It should have been a ten minute walk to the Evans's house. Would have been, if Severus was moving at his usual brisk clip, but four nights of brewing Wolfsbane in bulk, on top of all of the other indignities he had asked of his body and his magic, had sapped him.

So it was closer to fifteen to twenty minutes that the two of them spent working their way from the wrong side of the river bisecting Cokeworth to the right. Lily's father, he told Harry, had been a foreman at the textile mill that employed his own father. Mr. Evans had been one of the few to see through Tobias's surface charm and wasn't especially happy to see his sallow, beaky son nosing around his youngest daughter.

"Lily always had a penchant for strays," Snape murmured, finally stopping in front of the neat stone cottage. "Well. Here we are."

The boy spared him a frowning glance, then turned back to the house with a longing expression.

"It looks like their cottage in Godric's Hollow. D'you know who lives here now?"

"No idea. Petunia wasted no time in selling the place when she inherited," Snape replied. "I never saw the point in visiting and I barely saw the inside of this house. We spent most of our time in the back garden or the park."

"We came here once. When I was eleven and they were trying to avoid the Hogwarts letters? We stayed at the Railview. Aunt Petunia never even mentioned this was where she grew up."

"Surprised Tuney let Vernon talk her into that."

Harry shook his head.

"Uncle Vernon didn't bother asking her opinion about much of anything."

Snape let out a long sigh. "Lily never would've stood for that. Fortune or no fortune-she always said she'd be a working woman. That she'd-" he snapped his jaw shut and finished silently, that she'd die before she'd live like her mum. Trapped all day in the house.

"Stay if you want," he said, turning on his heel. "I'm going back."

"Wait, what? Headmaster-"

He set his jaw and stormed on, all the way back to his dead end home. He told himself it didn't matter if the boy followed or not-though he did. Despite the fact that clearly, Severus would not be providing any further morsels of information. And yet he still trailed along behind him, never too far lest Snape wobble and fall over like a feeble old man.

It wasn't until Snape promised he'd rest before heading out to St. Mungo's-lest he splinch himself across five different counties-that Harry agreed to leave, and come back in two weeks.

He's always bleeding in his dreams now.

He teaches a class and has forgotten the lesson plan, and blood seeps down the front of his robe. He loses control of the classroom in a way that he hasn't since his first years of teaching. He sits in the staff room with Flitwick, McGonagall, and Sprout, and he is soaked again, fat drops ticking to the floor. They are all staring at him. A werewolf, sometimes Remus and sometimes Greyback and sometimes his whole pack, chases him through the forest, and he knows they are tracking him by the iron-dark smell but he cannot stop or else they will overtake him and tear him to pieces.

Even the dreams that are more like memories are tainted. His father follows the trail of blood and pulls him out from under the bed, because he's been bad and needs to take his licks. He calls Lily a mudblood and sleeps at the Fat Lady's side and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until the floor is a mosaic of sticky red footprints. He shudders under Voldemort's monstrous, beatific smile as he presses the Dark Mark into his arm and then touches just a finger to the wound, just for a taste.

Some of them are not even his memories, not really.

He saw more than he wanted to of Harry Potter's mind during their disastrous Occlumency lessons. He hadn't been lying when he'd told the boy he saw what he wanted to see, what he allowed himself to see. He had pulled the secondhand memories out and left them in the Pensieve and there they had stayed for three years because he could not look at the boy and know. Except now it all mingles together at night, and he is forced to scrub the kitchen floor in Little Whinging over and over again-he bleeds faster than he can clean. Tuney is screeching at him to stop, just stop, and has both hands wrapped around his neck but bright arterial blood spurts out, slips through his fingers as his body is wrenched by sobs because he is bad, bad, bad.

He woke the morning of the full moon thinking, I am so tired I could cry . He gave himself permission to stare up at the ceiling for a while, to see if the feeling would pass. He tried to remember how long ago it had last been painted-he'd aired out the place, absolutely gutted the master bedroom when he'd shipped his father off to the nursing home when the cirrhosis got to be too much him to live on his own, but the ceiling was still stained yellow by old nicotine and smoke. A while then.

He got up anyway after ten minutes, eyes burning.

