Epic battles should not be so very quiet.
Sweat pours down Harry's face. Severus blotted it at first; now he spells it away. Lifting a finger demands more energy than casting.
Severus' wand lies under the night table. He doesn't need it anymore.
"Water?" Harry does not give him an answer, so Severus levitates a cup to his lips. A few sips are swallowed.
The minutes are silent.
"Get ready," Harry whispers. Another wave of magic crushes Severus—it is like being forced underwater and held for too long—he thinks he hears a voice and it sounds like the Dark Lord and it sounds like his father and fuck oh my fucking God please let me up I can't breathe—
XXXXX
When Severus was six, they'd all gone to the seashore.
It was summer, but unseasonably cool. The water was black and choppy. His mother kept her hair tied in a scarf and sat on the beach.
Children must know how to swim.
But he was afraid. The water was so dark.
"Severus—get back here—get—" There was a hand on his head and on his neck—"If this is the only way he'll learn—"
His mother stared up at the sky and said nothing at all.
XXXXX
He rolls over and spits blood onto the floor. It is very red—a stain the color of the stripe on a peppermint stick. "…Harry?" He falls back onto the bed and turns to look.
Potter is drenched and shaking. He wears a wild, terrified smile and, for a split second, their eyes meet. "…Okay?" he pants.
"Fine. You?" Snape becomes very conscious of his own lower lip.
"Great," Harry says. His fingers rip at the bedclothes as he struggles. "This is—easy."
"Easy." Severus tries to laugh. Air whistles out of his lungs in short, sharp bursts.
"Nhn—just like—you taught me."
I never taught you this, he thinks, and tries not to wonder where the blood is welling inside him—if some vital part has snapped under the convulsions, a tether stretched too far—"Harry—"
The water surges over his head.
XXXXX
He couldn't figure out another way—not without being seen.
Of course it had to be raining. Of fucking course every slippery patch of earth would turn into a neck-breaking mud hole—of course he couldn't see branches whipping at his hair and face—but he was so numb from the cold that he hadn't felt it—not until he had reached the entrance—not until he had staggered up the steps—not until he had collapsed at the stone gargoyle and noticed a trail of slime following—
The serpent crawling out of the deep.
And then impossibly strong arms had lifted him, paying no heed to the dripping mud, and brought him inside.
"Dear boy… thank goodness you've come home."
XXXXX
Severus wakes. He puts one foot on the floor, then the other, and stands. The bathroom is very far away.
One foot in front of the other—good.
He relieves himself, washes, rinses the copper taste out of his mouth, coughs, and does not look in the mirror. He coughs again—pink flecks the basin.
"Harry."
Severus shuffles out of the bathroom. He knows he often complains to Potter about his age, but now, right now, he feels the weight of every miserable day.
A prone form lies on the bed.
"Harry."
"Harry."
"Potter."
"Wake up."
He falls back into the bed without getting an answer. He winces at the dampness—sweat, and other things he doesn't want to think about—and waves his hand. The cleansing spell works without a word. Severus feels the harsh crackle of magic. "…Harry."
He knew, months ago, that this would end badly. He knew it the night they arrived. He knew it the first time he got hard thinking about Potter's mouth. He knew it the night they became lovers.
We were lovers, weren't we, Severus thinks. "Harry."
He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to look—he cannot look. He decides he would rather be trapped in his moment forever and ever, he would rather spend the rest of his life terrified, rather than look. "…Harry."
A snore splits the silence.
Air rushes out of Severus' lungs. He looks.
Harry's eyelashes rest on his cheeks. The color has gone out of him—even out of the scar. He is turned towards Severus with both arms raised to cover his chest as if warding off a blow. Now Severus cannot help reaching out, taking his pulse. A spark snaps between them. His pulse is strong.
"You manipulative little shit," Severus grunts. He checks Harry for any sign of physical damage and finds only half-moon cuts on his palms from clenched fists. "Harry…" The younger man does not stir. But he does breathe in and out in a deep, reassuring rhythm. "All right, don't wake up. See if I care. Always, we must indulge…" Just making it to the bathroom and back has left him exhausted. Severus crawls back into bed and closes his eyes—just for a minute.
XXXXX
Severus wakes.
He goes to the bathroom, relieves himself, washes, brushes, and runs his fingers through his hair.
Everything hurts.
He exits the bathroom, dresses, and takes …lunch out of the dumbwaiter. Sandwiches and potato soup gone cold.
"Potter. Wake up. Potter. …Potter."
He eats a sandwich. Something with meat in it. He chews, but can't seem to note more than the texture. He coughs, and tastes just a tiny amount of blood.
He wishes he knew what was wrong. A cut, a scrape, a bruise—he could treat those himself. But internal injuries are best left to a mediwitch with the proper equipment, or at least some sort of experience avoiding major nerve damage. And if something has… come apart… at least he doesn't seem to be hemorrhaging.
