Fanfiction based in the world of Harry Potter, created by JKR. Her characters are hers. Original characters are mine. No pecuniary rewards. Please see first chapter for full disclaimers and description.

Thank you to my Beta, Elaine! Please note that for this chapter, JL, aka Kirasha, also Beta'd. WARNING: this is a very emotionally intense chapter. Elaine says it has a very high "emotional squick" content. It is the emotional intensity that made it hard for me to go through it again—I've had it back from both betas for 2 weeks now, and only just finished addressing their suggestions. The delay is my fault, not theirs.

Also, thank you to Ashley who reminded me of the fitting quote you will find in the chapter, and giving me permission to use it here.

Chapter 35: Homecoming

He dismounted the thestral in a twilight-dark patch of woods in a small valley near the ruins. The ghosts of the place threatened to consume him. Already his stomach clenched painfully as he made his way slowly up the neglected path to the ruined homestead, the thestral following obediently behind. It was worse even than the uncomfortable fear that sent his guts into knots when the Dark Lord summoned him. A summons contained promise of Daemons, yes, but they were others' Daemons, to be witnessed and observed with cool, impartial disdain. Here, he would face his own.

"Ruins" was perhaps too romantic of a word, inspiring thoughts of old castles slowly crumbling with decay. The landscape here spoke of rape. The remains of the building, castle, homestead, whatever it was that had stood on this hill, lay in violent disarray. The highest remaining bit of standing wall was no more than chest-height. Twenty years of rain and weather had not faded the black scorch marks on the crumbled stones scattered dozens of meters in every direction. The original foundation even seemed to be sinking in upon itself, one section swallowed up completely into a deep, black pit that spoke of a labyrinth of cellars beneath the structure.

The tall black-clad figure paced around the rubble, occasionally kicking absently at a bit of debris. Severus Snape allowed himself to wallow in the powerful rage that had driven him to do this all those years ago. The bloodlust and sweet taste of vengeance welled up within him as fresh as though it had been yesterday. He could hear Lucius and Wilkes and the Lestrange brothers as they laughed and cast their hexes, helping him destroy the building that had once stood three stories tall. He could hear the exploding stones and smell the stench of burning pitch and wood and fabric and even the flesh of his father's tortured body. His heart thrummed with the remembered adrenaline, the rush of power and freedom he had felt all those years ago as he did this…

HE DID THIS.

The wild surge of power swung violently to something like pain and shame. He had gloried in murder. His first murder—and he had reveled in it! His first of many, too numerous now to count… and yet this one, of all that he had done, for this one he could find no remorse within himself, even though this was the one that had irrevocably changed his life forever. This was the one that brought him to his Master's Inner Circle. He had thought it bought him freedom. In truth, it had only brought him to a deeper, darker slavery.

He spent the first day picking through the rubble of the house, allowing himself—even FORCING himself, to relive every emotion he had felt all those years ago as he wreaked the destruction surrounding him. By the time the setting sun began casting long pastel streaks in the sky and shadows over the ground, Severus Snape felt certain that he was as vile, as repugnant, evil, and unlovable as anything ever spawned from the very depths of Hell itself.

His dreams, when he retired into a borrowed wizard's tent, were troubled and violent.

Sunrise through the canvas roof above him woke him gradually. The tent was complete with kitchen and bath, so that he showered for a long, long time before dressing, as though to somehow wash the emotional filth of the previous day away.

The ache that was the severed Bond throbbed painfully within his chest. He had never felt more alone, more genuinely frightened than he did at this moment. He had always been "alone" since he left for Hogwarts. He had often been terrified. Anyone who said that they faced the Dark Lord, ever, without abject terror hiding somewhere within their soul, was a liar.

Today, he faced himself. Today he tried to learn if he ever truly had been worthy of anything besides being the tool he had become. It seemed to him that a summons by the Dark Lord would be mild in comparison.

