He was cold, colder than he had been for years. The chill of Azkaban ran to his very bones. Tears were frozen to his face. "Mudblood," his own voice taunted him. "It's too late," Lily's voice said. Then he saw her dead body again, red hair splayed about her head, unseeing green eyes staring off at the ceiling of her ruined home, a little infant crying from the crib behind where she had fallen. Dumbledore saying, "You disgust me."
He disgusted himself.
He didn't know how long he had been there, only that he had not yet had his trial. When he first came to this wretched place, he had hoped he would not be here long, that Dumbledore and the girl would somehow rescue him. But the Dementors had drained that happy thought long ago. No longer was there hope, only the dim knowledge that judgment was coming, one way or another.
Pushing himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs, he walked towards the bars that confined him. He took note of the Dementor hovering outside his door, not that he had ever forgotten its ominous presence. It turned its gaze towards him and pointed a scaly, grey finger at him. The message was clear. Get away from the bars. Severus did as he was commanded, but not before he heard the creature take a rattling breath.
The air suddenly became much colder. He wrapped his arms around himself as he sunk back down to the floor, desperate to save some of his own warmth. But it was no use. The chill the dementor's brought was no natural cold.
A mad cackle sounded in the cell next to his, and he instantly knew who it was. Bellatrix. She had been deranged before Azkaban—he could only imagine what she would be like now, after ten long years—or had it been more now? He had lost all sense of time.
"Who's the new prisoner?" she said, laughing. The dementors took another sucking breath, and Severus sunk further into himself, but the witch only laughed louder. "I saw you bring him in."
The Dementor turned to face her, gliding towards her cell. He could tell from the sound of her voice that she was at the bars. No footsteps sounded—evidently, she was not cowed by the dementors.
"New boy," she said. "Or were you just a flat-chested girl? I couldn't tell, it was too dark. Answer me. You won't like it when the Dark Lord breaks me out of here, if you don't talk to me. I heard you screaming last night, so I know you're there."
Severus considered this for a moment. If the Dark Lord did indeed break them out, it would seem odd for him not to seem gleeful at the prospect. There was no one here to hear besides the dementors, and they could not speak his secrets.
"Severus Snape," he said, his voice hoarse.
The laughter returned. "Oh, Sevy, whatever have you done? Did Dumbledore finally tire of having a reformed lapdog?"
"No," he said. "Th-the old fool will surely be coming for me."
"You've been here a month, Sevy. That old man has finally gotten tired of you. The Dark Lord is our only hope. Now tell me, what have you done?"
A month? That's all that it had been? Hope blossomed in his chest for a spectacular moment, forming faster than the dementors could suck it away. A month. He had been here longer than that last time. There was still hope that Dumbledore could work his magic and get him out of here.
"I used the Imperius Curse on Hazel Potter and obliviated her."
Bellatrix laughed again. "Oh, Sevy, what did you make her do? The possibilities are delicious. Tell me, tell me!"
"I made her help us try to steal the sorcerer's stone for the Dark Lord," he muttered. "It didn't work. I obliviated her to protect a secret she shouldn't have been privy to."
"Surely you could have come up with something more fun than that? But then, you never did have a sense of humor."
He was something of a running joke in the Death Eaters for his lack of joy in the torture of Muggles and Muggle-borns. They said his father's impure blood had addled his brains. He had only once been allowed a Muggle to torture, but he found himself unable to muster the hatred required to perform the Cruciatus Curse on some random Muggle. His "magical impotency" made him a laughingstock, though the Dark Lord forgave him for this failing because he made such useful potions and was skilled in obliviation and legilimency. Despite his proclivities for dark magic, he never had the stomach for torture, having been on the receiving end too many times.
"Not all of us can cackle at our own torture, Bellatrix," he remarked dryly.
"Not all of us can survive it, either."
*HP*
"I want to see him," Hazel said.
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "I daresay he won't be in any condition to see you, my girl. Azkaban will have left its mark on him."
"I want to let him know I don't blame him for anything. I'm thankful, really. He saved my life twice, at least, and who's to say Quirrell wouldn't have just killed me if Professor Snape hadn't been there?"
"I can pass along the message for you," he said kindly.
"Please, professor," she said. "I'd really like to see him. I think it'll mean more coming from me."
Dumbledore smiled again. "It's good to see Severus inspires such loyalty within his house."