Neither does Potter. He checks again, just to make sure. Harry seems deeply asleep.
Severus is a man of great patience. He endured his home, he endured the gauntlet that was primary school, experienced a brief reprieve at Hogwarts before it too beat him, enslaved himself to the Dark Lord, and then ransomed his shriveled soul back by going into service for the Order. He has survived the room for—how long has it been? Six months? Seven? More?
Severus has been waiting for a rescue all his life.
It never comes.
He coughs.
XXXXX
The wards do not give.
Severus tries. The magic comes more easily than it ever has. When he picks up his wand, the shock of power stings his hand. Still, the wards do not give. If they had weeks—if they had known—if—
Voldemort must know that they are here. He must. He must be coming—unless Harry has done it. Or if the Dark Lord is too weak—or perhaps Albus has them hidden so cleverly that not even constant use of their magic—
Severus glances at his arm. The mark is fading into gray. If Voldemort has cut him off, perhaps he has done the same to Harry, perhaps they are both free—free, and in a cage—but Albus will be coming for them now, now that Voldemort can't find them, there will be no reason to keep them—
—No.
There is no telling what has happened. No telling, and to dwell on it would be futile. Twiddling thumbs never managed to save Severus before. He is coughing blood—and he can't wake Potter. "Harry?" He doesn't really expect a response. Waiting is no longer an option.
There is the dumbwaiter.
When the rubbish goes in, it must come out somewhere. Most likely into the hands of an innocent house elf working for the meal service—or a witch or wizard. He could send a letter—
Which would promptly be ignored—or worse—turned over to the Ministry.
Severus shudders. If he wanted Voldemort's entire force at his doorstep, he would've stayed at the castle. They might be in transit now, he thinks. He could send instructions along with a sealed letter to have it owled to—
No telling if owls even get through to Hogwarts under siege. No telling if anyone is even alive to help them—if Voldemort has slaughtered them all and they are the only ones left—
Severus wishes he were an Animagus. Pettigrew could hop right into the little box—
But would have a difficult time closing it. A larger animal, a monkey perhaps, or a small dog—
"What am I thinking?" Sticking himself with a simian brain and prehensile tail—those were the nicer things that might happen if he botched it. And he'd never been a master at Transfiguration. He barely managed an E on his NEWT—if he tried to Transfigure the dumbwaiter larger, odds were he would break the transportation charm—and wouldn't that be the spice in the stew, cutting off their food supply. Who knew how Albus had even managed to rig the charm to bypass the wards?
Severus rests his eyes for a moment.
"My kingdom for a shrinking potion."
XXXXX
He paces. It hurts, but the hurt helps, strangely.
Albus would not do this, he thinks. Albus would not leave us trapped. There must be—some way—
Severus knows his own valise is empty, but Potter's case—where did he—
He finds both bags wedged underneath the bed. He checks his own. A few spare pieces of parchment, empty bottles from all the painkillers and numbing draughts he'd brought and used in the first weeks, two spare sets of robes that were worn until the smell became overpowering, other assorted bits. He leans all the way in and rummages some more, just to be sure, but the verdict stands. Useless. He shoves the valise aside and drags the other bag into the middle of the floor.
Potter's case is wide, battered, and brown. Severus kneels next to it and looses the clasp. "Please," he begs, "let Albus have hidden something. A portkey. The key to the wards. Anything. Please." Severus opens the bag.
He stares.
After a time, he looks up at Potter.
He glances down into the case.
Glances up.
Down again.
Slowly, he removes the broom and the invisibility cloak from the enlarged depths.
He laughs—once.
"This is what you bring—to a two-room cell. This is what you bring. …Where are you going to fly, Potter? Who are you going to sneak past? Oh—if the wards can't see us, maybe they'll let us out. Perhaps we could best the wards in a Quidditch match! …This is what you bring." Severus turns over the cloak in his hands. The gossamer garment smells musty. "We'll be buried with them."
He peers in again. He blinks. He pauses.
Potter's case.
Severus grabs it, rushes to the dumbwaiter, opens the hatch, and puts it—puts it—
Too wide.
He tries tilting it, tries getting it to fold a bit.
…No good.
Severus groans. Too wide. Too bloody wide. He tosses the case aside, coughs, and rests his head on the wall. Well, at least he could safely try and transfigure the suitcase—
The valise.
He retrieves and opens the smaller bag. Inside—maybe... He upends the bag, shaking out its contents onto the floor. One of the bottles shatters, but he pays it no attention. The black bag was originally spelled large enough to contain an entire set of basic potions, a rack of common ingredients, and a set of reference texts—he'd only used the valise off and on since studying for his certification. It had to be dumb luck that he'd used it to pack that night.
