Notes

Thanks to NaioKiara for beta-reading! Additional Britpicking appreciated. This is the first thing I've ever authored that I've posted publicly, so a big thank you for reading. It's very personal to me, but I hope it becomes something for you to enjoy as well. Most of this story is already written but there are parts in the middle to flesh out, so be on the lookout for the remaining chapters I will be posting sporadically.

When Severus became aware, he was very unexpectedly standing outside his own decaying house on the far side of Spinner's End. It was gray and oppressively foggy, as this awful street usually was, even during the day. His comprehension was foggy as well, as he didn't know exactly why he was standing here or where he'd come from. It occurred to him through that fog that although there was a steady drizzle falling, he could not feel the rain on his face or his hands. He was about to chance a look at his hands just then, but was interrupted by the sudden whispering of a spell.

"Cave inimicum." The air around the street rippled briefly, and then several heads popped into existence as though from under an invisible veil.

"Potter!" Severus startled so violently, his voice caught in his throat.

Sure enough, the boy and his friends emerged from under that blasted cloak. They appeared to be unaware of his presence, however, as they glanced around furtively and the Granger girl immediately set to work casting more repelling charms. Potter and Weasley began looking over a handful of documents, talking quietly and not acknowledging that there was anyone else about. Severus would have had a mind to tell them off right then and there, but a horrible realization had come over him. For all their appearance had startled him, he could feel no increase in pulse through his veins. Rather, he could feel no heartbeat to speak of at all within himself. His hand fluttered to his neck impulsively. No wounds…no pulse…no body heat. There was a sensation of self at least, but it was not entirely solid and it carried no weight or warmth that he could discern.

"Ron, go keep a lookout around the corner. Hermione, you come in with me, but stay near the door. Either of you see anybody, set off a DA coin and then we apparate immediately," the boy quietly instructed. They both nodded and the Weasley boy took the cloak and pulled it over himself as he slipped into the alleyway. They seemed well-coordinated in all their skulking about, but that was unsurprising, Severus mused through his shock. These three did have a storied history of making his life exceedingly difficult, not to mention the six months they'd spent on the run evading the Snatchers. At least some good came of Potter's dubious life skills, he sighed wearily. There was no sound from his breath.

Potter and Granger hovered over the front door with the door knob between them, going over a number of unlocking and hex-revealing spells, as if he would be so obvious. With some effort, the door finally snapped open, and the boy started to walk in. Severus, remembering the surprises he'd left behind to dissuade intruders, moved to catch him by the shoulder to stop him, but his grip found no purchase. Fortunately, Granger's had.

"This is Professor Snape we're talking about, Harry! Don't be so thick!" she hissed.

"…R-Right. Of course."

Potter stared at the doorway for a few moments, looking shaken for some reason. However it had occurred to him, he seemed to have surmised the nature of Severus' security, for he flicked his wand in a cutting motion at the entrance, his spell snapping a barely visible trip line that was there. A series of tiny needles were set loose from one side of the doorframe, silently impacting the opposite side of the trim where the wood began to sizzle under the influence of their deadly payload.

"Cozy." The boy stared placidly at the needles, before finally crossing the threshold into Severus' family home. Severus felt his body, such as it was, gently tugged along with him.

—

Harry gingerly stepped in with Hermione close behind him, who shut the door once they were fully inside. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Though it wasn't terribly bright outside, with the sun being held at bay by a thoroughly overcast sky and dense morning fog, it was much gloomier in here. Many of what few, tiny windows had been built into this place were fully or partially obscured by tall bookcases crammed to bursting with all manner of books. Dust-covered blinds were pulled mostly shut across those that were not, letting in only a scant amount of light in thin rays across the sitting room, but it was enough for his purposes. He didn't want to chance calling attention to themselves with artificial or wand light.

Hermione drew in an excited breath, having already gravitated to a section of Snape's impressive personal library near the entrance. Harry watched her eyes dart over the titles, but he was feeling queasy. Maybe it was just being here, amongst the modest possessions of a dead man, but he felt a presence somehow. As though the walls themselves were watching him, accusingly, perhaps. You don't belong here, they said. The ghosts in the walls had seen fit to warn him of that trap, though, Harry thought, still feeling an odd flutter in his chest remaining from the shock that had passed through him just before he'd tried to step in. He was fairly certain that tripwire was not an observation he'd have managed to make on his own, even if he hadn't been distracted.