"He's good to me, professor," she said. "I just wish…" she trailed off, not wishing to elaborate further. She liked Professor Snape, despite his flaws. It would seem terrible to criticize a man who had been more than punished for them.
Dumbledore peered over his glasses. "You can tell me, Hazel. I assure you I will not think less of you."
"I just wish he wasn't so horrible to everyone else!" she blurted out. "I don't understand it. He's perfectly civil to me, but he calls Hermione a know-it-all all the time, even when she's quiet. And he's horrible to poor Neville! He can be such a bully—why am I any different?"
The sad smile returned. "I'll think you'll find we all respond to great sorrow differently, my dear girl. Professor Snape has not led an easy life. I cannot make excuses for his behavior, other than state he has his reasons for being who he is."
"But why is he like that?"
"I cannot tell you, for I would be breaking his confidence. I hope that one day he will tell you himself."
Hazel nodded. If she told Dumbledore a secret, she wouldn't want him to go blabbing it to anyone who asked. She wasn't happy about it, but she knew arguing further would get her nowhere, so she decided not to press further. If Dumbledore hoped Professor Snape would tell her himself, then perhaps he would one day.
Hazel followed Dumbledore out of the Ministry. Passersby stopped to stare at them—her lightning bolt scar was clearly visible over her brow, and Dumbledore was always an impressive sight on his own. Seeing the two of them together was certain to draw the attention of most witches and wizards. She drew closer to the headmaster, as if he could shield her from the scrutiny of all these strangers. He didn't seem bothered by the attention in the least, as he was humming a soft waltz to himself.
"Professor, are you sure I can't see him?"
"I am certain. He would not want you to see him in such a state as he will be in. Now, how about some ice cream before we apparate back to your aunt and uncle's home?"
*HP*
"Albus," Severus gasped, as Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. Severus flinched away from it, and Dumbledore let him.
"Severus, my boy," he said sadly, fishing in the pocket of his robes. He produced a piece of half-melted chocolate, which Severus gladly took. He popped it into his mouth, letting the warmth run through him. He hadn't had anything but cold broth since Moody and Greengrass had taken him to Azkaban.
Dumbledore reached for Severus's arm and held on tightly. "I'm going to take us to a cottage dear Nicolas left me, Severus. I think you'll find it quite nice."
"Take me home," Severus rasped. "If you don't, I'll just apparate myself there later."
"I think not, my boy. I'll be staying with you."
"Albus…"
"It is no trouble, Severus. I'm long overdue a vacation. I do look forward to wearing one of those shirts you always get me for Christmas."
Severus let out a small laugh. "They're lurid enough for you."
Dumbledore reached for his robes and hiked them up to reveal a pair of neon green socks. "A gift from Minerva," he said.
"We all know you, Albus."
With a smile, Severus grasped Dumbledore's arm, allowing himself to be whisked away to wherever it was that Dumbledore wished them to go.
They appeared at the door of an old stone cottage, one that looked more than a century old. It was stately and dignified for a building so small, but also welcoming. Even better, in Severus's mind, was that it was secluded—no other homes were in sight. He wondered if the Flamels had owned the entirety of the land he saw—this would surely be prime real estate now, the house overlooking a sandy beach from a cliffside. He could see why Dumbledore had picked this spot for his recovery; he already felt a sense of peace settling over him, with the sound of gently rolling waves filling the air.
He followed Dumbledore into the cottage, casting one look over his shoulder to look at the setting sun. When he turned around, he saw a warm, welcoming fire crackling in the fireplace, despite the warm weather outside. Dumbledore must have been there earlier, before he came and retrieved him. Heat was one of the ways to combat the aftereffects of the dementors.
He started to sit down on the sofa, but hesitated. He still wore his prison robes, and they were covered in the grime of Azkaban.
"I have brought you some robes and a dressing gown, my boy. Your room is the first down the hall on the right."
Severus nodded. It was just like Dumbledore to think of everything and to know his thoughts before he had even articulated them. Dumbledore was the one person in his life he trusted absolutely, without reservation. There was no one else he would be comfortable with seeing him so vulnerable. Put simply, there was no one else of import in his life, no one else to run to when things got bad. Not that he ever did any of the running—he was too used to suffering in silence.
