Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.
Oh, well, I'm completely new to this, so duh... Feedback is much appreciated. English is not my first language; I do not have a beta reader, and I think I DO need one. So I am really sorry about the grammar and/or spelling mistakes, and corrections of these are greatly appreciated as well.
WARNING: There are suicidal thoughts in this fic, so if you are averse to that, do not go on.
Chapter 1
Severus Snape opened his eyes just in time to watch the last moments of the battle against Voldemort from a most uncomfortable position on the cold stones of the Great Hall of Hogwarts. His eyes followed the Dark Lord's arm attentively as his former master lifted his wand, his ears anticipated the curse, his mind wished he could be the target of that beautiful green light that leaped hungrily at the intended victim, and his heart skipped a beat as one small figure came from nowhere and threw himself into the path of the Killing Curse.
Wizards would theorize for years to come why the Killing Curse, when failing to reach the person it was aimed at, would rebound and turn on the caster instead. How, rather than merely reducing him to a shadow of his former self, as it had happened the first time around, it would strip the Dark Lord of the magical transformations he had undergone, dissecting him, transforming him into an older form of Tom Riddle and finally, irrevocably reducing him to a corpse.
Severus Snape really only cared for the result and only inasmuch as it concerned his own future. His hands which he had unconsciously clenched into fists now fell back limply, and he felt strangely relaxed, as if he had been holding his breath for years and had finally been allowed to exhale. He realized at that point that someone had taken his Death Eater mask from his face. If not, he would have ripped it off himself now.
His personal part in the charade had finally come to an end. He had not expected to live through this, but there he was. He had accepted to play his part as a spy as this would be the only chance to atone for his sins, to repent for the evil he had brought upon innocent people in his brief stunt as a Death Eater, but he had no illusions as to what he was. A tool for Dumbledore, a useful one, but also one that had finally fulfilled its purpose and outlived its usefulness. And now he was tired of being tortured by Voldemort, tired of being used by Dumbledore, tired of being an object for ridicule and contempt for the Death Eaters or the staff or members of the Order. There was no good or bad side, there was only evil and lesser evil, there were only shades of grey.
He swallowed and absentmindedly noticed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered that he had taken out a fair lot of Death Eaters in this battle. Surprised at someone from their own midst turning against them, the Death Eaters had been sluggish to respond to this threat, and it had taken them time to subdue him, precious time that they had not been able to use against the Order.
Severus Snape had finally been brought down by two Cruciatus curses, and a third Death Eater had cast a spell on him that had hit him with such a bone-crushing force that he had hardly felt hitting the wall. He was surprised for a moment that they had not taken the time to finish him off, but he figured that they had had more important things to do. It occurred to him that he might very well owe his life to the fact that once again a Potter had been more popular than him. He suppressed a giggle and briefly closed his eyes.
Now the residual pain from the Cruciatus curses mingled with stabs of agony coming from his ribs, his left side and leg. For a brief moment, something tore at him from the inside, and he had to close his eyes as his breath became ragged and he heard his blood rush through the veins in his ears. But that moment passed, and then he noticed that around him, the frenzy of battle had subsided and left an almost eerie calm. Now the moans of the injured could be heard, ever so often drowned by an errant curse shouted either in desperation or in fury. Those last reminders of the fighting, too, became far and few between.
Hints of a wistful smile made the corners of his mouth curl. They would round up their enemies, they would count their losses, they would celebrate their victory, quietly at first, then growing more confident, they would rebuild and live on.
He, on the other hand, was tired, he wanted to be alone, and most of all he wanted to rest. Long, nimble fingers slowly, painfully found their way into the folds of the dark Death Eater robes, finally closing around the small potion vial, withdrawing it from its pocket and bringing it to his eyes. Strenghtening Potion. His teeth withdrew the stopper and his lips eagerly caught the fluid and it traced a burning path right down into his stomach. The pain receded, the control came back to his limbs, he could once again move and look around. The Death Eaters had left him conveniently close to one of the exits, and he would be able to leave without anyone noticing. He really did not want to give any Aurors the opportunity to hunt him down in the end.