Harry inhaled deeply to steady himself, which he immediately regretted, having taken in a lungful of debris. His eyes watered with the effort of suppressing a cough, trying to remain quiet even though he knew Hermione had cast a silencing charm outside. An overabundance of caution, perhaps, or out of reverence for the space he was intruding, he wasn't entirely sure himself. The low ambient light along with the dusty and slightly mildewy air gave him subtle reminders of his own childhood dwelling, as this house rather felt like a larger (but just as claustrophobic) version of the cupboard under the stairs where he'd grown up, only there were a lot more interesting things than toy soldiers lying about.

His eyes passed over several strange-looking curios on the mantle above the barren fireplace, the bookcases which seemed to fill every available inch of free space, the occasional photograph faded into obscurity. Remnants of a man I never really knew. He wistfully fingered the crystal vial in his coat pocket, choking down yet another wave of lachrymose that tended to haunt him whenever he thought about Snape too much. Hardly something I can avoid here.

Reminding himself that he had work to do, Harry purposefully strode over to a threadbare armchair that was positioned near the fireplace, and set the papers he was carrying on top of its cushion. He then started fishing out a stack of tiny cardboard boxes from Hermione's beaded bag, which he procured from his other coat pocket, and unshrunk them. The fully-sized boxes landed with a soft thump on the floor, sending up a small cloud of yet more dust. Harry covered his nose with his sleeve, and pointed his wand hand at the boxes again, labeling them.

Unsure of where to begin other than where he was currently standing, he reached for a tarnished metal frame from the mantle, glancing at it as he went to place it in the newly-labeled box. The recognizable face of an older, but no less dour Eileen Prince (or rather, likely Snape at this point, he corrected himself) was staring back at him with dark eyes. She was unmoving and had barely retained any colour. A muggle photograph. Snape's mother. Harry swallowed thickly.

"Harry, it's probably best if you don't touch anything," Hermione's soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, "it's possible some of these things are trapped or enchanted in some way."

She was using her wand to float stacks of books off their shelves and arranging them neatly into the boxes he had placed. Harry nodded silently and placed the photograph gently into a separate box, assigning it another label, and followed her lead, levitating items off the shelves and into their containers. The silence stretched into long minutes between them as they worked, disturbed only by the patter of rain on the windows and the occasional passing of a car on the street out front. Harry could feel Hermoine glancing his way once in a while, but he didn't particularly want to see the empathetic look he knew she had, so he did not return her gazes.

"I know it's difficult," she shattered the silence again, "but it's good of you to do this. I've no doubt people will come poking their obnoxious noses around here once that awful woman's book comes out today."

"It's not entirely legal, though." Harry acknowledged, finally managing to croak speech out of his dry throat.

"No," she replied sedately, "but given the lack of a will or any living relatives, I rather think even Professor Snape would acquiesce to you tidying up his…" her eyes darted quickly around the shabby room, "…estate, as opposed to letting it be picked over and manhandled and who knows what else by ne'er-do-wells that would be entirely less considerate."

Harry didn't say anything for a few moments, glaring at a chipped vase he was putting away. When he did finally reply, it was through gritted teeth.

"I rather think that Snape—"

"Professor Snape."

"—was fully aware of how precarious his position was, and ought to have been considerate enough to set his own affairs in order. I don't know if he even cared if people went through his things."

"But you care, Harry."

"And a damn time I've had of it too," Hermione jumped slightly as the vace dropped loudly into the box as Harry went to retrieve another item, "Ministry refusing to take pensieved memories or the testimony of portraits as evidence. Uncovering all sorts of criminal charges for things I knew nothing about. Having both our credibilities questioned every step of the way. And for what, exactly?" Another item flew into the box a bit too roughly.

"An acquittal and talk of a posthumous Order of Merlin for one thing…"

"Sensationalized tabloid articles and unauthorized biographies for another." Thunk.

"Harry…"

"Probably would just tell me to mind my own damn business, anyway." A tinkling of shattering glass, "Dammit, Calix Reparo."