Severus lifts the valise and wedges it into the dumbwaiter.
It fits.
XXXXX
There were days when Severus lamented being such a dedicated student. There were days when he watched others heading out to parties—days when they staggered back home just as he was leaving in the morning. There were days when he sneered at their childish behavior but at the same time wondered if he wasn't missing something.
This makes up for it.
Severus props Potter in the chair. He strips the blankets from the bed and lines the bottom of the valise, considers, adds Potter's pillow, then adds Potter. The squeeze is only tight around Harry's shoulders getting him in; once he is in the valise, he almost has the room to lie flat. Severus takes care to arrange him.
He adds the invisibility cloak, tucking it around Harry.
Severus picks up the valise and sets it in the dumbwaiter with the mouth of the bag facing outward. Climbing inside is awkward; he goes feet first and is nearly stuck twice—perhaps he has put on a bit of weight—though with Harry putting him through his paces twice a day, he doesn't see how it could be possible.
Finally, he wriggles inside. Any way he maneuvers, he is pressed close to Harry. Not that he minds being close to Harry, but being this close and inside his own luggage is both surreal and claustrophobic.
"You'd laugh at this," Severus says. He kisses Harry once, softly, and then nips at his lower lip. He wishes this were a fairy tale. In a fairy tale, Harry would wake. In fairy tales, there wouldn't be blood in his mouth.
The older wizard snakes his hand out of the bag and feels for the edge of the hatch. He grasps it between his fingers and pulls it down, down—
Thump.
XXXXX
It doesn't feel quite like a portkey.
It feels like his uncle, the one whose name he cannot remember, the one he would always try to hide from during the summer holidays, the one who came to visit his father, the one who would swing Severus up into the air and keep swinging until he begged to be let down.
Severus is not frightened.
Not frightened.
…not frightened…
XXXXX
Everything is dark. Severus tucks the cloak around Potter and keeps his eyes open.
The moment lights hits him, Severus scrambles forward and thrusts his hand out to block any attempt to close the hatch again. In another moment his head is free of the bag.
Severus finds himself considerable nose to small, buttony nose—with a house elf.
The creature lifts his eyebrows. Her eyebrows. Severus can never tell the things apart.
It dribbles at him.
Severus wriggles until his other arm is free, reaches out, and grabs the thing by the throat. It squeaks. "Where are we?" Severus asks.
The house elf sputters something unintelligible. So Severus squeezes—just a little. "Where is this place?" He lets go, then, and the house elf falls back onto its rump, boo-hooing.
"Boggsy is to be fetching the dishes—"
"Oh, shut up," he growls, fighting his way out of the bag and onto the floor of a large, well-lit kitchen. A row of six other dumbwaiters stretch on either side. The scents of grease and baking bread assault his nostrils. Sunlight streams in from wide, round windows. It seems impossibly bright.
Severus blinks and takes his feet. Thankfully, this section of the kitchen appears to be under the solitary care of Boggsy. He quickly lifts the bag out of the dumbwaiter, checks on Potter, snaps the valise shut, and clutches the bag to his chest. "Where is this place?"
The creature gibbers. Snape grabs it by the pillowcase and yanks it upright.
"Listen, you half-wit! Either tell me where I am," Severus growls, "or I find you a sock."
XXXXX
The elf lies on the ground, stupefied. Snape isn't sure he actually had to use the spell.
He thinks of the invisibility cloak in the valise, but leaves it where it is. He has to hunch and move slowly to remain completely obscured while wearing it, and as he doesn't imagine Albus would hire Voldemort to serve their food, he would rather remain visible and attempt to get the attention of the nearest viable source of information.
XXXXX
Three shrieking witches and three sleeping spells later, he locates a newspaper and stares at the date with his mouth open.
It cannot be the end of February.
Severus sits at a table to steady his legs, skims the headlines—attack at St. Mungo's, attack at the Ministry, a picture of Hogwarts with smoke pluming from the south tower. He then notices the well-read corners of the paper—much like the one he and Harry read over and over.
"…Oh, perfect," he drawls, just as disoriented as before. He wishes it were night. His eyes feel sensitive, even inside the strange kitchen. He flips open the clasp on the valise. "Well, Potter, you'll be pleased to learn that, as of February the 23rd, Hogwarts was still standing. Whether it is now remains to be seen—and we shall see it. If you have any suggestions as to an alternative—another secure location with a mediwitch, perhaps—now would be the time to make them. …No? Hogwarts it is, then."
Severus removes the invisibility cloak and makes sure Harry's head is on the pillow before he closes the valise again.
Hogwarts has to be standing. If not…
He fixes the invisibility cloak around his shoulders, cradles the bag to his chest, and takes a deep breath. He coughs.