Exiting the tent, he approached the only solid structure still standing on the property. An old barn stood on a small rise, shimmering slightly in the morning light. It was weather-beaten, the paint peeling in great scaly chunks as though an ancient creature was shedding bits of its hide. It stood tall and strong even after age and elements had robbed it of anything like aesthetic beauty. The ancient magic that had been used to conceal it caused the shimmer.

The barn door still creaked ominously. It had been a mystery to him, how his father had never followed him in here when he'd come here to hide. He had thought that perhaps his father did not wish to soil himself within the confines where animals were housed. Whatever the reason, it had always been a refuge. He still felt the same sense of safety now as he had felt the first time that he wrenched the door open to hide his pain.

One portion of the barn had been left a 'working' barn… stalls, hay, equipment for caring for various livestock, though they had owned none except one horse for a brief time, and the occasional injured animal nursed to health then released.

The other portion of the barn was almost a makeshift potions lab—though he had not known it at the time. The desk was there, crumbling with dust and age; two chairs, a workbench, a cauldron rusted through; and shelves and shelves of books.

He was immediately transported to his youth, looking in this room. He could smell his mother's perfume as they worked together, brewing potions, reading, speaking of what they would like to do in the garden and greenhouse. He remembered now the rare plants they had grown and tended together.

Wilkes had torched the garden when they came to destroy the house. It was no real loss by that point—seven years of neglect had left it overrun by weeds. Still, Severus remembered not wanting to be in that part of the grounds whilst the other young man worked.

Severus approached the shelves and began running his finger down the spines of the books, remembering each one, until he came to one he did not remember. One with nothing at all on the spine, except his name. Severus.

He pulled the thick, heavy book off the shelf and waved his wand at the desk and chair so that both were immediately clear of dust. He sat in the chair, set the book on the desk, and opened it.

Photos. Letters. Mementos. A scrapbook of his childhood, carefully preserved by his mother, here in the barn which his father never entered. Photos of him smiling as a baby, held in his radiant mother's arms. A black-eyed toddler bravely attempting to climb the steps of the house. A small boy of no more than Katrina's age, grinning, head to toe in dirt, while his mother smiled indulgently and planted flowers in the earth nearby.

Letters…

My Dearest Severus,

You were born today, and have made me a Mum. I would never have known that love could be so consuming, so instant. The midwife laid you on my chest, and your dark eyes captured my heart. You did not even cry, so peacefully did you enter this world.

I love you, my precious son. Thank you for coming into my life.

Mummy

Sweetest Severus,

I'm sure there was never a more precocious child in the world, and your Gran agrees with me. Only four years old, and already you are reading and 'helping' me with potions.

Today, we made a kite the three of us together. I wonder if you will remember it when you grow up… I've left a picture here in our book. It was so big, and the wind so strong, I was afraid it would carry you away. You are such a little man—you would not let me help you fly it. "I'm not a baby, Mum," you said, "I can do it myself…"

We had such a fun day… it is the simple things, Severus, the simple, precious joys of life that matter. I hope you can remember that. I love you, my darling boy.

Mum.

He did not need to look at the photo to remember the kite in question. Surely his mother had used magic to get it off the ground—the wood frame they used was too large, the paper covering it clumsily applied with spell-o-tape. The picture painted on it with childish strokes was of their 'happy' family—his mother, his grandmother, and himself. The memory of making it together so fresh and clear he could almost hear their laughter.

His grandmother had died not long after that, and his life changed, as did the tone of his mother's letters in the memory book. He turned the pages, reading and looking at the pictures hungrily, as though trying to grasp the past that had somehow eluded him… or that he had deliberately forgotten.

Oh Severus!

Grandma has died today and we are both so sad. You have been so sweet, climbing on my lap and holding me, so that we can cry and share our grief together. It's a little easier, somehow, to share that grief, than to carry it alone, even though you are so very young.

Grandma loved us, sweetheart. She loved us very much and she did all she could do to protect us.

We will get through this, together.

