NINE.

During his brief stint as a churchgoer, Severus's father had told him that hell was a place made light and hot by its fires, where no sleep would come and no water would be given. Severus had liked to imagine it, in his childish arrogance having determined that it was a place Tobias Snape was set for but which Severus himself never needed to fear.

But hell was not bright and molten. No, this exercise in hell proved unequivocally that should a place like it exist, it would be a heap of stone in a remote ice desert that not even the sun could reach. It would be subject to the whims of the invasive arctic air, which unbothered by fires or magic befuddled the brain and upset the joints. It would have a wall in the grand dining hall painted with a map of the world, taller than any man and stretching so wide that it could only be admired whole if one pressed themselves against the opposite window and strained the eye, and onto this map would be etched names of the wizarding families who had through the ages so despised their offspring that they sent it here. The family names of the instructors were there, too, except of course for Severus's own, and it struck him how oddly hurtful this was when he had not thought he should have cared.

And that was to not even mention the rats.

Food had been served in the impressive dining hall, but no one except Severus was there to eat it. His fingers were deft with the knife and fork, frozen stiff in the knuckles. From his seat, he could stare at Durmstrang's map of pride and at little else. The golden-rimmed plate rang mournfully when he struck it, the sound multiplied tenfold in the silence.

The silence, at least, he could appreciate. Since he had arrived this morning after a sleepless night of travel, a flood of students and staff had rolled into the cramped little office he'd been given, evidencing that his status as tenured researcher was an empty platitude. He'd been hired to oversee the upper-years' individual Potions study and otherwise occupy himself with reading, but it had become apparent that each winter brought with it staff shortages which Severus had been deemed the ideal candidate to remedy. He had since this morning already taught a class in Defence, Herbology and Transfiguration, one of which was made up entirely of Norwegian-speaking students who'd insisted loudly on turning in essays that he couldn't read.

Perhaps the school would stand a better chance of hanging onto faculty when winter came, thought Severus bitterly, if it had been built in a place that did not fall into night for five months every year. He was not so well-travelled to announce himself the expert, but he suspected that if they had tried, they would have found at least a few options.

He took a sip of his coffee and immediately expelled it into his plate as he sneezed. This was ridiculous. No human being could possibly sit and eat here, which judging from the emptiness of the room the rest of the bloody school must have long realised. Perhaps the squib who'd given him the grand tour had been sarcastic and it failed to translate. Severus grabbed his plate and mug and went to find his way back to his quarters, where he distinctly remembered having seen a blanket.

He lacked enough knowledge of the castle to successfully avoid the students like he would have at Hogwarts, and soon found himself taking an ill-advised turn into a corridor where a number of the monsters milled around. Among them was Harry.

When their eyes met, the boy looked at Severus for a beat as though he had never seen him before in his life.

Severus had meant to send for him later in the day, ideally after a nap and a drink. He didn't quite know what to say to the boy, especially as he appeared to him now: dressed in the blood red of Durmstrang, thin and pale and other, carrying the burden of the Potter name that had been scratched black into the castle wall.

Then, something clicked in the boy's eyes, and he rushed to Severus's side, pushing past students and uncaring of looking eager.

For a sickening moment, Severus thought he would embrace him, and fell into a panic when he saw the gaze of more than a dozen students on them. But Harry stopped just short, hands coming up ineffectually to get a hold of Severus's forearm before he dropped them to his side, and Severus knew immediately that were he a different man, Harry would not have hesitated.

'How—what are you doing here? Why—'

No more than two weeks had passed since he'd last seen the boy, and yet it was like looking at a stranger. Severus swallowed, mapping the changes. His hair was scraggly with oil and unbrushed. A pimple on his forehead had been scratched bloody. His eyes had a new look to them. His voice held a new tone. Most importantly, a greenish bruise stretched from his nose halfway down one cheek.

He took him by the shoulder and drew him into the adjacent corridor, away from the intrusive stares.

'What happened to your face?' he demanded, lighting the tip of his wand to see better in the dim. 'Who did this to you?'

'Oh—no one. I mean, someone, but it was my fault. When did you get here? Why are you here, even?'

'I was hired as an instructor in Advanced Potions for upper-year students. I got here this morning. Now, explain to me how—'

'This morning?' Harry cried. 'Why didn't you tell me? It's been hours!'

'I am telling you now. Explain to me how it could have possibly been your fault.'

'Look, it's not important—but how did you—'

'Mr Potter,' Severus said silkily, trying and failing to stopper frustration. 'It seems as though over the past few weeks you might have forgotten, so allow me to remind you of a few key rules. When I speak, you do not interrupt me. When I ask you a question, you are to answer it.'

