a word.
They are off the boat minutes later. Their feet are sinking in the damp sand, the waves roll in, and they find themselves ankle-deep in water. Potter mutters a quiet obscenity under his breath. Snape lifts his head and stares around. He sees almost nothing – just the endless shore of the North Sea, the faint flickering of the lights somewhere in the distance, and the enormous expanse of the sky overhead. It feels like being at the end of the inhabited world, the very edge of it, and a single step in either direction will end in a fall.
When another wave rolls in, Snape nearly stumbles, but Potter's hand catches him, resting across his chest.
"Easy," Potter says calmly. And then, the vortex of Apparition sucks them in.