He stood up, swaying slightly, slowly regaining his footing, unsteady on his damaged leg. Noone took notice of him as he left the hall, staggering along the silent corridors. The walk seemed to take a long time. The castle was quiet around him, the only audible sound was his breathing that sounded louder and louder in his ears. The whole building seemed to be paralyzed by Voldemort's demise. Not even the ghosts disturbed his path that led him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ancient building and to his retreat in the dungeons.
Finally, he reached the portrait that opened to his private rooms. His eyes took in the view with wonderment, as if seeing it for the first time. It felt strangely anticlimatic to be back in his quarters, in the rooms he had left this morning, believing this day to be another day as the Potions Master of Hogwarts, as the spy, as the Death Eater, whatever was needed of him. In these quarters, the battle had not left any traces at all. In these quarters, it was hard to believe that this day would be marked down in the history books as the one when the Dark Lord finally met his end. He regretted for a moment that there was no time left to destroy what was his, to erase the signs of his life just as he wished he could erase the marks he had left on the lives of others.
He walked across the room to his private potions cabinet, fumbled with the lock for a few moments, withdrew a vial, realizing that in all probability he soon would not be able to move any more, then settled down clumsily in his armchair in front of the grey ashes in the fireplace. He had lost his wand in the battle, but the fire would have done little to stop the cold that was slowly creeping into his limbs, nor would he have wanted it to. For the first time in oh so many years he felt something akin to peace. There was nothing that anyone could possibly want from him any more, and nothing that he could possibly want from anyone. Noone and nothing to disturb him. He felt almost elated as he raised the vial to his lips.
Dreamless sleep. Indeed. The familiar taste caressed his mouth and the vial fell from his hand and darkness crept upon him and he embraced it with his heart and his mind and his soul.
-------------------------------------------------
Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, opened his eyes to bright sunlight and a tray of food sitting at his bedside, just the way he had for the last two weeks. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched carefully before he propped himself up on his ellbows and gingerly maneuvered his legs until they dangled off the bed, then, finally, he pushed himself into a sitting position and proceeded to attack his breakfast. He did not feel particularly hungry, but it was obvious even to him that only his full cooperation would ever lead to his discharge from the Hospital Wing.
Just as he drained the last drop of pumpkin juice from his goblet, he heard the sound of the door opening.
"Harry! How are you today?"
The smile on Remus Lupin's face hardly ever disappeared these days. In fact, there were smiles on almost everyone's faces, everyone that Harry got to see at least, as if they spent their days in perpetual celebration, as if the weight of worlds had been taken off their shoulders. It had occurred to Harry, one night when he had trouble sleeping, that a considerable weight had indeed been taken off his, but he certainly did not feel overly exuberant about it. Not when he had first woken up and most certainly not now. He let go a deep sigh.
"Better than ever. I want to get out of here!"
Remus smiled tolerantly. "In due time, Harry. Probably very soon."
Harry did not care if he was whining to Remus, he was bored out of his mind in the Hospital Wing and wanted to leave, but Madam Pomfrey would not let him. His recovery from the effects of yet another killing curse was slow, as he had to admit to himself, but even the constant supply of books and visitors could not alleviate his feelings of restlessness and his overwhelming need to get away. Almost all other injured students or staff members had already left the Hospital Wing and were now in all likelihood enjoying their well-deserved summer break. The final battle had taken place two days before the Leaving Feast, and when Harry had first woken up the summer holidays had already started. Now, two weeks later, there was only one other resident in the Hospital Wing.
Harry turned, and his gaze fell onto the silent figure in the adjacent bed. Every morning at precisely 11 o'clock, a healer from St. Mungo's came, waved his wand over the unmoving body while a magical quill made some entries on a scroll that had grown several feet in length over the last two weeks, then the healer would mutter some spells and leave an impressive row of potion vials on the nightstand that Madame Pomfrey managed to introduce to her patient's stomach by means that Harry refused to contemplate. His companion was certainly making less of a fuss in this state than he would if he was awake, and Harry could conveniently forget about his presence most of the time.
"He still has not woken up", he commented to Remus, quite unnecessarily. Remus just nodded in acknowledgement, then his face grew more serious.
"I've just been discussing your summer arrangements with Albus."
Harry felt a sparkle of something stir inside his stomach, and he looked at Remus with renewed interest.