I love you,

Mum

He remembered that day, too. If not the day, at least the surrounding days. His father came home shortly after his grandmother died. He had been a rare visitor to the house between trips, but his Gran had protected him from the dangerous man's notice so that Severus had little recollection of him in his life until after her death.

On this homecoming, Severus received his first beating, for no reason that he could remember except 'sniveling like a baby'. His father had no patience for childish emotions. The cruel man had often told him to 'stop sniveling'. How amused would Black and Potter have been to know that their vicious nickname struck so painfully close to home?

The beating his mother had received for trying to protect him had induced her first miscarriage—the first of many. He had been too young to understand that she was pregnant, but he remembered her pain and the blood-replenishing potions she consumed for many days after his father left the house again. It was the first potion he learned to make on his own, his mother laying on a pallet near him and weakly giving him instructions.

My precious boy,

Your father has come home. He has been traveling for a long time. You don't even remember him. He is proud and boastful when his friends come to visit. "Look at my boy; he looks just like me…" But he is so cruel when no one is here to see. I'm doing my best, son. He has already Marked us… if we leave, he will find us, and he would hurt you… he says he would kill you.

How would I live if something happened to you?

You are the world to me. You are my precious child, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. It won't always be like this. He will go away again and it will be just you and I, as always.

Please don't come between us when he is angry. Don't try and protect me—you are so sweet, so tender-hearted. It just makes him angrier. He thinks to make you "strong"…

I wish I could explain things to you so that you could understand. You ARE strong. You are stronger than your father could ever hope to be. Your strength comes from your heart, Severus, from your love—the source of all strength. Your father cannot love; he can never be strong. Not like you.

I love you.

Mum

An anguished sound escaped him, half between a sob and a laugh. He pushed the book away and rested his face in his hands. Who was this son, this 'precious boy'? Who would ever have thought him 'tender-hearted' even as a child? Who was this boy who inspired love and laughed and flew kites and knew how to love in return?

When had he changed?

How long he sat there, hiding his eyes from the thick volume his mother had created in love, he did not know. Eventually, he found the strength to get up—the light was fading. He returned to the tent, leaving the book open where it lay. This was a journey best taken in small steps; he had absorbed as much as he could for today.

Rain spattered cold but gentle against the canvas of the tent, bringing him slowly to wakefulness. His dreams of that night had been of his mother, as though watching replays of his childhood. He showered and dawdled about the tent, procrastinating. It was behavior that was very unlike him, yet he felt he was trying to fortify himself for the next foray into his mother's memories. He was acutely aware of the magnitude of the gift she had given him, in that simple act of leaving her memories there for him to find.

He started, this time, with the photographs. Somehow, they were less acutely painful than the letters, though they often had accompanying journal entries or explanations. His mother, it appeared, was almost as unrealistically optimistic as his ex-wife was. Her letters and notations were filled with hope for the future, for his future.

You are not like your father, no matter how hard he tries to make you be.

One day you will be free from this; don't let the bad memories wash away the good.

I watch you work when we make potions together or work in the garden. Your hands are like mine, like my mother's. Long, thin fingered, strong and sure. Your father tells you that you are like him—do not forget that you are half Aryssain.

He tells us that this is his familial home, and I see your disgust. This house was all but a ruin when I came here. It is MY family's money and our blood, sweat and tears—yours and mine—that have made this land a home. It is ours more than it is his—it is YOURS, Severus. Do not hate the place because of a family name. You can make your name something to carry with pride. You do not have to follow in your father's path.

Some of the notations and photos brought a small smile to his lips as he recalled the situation. A doe gave birth on the edge of their clearing one day, badly wounded by a hunter's arrow. The creature died shortly after birthing the fawn, and the hunter showed up to claim his kill. Severus and his mother raised the fawn to health and released it to the wild. There were several photos of them smiling together with the little animal frolicking about.

A cruel person would not care about the fate of a weaker, worthless creature. You do not have a cruel heart, Severus, no matter what your father tries to instill in you. Compassion and kindness are not weaknesses.

