Severus Snape: At the Doorstep

Severus Snape

Severus apparated to the walled garden at Spinner's End and stopped, staring at his house. The back door was ajar.

Days of dealing with the Weasleys, and now this. Ron Weasley could certainly give Potter a run for his money on reckless self-endangerment. Shattered arms, drowned, nearly torn apart by a werewolf. He'd had his hands full subtly casting healing charms and slipping him potions without being detected. But the information he'd gleaned from Percy's mind would prove fruitful—he hoped. He'd have to visit the Ministry tomorrow to verify what he'd seen. Hermione's horcrux search might be over sooner than she'd imagined.

Assuming he didn't spend the next few days tracking Potter down. Or nursing him back to health after he'd been left with one day's worth of food for the past five days. He checked the wards. Still firm around the garden walls, and no sign of anyone entering or leaving the property. Wards unfortunately didn't keep out the biting night air. The storms that had raged across England and the North Sea had brought a sharp drop in temperature. He flexed his numb fingers around his wand. If Potter had escaped in nothing but a nightshirt—but he was getting ahead of himself. Gather evidence, not assumptions.

His wand nudged the door wider. The moonlight from the window cast blue-grey shadows over the kitchen. Opened cans of beans and soup littered the kitchen floor. The tension in his shoulders eased. Potter had survived for five years in a dungeon cell. It was a small matter to live alone for a few days in a row house.

But that left the problem of Potter wandering free in the house for five days. He'd warded the kitchen to prevent Potter entering, but that had been broken through. He checked for other changes. The cans offered little scent to indicate their freshness—Potter no doubt licked them clean. No sign whether that was today or five days ago. He could have escaped mere hours after Severus's departure. Or he could still be in the house. He eased open the utensil drawer, careful not to cause any rattling. Two knives were missing. Grimly, he crept forwards, cracking open the door to the front room.

The window on this side gave far less light, and dark shapes hid in the shadows. From memory, he knew the large shape to the right was the stairs, and the darkness to the left held his sofa and writing desk. He waited and listened. Something scraped against the floor and moved behind the sofa, briefly outlined in the feeble light.

Severus stared at the figure, debating. The safest course was to cast incarcerous first, immobilizing Potter before revealing his presence. But one reason he let Potter wander freely was to establish some measure of trust between them. Trapping him unawares would set them back. He could cast lumos and simply greet Potter, perhaps apologize…well, no, he wouldn't apologize. Apologies were for deep regrets and keeping the Dark Lord appeased. But he could explain he was unavoidably delayed. Allow Potter to approach him.

He wavered a moment, but he simply couldn't allow Potter that much of an advantage. "Incarcerous." Ropes flew across the room and disappeared into the shadows. The figure thumped to the floor. Severus turned on the lights and rounded the sofa.

Chair lay on its side, helplessly wiggling its legs amid a tangle of knots. Severus frowned and released it, setting it upright again. Chair's movements dislodged an empty can from underneath the sofa. It rolled with a hollow metallic sound, stopping at Snape's feet. The edge glistened wetly. Freshly eaten. Potter was still here.

Something shuffled behind him. He turned. The world went black.

xx

He woke to a pounding headache and muscles spasming up his ribs and arms. When he tried to shift to a more comfortable position, something tightened painfully around his wrists and ankles.

He looked up blearily. Something bound his wrists and pulled his arms tightly above his head. He stared uncomprehendingly at a bookcase that appeared to be attached to the ceiling until he reoriented himself and the room shifted into place. Thick ropes stuck to the floor, binding his arms and legs and stretching his body across the area near the front door.

Adrenaline surged, and his mind cleared. Potter. He clenched his teeth to hold back the string of foul curses flooding his mouth. Potter had attacked him again. This was worse than a quill to the ankle. This was… The anger turned cold. This was helplessness.