"We would like you to spend the rest of your holidays with me in the cottage my parents left to me. It's in Devon, quite close to the sea and really lovely in summer, and you would have time to recover."
Harry did not bother to argue about the last statement. He almost started to grin, but the expression on Remus' face stopped him. Remus should be smiling even more now, shouldn't he? Instead, he took another deep breath.
"We have also decided that Severus would benefit from a change of environment as much as you. He will therefore stay at the cottage as well, and healers from St. Mungo's will continue his treatment there."
Harry stared at Remus, mouth agape, unsure if he had not heard him correctly or if this was just some elaborate joke. But when Remus' face refused to split into a huge grin, when Remus still looked at him intently as if to gauge his reaction, Harry felt something inside of himself clench.
"What? Spend my summer with Snape? You can't be serious! What's wrong with him, anyway?"
Remus sighed.
"I suppose nobody has told you about him, right?"
"Told me what! Nobody has ever told me anything! Why hasn't he woken up by now? What's wrong?"
It seemed to Harry as if weeks, even months of frustration poured into him all of a sudden, and part of him was surprised at his outburst, yet another part relished it. Remus gave him a penetrating glare.
"He was injured severely during the battle. I found him in his rooms in the dungeons, doused with enough Dreamless Sleep Potion to take him out for days. We think he tried to commit suicide. The healers thought it best not to let him wake up until his injuries are fully healed, in the hope that he will cope better this way."
That effectively shut Harry up. His fury vanished as quickly as it had come, and he could only stare at Remus. Snape had tried to kill himself. The thought was too frightening to dwell on it for long. His gaze was drawn back to the prone figure on the bed. There was nothing intimidating about Snape when he lay under the white sheets like that, Harry suddenly thought. Then he turned back to Remus.
"But still... won't Snape hate being stuck with us for the summer?"
If Remus was surprised at how easily Harry relented then he certainly did an impressive job of hiding it, apart from one slight twitch of an eyelid.
"He needs someone to take care of him. And so do you, by the way."
And Remus' voice had such a decisive ring to it that Harry knew it was futile to argue.
Oh, well, I'm completely new to this, so duh... Feedback is much appreciated. English is not my first language; I do not have a beta reader, and I think I DO need one. So I am really sorry about the grammar and/or spelling mistakes, and corrections of these are greatly appreciated as well.
WARNING: There are suicidal thoughts in this fic, so if you are averse to that, do not go on.
Chapter 1
Severus Snape opened his eyes just in time to watch the last moments of the battle against Voldemort from a most uncomfortable position on the cold stones of the Great Hall of Hogwarts. His eyes followed the Dark Lord's arm attentively as his former master lifted his wand, his ears anticipated the curse, his mind wished he could be the target of that beautiful green light that leaped hungrily at the intended victim, and his heart skipped a beat as one small figure came from nowhere and threw himself into the path of the Killing Curse.
Wizards would theorize for years to come why the Killing Curse, when failing to reach the person it was aimed at, would rebound and turn on the caster instead. How, rather than merely reducing him to a shadow of his former self, as it had happened the first time around, it would strip the Dark Lord of the magical transformations he had undergone, dissecting him, transforming him into an older form of Tom Riddle and finally, irrevocably reducing him to a corpse.
Severus Snape really only cared for the result and only inasmuch as it concerned his own future. His hands which he had unconsciously clenched into fists now fell back limply, and he felt strangely relaxed, as if he had been holding his breath for years and had finally been allowed to exhale. He realized at that point that someone had taken his Death Eater mask from his face. If not, he would have ripped it off himself now.
His personal part in the charade had finally come to an end. He had not expected to live through this, but there he was. He had accepted to play his part as a spy as this would be the only chance to atone for his sins, to repent for the evil he had brought upon innocent people in his brief stunt as a Death Eater, but he had no illusions as to what he was. A tool for Dumbledore, a useful one, but also one that had finally fulfilled its purpose and outlived its usefulness. And now he was tired of being tortured by Voldemort, tired of being used by Dumbledore, tired of being an object for ridicule and contempt for the Death Eaters or the staff or members of the Order. There was no good or bad side, there was only evil and lesser evil, there were only shades of grey.
