Harry took each step with trepidation, as the wood was cracked or buckled in some places and groaned ominously under his weight. It was too dark to see exactly where his feet were, so he felt around with them, testing their placement and pressure. Ever so slowly, he made his way upstairs, where there was a bit more light filtering in from a window at the end of the hallway landing.
Equally as cramped as the first floor, he doubted if two people would be able to pass each other in this hallway, despite counting three doors adjoining it. He brushed aside some peeling wallpaper and a few cobwebs, wondering how long this place had been abandoned. The level of neglect suggested several years, but Harry had found the remains of some food in the kitchen that he noted were only a few months out of date before he vanished them.
On his left, a brass-handled door was partially ajar, leading to a barren lavatory with only the most basic of facilities. There didn't appear to be anything worth saving in there at first glance, so he left it well-enough alone. Along the right, another door lay partially torn off its hinges, a severe-looking series of gashes made by something razor-sharp scarred into the wood, and what Harry suspected might be flecks of dried blood painted the wall around it. He flicked his wand to scourgify them away, taking some of the wallpaper's design with it. He didn't care to dwell on it too much.
Upon pushing his way through the debris, his face scrunched up and he covered his nose with his sleeve again as his senses were assaulted with the nearly unbearable fetor of rotten food, stale body odour, and Merlin-knows-what-else. Discarded food wrappers, empty potion bottles, and bed linens littered the floor as well as a thoroughly broken metal-framed double bed that had collapsed in the center, rusty springs protruding from a filthy mattress that was stained with what was hopefully just blood. This bedroom had been fairly recently occupied.
Surely Snape wouldn't live in such a…rat's nest, Harry speculated. Whatever misgivings he still had about his former professor, he'd never known Snape to be anything but tidy and detail-oriented: to an annoying degree, really. Certainly nothing to suggest this level of squalor.
Questions notwithstanding, he decided to continue braving the stench to investigate a bit more. He cautiously stepped over the rubbish on the floor to get to the single window in this room, pulling a moth-eaten curtain back a tiny bit to let in some more light. The next house over was very close, not allowing much in the way of additional illumination, but what little there was revealed a relatively untouched chest of drawers across from the bed, upon which were a variety of cheap-looking perfume bottles, knickknacks, and another series of dusty and damaged photo frames. He produced and enlarged another box, gently levitating the items into it, occasionally punctuating the silence with a tinkling of broken glass that fell from the damaged photos and gently scattered upon the floorboards.
Feeling horribly intrusive, he opened one of the drawers, trying to ignore the crawling sensation that the ghosts in the walls were decidedly upset with him. Some jewelry, women's clothing that appeared several decades old, all unmistakably Muggle in appearance and nothing that looked to be of any value, but he packaged it away all the same.
Hermione's words about no living relatives echoed obtrusively in his mind as he worked. What an awful waste, to have nobody to pass anything along to. None of this stuff meant anything to Harry, and it wasn't as though he had much in the way of experience with family heirlooms aside from his father's cloak. Maybe it didn't mean anything to Snape either; he would never know either way. Regardless, he'd already resolved before coming here that he would not allow every sad and unsavory detail of the man's life to be pilfered through like some crypt, the way his own parents' dwelling in Godric's Hollow had, he recalled with no small amount of bitterness bubbling in his gut. If Harry's burden for the rest of his life was to be entrusted with salvaging what remained of Snape's dignity, then so be it. It was a small price to pay for everything he had done for him over the years.
Not that you ever got a chance to make amends with him, a niggling voice whispered in his thoughts. Harry twitched his head at the voice, as though shooing a fly.
Satisfied that there was nothing important remaining in this room that he suspected had once belonged to Snape's parents long ago, he folded the box shut and shrunk it down for transport, placing it back into the beaded bag. Though it took him a couple of attempts, and some clumps of stuffing and a few bits of springs were left behind in a heap due to his lack of skill, he vanished most of the mattress and its suspicious discolourations. Whatever had transpired here would probably mean more paperwork for Harry, and he really just did not care anymore.
There was only one room left to explore, and anticipating who it belonged to made him feel as though he might shortly become reacquainted with his morning toast. He stepped back around the broken door and approached the other room on the left side of the hallway. He reached stupidly for the handle, before being seized with the forethought that reminded him to not be so thick and pulled his hand back with a jolt. Fishing his wand back out of his coat, he ran it along the doorframe, feeling the edges with his magic. Sure enough, it was warded.