It was disturbing to read, to look through. Somewhere around the age of seven, his mother's annotations took on an almost pleading tone, as though she was begging him not to become what she feared; as though she was trying to convince herself as much as him that it was not part of his 'true' nature.

This seemed to occur shortly after the scant photos of his sister. He did not recall the house elf taking those photos, but then he did not recall most of the others being taken, either. This thought lead to another—all of the photos that Rowena had taken of him surreptitiously when they were in school together. He had wondered when he learned of those photos how she could have done that without him noticing. He had even been slightly alarmed to think that his observational skills were that poor as to miss something so obvious. Apparently he was so used to it at the time, that it seemed a normal part of his life.

Even the thoughts of Rowena could not keep his mind from the subject at hand, and his gaze refocused on the photos before him. He was glad to see them if only to cement the memory in his mind. Sometimes he felt as though he wasn't really sure the tiny infant had truly existed—though he certainly remembered the beating that lead to her premature birth in vivid detail.

Shockingly, at the precise time that he began to study the section of the scrap-book dedicated to this infant, Fawkes turned up. It wasn't shocking that the bird found him—any common wizarding owl could have found him. What was shocking was that it was Fawkes, and he was not here to deliver any dire message or plea for his immediate return. He set a shallow, square package on the table next to the album, blinked placidly at Severus, and flew away.

Inside the package was Albus's Pensieve, and a note.

My Dear Boy,

It has come to my attention that your vacation might not be as restful as I had hoped. I wish I had known where you were going and what you were going to do before you left. I would have sent someone with you. Soul-searching is best done in solitude; it is true, but not necessarily alone.

I can't come unless you truly need me, but I thought you might have use for this. I can do without it for a while. You are in my thoughts, Severus.

Albus

He could not imagine who would have told the Headmaster where he had gone. Only Rowena knew, and he doubted she was concerned enough anymore to make a point of telling anyone. It was a puzzle he did not wish to consider at this juncture. The Pensieve was a welcome addition. He looked at the photos of the tiny infant, and began to extract his own memories of the incident and place them in the shallow basin.

A Pensieve does not obliterate the memory of an incident from the user's mind, even when the memory enters the basin. It merely allows the user to become, emotionally, like a 'bystander' to the memory. It is useful when one needs to use Occlumency to put heavily emotionally charged memories into a Pensieve. Even though the memory remains in the mind, the emotion fueling the memory is diminished to a manageable level, making Occlumency easier to maintain.

The reverse is also true. The charged emotions are contained within the basin, as well as a much more objective view of the event in question. One can then gaze into the Pensieve and observe the event from an emotional distance, making it easier to clarify one's thoughts on the issue.

His thoughts on the very brief life of his sister were heavily emotionally charged, as well as being fuzzy with the fading of time and the fact that he had not yet been seven years old when she was born. Using the Pensieve would allow him clearer recollection.

The door slammed shut so hard that Severus heard glass break. The young boy in the memory ignored it, though he did come out of a cupboard he had been hiding within. He glanced about, indecisively, a huge bruise purpling the left side of his fair-skinned face. All indecision was gone when a woman screamed. The boy raced up two flights of stairs and bashed through a door. Severus trailed along behind him.

"OH NO!" The woman's voice screamed again, though it had a low, grunting undertone…"The baby… it's too soon… the baby…"

Severus watched the dark haired boy grab a wand from a secret compartment in a bedside table and approach the woman writhing in pain on the bed.

"Mum, I'm here. I'm here. Let me help. Tell me what to do." Tears poured down the boy's face; his dark eyes were wide with fright, but his voice was determined. "Mummy… she's going to be okay. She has to be okay. Tell me what to do…"

"It's too late…she's coming…" the woman groaned, sobbing even as she bore down, blood blossoming over the pastel bedding between her legs. She threw off the covers and reached down, crying out in pain. The boy watched in stunned fascination as the baby emerged quickly from his mother's body.

