It's not darkest before the dawn. It's actually darkest after all the stars have gone out. It's very dark then.

- Welcome to Night Vale


"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning," Snape reads to the small crowd in his church.

The stained glass window tops blush orange with the morning sunlight and paint the crowds in a cheery explosion of bright reds and purples.

Throughout the sermon, Harry is a constant presence, smiling up at him from the corner pew. It's odd how easy it is for Snape to grow used to that presence, as if Harry had been here all along, for every sermon of Snape's life. As if Harry's presence had brightened his wintry afternoons, in an icy church silent and lonely as a fallen icicle in the windswept white plain. As if Harry had kept him company during the rainy mornings, as Snape swept the caked mud down the steps and tucked the psalm books down the backs of the pews. As if Harry had been there watching Snape from a pew, from the very first time Snape ever spoke of absolution to the crowd.

Today, Snape's church is relatively full. His audience is intent, and there's even a few strangers among the old, familiar faces. Snape notes the newcomers. A pair of visitors to the Lovegood's farm, judging by the ragged tie-dye tops and the ribbons. A large, rangy man with long, matted hair, hovering behind the Dursleys. He looks shabby enough that he might ask for a handout afterwards, but as it turns out, he doesn't stay long enough for Snape to offer.

Almost all the regulars are here. And Mother's nowhere in sight. Too far away to stir up trouble.

Snape breathes out a sigh of relief.

All is well.


The heat lifts.

In the evening, Snape thinks back to one of his few good childhood memories and cooks one of Mother's stews for a late supper. It's a foolish idea, following this recipe of hers to the letter: tossing a pinch of salt over his left shoulder and none into the pot, measuring the fresh peppercorns out of the jar by multiples of seven followed by three large bay leaves, stirring "thirteen times widdershins with your eyes closed tight, then crack an egg into the pot with a single tap of your left hand alone." And yet, Snape lifts up the cracked egg shells in his palm and spares their insides a glance. Watch out for bad omens, Severus, or you'll need to start the stew again from scratch. The inside of the egg shells is pristine, and the egg whites spin harmlessly in a cloudy spiral, the yolk split and buried deep beneath them in the pot. The stew exhales fragrant steam, coming to a roiling boil. The broth is ready for the meat to be added.

A new small weight in Snape's right pocket is no heavier than a large marble. He feels the ring's glassy edge, the metallic ridges of it when he moves around the kitchen, as he peels the vegetables and slices the meat. The countertop C.B. radio hums periodically, breaking his reverie, and Harry's ring clicks now and then, presses into his side, tapping out its own tune to dance to.

"Sooo, TV?" Harry asks hopefully, poking his head into a room rapidly filling with the tantalizing aromas of cooking meat and onions.

Snape thinks back on Harry's previous choice of TV shows, and doesn't feel all that eager to repeat the experience. "Kitchen," he counter-offers. "We can talk here."

An old-fashioned meal deserves an old-fashioned setting. Outside, the cicadas sing in the bushes. A late bird calls in the distance. It's a beautiful night.

"Why not?" Harry shrugs, and rushes to lay out two place settings at the kitchen table, arranging a pair of Snape's good spoons just right on the worn tabletop. "Smells so good! Unbelievable. What's in it?"

"It's my mother's recipe," Snape warns, ladling out the first portions, "so you don't want to know."

"Ooo, scary!" Harry snorts, and predictably lifts the first spoonful, lips pursed over a fragrant piece of carrot and a tender-pink strip of beef sliced so hair-fine it breaks up in the spoon before even making it to Harry's mouth. "Stew Surprise! Mmm. Even better."

Snape's hands are steepled together over his plate, but not in prayer, as he covertly observes Harry's unabashed noises of enjoyment, instinctive thanks for this shared meal. "How is that possibly better?" he grumbles, to hide his own grin at Harry's delighted slurping of a twenty-four ingredient stew measured, sliced, and added to the pot in precise order and fashion. He can't remember when he's ever had such an appreciative consumer for his cooking.

"It's a good surprise. See, I trust you." Harry shrugs, his glasses steaming up as he leans over the bowl. "And your mom too. And I liked watching you cook. That makes it extra good."

"Flatterer." Snape gives up the subterfuge and smirks openly, tasting his own creation and admitting it's acceptable enough.

"So. How'd you end up a preacher here anyway?"

How indeed. "The usual way. Seminary school. How better to dash Mother's dreams of a vagabond son?"