He shuffled off down the hall and changed into some flannel pants before collapsing onto the bed. His last conscious thoughts were that he really ought to thank Albus for all the trouble he had gone to, but he drifted into oblivion before such an impulse was even fully formed.
When he awoke, he found Albus stroking his beard thoughtfully over a piece of parchment in the study. He sat down in an armchair, crossing his legs and pulling his dressing gown tightly around himself. Albus looked up and smiled at him.
"Have you had breakfast? Masie made the most delightful blueberry pancakes this morning."
Severus shook his head. "Not hungry."
Dumbledore peered over his glasses but said nothing further. Severus scowled. The infuriating man didn't need to say anything further to make him feel like a scolded schoolboy. He knew that as soon as they finished here, he would go eat some of those damn pancakes just to appease the old man. He really wasn't hungry—Azkaban and the dementors were too fresh in his mind for him to want to eat anything at all.
"What are you reading?"
"A letter from Miss Greengrass. It seems that neither she nor Miss Granger have heard from Miss Potter, despite promises to write. Now I receive a letter informing me Miss Potter has performed underage magic."
"What?"
"It seems unlikely to me that Miss Potter would so easily forsake her friends. I was thinking of paying Petunia a visit to ensure all is well. Hazel mentioned none of this when I saw her yesterday."
"Petunia?"
"Yes, the former Miss Evans."
"Petunia, you left the girl with Petunia? She hates everything magical!"
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "I had hoped her love for her sister would take precedence over her dislike of the magical."
"She called her own sister a freak! There was no love, not by the end of it. How could you leave the girl there, of all places? They would hate her!"
"All this concern for James Potter's daughter?" Albus said, raising a brow.
Severus balled his hands into fists. "Lily's daughter."
"Forgive me, Severus. I merely remember it was only a year ago you were raving about how James Potter's daughter would ruin your peaceful existence."
"She has," Severus muttered.
"But that is no longer a problem for you?"
"What are you getting at? That I like the girl? The very thing you've always wanted?"
"No, my boy. What I want is for you to see the child as her own person and like or dislike her on her own merits. But she is a rather delightful and engaging girl."
"I know she's not Lily!" he protested.
The sad smile returned. "I'm not sure you do, my dear boy."
Severus fumed silently. He knew the girl wasn't Lily. His brains weren't addled, not even by Azkaban. The girl was a walking, talking reminder of what he had lost, what he had destroyed. As if the reminder of his failure wasn't enough, she had those damned, mischievous hazel eyes. She was a rule breaker too, just like her father, but so very much like Lily too. Lily had been curious and had pulled him into more schemes than he could possibly remember, just like the girl seemed to do to her friends. The girl took up for the bullied, just like Lily. The girl cared about him, him of all people, just like Lily.
But she wasn't Lily. He knew that.
Dumbledore stood up from his seat and said, "Alas, I must leave to deal with this situation. I can't have young Miss Potter be a prisoner in the place she is supposed to call home. Although I would have hoped she would have confided in me yesterday if that was the case."
Severus shot to his feet. "No, let me. I've never got to make my peace with Tuney. I never saw her after Lily stopped talking to me."
Albus's eyes twinkled. "As long as making your peace doesn't involve hexing Muggles, Severus."
A smirk creeped across his face. "Not that you'll know about, Albus."
*HP*
Hazel lay in bed crying. Last night was one of the worst nights of her life—Aunt Petunia had slapped her and shaved her head, then Uncle Vernon had screamed at her for an hour, all while Dudley watched, smirking. The Dursleys usually confined themselves to neglect but had laid hands on her on infrequent occasions that were becoming more and more frequent. It was usually just a slap here and there and the occasional swing of a frying pan. She had told herself that she could make it until she was seventeen, that she only had to stay with them for the summers, that she would be able to go stay with Hermione or Daphne, but now everything seemed so remote. Thanks to Dobby, she hadn't even talked to them all summer—it would be a wonder if they ever forgave her for that.
One look in the mirror told the story of the harsh month she had lived under the Dursley's care: a black eye from Aunt Petunia slapping her the night before, showing ribs from too many missed meals, numerous bruises from Dudley and his friends, shorn hair because of Petunia's attentions—the litany of small injuries and abuses went on and on. She had been able to hide them from Dumbledore yesterday, but now it would be clear to anyone that looked at her that something had happened to her.