He tried to be generous with himself, without falling to indulgence. He showered, and only stood dumbly under the hot water for fifteen minutes. He dressed in appropriate muggle clothes: black slacks with a white, banded collar shirt, with the buttons done all the way up. Sleeves rolled in deference to the heat-he'd let them down when he put the robe on later. Socks, no shoes in the house-he wasn't a monster.

He kept himself busy into the afternoon. He took inventory of both his groceries and his potion ingredient stores. He cleared the backlog of dishes, wiped down the tables and counters, swept the floors. He did his best to sink into the various complaints of his body to better ignore the complaints of his mind.

Finally, it was late enough in the day that he couldn't put off the trip to London any longer without running the risk of starting the Wolfsbane too late. He had errands to run.

Brewing at St. Mungo's was sheer pleasure. The warm wooden ingredient cabinets, protected by glass, contrasted beautifully with the ancient grey limestone cladding the walls. He worked on a white granite table, brewing in polished silver cauldrons. Bright white whisps hovered steadily at the ceiling, where a magical breeze wafted any fumes into vents. It was insulated from the floors above by both magic and distance, at least a full floor's worth of topsoil and sand and gravel. If he was not stirring, it was dead silent.

Mediwitch Petra Nesmith's foot tapping was, therefore, particularly intrusive.

He grimaced and focused on the seven cauldrons. They'd had 21 takers for this first month; it wouldn't be impossible to brew them all in one large cauldron but when working with multiple doses, batches of three seemed to result in the most stable brew. It was a huge boon arithmetically to have ended up with seven cauldrons of three doses.

"Are you sure you're good to finish, Severus?" Nesmith finally said. "If you need a break I'm sure Thome could slip in and-"

"I am sure you will find my work sufficient, Healer Nesmith," he said coldly, not breaking his attention. "As you know, we're nearly done."

"That's not what I-oh, nevermind," she huffed.

Finally, the smoke turned the correct shade of celestial blue. He switched out the stirring rod for his wand and to each in turn, cast the spell to finish it off: lykorpus homino . It must be spoken in a whisper as one drew the wand down in a striking motion, only to pull back at the last second and just gently tap the surface of the liquid. Each shivered at the contact and then went utterly still.

He set his wand down on the table and that was Nesmith's cue to approach so that they could begin decanting.

It was purely an effort of will that kept him upright as they finished the last cauldron of Wolfsbane. He leaned back into the cold edge of the table and mirrored the witch's earlier pose-no need to broadcast his shaking hands.

"Nicely done," Nesmith said. She tapped each glass and murmured operio; something like iridescent plastic wrap flowed out and lidded each one. "You know, they've been asking for you. On the ward. There isn't a werewolf in England who doesn't know how difficult this is."

"They want to complain about the flavor, no doubt."

"It can't be worse than what their mouths taste like after the full moon without it."

He shot her a sour look.

"I'm sure they'd think differently if they knew who exactly their saviour was."

"Or," she countered calmly, "they would be grateful to know that a hero of the war and one of the best potioneers of his age is brewing the thing keeping the wolf at bay."

He would not dignify that with a response.

She rolled her eyes and amended, "Anti-hero, does that make you happy? No one has forgotten what happened lat year but-"

"They would be fools if they had, Petra."

"Not everyone hates you," she insisted. "Some people do and always will, but if you asked any Healer in this hospital under the age of 40-"

She broke off, seeing his deepening scowl, and tried again.

"Do you know we have one of the lowest rates of accidental poisonings? Commonwealth countries, the Continent, the Americas. It's been steadily declining since the early eighties. The Mediwitches on that ward started joking about poisoning you . Fewer patients, less funding. They all joked about how ecstatic they were when Slughorn came back."

She paused and glanced around the empty room.

"I say that in confidence, of course. Black humor. Of course we give each patient our utmost care and then you were bit-"

He snorted. "I do understand how humor works."

"You never know. Just… help me with one of the trays, pop in, say hello. I won't keep you."

Petra won out in the end. She likely figured it had been a foregone conclusion-she had been one of his, after all, a Slytherin, class of 1985. A second year when he'd started teaching, too young to have known him as a student, old enough at thirty to treat him more like a peer.

It certainly stood in contrast to how he'd been treated in Diagon Alley. He'd felt eyes crawling all over him almost as soon as he'd popped through the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron. The goblins at Gringott's had treated him same as always-they disdained most wizards, and were neutral in the war. But part of his trip had been returning a mail-order of potion ingredients to the apothecary. Counterfeit unicorn horn; molded shrivelfig. Clearly an insult as he was a long-time customer. The manager had been apologetic but he didn't need to be a mind-reader to know he was full of shit.