He flexed his arms. If he strained, he could move a few centimeters. His wand was nowhere to be seen, and useless anyway without freedom of movement. He had nowhere near the mastery of Dumbledore or the Dark Lord with wandless spells, but he knew a few. He tried an unbinding spell and felt a now-familiar resistance. His own incarcerous spell altered and turned against him.

Dragging noises came from the other side of the room, but the sofa blocked his view. He turned his head, trying to follow the sound. A set of hands and knees shuffled past the gap under the sofa, followed by a clattering set of wooden legs.

On the other side of him, an assortment of objects bordered the front door and exterior walls. Books he'd left on his writing desk and strips of yellowed paper—whirligigs his mother had made to amuse him as a child. Potion ingredients he'd kept in the kitchen, a self-filling inkwell, and that battered tray of the queen's coronation.

All charmed or magically altered objects, he realized. And not as haphazard as they initially looked. Potter had stacked some objects in narrow towers, others lined up in rows along the floor. The cups and plates Severus had transfigured and mended dotted the outer walls. A flock of self-writing quills swooped through the lines. The arrangement looked like rune marks, but he couldn't identify them from this angle. His mother had told him she'd written runes under the floorboards when she'd first set wards on the house.

Potter crawled to the front door on his knees, his hands carrying more objects. He placed them carefully, slowly turning each one as he studied the door. He looked no skinnier than usual. A bit more color in his cheeks. He wore a shirt and trousers from Severus's teenage years, but no shoes. Severus kept his wellies and spare boots in his bedroom. Perhaps Potter hadn't broken those wards. But he was clearly preparing to leave the house.

"I've had more than enough of you," Severus growled. "Untie me, and I'll release the wards myself, just to be rid of you."

Potter glanced back at him. His eyes glinted, like a fox slipping through a trap. He went back to work on the door.

He sagged against the ropes. No, he hadn't expected that to work.

Dust, stirred by his movements, rose and stung his eyes and throat. He coughed and spit out the gritty residue. His heart thudded to a rhythm he knew well—the thump-thump of approaching death. Potter had tried to kill him before and wouldn't hesitate now. The only question was if he planned a quick death or a slow one. The fact that he was tied to the floor did not suggest a merciful end.

Closing his eyes, he drew his swirling emotions behind the thick walls of occlumency. He'd faced death many times before. He expected it, sooner or later, as much as he dreaded it. There were few long-lived Death Eaters. But something new unsettled him. The thought of Potter crawling out that door filled him with a terror he couldn't explain.

A single word rose in his throat: please. He swallowed it down. Never. He would never beg in front of a Potter. He could count on one hand the number of times he had begged in the last decade, and those had all been for show, to give the Dark Lord the performance he wanted. Beg for forgiveness. And he had. All to keep his position, to save others. But beg Potter? Beg for his miserable life? Never. He'd rather die.

But he wasn't dead yet. He may not have his wand, but he had his wits. He tightened the walls of his occlumency and found his most reasonable voice. "How do you expect to survive? The weather's turned cold enough that even the strays have found shelter. How long since you've gone outside? You can't walk, can't talk. We're in the middle of a muggle town. You'll find no guidance, no instruction on spells you never learnt."

Potter produced the shopping bag spelled with an extension charm. He loaded books into it, far more than should fit, even with the charm. Then he sidled over to the warded bookshelves and ran his hand along the sides, his head bowed. A crackle of magic jumped from the objects across the floor, one to the next, until it reached the shelves. Potter waited a moment, then reached for a book. His hand moved through unimpeded.

The wards to the kitchen and bookshelves had been broken now. How long before the house wards fell? He'd thought they'd be impossible for Potter to break, but Potter had the unfortunate habit of proving him wrong. He was going to defy him again. Endanger his life again. "Potter, you've been shut away. You've no idea how the world works. You don't trust me"—he took a long breath—"obviously, but you would do well to heed me. When you followed your own brainless instincts, you ended up a prisoner. I took you out of the dungeons. I healed you." Little thanks that he'd got for it. "Two things you couldn't manage by yourself. Listen to me, for once in your life."