"Why seminary? I mean, instead of college, or university… There are plenty of places to choose from: community college, in-state, out of state," Harry lists patiently, as if reading from a high school counselor's brochure.

He's considered college, Snape realizes. Good. That scholarly streak must be fed, but surely it can be encouraged by something other than my poor life experiences. None of which are an appropriate example for a budding scholar. More importantly, none of them are ready to be shared, or will ever be.

"... ever thought about being a chef?" Harry teases, in an unexpected turn of conversation.

"No. Actually, I wanted to work for the railroad when I was young," Snape reveals, not to be one-upped. It's a small confession, not nearly enough to uncover every hope and dream of a seven-year-old innocent, concentrating on the sound of a passing train to distract himself from the screams of yet another fight drowning out the inane background of TV chatter. At least for a few moments, the train's lorn and warning whistle somehow took his mind off all his closer woes.

"What, seriously?" Harry snorts into his plate, then grins. "You? Sorry, just, can't really picture you with a sledgehammer on one shoulder and a railroad tie on the other. A conductor's uniform though..."

"The pay's reasonable, and there's plenty of opportunity for travel." A practical choice for a boy growing up in a trailer park, one that would have carried him far away from Pleasant Hope to another life.

They finish dinner and Harry stacks the plates, carrying them to the draining board. When Snape follows him over to the sink, Harry protests, "I'll wash! You did all the cooking! And look, you're about out of dish soap anyway. Got any more?"

"There's some at the church." Snape used to do more dishwashing there in the basement sink after church dinners than he ever did here in the cottage kitchen. Harry has changed all that.

"Hang on, I'll get it." With a flurry of motion, and a cotton towel still tucked over the front of his jeans, Harry sweeps past him. As he brushes past Severus, he pauses briefly and flicks the towel teasingly at him, "Don't start without me!"

Severus snorts amusement and feels excitement bubbling up, when it really shouldn't be. But it is. As if the dessert is yet to come.

Snape rinses the worst of the loose scraps off the dishes, then wipes the tabletop. He folds the dishrag neatly, setting it on the counter top. A while later, the cast iron stew pot is scrubbed clean, rinsed with boiling water, seasoned with fresh lard, and put away.

What's taking him so long? The soap's the first thing you see when you open the cupboard.

But apparently Harry hasn't found it yet.

Snape stands at the open door and calls out into the night. "Harry?"

It's quiet: the yard, the church.

It's also dark. Far too dark. The porch light should be on. It's not.

Snape walks out onto the porch and listens. The nighttime hush grows deafening, and the sickening sense of wrong intensifies as he stalks silently down the porch stairs.

In the triangular slash of cornfield that Snape can see, burnt yellow by the light from the open door behind him, there's a dark line of disturbed growth, as if someone has walked through it. It wasn't there before.

Snape does lock the church doors overnight, but the decorative old lock that the traditionalists among his congregation like the look of so much, is far too easy to pick. So he isn't enough of a fool to leave anything of value in the main building. His own cottage, of course, is a separate building with much better maintained locks, both modern and magical.

"Harry?"

No answer. Then, a muffled yell in the distance, for all its quiet far more startling to Snape than the most piercing train whistle.

Jolting instantly into a sprint, Snape hurls himself at the church door. It bursts wide under his weight, far too easily: already opened.

"STOP! Not one more fuckin' step!"

It's a threatening growl forced past the bared teeth of the intruder. Harry's struggling futilely in the man's clutches, held in a brutally efficient headlock; the mugger seems twice the boy's size in the gloom.

Snape skids to a halt; his eyes adjust to the dimness and he recognizes the ragged stranger from congregation this morning. Drifter. Nothing much to lose and that makes him dangerous. Harry's eyes are wide, and he's silenced by a large hand with long nails clamped over his mouth and nose. With a sickening wrench of guilt Snape realizes, Harry's helpless! Because I crippled his magic!

"Hah, preacher! Just the guy I wanna see. Getcha skinny ass over there," a nod toward the altar, "or wherever ya stash all that collection plate cash an' shit. Oh yeah, an' gimme alla them silver'n'gold crosses'n'whatever, alla that churchy bling ya keep locked up for special."

