Part One: Coming Home

Chapter 1: The Pain

"There's a ghost in my lungs, and it sighs in my sleep

Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks

Then it walks, then it walks with my legs

To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet."

-Florence + the Machine, "Ghost"

He had scars.

Not the stupid metaphorical ones, those he had those too. No, his body was covered in real scars, from the faintest pink line on his ankle from a defense spell gone awry in his third year to the jagged, angry purple trail leading from his left ear to his right collarbone where the snake had torn out the flesh of his throat. His chest looked like a map of hell; the purple, red, pink lines intersecting and curving and diving across the skin. His back was even more crudely decorated with the reminders of the Dark Lord's whims. Glaring at his own reflection, watching the ugly marks stretch and squirm as he breathed, he briefly wondered how he could be so damaged when the rest of the world was seemingly returning to normal.

He scoffed at his own dramatics. Fuck yourself, Snape, he spat in his mind, you did this all on your own. As he buttoned his shirt over his heinously decorated torso, he wondered at the number of admirers of the most famous scar given by Voldemort. The idiot lot of them would run in terror at the sight any one of mine.

Taking care to secure the top button on his cloak—can't have any stupid first years staring—he slammed the door of his rooms behind him.

It hadn't yet been three months from the day he woke up gasping for air in St Mungo's, screaming like a fool and completely unsure of what was going on. Nobody had been there, of course, waiting on him to come around. Not that he had expected visitors, but he had no bloody idea where he was or how he got there, none the less why he was still alive.

The pain was unbearable. For days...weeks?... he had writhed between the starchy sheets, clawing at the open, oozing gashes on his neck and chest where the snake had gouged out his flesh. He screamed for hours; though he knew he sounded like a stupid child, he couldn't control his reaction to the searing, itching, hellish pain from the bites. The healers did the best they could, he knew, but he continued to scream and swear at their ineptitude at healing him of a dark magic so powerful that none of them had seen it before. Soon, his hands were bound to the bed and his mouth sealed shut with a charm so that he could not curse any more healers with his wandless magic. But still he gagged and screamed and thrashed through the pain, wanting to die but unable to summon the courage again.

During this time, he flitted in and out of consciousness, aware only figures—healers, presumably—coming and going, casting incantations over his struggling body. One of them touched him, once—a cool hand on the burning flesh of his face—and his reaction was so violent, he was sure he'd been sedated for days afterward.

After a few long weeks, the pain subsided. The wounds closed and the pain dulled to the constant ache Severus felt as he dressed that evening, the first night of the term. He ran his hands through his hair, angrily wondering why he was even here. The war was over, Potter was gone, his job at Hogwarts was done. But when he had the opportunity to leave this place forever, he panicked. He tried, but he couldn't picture being anywhere else come September first, not even Spinner's End. This angered him immensely. He was not sentimental; in fact, he hated Hogwarts with his entire being. It was here that he suffered at the hands of so many. First fucking Potter and his gang, then Voldemort, then Dumbledore. Oh, and then the second Potter! No, he did not love Hogwarts, and the castle held nothing but sickening memories for him. He hated the courtyard, where Potter and Black had tormented him so frequently. He hated the headmaster's office, where Dumbledore had manipulated and used him. He even hated his own dark cave in the dungeons, where he had spent so many nights sick and alone and wondering if he was about to die. And now every time he caught a glimpse of the willow out a window, he would be forced to remember his own death, heaving and choking on his own blood as he convulsed on the cold floor of the Shrieking Shack.

But here he was, for the seventeenth consecutive year. As he ascended to the Great Hall for the sorting ceremony, his body ached as it climbed the dungeon steps. As much as he despised Harry Potter, and though Tom Riddle had ruined his pathetic life, the three of them had something in common: Hogwarts was their home.

He wasn't surprised to see that the Great Hall was fuller than normal, even before the sorting. He'd been told, of course, that some of the half-blood or muggle-born students—Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, mostly—would be coming back to finish their NEWTs.

But when his eyes alighted on that fluffy-haired little know-it-all, Granger, he could hardly contain a snarl. Surely she couldn't be back to torment him further? Was this some kind of odd Hell where the worst of his already horrid students returned past their time to force him to remember a part of his life he already knew he could never move past? He scanned the area around her for her pathetic little friends and breathed an audible sigh of relief when he found no Potter or Weasley—save for the girl—in his search. Perhaps, then, it wouldn't be so horrible.