The woman wept. "No… no… no… too early…." But the baby moved and made tiny mewling sounds. It was a tiny thing, a female infant that could not have weighed all of three pounds. The back of the child's head was misshapen, more than could be accounted for just by the effort of birth…

But she lived. "Mum…tell me what to do."

"Keep her warm. Give me the wand." Blood still poured from the woman's womb, but her weak voice also sounded hopeful. She managed an incantation to repair the fractured skull and relieve pressure on the baby's brain, but she did not think it would be enough. Her own strength was failing her, and she had to use what was left to magically force the expulsion of the placenta and try to stop her own bleeding.

The boy rushed to another cupboard and brought thick towels and blankets, drying the baby with remarkable gentleness for a child that was scarcely more than a baby himself. Severus remembered helping store the supplies in anticipation of the baby. He remembered his mother teaching him to change diapers using a doll to demonstrate. He remembered discussing names, proudly listening to all the 'responsibilities' he would inherit upon becoming a 'big brother'. For some reason, his father had been gone an unusually long time, so that her pregnancy was able to advance to the point where she was willing to tell Severus about it and become hopeful, preparing.

Severus shook away the memory as he observed. The woman on the bed became weaker and weaker, as did the infant in the boy's arms. The boy summoned a house-elf for hot-water bottles, infant formula, eyedroppers. He did not know how to help his mother—they had not discussed complications of birth.

The boy sat in a cushioned rocking chair right next to the woman's bed with the warm bundle in his arms. A house elf administered blood replenishing potions to the woman, while the boy crooned lullabies in a childish voice, carefully giving the baby drops of formula occasionally, begging her to live.

"I've always wanted to be a big-brother. It's okay around here, but it would be more fun to have someone to play with. You've got to grow big and strong so I can teach you about flutterby bushes and bubotubers…"

Occasionally the woman would wake and look at her two children cuddled together. Her eyes would fill with tears as she watched them.

"How is she doing, Severus? Let me see her…"

The boy carefully slid off the chair and carried the baby to their mother.

"She's a very pretty baby, isn't she mummy?" He asked, looking at her hopefully. "I didn't expect her to have all that hair when she came out. I think she's bigger already—she's drank about three drams of formula. She's going to be okay, isn't she, mum? Can we name her Sonja like we talked about?"

The woman wept silently and exerted herself enough to sit up against the back of the bed, pulling her son closer so that she was holding him as he held the baby.

"She's beautiful, Severus. I think, maybe we should call her Angel, because I'm afraid that soon she will be one. I'm so sorry, sweetheart… I know how much you wanted to be a big brother."

"NO!" The boy shouted at his mother, looking at her in shocked anger. "NO! She's going to be fine. She can't die! I already love her! She's mine! I'm going to make her better—I'm going to keep her safe!"

The silent tears of the woman became heart-wrenching sobs so that it was difficult to make out her words. "I know, son. I already love her, too. She's too hurt, honey. She got hurt in my tummy and she's too tiny… I can't help her."

"NO!" The boy shouted again in rage, and ran though the house, carrying the tiny baby gently clutched to his chest.

At last he ran—almost literally—into the one other human in the house. The man who had left the building hours earlier was back. He was moving in and out of the house, packing the carriage to leave. The man stopped to glare down at his son. "What is it boy, why are you sniveling again? Why are you always sniveling?"

The man drew back his hand to swing carelessly at the boy, but he stopped short at the sight of the pastel bundle in the boy's arms. "What the bloody hell is that you got there?"

The boy's eyes flashed and an outside observer might have shuddered at the sudden resemblance to the present-day Potion's Master at his most enraged. He set his chin and drew himself up bravely. There was no fear or tremor in his voice as he faced the man who made his life so unbearable.

"This is my sister. She was just born. She's badly hurt. I want you to take us to the Hospital so they can fix her." He paused then, hesitating. He was, after all, only a child himself. His voice broke, becoming almost desperate, pleading. "Please… sir… Father… I'll do anything. Please don't let her die!"

