The Apparition takes him by surprise: it's almost as if his magic itself takes its vengeance on him for more than two years of inactivity, or, perhaps, it tests him, stretching and bending, seeing if he'd break. To his shock, he finds himself—not even Splinched—at the doorstep of his old house in Manchester. The red brick of the house has a green dusting of moss here and there, and the paint on the door has began to flake – but other than that, it is as it always has been.
He walks inside. The house is dark, but the light comes on when Snape flicks a switch and he's relieved that the electricity hasn't been turned off for nonpayment… yet. He makes a mental note to take care of all of those affairs, then recalls he's got no money, then—the pension that Potter had mentioned—and then stops thinking about all that.
He roams around the house and scowls, trying to remember…
The kitchen, where Eileen used to cook, hastily, impatiently, each time seeming regretful of the time wasted that way. The sitting room, where Narcissa was pleading for his help. The creaky staircase that leads upstairs, then—the bedroom—just as he'd left it.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, awkwardly, tentatively, feeling like a stranger in town, checking into a motel room, rather than someone who's come home.
He lifts the pillow and pulls out the neatly folded nightshirt, left there two and a half years ago. He considers changing before going to bed – but the grey coarse fabric reminds him of the prison robe and Snape tosses the bloody thing under the bed. He unbuttons the robe and folds it, placing it on the bedside table, then, the wand still in his hand, climbs under the blankets.
The blankets are cold and damp, and the air in the room is chilly, but Snape almost doesn't care, he's ready to fall asleep just like that, except for the vague feeling that he's forgetting something. He isn't certain what that is, not until he again becomes aware of his wand that he's still clutching, hanging on to it like his lifeline.
Of course. The drying charm, the warming spell, he thinks sleepily. He tries to cast nonverbally this time.
A mere instant later, he's warm and dry, though a great deal less sleepy: something feels slightly different about his magic now, it's not bad – just different. He shifts under the blankets and points his wand at the ceiling.
Lumos Maxima.
Yes, definitely different.
He can feel that change in his bones and just under his skin – even the simple spells are not the same anymore. It's almost as if there's so little left of him, and so little left to feel, that every burst of magic is experienced with unprecedented intensity – as if nothing else exists.
It almost hurts.
Snape doesn't know what to make of it all: of the magic that has become unfamiliar, of himself, of his not-quite-home, of other Order members, (not-quite-friends)… and of Potter, left alone in that house of his.
For a while, he thinks of everything at once: Azkaban and the flutter of stormy petrel wings behind the window, unpaid electric bills, Hogwarts, about to fold and turn to ashes and dust, just as soon as the insidious fire finishes eating at her insides, the frost-dusted rowan tree in Potter's yard…
He falls asleep quickly, thinking of the glistening red rowan berries in the midst of the windless fall.
In the morning Snape is hungry and anxious at the same time. He knows the anxiety is ridiculous, but he can't help it – the pangs of hunger bring with them the familiar terror of uncertainty; food in Azkaban may have not been plentiful, but at least it was regular. The only time he wasn't fed was when a part of the prison collapsed and he ended up isolated from everyone – even the guards.
It feels a bit like that now. As if something has collapsed all around him; it's an isolation of a different kind now, and there are no guards to bring him food.
Snape leans on the kitchen table and shuts his eyes, hoping for anxiety to pass. He recalls the pension that Potter had mentioned and realizes that he doesn't know where to get it, or how. He supposes he could ask Potter, but he doesn't think Potter is home, besides, Snape isn't even certain what day of the week it is…
Anxiety continues to mount, and finally Snape breathes out a quiet "fuckitall" through his teeth. He is sure that if he only eats something, he'll be able to think clearly. For now – he's reduced to action: walk out of the house, lock the door, look around to ensure he isn't seen, Apparate to what he vaguely remembers to be a discreet location near one of the Muggle supermarkets. He recognizes the red lettering with the broken blue waves of the underlining and makes his way to the entrance.
Once inside, he's made dizzy with the options and choices before him – juices, breads, yogurts, pre-packaged sandwiches, produce and meats; the fact that he's got no money does nothing to stop him. He considers briefly the best way to pilfer what he needs without attracting any attention and settles on a simple Minimo charm, quietly reducing the items of interest to the size of a bread crumb. He's about to get started on a packet of potato and leek soup, when he hears the familiar voice behind his back:
"That's very good, Snape – for a first time. It is your first time, isn't it?"