He breathes, but more shallowly.
He closes his eyes.
Apparating is easy. Easy as breathing. Snape has never been splinched in his entire life—he passed the test on the first try.
"Just do it," he chides himself. "Do it."
XXXXX
"Are we afraid?"
"…No, my Lord. I give of myself willingly."
His heart beats. Once. Twice.
"You call me your Lord and serve only yourself. I will not forget it. Kneel."
"My Lord—humbly I beg your f—"
"Crucio," the Dark Lord said, and watched with some small amusement as his servant writhed on the ground below the dais.
XXXXX
The Forest feels dead.
Normally, it has a pulse—the pounding of hooves, the clacking of jaws, odd hoots and hisses.
Severus wonders when the world became so quiet. It is dark, though, under the canopy, and that is a small blessing.
He moves quickly, but not as quietly as he would prefer—he hasn't run in months, and his chest rattles. There are creatures in the forest that do not hunt by sight, and ill-fitting invisibility cloaks do not fool them.
He keeps his wand at the ready and traces the path unconsciously. Snape knows it forward, backward, wet, dry, blind, cursed, and yes, bleeding—
—Quiet—
—and the stink of—
"Ugh," Severus groans and leans heavily against a tree trunk. His eyes keep closing. "Wake up… fool."
XXXXX
Evening turns the canopy black as ink.
Severus snaps awake at a slight tugging on his shoe. Something small, fuzzy, and brown is trying to claim it. He kicks at it and draws his foot back under the cloak.
"We can't sleep here," he mutters to the valise, and lumbers to his feet. His body has given up the fight—Severus lists and lurches, tripping and stumbling over stones and holes. "We cannot sleep here," he repeats over and over—
And suddenly he stands at the edge of what could not be—no—could not be the remains of the cheerful green lawn. He sees mud and craters and scorch marks and—in the distance—
Aurors.
XXXXX
He surrenders his wand. Detection spells are performed. A soft, familiar voice asks him question after question. Severus answers with as much sarcasm and annoyance as he can muster.
"I think it's really him—I think it's him."
"It is him."
Someone tries to take the valise out of his hands. Severus can hardly keep his eyes open, but his spell knocks the Auror flat.
"Uh… Professor? Please don't fight the Aurors. It's been a rough week."
Severus' vision clears. "…Longbottom."
The pudgy wizard flinches and risks a shaky smile. "Hullo, Professor."
"They didn't make you an Auror."
"N-no, sir. I help with the plants, most of the time. They've been trying to sneak a double past us for ages and ages. But I can always tell whether or not it's you. Oh… he's bleeding," Neville nods to one of the other Aurors. "The infirmary?"
"No, please, let us all pop 'round to the Quidditch pitch, have a quick match." Severus does not struggle when he is lifted.
"Your bag, Professor?"
"Goes to the Headmaster himself, Madam Pomfrey," he coughs, then adds, "or Lupin." Lupin would be all right, he thinks. He wouldn't trust the werewolf with his own life, but he'd take care of Harry.
Recognition flickers on Longbottom's face. He glances at the valise, then barks at the Aurors. "Find Remus—he should be in his rooms—or try the Great Hall." Three of them immediately scurry towards the castle.
"Since when," Snape wheezes, "do they follow your orders?"
Neville blinks, then sucks in a breath. "Since Malfoy," he says softly, and turns to the others. "Let's get him to the infirmary."
XXXXX
Poppy stands over him. She puts a vial to his lips. He swallows.
"Welcome back," she says.
Severus sinks into sleep.
XXXXX
They rouse him for tests and potions.
"Is he dead?" Severus asks.
"Dead?" Poppy echoes.
"Voldemort."
"Oh. Oh, yes, Severus," Madam Pomfrey laughs. "Dear me—I th—oh, never you mind. One minute he's leading the attack, the next, he's on the ground. They had to pull back—tried, at any rate. Turned the tide of the battle—I suppose that was Harry?"
Severus nods.
"We all hoped so. War isn't over, unfortunately; we're still chasing down his lieutenants. But we're going to win. Don't you trouble yourself until you're well enough." Madam Pomfrey's fingers flicker across his arm.
Severus glances down. The Dark Mark is flaking, peeling off like old paint.
"All right, now, here's the last of it. I always warned you, didn't I, prolonged exposure to Cruciatus—"
"It wasn't Cruciatus."
"Well, whatever it was, you're safe with us now. Open. You'll have to make a full report tonight, so be sure and rest up."
"…How is H—Potter?"
"Much like someone else I know, he is a very resilient man." She pours the vial into his mouth.
"Gryffindor," Severus mutters, and drops into a dreamless sleep.