The man's face twisted into a cruel smirk—another frighteningly similar expression to those who knew Professor Severus Snape. "Sister, eh? Lemme tell you boy; there's not a female on the planet worth anything until they're old enough to shag. Go drown that thing in the tub and throw it on the burn-heap. I'm not wasting a knut on that."

Surprisingly he did not punctuate this phrase with any sort of violence. He turned to look back at the boy when he reached the door. "Does your mother live?" he asked, almost as though the answer did not matter. The boy merely nodded, mute in his enraged misery. "Fine. Tell her I'll be back in six months time and get another one on her. If it's a boy, we'll have a nice little party. I don't want to catch you sniveling over that thing when I get back, either."

The silence, when the door shut with a soft 'snick', was deafening.

Severus Snape stared for a long time at the frozen-in-time memory of his younger self as the boy's expression gradually turned from stunned grief to shocked anger to a slow, burning hatred.

The memory of himself returned to his mother's bedside. Severus, as an adult, was shocked and alarmed at how pale his mother looked. If he had not known that she lived beyond this day, he would have been certain that his mother was on the brink of death even as his sister was. As it was, the internal damage prevented any other pregnancies; so at the very least she never had to endure this sort of pain again.

The boy climbed back on the bed with his mother—the house elves had cleaned the blood off the bedding. The baby did not wake enough to swallow any more formula and gradually became blue around the hands and lips; rosy cheeks became pale from internal bleeding. Occasionally his mother would wake to hold him as he held the baby and they would both weep helplessly as they watched her slowly fade from life.

Less than six hours after birth, Sonja Angel Snape was gone.

Painfully, he extracted himself from the Pensieve. His face was wet, though he did not notice. Memories and feelings rushed over him in a dizzying array: the receiving of unconditional love from his mother, the experiencing and giving of that same powerful emotion to the tiny infant he had loved before she was even born, and the rage and hatred that became the only bearable balm for his pain. All of it came flooding through him. He hid from and avoided love because it was so bloody painful!

Yet now, as an adult, and finally able to recall the purity of that emotion, he realized that he would not have wished to NOT experience it, even if it would have spared him pain. He suddenly remembered his mother's favorite quote, and for the first time truly understood it.

Vivre est Mourir-To Live is to Die.

He spent the rest of his time there slowly going through the rest of the photos, letters and journal entries, and also tending to the gravesites.

When his grandmother had died, his mother had buried her on a small hill near the barn and bought a Magnolia tree, enchanting it so that it would have the perfect conditions for life and growth even in this chill climate.

When Sonja had died, Severus himself had dressed her tiny body in the clothes they had bought for her, a house elf shrunk them to fit properly, and then Severus placed her in the small doll-cradle he had made with his mother's help. The cradle was supposed to be a present, a toy for the baby sister he knew was coming. Instead, it served as a coffin once he had fitted it with a lid. His mother struggled against hemorrhage for weeks, and was not present when he buried the small bundle. She did help him make the headstone, when she was well again.

When his mother had been brutally murdered by his father, and Severus expelled from the house, he hid in the barn until he knew his father was gone again. The house elves helped him use the wood from an old hay-wagon to make a suitable coffin and he buried his mother on the same hill, between her own mother and her infant daughter. There had been no time, then, for a headstone. When he returned to extract vengeance on his father, he was too far lost to darkness to care.

Now, he did care, he had time, and he was an extremely competent wizard.

Hours and days of painstaking, careful work, and the vividly blooming Magnolia tree was graced with three glistening headstones, the overgrowth of the other two being carefully removed. A rose bush was planted between his mother and sister's graves, with similar climate controlling charms applied to protect that as well.

He did not even feel ashamed of the tears that poured down his face as he worked, nor did he attempt in any way to stem their flow.

A/N: Nope, it's not Rowena who told Albus where Severus was and why. You'll see. As always, reviews are adored.