Potter stopped in the process of carting books over to his bag and scooted close to Severus. Looking down at him mockingly, he tapped the ropes holding Severus in place. He rifled through an out-of-date book on the flora and fauna of Azkaban and pointed out three words on different pages:

Who

Prisoner

Now

Severus felt like raging. "Yes, so clever you are. How far do you think you'll get? So much empty land in the North. Empty land and wide-open skies. Far worse than my garden, and you couldn't make it through my back door without pissing yourself in fear."

Potter flushed and lurched close, snapping his teeth.

Only the tight ropes kept Severus from flinching back. Another inch closer and Potter would have taken off his earlobe.

Crawling back to the door, Potter stared moodily at the scattered objects. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up a small wooden box.

Severus recognized it. A music box his mother had charmed. A pattern slowly emerged. The objects were in clusters, grouped by who had charmed them: himself or his mother. The ones charmed by others had been set aside. Two magical signatures that created the wards over the house.

Unraveling others' magic. Potter wasn't simply a magpie, collecting random objects. He collected magic, reweaving it to suit his purposes. It made sense, and yet it didn't. Why didn't Potter simply take his wand and break out directly? He may not know the exact spells, but channeling his new magic through a wand would give him the power to blast his way through a weak point, if nothing else. Not that he was about to give Potter tips.

Potter set the music box down carefully, creating patterns only he could make sense of. He let out a breath and returned to his books.

My books, Severus corrected. Bloody thief.

A sneeze caught him off guard, erupting in his mouth. A fur-tipped tail brushed his temple, followed by a curious rowr.

Potter froze. Turned.

Severus tried to catch sight of the ginger creature. Make yourself useful, cat. Perform whatever magic gets you in and out of my house and transport me out of here.

Crookshanks padded in front of Severus, rubbed his face against his nose, and purred.

He spent the next minute sneezing loudly, his head knocking against the floor. Malicious animal. I hope you go to a hell filled with dogs and wet grass.

Potter approached cautiously, stopping a few feet away. His eyes widened, their usual hard look melting away, and his face opened.

Crookshanks swished his tail.

Potter touched him gently, fingertips barely touching the thick fur.

Severus let out a breath. He had no explanation for Hermione's cat visiting his house. His activities as a spy weren't exposed, though. Potter didn't know about the messages passed between himself and the resistance.

Potter stiffened, his gaze darting to Severus. His face slowly transformed, his half-smile disappearing, his mouth parting.

It occurred to him that there was one obvious conclusion: he'd obtained Crookshanks as a trophy. A common hobby among Death Eaters after a resistance member was killed. Wearing pilfered jewelry or displaying wands, proud ornaments of their depravity.

Turning, Potter pressed his face into the wall, his shoulders shaking. A low groan rose, louder and louder, until it was a howl. The scream echoed through the room, broken and twisted.

It chilled his blood. "Potter, it's not what it looks like." He hesitated, unsure what to say. Reveal or obscure? Honesty or lies? Killed by Potter now, for one of the few crimes he didn't commit, or later, by the Dark Lord, when Potter was inevitably captured and interrogated? Potter had an instinct for occlumency, but how likely was he to hide anything Severus told him? It was the most important lesson he'd learnt in school—any personal embarrassment he confided or spell he shared always wound its way back to James Potter and his gang and was used against him. His secrets only stayed secrets when he kept them to himself.

And there was Hermione to consider. Perhaps his life was forfeit, but revealing his connection to Hermione put her at risk. He could be used as bait to draw her out. Still, a minister and Death Eater could plausibly know many things about the leader of the resistance. Perhaps he could turn this to his advantage. "Yes, I have information on Miss Granger. I'll tell you what I know, if you release me—"

Potter's howl rose, even more anguished. He clawed at his ears, drawing blood.

Severus raised his voice, determined to get through to him. "I didn't kill her. She was last seen—"

Potter growled and lunged, covering Severus's mouth with his hands, fingers digging into his cheeks.