With runes, no less, he frowned at the crudely knife-cut symbols that had begun to emerge in the wood, pompous bastard.
The muffled sound of movement downstairs brought to mind that he should probably get Hermione to help him with this particular barrier. Curiously though, as he was running a thumb along the carvings, they glowed faintly and then abruptly disappeared. The door then swung open of its own accord with a rusty squeak. Harry blinked in amazement, unsure of what had just taken place. He poked cautiously at the open doorway with his wand, but felt no further resistance, magical or otherwise. Steeling himself for every possible scenario he could think of, he entered Snape's room.
What greeted him inside was so decidedly normal, he actually let out an awkward giggle in relief. This room was nearly as tiny as the washroom, and everything but the single bed seemed to be caked in years worth of dust. Aside from a smattering of Slytherin pride here and there, not to mention a few more books stacked about than Harry owned, he would have been hard-pressed to tell this room from his own back at the Dursleys'.
The window in here faced the uninhabited side of the street and the shades were mostly open, so it was a bit brighter than the rest of the house. A couple of vinyl records, their covers bleached by sunlight, lay haphazardly tossed across a long crate that, judging by the spartan chair pushed in front of it, had been used as a desk. Wondering what sort of music Snape would listen to, Harry eagerly beelined for the desk, and nearly had his heart leap from his throat as one of the floorboards snapped upwards under his weight and then fell back into place with a reverberating thwack. The stumble caused his legs to buckle beneath him, and he caught himself mid-fall painfully against the desk to prevent tumbling over entirely. His pulse pounding loudly in his ears, he only just managed to make out Hermione's voice from the bottom stair.
"You alright, Harry?"
"M'fine. Just tripped," he called back, trying not to let his voice quaver.
"Be careful, won't you?" Her nagging and her footsteps faded as she walked away.
Grunting, he pushed himself up and plopped down sitting on the bed, still too shaky to remain upright. Glancing around, his attention was drawn to a clump of dust that had been kicked up by his fall and was floating slowly in front of the window, caught by the emerging sunlight as the fog outside lifted. As he watched it drift, it hit him just then —realization doused over him like a bucket of ice water, of where exactly he was sitting. A memory that had been only the briefest flash, a memory not his own, stolen by accident during a particularly grueling lesson… He could imagine it very easily: being the scrawny, dark-haired boy shooting down flies with his wand in this very spot. Not much younger than he was now. Not much different a person than he was now.
His body went numb at that thought. He no longer felt the pain in his wrist or the lumpy mattress beneath him. All that existed within him had been replaced by an all-consuming grief that expanded so quickly, he could not fully comprehend it. It crushed his chest with a weight that threatened to rip the breath from his lungs. He'd been fighting this for weeks - why right now, with all of these ghosts watching him? Unable to staunch the tears that had begun to flow unbidden off his chin and pool thickly with the dust on the floor, he gave himself over to the waves of sobs that rolled over and over him, unrelenting. Desperately not wanting to be heard, he tried to smother the sound into his jeans, curling his knees up to his chest and clutching them to his face.
It's not bloody fair, he raged silently, hating how pitiful his own voice sounded in his mind. Life isn't fair, the crueler voice that had joined it recently countered, and now you have plenty of blood on your hands to prove it. Was this what it felt like, then? What he felt like? The enormous cavity left behind by life cut short, all the things left unsaid, too many regrets to ever be amended? How does one go on living with such a feeling? Even as Harry directed his question at the newer voice, he knew it would not answer him.
—
Severus took another, rather less spirited kick at his bed frame, knowing full well it was fruitless to try to overturn it. Unacceptable enough that his wards had betrayed him, now the boy was crying. On his bed!
Strangely, just before all this weeping had started, Severus had recalled the summer after fifth year that he'd spent brooding in this very spot following his fight with Lily. That recollection, and perhaps the wretched aura surrounding Potter also, took all the wind out of his sails, and so finally he gave up his futile attempts to make his presence known. He huffed to himself and sat down on the bed next to the boy, running his hands over his face and pinching his eyes, only vaguely aware of the fact that whatever he currently was, he was somehow able to sit on the bed at all.
Perhaps following the boy around as an ineffective specter for the rest of his afterlife was the personal hell he'd been assigned. Frankly, it wouldn't be so different from what the last half of his actual life had been, so bugger whoever thought that one up. At least he didn't have to teach anymore…that thought alone nearly made him also burst into tears—of happiness. What was surely a wicked grin crossed his face as he dwelled on that not insignificant mercy. Smiling made him frown again, however.