XXXXX
He wakes. He is fed. He is tested. He is scanned. He demands and receives the right to use the toilet alone. He is tested again. He is given a cup of tea—he drinks it and, a second too late, detects the burn of Veritaserum.
When Poppy is satisfied with his condition, the Aurors escort him from bed. They march him for ages and ages, and finally take him into a crowded room. When Severus has to shield his eyes, they dim the lights.
The witch before him wears her silver hair down. It is grayer than Albus', and not as thick. "Severus. If you are ready, we will begin."
XXXXX
He tells Minerva everything.
Arriving. The way Harry would refuse to speak, the way he spent half the night crying, the way he would put his fists on the walls and lean into them—as if to push through, out. Waking. Eating. Sleeping. Taking baths every evening.
The debriefing is difficult—captivity is not like—it is not—
"Calm down, Severus. We have time."
It is not a series of events. It is—it—there are pieces. Pieces of conversation, strange looks, the routine and whether or not it is kept. Exercises. Pacing. Reading the paper. Writing.
"You kept a journal, Severus? Excellent, I should very much—"
No, no, not a journal. There was nothing to chronicle. Nothing but the routine—
"Then what did you write?"
Nothing of import—musings, nonsense, dreams—
"Your scars, tell me—when did they begin to—"
No, there are no dates. Potter kept track of time.
"Why didn't you?"
Because Potter did! Albus never said there would be an exam—
"Very well, Severus, if you could take us through—chronologically—to the best of your ability—what happened when Voldemort—"
Severus stands. He wants to pace. They've chosen a small, windowless classroom, possibly the one Sprout used on the rare class days without practical demonstrations—Severus can't tell. More people join them as the interrogation goes on. Minerva, Tonks, Mad Eye Moody with an arm off, Shacklebolt, several Aurors whose names he remembers vaguely—Spidrel, Marsh, Antonelli—and, of course, the werewolf.
He tells them all of it—the weakness, the blood, the visions. When he is done, McGonagall returns to the beginning and goes back over everything he has said. It is hard not to snap, but he repeats it all again.
(All of the relevant parts, at least. It seems a bit incongruous for Severus to blurt, 'Oh, and then he fucked me.' And after all—he is not asked for that kind of information.)
"…Is there anything else you'd like to add, Severus?"
He swallows. "I don't believe so."
They officially adjourn, though Tonks and Shacklebolt force him through another round of questions. Did they think he would suddenly switch stories? Did they all still refuse to believe he was working for Albus?
"This is ridiculous—I realize he must be an extremely busy man at this particular moment, but I must speak with the Headmaster," Snape demands.
The room goes very still. In the end, it is Minerva who rises.
"Severus… Albus has passed."
XXXXX
How melodramatic he has become. It must be Potter's fault.
Severus goes back to his bed without argument. He eats the food they put forward mechanically.
Poppy comes in and speaks to him at length.
"Ah," he says.
XXXXX
He wakes. He feels…
He is tired of feeling. Let his heart be cut out—let the house elves take it away. It is a maddening, useless thing—and far more trouble than it is worth.
He rises. He lurches to the bathroom, and nearly crashes into the sink. There is no bathtub. Severus relieves himself, scrubs at his face with a raspy bar of soap, then casts a cleaning charm when he remembers magic is allowed again.
There is a mirror above the sink.
A strange, tired-looking old man stares back at him. The old man's hair is shot with threads of silver.
Albus is dead.
Severus lurches back to his bed. He misses his old pillow. This one doesn't smell right.
XXXXX
He wakes. He is fed. Minerva talks to him at great length. She is full of hows and wheres and whys and Severus thinks he is going to be sick all over himself.
"I am tired," he says. "Get out."
XXXXX
"I have now read the newspaper one hundred times. That includes the advertisements. I am about to start bleeding from my eyeballs."
"Please, don't," Severus mumbled. "The duvet has suffered enough."
"…You've got underarm hair," Potter said.
He cracked an eyelid. "…Yes?"
"You have underarm hair. It's weird, how you're a person. I mean—that you brush your teeth and go to the bathroom and… it's all so normal. I used to imagine you rising from your coffin."
"I am not a vampire."
"It was fun to think about."
"Return my arm, please. …Thank you."
Potter shifted. "I fucked you."
"Yes..?" And?
"Are you going to fuck me?"
"Don't be tiresome, Potter. Go to sleep."
"Because I think it's only fair. You should—I mean—of course you should. If you want. …Only, it's interesting—how—you're Professor Snape. With underarm hair. And I fucked you." Potter let out a breath. "It's the most amazing thing."
"Glad you're enjoying yourself. Let an old man rest."
"No—what—I'm trying to say is—is that it's strange. Some people are—I don't know—they don't seem quite human-and suddenly one day they've got hair under their arms. It's strange."
"You're strange. Go to sleep."