The "Ha!" that last demand wrings out of Snape is pure bitter reflex; the intruder startles and Snape waves his hands at the bare clapboard walls. "Does this look like the sort of place with a secret cellar full of jewels and golden crucifixes?" The mugger's sweaty face twists and Snape adds in a rush, "Listen, we don't have anything much, the collection was banked today, but put the boy down and come with me and…"

"BULLSHIT!" the intruder snarls. "Shut the FUCK UP! I ain't goin' NOwhere with you an' I don't want no more o' your shit. You gimme ALLA your money NOW. RIGHT NOW, y'hear me? Or I'll blow 'im away." The arm not holding Harry in the headlock moves just enough to show the dull glint of gunmetal by Harry's ear, shaking badly with the jitters of nerves or who-knows-what mixture of drugs. The click of the hammer cocking is loud in the silence.

That crazy fucker'll KILL HIM and IT'S ALL MY FAULT!

And with that, the constant flow of Snape's detached, didactic thought stops. Amputated as if by the headsman's axe. Obliterated in an instant by a towering black tsunami of unstoppable killing rage.

NO!

Perhaps he screams that soul-deep denial aloud. Perhaps that roar sounds only in his mind, or perhaps it echoes only in his magic, as it seizes the man in vast, invisible claws, rips him instantly far away from Harry and right off the ground, holds him spreadeagled high in the air, suspended for an endless moment like a trophy, like a twisted parody of the crucifix at the far end of the hall. Or perhaps the only sound is the wet splatter of a body literally being torn to shreds, a throat rent in two before it finishes drawing breath to scream, the dull, meaty thuds of limbs hitting the floor, and the hollow roll of a shaggy head, coming to rest by Snape's boot.

Silence, then. Silence, and the sound of Snape panting, perhaps with adrenalin overload, perhaps with less innocent exultation.

Amid the chaos, Harry is also silent. Standing. Staring, pale-faced. His eyes are so green, so naked: his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the struggle.

Looking at it all.

Seeing, at last, what Snape is truly capable of.

Witnessing a murder.

Finally, he knows what I am. A monster.

The sparse, orderly space of the church looks nightmarish, unreal, like something out of a late-night horror movie. Blood sprays crisscross the white ceiling and walls. A dark puddle spreads wider and wider on the floor, and the stink of gore and worse hangs sickeningly heavy.

"Did he hurt you?" Snape rasps. He can't bring himself to touch Harry. Not now.

"No," Harry croaks, and then, "You?" He steps toward Snape, arms lifting as if trying to shield him from the sight of the massacre. His hands fumble over Snape's shoulders, his chest, checking for physical wounds. "What, what was that?"

"Me." Snape breathes, stepping back. "All me. Go inside, Harry. The cottage. Now!"

"Wait. You've got people coming in the morning. They can't see," - Harry motions with a cringe - "that. We've got to clean up - get the blood out - from everything, and the smell… there's not enough time!"

He wants to help me, Snape blinks, dazed by the very idea. After everything he just saw. He still wants to help. Me!

"Don't touch anything. Especially not the gun. Or me. Don't get any more blood on you." He can't be connected to this!

Snape, ever the pastor in charge of his domain, snaps into a familiar routine. He remembers how to clean this space and make it presentable for visitors. He's cleaned so many times before: sweeping the aisles free of dust and confetti, washing dishes after church dinners, all with measured grace and somberness and sobriety.

Not anymore. Now, he works rushed and ruthless: banishing every last scrap of scattered flesh and bone, including a dismembered hand and the gun it still clutches. Then he paces the aisle methodically, banishing every last drop of blood and other bodily fluids from ceiling and walls and floor, right down to stray hairs and greasy fingermarks and dirty bootprints. Until nothing remains but a vague reek, and even that is dismissed with a wave of one hand that coaxes a waft of night breeze through the still-open church door.

The floor is as pristine as if he'd just gone over it with a broom after a spring wedding, sweeping out the rice and the confetti to the celebratory chatter outside. It smells of nothing worse than wet earth, though the last summer storm blew through these parts weeks ago.

All is clean, as if a body wasn't just reaped down and sown six feet under to join another man: a stranger's remains gone forever, to mingle with the bones of Snape's childhood monster.

But Snape was alone that first time. Not now.

Harry's still there. Watching him with wide eyes.

"It's done." Snape says, to himself as much as Harry. "It's over."

Drained of all energy, Snape surveys a familiar scene. The church is quiet, still, and almost, almost a holy place. Just like any other night.