He swallowed and absentmindedly noticed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered that he had taken out a fair lot of Death Eaters in this battle. Surprised at someone from their own midst turning against them, the Death Eaters had been sluggish to respond to this threat, and it had taken them time to subdue him, precious time that they had not been able to use against the Order.
Severus Snape had finally been brought down by two Cruciatus curses, and a third Death Eater had cast a spell on him that had hit him with such a bone-crushing force that he had hardly felt hitting the wall. He was surprised for a moment that they had not taken the time to finish him off, but he figured that they had had more important things to do. It occurred to him that he might very well owe his life to the fact that once again a Potter had been more popular than him. He suppressed a giggle and briefly closed his eyes.
Now the residual pain from the Cruciatus curses mingled with stabs of agony coming from his ribs, his left side and leg. For a brief moment, something tore at him from the inside, and he had to close his eyes as his breath became ragged and he heard his blood rush through the veins in his ears. But that moment passed, and then he noticed that around him, the frenzy of battle had subsided and left an almost eerie calm. Now the moans of the injured could be heard, ever so often drowned by an errant curse shouted either in desperation or in fury. Those last reminders of the fighting, too, became far and few between.
Hints of a wistful smile made the corners of his mouth curl. They would round up their enemies, they would count their losses, they would celebrate their victory, quietly at first, then growing more confident, they would rebuild and live on.
He, on the other hand, was tired, he wanted to be alone, and most of all he wanted to rest. Long, nimble fingers slowly, painfully found their way into the folds of the dark Death Eater robes, finally closing around the small potion vial, withdrawing it from its pocket and bringing it to his eyes. Strenghtening Potion. His teeth withdrew the stopper and his lips eagerly caught the fluid and it traced a burning path right down into his stomach. The pain receded, the control came back to his limbs, he could once again move and look around. The Death Eaters had left him conveniently close to one of the exits, and he would be able to leave without anyone noticing. He really did not want to give any Aurors the opportunity to hunt him down in the end.
He stood up, swaying slightly, slowly regaining his footing, unsteady on his damaged leg. Noone took notice of him as he left the hall, staggering along the silent corridors. The walk seemed to take a long time. The castle was quiet around him, the only audible sound was his breathing that sounded louder and louder in his ears. The whole building seemed to be paralyzed by Voldemort's demise. Not even the ghosts disturbed his path that led him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ancient building and to his retreat in the dungeons.
Finally, he reached the portrait that opened to his private rooms. His eyes took in the view with wonderment, as if seeing it for the first time. It felt strangely anticlimatic to be back in his quarters, in the rooms he had left this morning, believing this day to be another day as the Potions Master of Hogwarts, as the spy, as the Death Eater, whatever was needed of him. In these quarters, the battle had not left any traces at all. In these quarters, it was hard to believe that this day would be marked down in the history books as the one when the Dark Lord finally met his end. He regretted for a moment that there was no time left to destroy what was his, to erase the signs of his life just as he wished he could erase the marks he had left on the lives of others.
He walked across the room to his private potions cabinet, fumbled with the lock for a few moments, withdrew a vial, realizing that in all probability he soon would not be able to move any more, then settled down clumsily in his armchair in front of the grey ashes in the fireplace. He had lost his wand in the battle, but the fire would have done little to stop the cold that was slowly creeping into his limbs, nor would he have wanted it to. For the first time in oh so many years he felt something akin to peace. There was nothing that anyone could possibly want from him any more, and nothing that he could possibly want from anyone. Noone and nothing to disturb him. He felt almost elated as he raised the vial to his lips.
Dreamless sleep. Indeed. The familiar taste caressed his mouth and the vial fell from his hand and darkness crept upon him and he embraced it with his heart and his mind and his soul.
-------------------------------------------------
Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, opened his eyes to bright sunlight and a tray of food sitting at his bedside, just the way he had for the last two weeks. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched carefully before he propped himself up on his ellbows and gingerly maneuvered his legs until they dangled off the bed, then, finally, he pushed himself into a sitting position and proceeded to attack his breakfast. He did not feel particularly hungry, but it was obvious even to him that only his full cooperation would ever lead to his discharge from the Hospital Wing.