XXXXX
He rolls over and coughs, but now the cough is dry and hacking.
They were supposed to have tea. When it was all over. When Voldemort was dead, they were going to have tea. He'd pictured it a thousand times.
The Headmaster would sit behind his desk and offer Severus more sugar, putting in an extra cube anyway when it was declined. He would smile, flash those twinkling eyes of his, and he would say, "Well done, Severus. We couldn't have pulled through without you."
Severus would drink the too sweet tea and thank the Headmaster. He'd say something about how glad he was that it was over, how they'd both worked so hard.
Albus would ask him what he planned to do with the rest of his life.
Sometimes his answer would be a punch line—sometimes he'd say he didn't have a clue.
Then they'd laugh.
XXXXX
Poppy wakes him. He is fed. She helps him to the bathroom, but he leaves her outside the door. He relieves himself, is halfway through washing when he switches to cleaning spells, and stares at that odd, old man for a while.
She walks him back to the bed, asks if he understands—
"That Albus is dead. Yes. I understand."
Yes, but also—
"Potter is in a coma."
Poppy is kind. He thinks mediwitches are born instead of made. She tucks him in.
"Stay, for a bit." He feels very small. "If you like."
"I wish I could," she says, brushing his hair away from his face fondly. "Believe me—I'd much prefer to, but…"
"Duty calls."
"Afraid so." Her movements have an easy, subtle grace. Severus wants to ask why she was never a mother. She would have been a good one. "Get some sleep, now."
He nods and turns over.
XXXXX
"You're well enough to be up and about," Poppy pronounces. "Can't lie in bed your whole life—believe me, I've tried."
"Do you need the room for someone else?"
"No. We didn't actually have many wounded." From her tone, Severus takes this to mean that she'd rather she were neck-deep in patients. It would mean more survivors. "And since St. Mungo's was retaken, they've sent most to be treated there."
"Potter."
"Oh, we're not giving up Harry—now that we've got him back. He's down the hall. I expect you'll want to move back down to the dungeons?"
"Soon," Severus says, even managing to fool himself with the lie.
XXXXX
His first appearance in the Great Hall is marked with applause. Shacklebolt claps him on the shoulder.
Severus turns around and walks out.
XXXXX
Neville Longbottom clutches an apple. "Could I sit here?"
Severus shrugs as if to say—Do whatever you like, Longbottom—the windowsill is wide enough for ten idiots, and if you fancy looking at clouds of black smoke from rubbish fires—be my guest, take in the view.
"I don't like the Great Hall, either. …Want one?"
He takes the offered apple—but only because he is hungry. Not because he wants company. And Longbottom is certainly not his idea of ideal company—the walking magical disaster wears circles under his eyes to match the color of his plum robes.
Longbottom settles himself on the sill opposite, produces another apple, and consumes it the way a squirrel eats a nut—quickly, with both hands and chopping bites.
Severus opens his mouth. He means to say—where are all your Aurors? But what comes out is—"Which Malfoy?"
"…The old one." Neville's cheek is almost against the window glass.
"How did you hex Lucius Malfoy?"
The Accident shakes his head. "I didn't. He was—I hit him with a rock."
"You brought down Lucius Malfoy with a rock."
"I tried to hit him with a spell. It didn't work. …It was a pretty big rock. …They killed my Mum and Dad." From his pockets, Neville produces another apple and crunches into it. Severus watches Longbottom's throat work for a moment.
"You'll get no sympathy from me, Mister Longbottom."
Neville does not seem surprised. "Apple?"
"Haven't begun the first."
"Oh. Right." Neville resumes chewing.
"Are you storing up for winter?"
"What?"
"Forget it."
"Winter is nearly over, sir."
"I said forget it."
XXXXX
Lupin comes in to the infirmary room to talk at him. There will be an Order meeting—
"I won't be in attendance."
Snape—
"The Dark Lord is dead. Do not presume to lecture me."
XXXXX
Severus Snape spends his days in idleness. Someone suggests that he might want to take a look at the potion stores. Another points out that there is a war still going on, that work needs doing, that there are many ways in which a competent Potions Master might help.
Severus wakes around midday, washes, brushes, avoids Madam Pomfrey's insinuations that he is well enough to move out of the infirmary room, harangues one of the younger soldiers into bringing him a cup of tea, paces the length and width of the castle in his old student-hunting pattern, eats whatever supper Longbottom provides (and makes sure to belittle the World's Luckiest Idiot—it makes them both feel better), nicks a few books from the Restricted Section, and closets himself in Filch's old office until the wee hours.
He doesn't know where Filch is, and doesn't want to know. Snape prefers to think that Albus had the man and his cats spirited away.
It is very silly, Severus thinks, to cry over someone because he had a sympathetic philosophy of discipline and once helped bandage your leg.