Since beginning this unusual vigil over Potter, Severus had experienced a wide variety of feelings. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't that he was any stranger to them, but particularly since the aforementioned fight with Lily, he'd mostly, ignoring a few exceptions he had no desire to reminisce about at the moment, been able to lock them away for safekeeping when needed. It was a technique that had served him well, allowing him to lie to the face of the greatest dark wizard and legilimens in recent history, not to mention preventing him from flinging himself from the top of astronomy tower on a number of occasions.
Occluding had become as natural as breathing to him, insofar that they were both required, in Severus' case, to keep living. Perhaps because he had since stopped breathing, then, or maybe because his current vessel lacked the required mental or magical capacity to do so, but he found himself presently unable to occlude. This was proving a disadvantage under the current circumstances, as Potter kept fumbling with and stumbling over his possessions, infuriating and horrifying him anew every couple of minutes. It was exhausting.
He was completely aware of the fact that Potter was apparently trying to tidy up his dirty laundry, with a level of mindfulness that, to be perfectly honest, he wasn't aware that the boy possessed until now. He was also cognizant of the concept that he had no use of possessions regardless, being dead and all. In spite of these observations, emotions attached to his things swelled violently to the surface each and every time, as though he were being made to relive the memories they carried with them.
He'd tried to wandlessly hex Potter for breaking his favorite glass. He'd spouted a vile string of curse words at Granger for eyeing his books hungrily. In a rare move, he'd lost all propriety and attempted to physically assault the boy (a suitable target in lieu of Wormtail) when he'd recalled the crime of the destruction of his mother's bedroom, among other transgressions. He'd never felt so out of control of his own mind and was mortifyingly unable to take out his frustrations on anyone or anything. It was small potatoes, however, compared to the quivering mess he was sitting next to. Severus chanced a glance at Potter again, and sneered.
The boy was attempting to compose himself, wiping his disgusting, mucus-covered nose with his shirt and sniffling in an obscene manner. With his glasses removed, it was all too easy for Severus' insides to squirm uncomfortably at the miserable expression etched all over that face that held more familiar features than he'd ever admitted to himself while alive. Surely there were more appropriate places for him to be sad about whatever he was than this room in particular. This had been Severus' place to be sad; what right did Potter have to co-opt it?
Always meddling where you're not welcome, he thought spitefully, attempting to find out if it was possible to melt the boy's brain with the same force of will behind Potter's eyes that he'd usually been treated to when his back was turned, and when they hadn't been wide with fear of him.
Their mutual antagonism had made everything much easier, in the end. The price of consequence over the years had been high, but it had been necessary for both their sakes. It was of no small significance to Severus that somehow, the boy had survived, sparing him the one last immense sin he'd be damned with, while the rest were carried to his grave in secrecy as he'd anticipated. Potter was free in his ignorance to despise him for the remainder of his life, if it offered him any solace.
Speaking of his charge, he seemed to have regained his senses at last, having stood up and begun packing away the few remaining possessions that littered this hallowed space. Severus longingly watched his "Heroes" LP as it floated by and landed softly into a box. He'd purchased that one with money he'd stolen from Tobias' drinking funds, he recalled with a swelling of pride, and for once hadn't gotten caught in the process. The man had disappeared shortly after that, not noticing the theft and never to be heard from again. And good riddance.
Potter neatly folded a tattered Slytherin banner and placed it off to the side on the bed. For Burial, Severus guessed with another sneer, thoroughly disgusted with the thought of his own funeral. He was entertaining himself by visualizing his body being fed to the thestrals back at Hogwarts when the soft scrape of wood against wood caught his attention. The boy, evidently familiar with crude hiding places, had displaced the loose floorboard he'd tripped over. Well, bully for him, he had cleared that space out long—
To his great surprise, the boy's hand emerged, procuring a clothbound journal. Severus leapt to his feet, swooping in to get a better look. Potter attempted to open its pages, but was unsuccessful as it appeared the thing had been spelled shut. He tried a variety of counterspells while Severus stared at it, unmoving. It remained defiantly locked, however, and as Severus' eyes passed over the flowers embroidered on its cover as it disappeared into the boy's coat, he felt nothing.
He felt nothing…because he did not remember that journal, even a little bit.