At least when he'd been under Voldemort's thumb, everyone had been too afraid to stiff him.

The werewolf containment ward was kept on a lower level, like the potions lab, so the walk was not too strenuous, and the only people they passed were orderlies too busy to waste time staring.

It was less of a ward, in all actuality; more of a dungeon, just with the dry and sterile lighting of the hospital. There was a nurse's station at the entrance, then a barred door leading to a hallway of stone-walled cells. Each was outfitted with a waiting room chair, a plush dog bed, a water bowl, and a soft toy or rawhide. Insulting to a human but comforting in the skin of the wolf. The hope was that they would be able to sleep most of the night away.

Snape hung back and watched as Petra and a junior healer handed out goblets. The werewolves had turned the ward almost into a social hall-though they were all varying degrees of scruffy, as Lupin had been, they all seemed to be happy, grateful even, to be there. Happy to compare notes, to be in company where their deepest, darkest secret required no confession.

There was even talk of redecorating the cells-they'd been built with uncontrolled werewolves in mind, but surely, said one of them, a grizzled older fellow, they could afford some creature comforts. (Severus sighed.)

Too many of them were children. One little girl accompanied only by her mother looked like she couldn't have been more than a few months out from her attack. He hoped one day she'd barely remember the terror of a full moon, unmedicated and wild. Would they let her mother stay with her? He hadn't thought to ask about this part of it; Petra had been enthusiastic enough about the project.

He remembered all those nights spent brewing for Lupin, and then the quiet nights after the man had gone undercover. Relieved of his burden so that a man he hated could try to throw his life away for the greater good, and why did that sound so damn familiar?

The two healers finished their round and Petra caught Severus's eye, then tapped her wand against the tray.

Oh no.

"Hullo everyone! A quick word-I know, I know, we had dress rehearsals yesterday, you all know what you're doing. But if you haven't finished your potion yet, first off why haven't you finished your potion yet?- and second, please raise your glass to the man who has been making it for the past week, Severus Snape."

The surprising thing was, they did. Hesitantly at first, glancing around the room as if to ask is this okay ? But they did it. Every last one of them. A mixture of claps and the ringing of wands tapping against glasses.

He tried to back away and out but only found himself bumping against the wall. He was already backed into the corner. For long, precious moments he could not figure out what he was supposed to be doing with his face. What was the shape of gratitude, of gracious acceptance of praise? Was that what was happening, or was this a mockery? He thought this was perhaps another nightmare, one vivid enough that his back was even cold where it touched stone, and at any moment James Potter would pop out of nowhere to hoist him up by the ankle and his neck would start bleeding like a pig to be slaughtered but no.

No. He has only done a good and difficult thing and these people are grateful.

He thought someone was maybe asking for a toast but all he really heard was the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He tipped his head and made his mouth spit out some kind of noise that seemed to satisfy the werewolves, if not Petra, and he fled.

He told himself later that it was this anomaly-being thanked , with no uncomfortable baggage-that distracted him so catastrophically.

His normal habit was to walk a short distance, then Apparate back home. Perhaps in smaller hops, if he was especially tired, though he wasn't sure when he wasn't especially tired anymore. But this particular evening, he walked for longer, farther into Muggle London, certainly out of earshot of the hospital.

At first he thought he was being mugged. After all, he had a huge wad of muggle cash; this was the worst and thus most natural time for it to happen.

Perhaps he'd been sloppy. Certainly moving between the same two places at roughly the same time for a week straight was a risk, no matter how worthy the cause. Moody-if Moody hadn't been blasted in the face with a Killing Curse, which was at least a better death than plummeting from his broom, when they were moving Potter from Tuney's house-would have been apoplectic.

He had only himself to blame for being held at wandpoint by a wild-eyed Rabastan Lestrange, looking as twitchy and wrecked as ever.

"What do you want Rab?" he said evenly. They were in a quiet commercial district, older, no tourists. No cameras and no residents to hear, so at least there was little chance of collateral damage. Also not much of a chance of being discovered.

"Who says I want anything?"