He knew as he said it that it was the wrong thing to say, the words and the register and everything, and he was bracing himself for Harry to shout back something insolent and defensive.

But he only dropped his head.

'I punched him first,' he said softly.

Severus was at a loss. The agreeability was wrong and the admission was wrong. Had he not told Dumbledore that Durmstrang would be a poor influence? That alienation would damage the boy?

'Why haven't you gone to see the medic?' he asked in a strange tone, unsure. 'You should have asked a member of staff to direct you.'

'No, I don't think that would be good,' Harry said. 'I mean—the people here are a little strange. Like, the boy I hit didn't want to leave the dormitory before his face got fixed, and he tried to do it on his own, too, because I guess he'd be ashamed for people to realise that he got into a fistfight. Because that's a really muggle thing and they don't like that. But if I walk around like this, then he can't forget it happened and everyone kind of knows anyway.'

The amount of thought behind the display softened Severus. 'You were left to your own devices for a fortnight, and you have already established yourself a gangster,' he said, shaking his head. 'Not to mention you look as though you haven't eaten for the duration. I swear to God, Harry—I should take you down to that torture dungeon and hang you up by your little toes.'

The boy peered up at him, frowning. 'Torture dungeon?'

'My, you and your blasted cloak have been here several nights now, and you haven't got the full run of the school yet? Are you feeling well, Mr Potter?'

'No, I wasn't— Is there really a torture dungeon?'

He looked half eager at the idea and half anxious. Severus tried to hold in the smile. 'I'll show you if you're good,' he promised darkly.

'Erm—maybe later,' said Harry quickly. 'Why are you carrying a plate around?'

Severus did not like this pointed out, but it did remind him of the food issue. 'Come with me,' he said.

His quarters were two vaulted caves with slits for windows, filled with the stale stench of humidity. The first was the office, whose door was visible clearly from the corridor and apparently well-known among staff and students for being the door to go and knock on if they wished to disturb someone. The latter was the bedchamber that doubled as living space, larger if significantly less ornate than the gilded office, and with a door concealed behind a tapestry that would not move for anyone's hand but his own. Not wishing to be disturbed, he led the boy there, sitting him on the bench by the fire and handing him his plate and unfinished coffee.

'Eat,' he ordered. He came toward the copper samovar on the corner table, wondering if years of experience heating and combining ingredients would help him understand how one made tea in the thing. He suspected not. 'I'm not giving you your letters until you've eaten.'

In the samovar's bulbous reflection, he saw Harry's eyes fixing on the trunk Severus had dropped to the bed. 'But it's your food,' he argued weakly.

It was. More importantly, it was Severus's coffee, too. He had not known he would ever arrive at a point in his life where he would consider this a matter of lesser importance. 'And if you faint from malnutrition and need multiple complex potions to be revived, it will be my problem. Eat.'

The boy ate. Severus wondered if they should address the circumstances of when they saw each other last. He did not know how to talk about it, so he fumbled with the samovar and pretended he'd wanted Harry here only to relay to him the most immediate practicalities.

'You are safe here from Sirius Black,' he spoke plainly, 'which does not mean you are safe altogether. Concerns around your physical safety are considerably less in the middle of nowhere, but you must be aware that the school is home to potential Dark Lord sympathisers. You should be especially mindful of any older students from Britain who might have been exposed to such ideas at home. You must also keep in mind that others might be susceptible.'

'Hmph,' the boy said through a full mouth.

'What?'

'Nothing, I was saying okay.'

'Most importantly, and this is not something you are to reveal to your schoolmates, Igor Karkaroff used to be a Death Eater.' Severus fixed him with a look. 'He has since betrayed his allies to escape an Azkaban sentence, but that does not mean he can be trusted. Do you understand?'

Harry was evidently trying to look serious. He was severely hampered by the face he'd stuffed full of bread. When he swallowed, it looked painful. 'How did he betray them?'

'He named several high-profile Death Eaters shortly after the Dark Lord's demise.'

'Oh. Were you friends with him?'

Severus had to turn away to hide the laugh. 'No, I was not friends with him. And you should do your best not to make friends with him, either.'

Harry snorted. 'Fat chance of that,' he said. 'I thought he was creepy way before you told me about the Death Eater thing.'

'What a fantastic judge of character you have turned out to be. If you're finished, take your letters and go to class. I suspect I will have to force-feed you again, so we will reconvene in the evening.'

'I can stay,' Harry said quickly. 'I don't have class anymore today.'