He hadn't noticed he was staring at her until she turned, her long hair floating over her shoulder as she did, and caught his eye. She looked as stunned as he felt, and despite himself, he gave her a small, serious nod of greeting, not bothering to remove the scowl from his expression. She nodded back, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, before turning away to speak to her classmates.

This was not their first interaction since they had found him dying on the floor of the Shack a few short months ago. No, she and those unfortunate friends of hers had made one brief, awkward visit while he recovered in Saint Mungo's. He had the feeling that the visit was entirely at her insistence—though it certainly did not mean that he liked her by any means—for she did most of the talking. As she relentlessly pattered on about the post-war rebuilding efforts and the death eaters still at large—as if he cared: doesn't she realize all that I have lost?—the Weasley boy stood cross-armed in the furthest corner, saying nothing and appearing entirely disgusted at his presence in the room. Potter was grossly noble, as usual, and thanked Severus for his service to the Order and to himself. When the trio left his room, Severus received two uncomfortable handshakes: a strong and serious one from Potter, and a too-quick, limp tremor from Weasley. But as the boys passed into the hall, the girl took Severus's hand in two of hers, squeezing, and... smiled.

Of course, that has been months ago, now. Apparently, everyone but himself had been able to move on since then. The fucking Boy Who Lived and his ginger-headed shadow had since moved on to Auror training. The Prophet had made no small news of that. Severus wasn't sure what was more sickening: the though of wasting another year attempting to teach those two idiots, or the fact that they obviously thought themselves above what they could learn here. But the girl—the young woman?—was back, and she was smiling at him sadly from the Gryffindor table. He allowed his anger to seep into his gaze before turning away. He disliked her for her affiliation with Potter, resented her for forgetting about the horrors of the war so simply... but he respected her for returning to school. Oh yes, BRA-VO, Miss Granger. Well done, as usual, he thought, maintaining his aloof gaze at the Great Hall ceiling and away from her, God forbid she expects any kind of friendship in return for a simple smile. He looked her way again, trying to make his face appear angry and cold, but she was already smiling at the Thomas boy, listening intently to something he was saying.

As the feast drew to a close, the children and their teachers lingered in the Great Hall, their bellies full of treacle tart. Hermione was smiling kindly at a tiny first-year boy who was obviously trying very hard to impress the older witch. Severus, seated alone at the end of the head table, watched the scene unfold, glaring angrily in their direction. How can she do that? He asked himself, incredulous. How can she enjoy her food and her friends and laugh so warmly when her friends are dead, her parents no longer know her, and she is here, just as I am, living in the place where it all occurred? An angry snort escaped his nose, like a bull in a fight. What a silly, foolish girl, pretending nothing at all has happened.

He had hesitated, at first, when asked to stay at Hogwarts after his recovery. Not because he was weak, he was not, and not because of the history in this place. No, he had briefly considered leaving when he realized that the students, especially the younger ones, would never know or understand what had happened here. He wasn't sure he could live with that, with... forgetting. I will never cease to remember anything, no matter how much I want to. Could he deal with the stupid children, prattling on day in and day out about the war they were barely old enough to remember, nonetheless fight in? He did not think so, but in the end, he had stayed all the same. It was oddly comforting, after all, to live amongst these children who did not know anything about him and the horrors he had faced.

But she knew. And for one more year, at least, he would be forced to watch her—every meal and three times a week in classes—smile and laugh and have friendships and... move on. Yes, she is moving on. He furrowed his brow at the girl, oblivious and smiling with her classmates at the far end of the hall. He was suddenly infuriated. How could she? How can she be anything but devastated at what has transpired here... in this very hall! Severus glowered. He did not know the girl's smile bothered him more than any other's apparent disregard for the very recent past, but somehow, it did. Perhaps he felt that, as a central figure in this war, she owed it to Dumbledore... to him... to be a little more reverent.

