After the door had closed behind her, Severus sank down on the worn leather couch in front of the fireplace, burying his face in his hands. Listening to the cracking firewood in the hearth, he let the impact of their conversation sink in. In just a few weeks' time, he would wander the halls of Hogwarts again. What on earth had he just agreed to? Of course, he had made sure to at least get a generous raise and extended privileges out of their deal, but this gut-wrenching feeling that he had just done something incredibly senseless had settled forcefully in the pit of his stomach. Lazily reaching for his wand, he accioed a bottle of fire-whiskey from the nearest cupboard and took a large drink. Feeling the familiar golden liquid burn along his throat, he settled for staring back into the fire illuminating the dark circles underneath his eyes.
It still seemed unreal that he was sitting here in the first place. He had never intended to survive the war; he had strongly expected to lay down his life before one of the sides would claim their victory and at least hoped his death would further the course of the Order. Countless times had found him lying at the feet of the Dark Lord, wondering if the monster his former master had become would be the last thing he saw in this life. Towards the end of the war, he had hoped his life would end sooner rather than later. For years he had been walking a tightrope between two masters collectively demanding every last piece of him. Believing that if he would not find an unnatural end as many double-agents did, he would die of pure exhaustion before the war was over; he rather existed than lived during the past two or three years. Killing Albus Dumbledore had finally rid him of the last string of hope his sanity had desperately clung to and his life had spiralled into endless terrors he had barely been able to endure.
When Nagini had buried her teeth in his skin at last, the venom spreading through his veins had felt like a welcome fire, burning him up and freeing his soul from the dreadful existence his life had become. He had been ready to die after giving Potter those memories, his secret out in the open at last and her eyes being the last ones he'd seen before closing his. Although his love for her had faded over the years with the realization that he had the tendency to glorify even her worst actions toward him, it had been comforting to see the symbol for what he had fought for so many years during his final moments.
And then he had woken up to a garish white light shining directly in his face. At first the horrid thought crossed his mind that he had come back as a ghost. Though he had not intentionally left an anchor to the real world by means of a spell or potion, these things were sometimes caused by unfinished business with the living or an unexpected, tragically violent death. Mentally going over the last two criteria, he concluded that his business was mostly finished as far as he was concerned and, though his death had been violent, it had not been unexpected. His second thought was that he had gone straight to hell, which did not surprise him in the least considering the horrifying things he had done as a Death Eater. Though he expected to pay for his deeds, he would not have imagined hell to be only slightly displeasing and uncomfortable. While he normally prided himself on his intellect - one of the few things he actually enjoyed about himself - these first thoughts racing through his mind had not been part of his brightest moments.
When he had finally opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the harsh faces of multiple medi-wizards and –witches, eyeing him with varying looks ranging from mild concern to open curiosity. As it turned out, he had been found outside the entrance to St. Mungo's hospital shortly before dawn of the final battle with a note pinned to his chest spelling 'Snake Bite – Nagini' in barely readable handwriting. The healers had managed to revive him before injecting the suitable antivenin, which had been left over – and the irony was not lost on him – from their treating Arthur Weasley's snakebite that Severus had majorly contributed to healing by providing said antivenin.
His treatment at St. Mungo's had cost him the better part of a month and while he was accustomed to endure physical pain, he was unprepared for the psychological pain hitting him full force as the realization of the aftermath of two wars had finally sunken in. As a result of being confined to his sick-bed, which left him with barely any means to vent his agitation and hurting, he had spent his time occluding heavily, trying to shut out the pain threatening to overwhelm him. Though it had lessened the blow initially, he knew from experience that using Occlumency to this degree was highly unhealthy and would probably harm his fractured psyche even further. His defences were bound to crack at some point and even his being a natural Occlumens could not be enough to prevent his mind from shattering entirely, earning him a lifelong place at the St. Mungo's spell-ward.
The only upside to his time at the hospital had been him missing his own trial he faced for being a proven Death Eater in general and killing Albus Dumbledore specifically. Apparently, Potter had made quite a show of his turn in the witness stand, revealing some of the memories he had given him to the Wizengamot (only few of his private memories in Potter's possession had become public knowledge and - thank God for small mercies - neither had involved his infatuation with Lilly Evans) and throwing a dramatic speech praising his bravery and loyalty to their cause. Combined with the testimony of further Order witnesses, he had finally been cleared of all charges.
A few weeks after the verdict, the healers released him from the hospital at last, but he was technically required to attend future check-ups once a month. They had healed him to the best of their abilities (which were certainly more limited than they should be), though many of his injuries were part of what he liked to call collateral damage accumulated over many years of deliberate torture and fights among the ranks of the Death Eaters. Quite a few injuries had either not been healed at all or healed insufficiently in the past, making their treatment almost impossible at this point, and some curses just leave behind nasty after-effects for which treatment has yet to be invented. As he was accustomed to living with several degrees of constant pain for the past decades, he was not concerned to endure the mere aftermath of the worst pains he had experienced already.