His smile was a broken thing, too sharp and too stretched. He pitched closer, close enough for Severus to pick up the raw smell of nervous sweat. He consciously did not flinch as his former peer slid a dirty, knobby hand into his robe to draw his hawthorn wand from its accustomed place. Rab had known him for many years, after all, even accounting for all that time spent in the madness of Azkaban; he knew his habits and many of his secrets. He couldn't stop the shudder this time.

"If you didn't want something you would've already killed me."

"That's true," he said with a brittle laugh, tucking the wand into his own robe, "you were always too smart for your own good."

He grabbed Severus's arm, almost pulling him off balance, and yanked up the sleeve, revealing the faint scar tissue that was all that was left of the Dark Mark. (There used to be another scar there but it had been slathered with a field's worth of dittany.)

"He's really gone then," he whispered. Rab rolled his forearm forward and spared a quick glance-too quick, not enough of a window-down. His scar was swollen with infection: at some point he had etched the Mark back into his own flesh and left it to fester. "They're all gone. Bella-that bloodtraitor bitch, she-and Rod, I thought he was behind me-"

He swallowed a sob and it was a testament to the man's nerves that the wand still did not waver an inch. It was so easy to underestimate him in comparison to Bella and Rod.

"Rabastan. What do you want?"

Keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Rabastan was being very careful not to catch his eye, god damn him.

"A question for a question. Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

Rab snarled out a crucio and Severus crumpled to his knees with a resounding crack. Every nerve ending in his body shrieked and howled in stinging, burning agony. His skin was peeling away starting from his throat, he was swallowing glass, his very bones were glass and shattering under the curse-and then the Cruciatus released him. He still felt like he was suffocating, his throat ached, he thought he may have cracked his kneecaps-but it was all the normal, physical pain of an injured body pushed to capacity.

He pressed his forehead to the hot cement and used the hitching of his breath to slide a hand, just for a moment, into his trouser pocket.

"Fucking turncoat, you know ! He gave you a place of honor, halfblood! He gave you Hogwarts! I defended you!"

"You wouldn't understand," Severus wheezed.

"Bella was right," Rab spat, sorrow swallowed up by rage in an instant, "only had to look at the way you followed around that little mudblood slut ." He rolled his eyes. "Merlin, it's been yea-"

Severus whipped his hand in a slashing arc and a line of blood bloomed open across the Death Eater's hand. His fingers twitched open and Severus lunged, summoning the wand to close the gap, and immediately wrapped Rabastan in thick coils of rope. He summoned his own wand back and pulled himself upright again with a cry, legs shaking. God, his fucking knees.

"Funny, from you," he gasped out. "Bellatrix-had the only brain and set of balls between you three." He cast a Silencing Charm and went on, "You can't be blamed for cocking this up so badly."

He fends off little jolts and shudders, aftershocks from the Cruciatus Curse. He aches, but he laughs at Rabastan's sheer frustration. It hadn't sunk in on the man yet how terribly fucked he was, Snape saw, digging into the Death Eater's mind now that he's immobile, but there were no other surprises. Rabastan had spent a lifetime as a follower and, not knowing who to trust and so trusting no one, had spent the past two months evading detection, plotting empty revenge, and growing increasingly unhinged. Snagging Potter would have been better but the betrayal stung more. And sometimes any target would do in a pinch.

Severus could relate.

He understood needing a target, any target. That was what he'd joined Voldemort for, after all. What he'd lost in the achingly long years spent controlling himself, controlling his thoughts, debasing himself out of shame and guilt. The freedom to hurt before he could be hurt himself, without consequence.

He could try to make amends. He could tell himself that he was changed, could grind himself into nothing, spend his magic until he was empty trying to make up for what he'd done, but he knew what he was.

He let go of the bone-deep exhaustion that had dogged him since May. He pushed aside the feeling of his head about to unzip from temple to temple, the pulsing headache that sharpened every time he insisted on more magic, more power. His hands did not shake. He dug out the anger that had never really gone away, not in thirty eight years, and he stoked it.

He was someone who enjoyed hurting others. He had tried for mercy, with Sirius Black. And that had backfired spectacularly, innocent or not. So this he was going to enjoy. He couldn't match the slow torture of Azkaban, or the agony of being hit by layers of the Cruciatus Curse, over and over again into madness, but he could certainly try.

He'd forgotten all about the little marble in his pocket, flashing green.