When he returns late to the infirmary, the Aurors guarding Harry check him, take his wand, and then let him through the wards. They don't leave Severus alone with Harry, or let him get close enough to touch, but Severus is close enough to see the way his chest rises and falls, the way fringes of dark lashes rest on pale cheeks, the way Harry always looks so beautiful in sleep. Sometimes the Aurors let him sit in the chair by the door and just—look.
Never for more than fifteen minutes, but it is enough.
XXXXX
Severus enjoys black.
He does not have to change for memorial services, and no one ever invites him to weddings.
XXXXX
He hears reports of fighting. He sees groups of strangers rush past. He knows there is a war on.
He doesn't care.
He makes a pathetic attempt at it, caring, but he finds he'd rather pick at the flaking Mark, look out the windows, and hum old pub songs.
XXXXX
Lupin talks and talks and bloody talks. Severus nods once in a while and loses all thread of the ramble. "Lupin. What do you want?"
The werewolf smiles and nudges his elbow gently. "I'm saying thank you. For bringing him back."
"Fat lot of good it is if he never wakes up."
"Don't say that. He'll wake up," Lupin insists, and speaks with such conviction that it amazes Severus.
"Why? Because he's Harry Bloody Potter? Because he's a miracle? Because he can do anything? Let me tell you something, Lupin—I know that man better than you ever did—or ever will. He's not a superman—he never was. He was an overemotional bundle of insecurity and dumb luck—"
"I think it is a sad thing, Severus, that you talk about him as if he is already dead. I realize you might want that, once he tells us the truth about what happened in that room—"
He begins to raise his hand as if to slap Lupin, catches himself, and lowers it. "What exactly are you implying?"
"Not a thing, Severus. Why? Have something to hide?" Lupin smirks.
Severus realizes he is teasing. He arches a brow.
Lupin sighs. "I didn't mean to come here and fight with you—I wanted to thank you. I know you and Harry hate each other. But even if you are—well, you—you brought him back. Thank you."
"Are you quite finished?"
"Sure. I just—wanted to thank you."
"You've thanked me. You can go now."
Lupin accidentally leaves behind a crumpled chocolate bar wrapper. The werewolf closes the door behind him. Severus wonders how much of Lupin's gratitude was a not-so-sly way to lay the foundation for a request for Wolfsbane.
"What am I doing here?" he whispers to the wall.
XXXXX
Excited chatter wakes Severus.
He rises, washes, brushes, dresses, and exits into the packed hallway only to be pushed aside by a line of assorted witches and wizards.
"He's awake! He's awake! Harry Potter!"
He thinks it must be wrong to want to curse all these people, to steal their miracle and spirit him away where all these rough hands can't paw at him. He knows it is wrong that an impromptu receiving line has been set up, and that he is sandwiched somewhere in the middle. Severus begins to shove his way to the head of the line.
Sharp elbows are an underrated feature.
XXXXX
A wall of Weasleys blocks most of the light from the windows. Lupin leans against the wall near the door, beaming like he bears an actual blood tie to Potter and not simply the moon. Minerva has earned the chair with the cushion; the Thick-Headed Weasley and the Know-It-All sit next to—
Harry Bloody Potter, back from the dead—or a coma, but dead will make better copy, and that is how the legend will be penned—and blinking like a hatchling. He seems so young, surrounded by so many smiling faces. So many teeth.
Would they bite if he asked? Snape wonders.
"Severus," Minerva says.
Potter sees him then, really sees him—green eyes pin him to the spot and Severus doesn't dare move or he will give himself away.
"I wasn't sure you would be dropping by," she goes on. She says something else, too, no doubt at his expense, but Severus isn't listening.
He stares at Potter. Tousled dark hair—hair that is almost black, but is revealed to be the darkest brown when viewed against a pillowcase. Green eyes that remind Severus of chopping mint and being desired and, embarrassingly enough, the smell of butter. Pink, perfect lips.
He frowns. Severus brought Potter to Hogwarts in his clothes—Poppy had him in an infirmary gown—but someone has managed to dress him in a pair of golden Gryffindor pajamas to match the ones left behind. A red and gold blanket sits across his lap. Severus glares daggers at Molly Weasley.
Lupin clears his throat.
Severus is holding up the crowd. He takes a step towards the bed. Granger and Weasley draw back noticeably.
But it's all right—it's fine—he's awake. Harry is awake. They are all right—both of them survived. And neither one of them failed.
Albus must've known. The old wizard must have known that this was the one thing Severus wouldn't botch straight to hell. He takes another step. He blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. Everyone is staring. They all must know, god, how could they not, how could they not see it written on his face?
"Potter," he barks. Severus spots Granger reaching over to clasp one of Harry's hands and his lip curls under the weight of a vicious suppressed insult.