He had found his refuge in this small cottage up in the North, which he had furnished sparingly and fleetingly to settle into his new home in a short amount of time. His days were spent in solitude with him refusing to answer the occasional owl passing by his window and blocking the floo-connection that had been installed before he'd moved in. Isolating himself was probably not the best idea, but he could barely stand his own company at this time and did not think he could tolerate the presence of another human being. Aside from that, they would most likely not be able to tolerate his presence either. Half the time he drank too much to drown his memory and numb the pain bearing down on him; the other half he used Occlumency to tune out his surroundings almost entirely. Sleep was hard to come by with night terrors haunting his dreams and memories flashing through his mind preventing his rest. He used the few time spans he was consciously making an effort to be aware to either read his mail, the Daily Prophet or the occasional chapter in a book from his library, shuffle to the local supermarket or, if he was having an especially good day, to start dealing with one painful subject at a time before he decided to drink or occlude again.
To his irritation, he had not yet been able to find out who had saved his life that night in the Shrieking Shack, and he wasn't sure whether he would thank or curse them when he did. Overall, his life had digressed to the state of existing rather than living again and it was a painful existence at that. In his conscious moments, he contemplated whether dying during that battle would have been more merciful than facing the aftermath and mostly he came to the conclusion that dying would at least have been easier. He felt like he was yet again treading another tight rope, only this time he was faced with handling his own mind and memories or inevitably succumb to madness. But despite his struggle, he could still not rid himself of the thought that there was some kind of reason his life had not ended that night, a reason for him still being alive.
Now that he had agreed to join the Hogwarts staff once more though, he found himself faced with even more challenges. The fragile schedule he had established at his cottage would not be adaptable to days filled with Potions lessons, meals at the Great Hall and patrol nights. Contrary to what many said about him, he was not a bad teacher after all; his student's knowledge was far more advanced than their year mates' in other magical schools, which was reflected in their higher than average OWL and NEWTS scores. And in order to teach these dunderheads even the most basic techniques and material without them blowing up his classroom, he had to be mentally aware of what he was doing. Thus, he somehow had to find a way to get through his days without shutting out his surroundings completely by means of Occlumency or alcohol, at least until he had finished his teaching duties for the day. What fun!
And all of this not even considering how his mind would cope with memories triggered by the Hogwarts environment. He honestly had no idea how he would react to setting foot in the place again where he had bled many nights from the Dark Lords torture, endured the feud with the Marauders, stood by while his students were tormented by the Carrows or saw Dumbledore falling down the Astronomy tower illuminated by a sickly green light.
He pushed these thoughts aside and took a deep drink from the now almost empty bottle of fire-whiskey. Why had he done it though? Why had he agreed to shackle himself anew when he knew it would ask things of him he was not sure he would be able to give? As soon as he had recognized Minerva tampering with his wards on the cottage, he knew why she had come. Her letters had held enough information for him to guess that she was struggling to fill the position, though he had not exactly expected her to show up at his door to recruit him. But once he had seen the fierce look of determination on her face, he suspected he would be struggling to no avail; Minerva McGonagall was a force to be reckoned with, especially when she ran out of options. And she had hit one of his weak spots when she mentioned the Slytherins; damn his stupid sense of duty.
Admittedly, he had not had the time to care for the students of his house the way they needed him to during these last years and he had felt them slipping from his grasp as soon as Potter snatched the House Cup away from them in his first year. Even though he still had been the confidant to have their backs at any given opportunity (what had seemed to some as favouring the students of his own house), he could not afford to make them a priority during the times of war, not with his duties demanding every waking minute of his time. And they needed to be made a priority for once; at least one person had to put them first. He wasn't sure that he was the right person for this task at the moment, yet he could not think of someone else caring for the young snakes to the degree necessary in a time where they had lost all sense of direction, bereft of a path many felt they would have needed to follow, with few people to trust and even fewer who trusted them. This could be an opportunity to do right by them.
Close to emptying the bottle, he spread out on the couch and stared at the greyish ceiling, feeling the alcohol sink in slowly and numbing his senses. Bringing the flask to his lips once more, he drained its contents in a single gulp, the burning sensation running down his throat for the last time this night. His thoughts grew hazier, still he couldn't help but contemplate whether caring for the Slytherins had not been his only motif for returning to Hogwarts. Never lie to yourself ; he had done it enough in the past. As soon as he had seen Minerva approach his door, his subconscious had made the decision to accept the position, for reasons he had yet to unravel himself. Not tonight though, he thought before the bottle fell from his fingers, landing on the rug beneath them with a muffled sound and he finally yielded to the darkness overwhelming his conscience.