That was clear enough. No more talk of Hermione. Still, his wits had saved his skin more than once, and he couldn't resist one more attempt, once Potter removed his fingers. "If you cooperate, perhaps I can find her, arrange a meeting—"

Potter slammed a book down, inches from his face, making his ear ring.

He pulled the book back up and flipped through it, fingers licking the pages frantically, until he pointed at a word, then another:

Lie. Dead.

His heart rate ticked up. "I assure you, she's very much alive."

Lie.

"Just give me a day, and I can show you—"

He spun, slamming against the bookshelves in his fury. Knickknacks tumbled down. A glass jar shattered on the floor. Chair danced nervously, nudging Potter with a leg. Potter hissed at it, and it skittered into a corner. He slumped against the shelf, panting, his expression haunted.

Potter hadn't been this bad in a while. All hatred and rage, and Severus was somehow fueling it. He took a few deep breaths, imagining the walls of his occlumency as rows of thick, moss-covered stone, growing so heavy they sank into the ground. He buried his anger and fear behind them, sealing them inside.

But even with his emotions contained, he wouldn't calm Potter easily. Legilimency could pull emotions out of others, but Potter was too vigilant of mind magic and rarely made eye contact. He needed to draw him close. Severus waited until Potter glanced at him and then turned his head away, whispering any spell he could think of, low enough that Potter would catch a stray word here and there. Transfiguration spells, ward strengthening spells, stunning spells. He couldn't perform them wandless, but Potter didn't know that.

Potter took the bait. He scrambled closer, bringing his head close. Severus dropped his voice until it was inaudible, but moved his lips silently.

Tugging at his jaw, Potter tried to pull Severus's face towards him, pressing a cold thumb against his lips. Severus fought him for a moment, keeping up the pretense of murmuring spells. He mentally prepared himself, then abruptly faced Potter and let himself go slack.

Potter's hands slipped, and he fell forwards, collapsing on him. His wide eyes snapped up to meet Severus's gaze.

It was a natural reflex, and Severus was ready for it. He cast legilimens and slid into Potter's mind, silent and focused.

There was more than empty darkness this time. Fragments of thought and memories shone through, but all of them glittered with an icy rage. It took a moment to find the blankness—Potter's own wall. He knew from experience that a direct attack would be immediately detected.

Creeping along the vast expanse, he searched for cracks, knowing he had mere seconds before Potter discovered him or broke eye contact. He needed to bring forth a calming, soothing memory. But every tendril twisted with agony and hatred. He caught glimpses of friends, but not enough to hold on to.

Then there was something. The smell of salt and the rumbling sea. A shoreline came into view. A family holiday, perhaps? Seagulls cried in the distance. He tugged at the memory, drawing it forwards. A crisp wind and peace. Relief. Almost happiness, but honed to a sharp edge. He slipped into Potter's perspective, walking along a cliffside bordering the sea, absently fondling something in his pocket. He felt lighter, free of a difficulty that had been bothering him.

But the memory wasn't quite right. The flow of thoughts felt familiar, but Potter's thoughts didn't flow. They were disjointed, jagged, and that tinted his memories. These were smooth and hard. And there was something else. He'd recently heard seagulls crying, and these cries rang false. Slowly, realization dawned. He'd witnessed enough as a Death Eater to know the sound of human screams.

He reeled back, and that was when Potter detected the spell. The dark wall surrounded and squeezed him, and it took all his skill to wriggle away. Those glittering cold thoughts pursued him, hooking onto his withdrawing self and invading his mind. But Severus shut him out quickly, his walls slamming closed around everything but his most surface thoughts.

Potter withdrew and studied him with a simmering gaze. Severus felt him shoving against his mental barriers and stared back, holding firm. Potter dropped his gaze and picked a teacup off the floor, tilting it slightly. A vial filled with liquid rested inside.