Severus peered at him suspiciously. The boy's tone was far too light not to have been covering up for a lie. Then again, if he stayed then so would Severus, and this way he could hide from any further visits.

Harry blinked at him so innocently, you would have thought him incapable of any such underhanded method, then said politely, 'I can make the tea if you like. I've seen them do it.'

Severus supposed that decided it.

The samovar revealed itself a fantastic invention for a bout of hiding away. They drank tea after tea after tea, and the lack of change in the light from outside only bolstered the sense that they were in some timeless land where responsibilities and schedules did not reach. Harry read his letters, then tiptoed past the tapestry into the office for ink and parchment on which to craft his replies, to Severus's aggressive shushing and warnings to evade notice at any cost. Severus dozed off, then woke when the boy knocked over the teapot. It was quickly revealed he'd touched his fingers to the side of the samovar to check it for heat and straggled back in shocked pain. Burn-soothing potion was located and applied. Harry helped him find the right place for his books and cloaks. One of the squibs turned up toward the evening to ask whether Severus would like his supper delivered to his rooms, and this they feasted on by the fire, then shared the Honeydukes chocolates Severus had brought, anticipating he might have to buy his way back into the boy's good graces.

The chocolates had proven unnecessary. Harry was more pleasant with him than he had been in months, and neither argued nor blistered when Severus embarked on a lecture on the long-term effects of teenage delinquency. Severus had not meant to give the lecture. He had not meant to say anything more on the topic in the first place and would not have done so if Harry had stopped him, only Harry never stopped him. Heavens, but he must have hated Durmstrang with a passion—Severus thought unkindly that they should have sent him away months ago if this was the effect it had on his behaviour.

At one point, Harry found his way to the floor, where he curled into a ball on the reindeer skin by the fire. He looked less the cat basking in the heat and more an injured animal hiding its belly from predators. It was not pleasant to see him so miserable, but then, would it not have been worse if Severus had found him thriving? To thrive in exile was to accept the punishment. To thrive in a place such as Durmstrang would be to understand that he belonged here and Severus didn't, and this was a truth he wished to protect Harry from for as long as possible.

'It's late,' he said to the shape on the floor. The fire was burning low now, and everything was doubled in shadows. 'You should go to your dormitory.'

'I don't want to,' whispered Harry. 'Can't I just stay here?'

'On the floor? You can't possibly be comfortable.'

'I am. It's soft and warm and everything.'

He made for a pathetic sight. Outside the window, wind blew and moaned. Snow beat against the walls of the fortress. Severus thought about sending the boy back down the black corridors, freezing his toes off and contracting disease from the rats, and had to stop himself from saying something ridiculous.

'Go on, get up. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll get to your bed.'

Harry didn't move. He was pretending not to hear him, which was a difficult ploy to sell even with the screaming wind. Merlin, it sounded like sirens now—some of it high and whistling, some a lower pitch that made something deep and old in Severus stir awake.

'Is the wind this loud every night?' he asked Harry, hoping to shake him free of this childishness. 'I will have to cast a muffling charm to sleep.'

'It's not the wind,' mumbled Harry into the reindeer skin. 'It's the polar bears.'

'—Excuse me?'

He turned to peer up at him, half of his face scratched red from the bristles on the fur. 'I mean, it's the wind, too, but some of it's polar bears. A couple of them came around here because a whale carcass got washed up on shore nearby. They've been wandering around the castle since last week, then away again. They're not letting anyone out because of it.'

Now that Severus thought about it, the squib who'd driven him here this morning had seemed jumpy.

'Well,' he said weakly. 'You'll still need to wash if you're going to stay here. Go quickly and don't hold up the bathroom, I've had a long day.'

Harry sprang up immediately, grinning.

'Thank you,' he hummed in a sing-song voice as he beelined for the bathroom, apparently unconcerned by any such silly thing as man-eating beasts of a thousand pounds each milling about in the snow.

Severus piled pillows on the reindeer skin and covered them with the duvet he'd stripped from the bed. It seemed inadequate, but then nothing short of taking the boy away from here would be adequate, and this Severus could not do. Polar bears or not, they were little more than prisoners, trapped until summer came.

It felt homely, in a way. He had spent his childhood in a trap. It had taken sacrificing everything he had to escape it.

As he slipped into sleep, blankets and heating spells wrapped thickly around him, he listened to the boy's steady breathing and mused, strangely and with no apparent reason, whether Tobias Snape had felt trapped in Spinner's End, too, and if, in the winter dank of broken heaters and unpaid bills, he might have dreamed of those pits of fiery hell which he had been promised.