A sharp rap sounded on her door. She tried her best to silence her sniffling and wiped at her eyes. She didn't want those bastards to get the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She refused to show them any weakness. She looked in the mirror, at her red nose and red eyes. There was nothing she could do about it now, besides put on a brave face. She may not have been brave enough for the hat to put her in Gryffindor, but she was brave enough to face Lord Voldemort—she could survive these horrible Muggles.
"Up! I want you to fix us breakfast, then back to your room."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," she said. Hazel didn't bother changing out of her pajamas, if Dudley's hand-me-down t-shirt and sweatpants could even be called that. The only one who would see her would be Aunt Petunia, and the woman delighted in telling her how ugly she was. She thought longingly of the beautiful green robes Daphne had bought her for Christmas. Hazel knew she was not as feminine as many girls, but she did like to feel pretty too, and right now she just felt like an ugly wretch.
Hazel slunk out of her bedroom, careful on the creaky steps; it wouldn't do to wake Uncle Vernon or Dudley and incite their wrath. Uncle Vernon never struck her—he would silently watch as Dudley or Petunia did so. For that she was grateful. She could handle the intimidating man screaming at her until his veins pulsed and he turned purple in the face, but she didn't want to imagine how it would feel to have such a large man strike her. His tool of choice was words, bluster, and ignoring her. She got the impression he hated magic more than he hated her personally, but that he also feared magic as an unknown as well. For Petunia and Dudley, their hatred was more directed at her personally.
"Ugly girl," Petunia said, wrinkling her nose. "Just like your mother. I've already set out the ingredients for you. You'd best not burn them."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Hazel said in the monotone voice she had long ago perfected. She started to fry the bacon that had been prepared for her, while cooking the sausage and preparing the scrambled eggs. She fried some tomatoes and mushrooms, her stomach growling. She knew Petunia was watching her and that any filching of food would be spotted. She also knew she would be lucky to get any of it. She cleaned the dishes as she went, knowing better than to leave a mess. She had just placed the last of the food on the table when she heard a knock on the door.
Aunt Petunia stood up from table, muttering something about solicitors. Hazel smirked, slipping a mushroom into her mouth. Anyone who could annoy Aunt Petunia was alright in her books. When she heard the cry of "YOU!" she knew that whoever was at the door was no solicitor—it had to be someone she knew and disliked deeply—even better.
She heard some thundering footsteps above her, and then the same footsteps coming down the stairs. Aunt Petunia's shriek must have awoken the sleeping man and boy upstairs. "The bloody hell—at this hour—" Uncle Vernon said.
Hazel peeked out of the kitchen, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger. It was no use—Aunt Petunia was blocking his entry while the door blocked his face. She only saw Uncle Vernon's massive form obscuring her aunt's, and then Dudley standing behind them with a smirk on his face. He clearly thought his mother and father could handle whoever the stranger was.
Curious as she was, sense departed Hazel. She knew she would pay dearly for showing her face later, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Life at the Dursleys had reached an all-time low. So she squeezed past Uncle Vernon and Dudley, which was no easy feat with the latter trying to trip her. Then she caught sight of the stranger.
"Professor Snape!" she said. It was all she could do to resist hugging him—the stern man surely would not appreciate such a gesture. But anything at all from the magical world brought joy to her, even the forbidding Professor Snape. But he himself was a welcome sight—she had helped rescue him from prison, after all, and had wanted to know how he was doing.
Dumbledore, of course, was right. He did look rather the worse for wear. His hair was longer and greasier than she had ever seen it and his teeth more yellow. Always a thin man, he looked even thinner now. The only thing about him that seemed to have changed for the better was the spark of mischief in his black eyes.
"Hello, Tuney," he said.
Hazel stifled a giggle—Tuney?
Aunt Petunia stiffened, but a nasty smile crossed her face. "I suppose it makes sense you would come here for the girl. You always did follow her mother around like a puppy—couldn't have the mother, so now you want the daughter. I always knew you were a freak of the worst kind. What else could you be with parents like yours?"
Now it was Professor Snape's turn to stiffen. Hazel sensed Petunia had scored a point. But any sign of discomfort disappeared as quickly as it had come. Professor Snape leaned forward with a wicked smile. "Didn't your sister tell you what I am?"