Just as he drained the last drop of pumpkin juice from his goblet, he heard the sound of the door opening.
"Harry! How are you today?"
The smile on Remus Lupin's face hardly ever disappeared these days. In fact, there were smiles on almost everyone's faces, everyone that Harry got to see at least, as if they spent their days in perpetual celebration, as if the weight of worlds had been taken off their shoulders. It had occurred to Harry, one night when he had trouble sleeping, that a considerable weight had indeed been taken off his, but he certainly did not feel overly exuberant about it. Not when he had first woken up and most certainly not now. He let go a deep sigh.
"Better than ever. I want to get out of here!"
Remus smiled tolerantly. "In due time, Harry. Probably very soon."
Harry did not care if he was whining to Remus, he was bored out of his mind in the Hospital Wing and wanted to leave, but Madam Pomfrey would not let him. His recovery from the effects of yet another killing curse was slow, as he had to admit to himself, but even the constant supply of books and visitors could not alleviate his feelings of restlessness and his overwhelming need to get away. Almost all other injured students or staff members had already left the Hospital Wing and were now in all likelihood enjoying their well-deserved summer break. The final battle had taken place two days before the Leaving Feast, and when Harry had first woken up the summer holidays had already started. Now, two weeks later, there was only one other resident in the Hospital Wing.
Harry turned, and his gaze fell onto the silent figure in the adjacent bed. Every morning at precisely 11 o'clock, a healer from St. Mungo's came, waved his wand over the unmoving body while a magical quill made some entries on a scroll that had grown several feet in length over the last two weeks, then the healer would mutter some spells and leave an impressive row of potion vials on the nightstand that Madame Pomfrey managed to introduce to her patient's stomach by means that Harry refused to contemplate. His companion was certainly making less of a fuss in this state than he would if he was awake, and Harry could conveniently forget about his presence most of the time.
"He still has not woken up", he commented to Remus, quite unnecessarily. Remus just nodded in acknowledgement, then his face grew more serious.
"I've just been discussing your summer arrangements with Albus."
Harry felt a sparkle of something stir inside his stomach, and he looked at Remus with renewed interest.
"We would like you to spend the rest of your holidays with me in the cottage my parents left to me. It's in Devon, quite close to the sea and really lovely in summer, and you would have time to recover."
Harry did not bother to argue about the last statement. He almost started to grin, but the expression on Remus' face stopped him. Remus should be smiling even more now, shouldn't he? Instead, he took another deep breath.
"We have also decided that Severus would benefit from a change of environment as much as you. He will therefore stay at the cottage as well, and healers from St. Mungo's will continue his treatment there."
Harry stared at Remus, mouth agape, unsure if he had not heard him correctly or if this was just some elaborate joke. But when Remus' face refused to split into a huge grin, when Remus still looked at him intently as if to gauge his reaction, Harry felt something inside of himself clench.
"What? Spend my summer with Snape? You can't be serious! What's wrong with him, anyway?"
Remus sighed.
"I suppose nobody has told you about him, right?"
"Told me what! Nobody has ever told me anything! Why hasn't he woken up by now? What's wrong?"
It seemed to Harry as if weeks, even months of frustration poured into him all of a sudden, and part of him was surprised at his outburst, yet another part relished it. Remus gave him a penetrating glare.
"He was injured severely during the battle. I found him in his rooms in the dungeons, doused with enough Dreamless Sleep Potion to take him out for days. We think he tried to commit suicide. The healers thought it best not to let him wake up until his injuries are fully healed, in the hope that he will cope better this way."
That effectively shut Harry up. His fury vanished as quickly as it had come, and he could only stare at Remus. Snape had tried to kill himself. The thought was too frightening to dwell on it for long. His gaze was drawn back to the prone figure on the bed. There was nothing intimidating about Snape when he lay under the white sheets like that, Harry suddenly thought. Then he turned back to Remus.
"But still... won't Snape hate being stuck with us for the summer?"
If Remus was surprised at how easily Harry relented then he certainly did an impressive job of hiding it, apart from one slight twitch of an eyelid.
"He needs someone to take care of him. And so do you, by the way."
And Remus' voice had such a decisive ring to it that Harry knew it was futile to argue.