Hermione sniffled, and he didn't dare look at her face. Grabbing another box, he swiftly strode over to the adjoining room and addressed her without turning back, "You stay in here and keep an eye on the door like we discussed, I'll clear out the kitchen."

"…I understand."

—

Severus remained impassively where he was by the fireplace as Harry strode angrily into his meager kitchen. Though he felt tugged again as though on an invisible leash, the house was small enough that it appeared he wasn't obligated to follow at this distance. Being more intrigued by the papers that had been placed upon his chair, he returned his attention to them.

On a bit of lettered stationary was his address and a hand-drawn map of the street. In Narcissa's flowy handwriting, he surmised. That's curious, he thought to nobody in particular. He wasn't aware of Potter being on any sort of amicable terms with the Malfoys. Under that, a number of stuffy-looking legal documents he could neither see in entirety nor brush aside. A partially unfurled copy of The Daily Prophet betrayed a few headlines from its hiding place on the bottom.

Memorial Service and Monument Dedication to be Held at Hogwarts for 53 Slain in Last Month's Bloody Battle. Beating though it no longer was, he felt his leaden heart sink into his stomach at the litany of familiar faces, most entirely too young, staring up at him from their small square photographs like some gruesome yearbook. Weasley, Tonks…Lupin (Hadn't they just had a baby?)...students, Order members, colleagues…Not all he could name, practically none he had any particular love for, and all of whom had surely died hating him, but so many…

Mass Trials Continue for Surviving Death Eaters, Minister Shacklebolt Declares— This headline was cut off by the papers lying on top, though several more familiar faces stared back at him, murder in their eyes. The Dark Lord was dead, surely, if Potter currently lived. But then…why was Potter still here if that was true?

From a smaller corner article, a picture of his own ugly face was sneering back at him, Rita Skeeter Exposes Ex-Headmaster, Panned Potions Professor, and Slippery Spy in New Exposé, Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?

He snorted in derision, though to his repeated chagrin, it still made no sound. He might have guessed Potter had spilled his guts to this Skeeter, but that likely notion appeared to be struck down by the conversation he'd just overheard. Nevertheless, Potter was forever prying into all the things about himself that he wished to keep private. The perverse indignity of being made to watch, unable to do or say anything about any of it made him wring his hands in anxiety. Indeed, what did he care if his house was trashed or his name smeared across the papers? Clearly, he was dead, and whatever powers that be had decided that merely being dead wasn't shameful enough to boot.

Come to think of it, how had he died exactly, anyway? Severus reached up unsteadily to touch his neck again with thin, shaking fingers, feeling as though there ought to be an answer there, but not finding it.

Granger paused in her efforts to pack away the endless piles of books, having taken notice of a familiar and stained leather-bound photo album that was falling apart from its binding. Ignoring her own advice, per usual, she grasped it delicately and opened it to its center, smiling sadly as she glanced over the pictures. Severus stormed over to her in a fury and attempted to slap it out of her hands, but his form just passed through hers impotently. At first he thought she might have noticed, because she let out a startled gasp. What she had reacted to, however, was a small picture that had escaped out from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor and drifted out of reach under one of the bookcases before she was able to catch it.

"Oh no…" she griped, setting the album gently down into a box Potter had labeled For Burial. Steadying her weight with one hand against an empty shelf, she crouched down to summon the photo, but nearly lost her balance as the something mechanical behind the bookcase clicked inward and then opened towards her with a groaning creak of metal hinges.

Merlin, of all the luck… Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Harry," she called out, peering curiously up into the darkness that engulfed a narrow and partially broken staircase laying hidden behind the trick door, "can you come here a moment?"

Potter emerged from the kitchen as the girl idly pocketed the fallen photo and climbed to her feet. She pulled the door open further and inclined her head in the direction of the staircase.

"I've found a passage upstairs; do you want to take a look?"

"Not particularly, but I suppose I ought to."

"Take your time," she murmured, backing away and returning to the thankless task of book-packing.

Potter tentatively approached the staircase, and much to Severus' own discomfort, walked straight through him. The boy paused and shivered almost imperceptibly, squinting into the darkness as he felt around for a handhold of some kind. Hesitating a few moments longer, he resigned to simply steadying himself along the wall of the corridor before beginning his ascent.

With a long-suffering sigh, Severus followed him up, just as reluctantly.