Petunia paled. "You'll always just be that horrible boy from Spinner's End to me."
In a flash, Professor Snape pushed inside, drawing his wand. "I think you'll find me rather more formidable than I was." He slammed the door behind him. Uncle Vernon and Dudley cowered at the sight of a wand, but Petunia continued to eye him determinedly.
"You can't hurt us," she said smugly. "The old man told us so."
Hazel peeked out from behind Uncle Vernon and Dudley, trying to catch another look at Professor Snape. She took comfort in his presence, knowing that he would not allow any sort of harm to befall her. But when she did, he caught sight of her for the first time—his expression changed from taunting to thunderous.
He pointed his wand at Aunt Petunia's throat. "What have you and that oaf of a husband done to the girl?" he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"N-nothing she didn't deserve!"
"Deserve!" he shouted, grabbing Hazel by the wrist yanking her forward. "What could a child do to deserve this?" he said gesturing towards her blackened eye and the distinctive hand-shaped bruise on her face.
"She and Diddykins were just playing rough. The girl has no sense of decorum," she sneered.
"Don't lie to me," he said. "I can tell."
Hazel had always had the sinking suspicion that Professor Snape could read minds. He would know everything about how the Dursleys treated her worse than the scum of the earth, the long years of neglect, the cupboard, everything. The very things she wanted no one at Hogwarts to know of or even suspect. Because if they didn't know, she could make a fresh start and maybe even pretend herself that things at home weren't so bad. But now even that illusion had been destroyed—Professor Snape knew.
His eyes flicked towards the cupboard. He definitely knew.
"A cupboard, Tuney?" he whispered. "Ten long years, in a cupboard? Lily's daughter? Lily would have treated your lump of a son as if he was her very own!"
"Yes, you always did think Lily was a saint. Worshipped the ground she walked on. You never had to deal with her at home. She was nothing more than an arrogant show-off bitch and she got what she—"
Sparks flew from the end of Professor Snape's wand, causing Aunt Petunia to shrink back and Dudley to shriek.
"NONE OF THAT NONSENSE IN MY HOME!" Uncle Vernon roared.
"Be quiet, Dursley. You're about to find yourself on the receiving end of something much worse than a few sparks. Rode—"
Hazel shot forward, grabbing the professor's wand arm. "No, Professor!" she shouted.
He looked at her incredulously, his wand still raised, she holding on pathetically.
"These people abused you," he spat. "They deserve whatever I give them."
"I won't deny that," Hazel said softly. "But you don't deserve to go to prison for it. They're not worth that. I'm not worth that."
Hazel chanced looking into the professor's eyes, a fire blazing there. He looked as if he wanted to argue, but he lowered his wand. The look of passion was gone as quickly as it came. "As you wish," he said, stowing his wand in his pocket. Hazel looked at him warily, not quite convinced it was as easy as that.
"I suppose I'll just have to call the police," he said, a nasty smile on his face.
"No!" Aunt Petunia said.
"Yes, Tuney," he said. "And all the neighbors will know you're nothing but a nasty woman who gets off on abusing children."
"Listen here—" Uncle Vernon began.
"No, you listen, Dursley. You've known everything about what goes on in this house and have been party to it. You may never have struck the girl yourself, but you were only too happy to let your wife and son do it for you. Neglect can damage children just as much as abuse—it is abuse in another form. So you'll not get a free pass simply because you never touched the girl. You will go to prison. Your wife will go to prison. Your son will be put into foster care and be better off for it, if a decent family can undo the damage you've done to him."
"Daddy!" Dudley whimpered.
"Don't worry, Dud," Uncle Vernon said. "This nasty man has got it all wrong." Uncle Vernon reached to grab Professor Snape by the top of his shirt, but his wand was out again.
"Touch me and you'll regret it, Dursley. Let's not forget what I am capable of. Now you'll go to your sitting room and calmly wait while I call the police. Any attempt to harm me or Hazel will be met with magical restraint—and don't think I won't do it. Wizards can use magic on Muggles in self-defense."
Sans his usual swirl of robes, Professor Snape stormed out of the entryway, in search of a phone. Hazel jogged to reach him and put a gentle hand on his arm, ignoring how he flinched away from her. "There's one in the kitchen, professor," she said, leading him to it.
She watched as he dialed and sat down at the table. Life was about to change again—hopefully for the better.