Severus froze. His potions workroom. Potter had broken the wards there, too. He had all manner of poisons and venoms in there.

Potter lifted the vial and swayed it side to side, his gaze on Severus's face.

He etched patterns into some potion vials, in case he were ever blinded or given hallucinogens and couldn't trust his eyes. Two thin notches and three wedge-shaped ones. That was for a mental acuity potion, to clear his thoughts and strengthen his occlumency shields. It was effective when the potion turned a clear blue and smelled of wet paper. It now smelled of burnt paper and was blood-red.

His stomach churned with sudden dread. "You can't be such a fool to believe I'll drink that concoction."

Potter raised an eyebrow in what felt like mockery. He drew closer, bringing the vial to Severus's lips.

Feeling like a recalcitrant child, Severus shut his mouth tightly and turned his face away. Potter squeezed his jaw until it throbbed. Dirty fingers dug between his lips and pressed insistently against his teeth, scratching at them, but he kept them clenched. If Potter tried to dribble that potion between his teeth, he'd spit it right in his face.

Potter sat back and blinked slowly, as if listening to something Severus couldn't hear. Then he gathered more objects. When he raised his hands again, one held an old hammer and the other a sheep's skull usually kept in the workshop.

In one brutal swing of the hammer, Potter smashed the sheep's teeth, shattering them into shards. Tooth particles showered the air, some landing on Severus's face and sticking to the sweat beading there. The skull rattled brokenly to the floor, and Potter picked up the vial again. His other hand still gripped the hammer.

Severus opened his mouth.

The potion tasted smooth and sweet, which was not a good sign. He choked on it, but Potter dug the rusty claw of the hammer into this neck, and he did his best to swallow. After thoroughly examining his mouth, Potter returned to the items gathered by the door.

Severus tried gagging, but he instilled many of his potions with antiemetics, if it didn't affect the potency. Potter clearly hadn't altered that aspect of it. Try as he might, the potion stayed down. He searched for symptoms. It almost felt… oily. As if everything inside him had become slippery and smooth. The cramps in his sides eased as the sensation slithered its way upwards.

A cold wave passed through him, and he shivered. The drafts were getting in.

That door would open. He could feel it, how the walls were opening up, letting themselves breathe. Potter would soon be out. He would be captured and have his mind torn apart. If he didn't die first.

Not that it mattered to him. He'd be dead from the poison he'd just been fed, or of dehydration if he survived it. Or exposure, if Potter left the door open when he escaped. He was suddenly aware of how empty Spinner's End had become. The house he shared a wall with was abandoned, and so was the string of houses beyond that. He could shout until his throat turned raw, and no one would hear him.

He forced himself to focus before the potion took effect. Looking at the surrounding shambles, he spotted a jar that had broken when it fell, yellow liquid spilling out of it and onto the floor. Vitriol. It had been diluted, but it would still eat through his floorboards if left alone. He shifted slightly, twisting his arms so the rope binding them fell into the steaming puddle. The faint scent of burning straw wafted through the air. Severus needed enough time to burn through them before Potter noticed.

Potter was focused on the charmed objects piled around the front door. He studied one, then another, tossing each aside with a growl of frustration. Potter might be able to pull and manipulate the magic of others, but there was only so much magic to be had in simple charmed objects.

His confidence surged. He glanced at the rope. Nearly eaten through. The wards had weakened, but they still held. Soon he would be free. Subdue Potter, test the residue in that vial, and work on a counter-potion. He might still survive this night.

But Potter would surely hear the final snapping of the rope and his movements. Best if he's unbalanced—more so than he already was. "Perhaps it's easier to believe in your dear Miss Granger's passing. What worries you most about her survival? That she'll pity you for your sorry state? Or that she'll recoil in disgust when she sees what an angry, hateful creature you've become?"

A strangled, inhumane noise erupted from Potter's throat. The small bowl he held cracked, the pieces tumbling to the floor. He pressed his head against the wall, his fists pounding it until the drywall dented.