There's just one thing left that's out of place. Harry's glasses glisten on the floor by a pew. Snape bends to pick them up gently and mutely holds them out. A hand wraps around his, and both of them are holding on, holding onto each other.

"Come on," Harry says softly. His voice cracks, "Let's go home."


They're in Snape's room. Harry once slept, alone, in this bed. Snape closes this door every night, leaving Harry on the couch in the living room. Now the door is open and they're both on this side of it, actually in the room at the same time, and Harry can't bring himself to leave Snape alone in this room or any other.

Not after what happened today.

Snape did the unthinkable to save Harry's life. He killed a man in his own church. And then he had enough composure to clean it all up, to wipe out every trace. All of it should have been impossible. To wield a power not of this world. But he not only did the impossible, he made it look as easy as doing the dishes.

As if it's just one more cleanup, a thought dawns, numb as the afterword. Just another chore.

But Snape's gaze on him is seeking, and even kind. It's not the stare of a calculating murderer. He's tired. He's been through so much today, enough for a year! He definitely needs help, Harry realizes. He needs my help.

Harry reaches out, turns Snape's hands over, and Snape lets him. They're the same hands Harry's seen so many times before. Warm. Human. The bony knuckles are clean, the long, thin fingers are clean. Not a trace of blood anywhere.

"Thank you." Harry murmurs, "I don't know what would've happened if you weren't there, and you just… handled it." Like some superhero swooping in and taking out the bad guy.

"That... wasn't the first time," Snape confesses, abrupt and toneless. "It was years ago. I was even younger than you. I had no idea what I was doing. None." The finest possible tremor starts in Snape's fingers: if Harry hadn't been holding his hands, he never would have noticed.

"That first time, did they deserve it then too?"

Snape drops his gaze, swallows, finally nods.

"How did you do that? You... and me. ...I, it's just, all these things keep happening around us! Is it 'cause of…?" Harry's gaze flicks in the direction of the church and he falters into silence.

That small church with its crucifix on the wall is the only explanation most everyone else in town seems to need. But Harry feels a sudden surge of doubt. He was brutally attacked inside it, was about to have his brains blown out inside it, and has watched it bloodied over and blown clean by a morbid miracle he knows damn well he never thought to pray for.

Snape sighs and lowers his head until his hair shrouds his face. "It's got nothing to do with God." he intones slowly, "Or the devil. Witchcraft is merely a part of nature. My nature."

Harry thinks of the documentaries on TV about the oddities of nature, the ones about the electric eels and the squids changing color, and the poisonous frogs. Those TV shows never had anything like what Snape did in them.

Witchcraft's for Halloween and bad horror movies.

"Witchcraft," he repeats after Snape. "You're not like any preacher I ever heard of, you know that? I mean, it's not bad. It's not! But, you are. I'm just saying, you're not like anyone else I've ever met. I should be angry at you."

"Harry, it's..."

"You know why? You almost made me believe in something so huge! But God doesn't even matter, not when it comes to you saving me! Yes, it's a miracle, and you did it all by yourself! But did you ever even drop any hints about that in your sermons? That people can do miracles, all on their own?"

"It's complicated," Snape interrupts. "But I mean what I say to my congregation. Every word."

"Then how can you quote the Bible in the morning, and that night wave your hand and make a bad guy disappear?"

"Because it's my responsibility. All of it. All of this. To keep the people of this town focused, to keep them safe. It's all I can do now. I don't need a cross on the wall, to tell me what I have to do for the rest of my life, to atone for what I am. I know!"

"Atone?" Harry latches onto that one word, one argument he can make. "So what you're saying is, you're just… like the rest of us?"

"Not like the rest. No. Harry, what I am is..." Snape's face twists, Adam's apple working as if he's fighting not to be sick.

"I like you just the way you are!" Harry cries, loud in the evening hush. Needing to do something to counteract Snape's sudden wrench of self-disgust. "I trust you! Is that stupid of me? I don't think so!"

A clock in the living room chimes midnight. Already? Harry can't bring himself to move away. He's still lightheaded and jittery, his whole body a bundle of scraped-raw nerves in the aftermath of adrenalin rush.

Snape may be feeling similar restlessness: he prowls over to the corner bookshelf, scooping up a whisky bottle and a shot glass, pouring until the glass is brim full. His hands are not as perfectly rock steady as Harry's always seen them before.

Snape flicks a glance over at Harry, unsure, almost apologetic, but Harry shakes his head at the silent offer in the lifted brow and the tilted bottle. It's not the time to experiment with drinking tonight. Someone's got to keep an eye on him.