Wand concealed in the folds of the sleeve, Severus freezes.
Potter continues to talk. "Ron and I used to do this, during the war. Though we started small – with packets of soy sauce. You know, you can eat just about anything, if you've got soy sauce."
"Potter," Snape manages finally. "What a startling coincidence."
"Not at all. You left before I had a chance to remove the tracking charms from you."
Snape remembers it then – those charms that are tied directly to Potter and to the Auror Department – and flushes at the humiliation of being caught in such a ridiculous way.
"I forgot," he whispers more to himself than Potter.
"Yes, I sort of worked that out."
"Are you going to send me back?" all pride forgotten, he asks, without turning around. The anxiety continues to mount; he feels the tip of his wand pressing into his wrist, prodding him into action. Run. Don't talk. Don't think. Run.
"What?" Potter, for a quick second seems utterly stumped, but then understands the question. "Nobody is going to send you anywhere. The Auror department doesn't even know about this."
"But the tracking charm…"
"Isn't linked to a specific person in the Department. They stopped monitoring it on their end as soon as you were no longer a concern to them. Besides, even if they were still monitoring it," Potter adds quietly, "it wouldn't be – like that. They'd just make you give the stuff back and take you to the Ministry office where you could collect your pension."
The shame of it all, mingled with relief, is almost too much to bear, and it takes Snape a long time to reply.
"It's different now." He turns around to look at Potter.
"I sure hope so," Potter says mildly, surveying the pea-sized can of soup on the store shelf. "Tell you what, why don't you put everything… back in order, and we'll just shop. You can pay me back tomorrow."
Snape isn't certain what it is exactly that urges him to give the brief nod of assent. Maybe it's just the hunger or the weariness, but he allows Potter to do the shopping, which is just as well, because Snape has no idea what to get.
Potter goes at it with surprising enthusiasm, a sweeping motion resulting in a great number of packaged soups and canned meats and fruits falling into a shopping basket he's grabbed. "Those are good," Potter explains, "some of them you just add water to, follow the instructions on the label…"
They walk out of the store together. Potter manages to juggle the enormous number of bags and packets, without letting any of them fall. Once they're out of the eyesight of the Muggles, Potter asks, "Can you Apparate us? I would, but it'd be rather awkward, the bags and all."
Once again, Snape doesn't argue.
It all feels shockingly normal—almost to the point of madness—Apparating back home, allowing Potter inside, sitting down at the kitchen table and watching Potter unpack the groceries and arrange them in Snape's cupboard – with the mindless efficiency of someone who isn't used to wasting time on this sort of thing.
Snape allows himself a small smile, realizing that his kitchen cupboards are now an almost exact replica of Potter's. He doesn't mind it at all, although he half-suspects that Potter's grasp of what constitutes good nutrition is as bad as his own at this point, and the expression "blind leading the blind" comes to mind.
Potter catches his smile and smirks.
"I know, this isn't exactly … healthy eating, but – fuck. Sometimes you just need to eat right away, and you don't have time or energy for cooking, and for those times – well, this is perfect. Speaking of which, can we eat now? I'm hungry."
When Snape nods, Potter takes out a large egg salad sandwich and cuts it in half, then opens a large bottle of orange juice. They eat in silence, though Potter seems slightly on edge, or maybe just ill at ease. Snape watches him frown and slightly squirm in the chair – in an almost childish way. Once again, Snape is drawn to the details, the miniscule aspects of Potter's appearance – the hair that's been trimmed short, the weather-beaten cheeks, the chapped lips, and the calloused hands that cradle the glass with orange juice like some great treasure.
Funny thing, I almost forgot how young he is. Only eighteen… no, nineteen …
"You said that you used to steal," Snape probes. He doesn't really expect an answer.
Potter nods, taking a sip from his glass. "Ron, Hermione and I - we got separated from the others during the Horcrux hunt. We were on our own for about half a year. We camped out here and there, and – well, to get provisions we'd … get out into town and – uh. Raid a shop. Steal, of course, not rob. Though – it took us a little while to work things out and start doing what you did. The first few times I just used the Confundus charm on an unsuspecting Muggle and got him to buy us everything."