Absorbed in his angry thoughts, he had not noticed the girl meet his gaze once again. Hermione cocked her head slightly, her eyes sad and her mouth slightly open, as if she had something she wanted to say. It stung, a little, to look at. He wasn't trying to upset her; he owed her that at least. So I stayed here for this? To feel sorry for a stupid little know-it-all, to look at her at every day and feel... what? Remorse? So furious he nearly spat, Severus glared back at her confounded expression, making it clear that nothing had changed. Finally, Hermione dropped her gaze, looking embarrassedly at the hall floor. See, Snape? He chided himself mentally, even your least favorite person in this room wants positively nothing to do with you, you worthless, pathetic coward.

Inexplicably angry at their silent exchange, Severus rose abruptly from his chair and made for the doors, long strides causing his cloak to billow behind him. He could feel the eyes of the students upon him. Good, he thought, let the little shits be scared. Teach them not to cross me. Holding his gaze aloof, careful to avoid eye contact, he burst through the hall doors, crossed the open foyer in a few quick steps, and took the stairs two at a time down to the dungeons, where he was eager to veil these thoughts in firewhiskey for yet another night.

As he rounded the corner toward the dungeons, he heard the quick patter of running feet following him down. He picked up his pace, but the footsteps followed, matching his speed. He stopped suddenly at the bottom of a staircase, and the footsteps stopped too, a short distance behind.

Severus closed his eyes, steeling himself for the annoyance of an encounter with a nosy student. Turning slowly toward his shadow, prepared to lecture with the most mirth he had ever...

He stopped, his mouth still open but his lecture stalled, gazing up with confusion. Hermione stood on the landing, five or six steps above him, eyes wide and gazing down at him with an expression that mirrored the discomfort in his own mind. She was flushed, presumable from the exertion of keeping up with his long-legged strides, and her wavy hair was fanned out wildly across her shoulders. With the candlelight floating behind her form, she looked almost... angelic.

Severus shook his head to clear that thought from it, steeling a look of aloof dislike onto his face.

"May I help you, Miss Granger?" He spoke slowly, careful to fill each word with annoyance.

"P-professor, I..." she stuttered, still catching her breath. Suddenly, she looked as though she could not answer his question. " I... I just wanted... I wondered if you..." She looked distraught, and Snape's expression softened in spite of himself.

"Spit it out, Miss Granger." He sighed, annoyed but oddly curious as to why she followed him down here, to the dungeons. If he hadn't stopped, would she have followed him all the way to his rooms? The thought made him nervous.

"You came back!" She burst finally, her eyes wide and searching. He narrowed his eyes angrily. What?

"From the dead, yes I did, Miss Granger." What does this pathetic little witch want from me now? Is it not enough that her very presence here tortures me with memories? With a final glare in her direction, Snape turned and began his descent to the dungeons once again.

"No, wait. Professor." Her voice was calmer now, less scared-sounding. She ran down the steps after him, catching his arm in her small hand. "Professor Snape, I'm sorry. I just..." Her words were cut short as he whipped around, staring down at her. His face was no longer angry or annoyed; on the contrary, his eyes appeared confused, searching her face for the reason why she stopped him. And despite his previous anger and abrupt movements, Hermione did not step back, nor did she release her old on his arm when he turned. She spoke again, even calmer and more sure this time: " Professor, I'm sorry. I just wanted to tell you..." She paused, her dark eyes finding his, "I want to tell you that I'm glad you came back here this year."

She let out a shaky breath, breaking their eye contact as she did. Snape did not move or speak; he just looked at her. Her gaze was averted and her cheeks pink with an embarrassed blush. She still held his arm in her small—but surprisingly strong—hand. And from where he stood, bodies close but towering over her, he could see into her sweater, right down in between her breasts. He willed himself to look away, at the same time admitting to himself that he did not want to.

Regaining his composure, he stepped back, at the same time forcefully removing himself from her hold. He concentrated on hardening his face into a menacing stare.

"Charming as you may think you're being, Miss Granger, I assure you that the feeling is not mutual. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to that you have quite rudely—and quite inappropriately—interrupted." And with that, he turned on his heel and made for the dungeons, hopefully too quickly for her to follow. There, that sounded like the old Snape, he thought to himself as we walked away. Surely that performance will put her off any silly perception that we are friends. But as he walked away, he couldn't help but steal one more glance at her, the sad, pretty girl he left standing at the top of the stairs.