Snape knocks back the shot in his hand, and immediately pours himself another, pacing all the while. He doesn't talk, but he does push aside something odd as he sets the bottle back on the shelf. It's a deck of cards, but they're larger than the usual playing cards. Much more colorful, too: the top card's facing up and there's a full-color picture on it, not the usual stylized court card.

Curious, Harry comes over for a closer look. The picture is of a man with an eight on its side over his head and a table full of alchemist's gadgets. There's a number 1 on the top edge and a label on the bottom edge that reads: "The Magician."

"What's this?"

Snape's lips thin in an unimpressed grimace. "One of Mother's tarot decks. She does like to leave me her little reminders. It stopped being funny long ago."

Harry's picks up the card and lets his fingers run over it: feeling the golden grooves of the infinity halo and the drop of gold flame on the double-sided candle in the magician's hand. "So. Does this run in your family? Is your mom like you, a…"

There's a flash of something vulnerable in Snape's dark eyes, just for a second: as if he expects Harry to pry after something damning, something hurtful.

"She tells actual futures, doesn't she? With those cards."

Snape gives one of those dry huffs that, from him, signal amusement. The gaunt lines of his face relax, just a little, and he takes another sip of whisky. "She's not as skilled at fortune-telling as she likes to think." Snape reaches his free hand out to cover the deck, taps the altar with its miniature cup. The image is so detailed, it must've been painted with a single hair. "She drew this card to symbolize me, when she visited last. But if she truly knew me, she would have drawn a different one."

He scoops up the deck and shuffles the cards as deftly as if he's done it a million times, and come to think of it, he probably has. He closes his eyes as he draws a card, as if he's concentrating, before he flips the card over. It's a skeleton on a white horse. Death.

Harry frowns, staring at the silent scream of the skeletal face, at the field of body parts and the rolling head by the horse's back hooves. "That's not who you are," he cries, "It's not!"

Snape just shakes his head and turns away, draining his glass and setting it down. "I don't know how to be anything else."

Harry collects the remaining cards, and he doesn't know yet what he's looking for: anything, anything but that. He shuffles the cards clumsily, mainly trying to hide that horrible Death card back inside the deck and bury it beneath all the others.

Where's that Magician when you need it? Quick! A couple of cards slip out between his fumbling fingers and fall onto the table before he can draw anything else.

One card shows a single golden cup. And the other card is so obvious, even Harry can see what those two people are symbolizing without having to read the label. Whoa, that's a very naked and very happy card and are they...

Harry looks away. Blushes. "Here, take 'em. I'm crap at cards, even card tricks. But even I know you're anything but Death. You're not Death to me, you're the opposite! You're Life! And so much more! You're everything else in this deck and a gazillion other decks put together! So don't you dare give up now. Not when you just saved me!"


Harry may have been saved this time, but Snape is tired of resisting. This is it, the end for him, anyway. He cannot begin atoning for everything he's done, so he gives in and lets the guilt roll over him, like a crushing wave, burying him in cold salt, dragging him under to drown.

Beneath all that storm, it's quiet; calm as it always is, under the surface.

He reaches out, draws Harry close. Surrenders to the warm embrace, to the gentle press of Harry's lips on his forehead, to Harry's hands on him. The room spins, dizzy with drunkenness and exhaustion: physical, emotional, magical.

It's only sensible not to let go of Harry.

It's anything but sensible to bury his face in Harry's feathery, soft hair. It's anything but wise to stay like this, holding onto him. It's anything but proper to draw Harry down onto the bed with him.

Where else would he sleep? Surely not the couch. I don't have the focus to unweave the spells limiting Harry's abilities right now, and I'm not about to leave him alone and defenseless. Not again.

No, that's not quite the truth.

He knows just what I am now. He's seen exactly what I'm capable of. And he's still here. With me. And I need that. I need him. So much I'm being unwise.

Harry's ring in his pocket presses against his thigh. He struggles to shed his jacket, so clumsily that Harry has to help him out of it.

He deserves the chance to see the whole truth. Something besides the very worst that I can do.

The world can wait.

Harry reaches out to turn off the bedside light and plunges the room into darkness. Some things are easier in the dark. Snape slides his arms around the young man, and breathes, "Stay."

A whisper of happy, content laughter is all the answer he needs. "M'not leaving. Sleep."