Potter glances swiftly at Lupin and back again. "…Professor Snape."
Not an eyelash flickers at the sting of his old title. Why should he care that Potter doesn't call him Severus in the company of friends and family? Well—he doesn't. Not in the least. Because when the novelty has worn off—when they all stop haunting Potter—when the world has settled a bit—then—
Granger's hand tightens. The wall of Weasleys looms. Potter does not speak.
Oh.
…Oh.
…oh…
Of course.
"Good afternoon," Severus says, and flinches when a hand settles on his shoulder and steers him to the door.
"All right, Snape, I think Harry's seen enough of you for a while. Give the rest of us a turn, will you?" jokes the werewolf.
Some of the Weasels titter.
Severus looks back at Potter, whose attention is already distracted by something Granger is saying. For a supposed cripple, she looks remarkably whole. All of them do. Whole and happy.
Well, take him, then—Severus wants to say. Take your little poppet, dress him in house colors, and pretend there was never a war. He'll be fine without me, fine without Albus—
They haven't told Potter about the Headmaster.
A malicious tendril uncurls.
"Albus is dead," Severus blurts, and feels Lupin's hand slip from his shoulder. "The Headmaster is dead." Severus doesn't look at any of them as he turns and shoves his way past the queue at the door.
Weddings and parties. Severus is never invited to weddings or parties.
XXXXX
He is tired. His body feels dry and leeched and old. He imagines crumbling to dust—his skin cracking like parchment, his insides pouring fine white sand, his bones soft as chalk.
He thinks he is going to die.
And then he thinks—if he should die, it should not be here. Snape thinks that if he dies in Hogwarts or on Hogwarts' grounds, he will end up like Binns or the Baron—and have to put up with children for the rest of his afterlife.
So—because he is dying—and not because of Potter—and not because of Albus— not because he dreads waking up—not because he hates the mirror and the way the castle is stuffed with gawkers and that he isn't even allowed to hold Harry Bloody Fucking Potter by the hand—
Because he is dying. That is why he decides to go.
XXXXX
His lab is a mess. It obviously hasn't been cleaned by grumbling rule-breakers in months. He does manage to find a collapsible cauldron (he hadn't wanted to go into the room without one) and a small amount of glassware.
He lifts anything useful left in his office—quills, ink, parchment, a few of the more arcane reference texts he hasn't quite memorized—
XXXXX
The storage shelves are bare, save a few molding shrivelfigs, wings of—"Oh."
His emergency supplies are gone—none of the healing, energy, or calming potions, no Dreamless Sleep. He expected that. But the stranger concoctions—polishing, levitation, even the bloody dust repellent—not a trace. Nothing. All gone to the effort.
Then his eyes stray to the dusty, warded cabinet marked with a skull—he shivers—and the word 'Poison' inscribed on a brass plate.
If they'd broken through these wards—
Snape presses his palm to the plate. "Veneficus."
The cabinet clinks open, presenting him with an array of dark, dull little bottles.
He takes them all.
XXXXX
His lungs protest after the fourth flight of stairs. Cured, indeed.
Severus reaches the Owlery. The witch guarding the door tips him a nod.
Too many of the perches are empty. A few owls peer down at him, their eyes shining.
His speech is not eloquent. "I don't promise much. A change of scenery. A lack of adventure."
To his surprise, three owls fly down. Two brown owls—one with a nasty scorch on its left side, the other with an eye missing—and a snowy white owl with a bound broken wing. Well. Beggars can't be choosers.
Snape appropriates one of the larger cages.
XXXXX
For some reason, Neville Longbottom is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. "Leaving then, sir?"
"No, Longbottom," he sneers, floating his trunk and the cage behind him, "I'm baking a cake. What does it look like?"
"Looks like you're leaving, Professor."
"Thank Merlin you still possess your keen powers of deduction."
"I wanted to make sure you got this back. Things tend to go missing, what with—all the confusion. Sir." Longbottom still hasn't grown out of his baby fat. Clutched in pudgy fingers is the battered black valise.
"Confusion—ha. Looters and thieves. Keep up with the diplomacy, Longbottom, you could be the next Minister of Magic." Severus takes the valise.
"Thank you, sir."
"It wasn't a compliment." He sweeps past the Tower of Incompetence.
"I realize that, sir." Neville calls after him. "Goodbye, sir."
Oh, for the love of—"Longbottom. …Thank you."
"You're welcome, Professor."
XXXXX
He feels …blank. And he doesn't particularly know where he is going, or how he is going to get there, or what it will cost when he arrives.
But he does know now that he is alone. His father is gone. Albus is gone. Voldemort is gone. Potter doesn't need him.
For the first time in his life, Severus is without a keeper.
He is… free.
XXXXX