Snape gives Potter a calculating look. "Have you got no shame at all?" he asks mildly and almost smiles.
Potter's grin is completely unrepentant.
"Not really. Voldemort was just about ready to lay waste to the Muggle world, too. I reckoned, since we were working to save them as well, they should do their part and feed the troops."
Snape finds himself chuckling at that, but stops almost instantly, when he notices Potter draw his wand. Snape tenses, but doesn't reach for his own and says nothing. Potter seems to notice that tension, because he says quickly:
"I still would like to remove the tracking charm from you. Unlike the Auror Department, I can't just stop monitoring it on my end – the link is set up differently. It's tied directly to me."
Snape shuts his eyes, embarrassed to realize that he's forgotten about the blasted tracking charm – yet again. It's almost frightening how much unnecessary information his mind absorbs these days, and how much it fails to grasp.
"Was keeping me on a leash that much trouble for you?" Snape offers humourlessly.
Potter nods vigorously. "You have no idea. This irritating female voice buzzing in my left ear – Severus Snape is proceeding on foot North-North-West, Severus Snape has Apparated to Manchester, Spinners End, number twenty seven…. And so on. It only shut up when you went to sleep. Then, resumed again this morning and went on and on until I got to you."
"It does sound irritating. Why didn't you follow me immediately?" Snape inquires, curious.
Potter shrugs. "I thought you might want to be on your own. If you hadn't ventured out to Tesco, I would have come over in the afternoon."
I don't want to be on my own. He doesn't give voice to that thought, it's disturbing enough as it is.
Snape doesn't feel anything when the invisible tether is taken off him. A puppet, last string cut off, another disquieting thought comes.
He is surprised that he wants Potter to stay. He doesn't know how to ask, what to offer. A game of chess, perhaps – and then Snape realizes he doesn't remember where the chess set is, and he isn't all that certain he can beat Potter now. Then again, he'd likely settle for losing at this point – except… he still doesn't know how to do this, how to be social, without it becoming even more awkward.
"Do I owe you an apology?" Snape asks finally. "For leaving like that?"
Potter shakes his head. "No, of course not. I wasn't surprised, either. Though I should have thought of the tracking charms right away. I mean… Now I know where you live, and I'm sure you haven't planned that."
"It doesn't matter," Snape says, and notices Potter expression become slightly more guarded. "I would have contacted you to thank you."
Potter gives him a disbelieving glance, but seems to relax at those words.
"Well, there's definitely no need to thank me, either."
"If not for you, I'd still be in Azkaban," Snape says flatly.
Potter looks like he wants to say something – maybe something of the sort – if not for me, you wouldn't have gone there - but holds back.
Snape shuts his eyes as the familiar twinge of resentment prickles at him, a faint bitterness, just barely-there, but still, definitely there. A part of him wants to blame Potter for everything, and yet, somehow, he can't manage even that.
In the end, Potter is the first to breach the silence. "I will make arrangements to have your funds owled to you – save you the trip to the Ministry. If that's all right with you."
Snape nods and watches Potter walk to the door.
Potter's body seems thin as a stick under his bulky green sweater. Potter is tall these days, and even leaner than before, but it seems that he didn't grow, just stretched himself unbearably long and thin.
He still doesn't want Potter to leave. Despite the resentment, the awkwardness – he just doesn't.
Potter turns to give him an awkward smile.
"You know, you're welcome to come by anytime you like. Come for breakfast one day."
"I don't know your schedule," Snape says.
Potter shrugs. "I don't know my schedule either. Things come up – whenever they come up."
"And if I walk in on your meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister, or the Chief Police Constables?"
Potter's grin turns genuinely happy.
"Then you can join the meeting. Just as long as you don't berate me in front of the constables."
Snape is startled to realize that Potter's words aren't a warning or rebuke of any sort. Potter seems to be teasing.
"You ask too much of me," Snape replies dryly.
It does the trick: Potter laughs at that, though his laughter seems to be carefully portioned out: a single short-lived burst of it – and it's over.
"I do want to see you again," Potter says. And then, he's gone.