Severus yanked on the remaining threads and his arms broke free. Accio wand. He cast it silently, and his wand flew from the kitchen, knocking open the swinging door.

At the bang of the door, Potter spun. He lunged at Severus.

His wrists were still bound, but he stretched his hands apart. The wand slid into his palm and he twisted, facing Potter, casting his spell with both arms. "Incarcerous!"

Ropes spiraled out of his wand and hurtled towards Potter. Potter shot his arms out, and the ropes stopped in mid-air, looping over themselves. They reversed direction and flew back towards Severus.

Severus attempted to fire off another spell, but a thick rope caught his arm and twisted it painfully. The wand fell from his hand. Rough ropes coiled around his torso and limbs as his body lifted off the floor. The ropes carried him towards Potter.

His head dipped towards the floor as his legs rose, and an old memory wormed its way out of his mental walls. James Potter and Sirius Black, mocking him as they used levicorpus, humiliating him with his own spell in front of everyone. He tried to say something cutting, tried to cast a curse, but his words dried up. A chill descended, numbing his body. Not again.

But slowly he rotated, head over heels, until he was fully upside-down, his bound hands nearly touching the floor. The ropes whispered harshly as they bound him to the front door. Potter and all his friends were laughing, just like before…

No. Snape blinked, trying to stay in the present.

It was Harry Potter watching him, his thin arms crossed. He wasn't laughing. He carefully pulled out a jar from a small box. The jar was filled with a black, bubbling potion. Potter set it on the floor next to him and pushed aside a newspaper to reveal a kitchen knife honed to a razor's edge.

The jar wasn't from his workroom. He had no idea what this potion might have once been, or how it had been reworked. Sweat ran from his neck and hairline, dripping off the tops of his ears. "Potter." But his wits and his words had abandoned him. "Stop for a moment. Let's talk about this."

Potter dipped the blade into the smoky liquid, then touched the ropes. They split and uncoiled from one of Severus's forearms. Potter rolled up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark.

He tried to pull away, but the ropes held him by the wrist. He forced himself to slow his breathing. The blood rushed into his face and arms. His head pounded. He could hear Black's laughter. Not real. But the helplessness, the humiliation—that was real. That was happening, and he couldn't escape it.

Potter pressed the blade just outside the outline of the Dark Mark.

White-hot pain seared him. Stop. You can't destroy it. You'll only activate it. He'll know. But he couldn't say the words. His jaw locked, and his teeth clenched.

Blood ran over Potter's hands and soaked into the ropes below, its metallic scent heavy in the air. The Dark Mark grew even blacker. Potter stopped cutting halfway around the Mark and ran his fingers over the incision. He held his face close, mouth open, as if tasting it.

Severus wanted to close his eyes, but he forced himself to watch as the edges of his vision blurred. His mind flashed on the image of cattle strung up in the slaughterhouse, throats slit and blood sluicing out. Muffled screams pounded against his ears. The Mark hadn't been activated, but the pain surrounding it grew, burrowing deeper into his arm.

He forced his mind away from his throbbing arm, tried to push the pain and his shuddering reaction behind those thick stone walls. But the walls were shuddering, too. Glistening oil had slipped between the stones, and now they rattled against each other like chattering teeth. Cracks splintered through them and widened into dark crevices. One stone slipped from its mooring, leaving behind a gaping hole. And then another stone, and another.

That potion, that strange oily sensation. It had slipped into his mind, threaded its way through his shields. He tried to visualize it disappearing, but it persisted, seeping from between the stones and flowing down the walls. Terrible memories slipped free, catching him in a whirlwind of terror and shame. His occlumency was disappearing, crumbling with each rivulet of blood down his arm. "Stop." He didn't recognize his own voice. Too quiet, too small. "You can't do this. I can't—"

The Dark Mark. It was bound to his magic. It gave his magic a physical form, just like the charmed objects Potter collected. But it was a far more direct and powerful outlet. The force Potter needed to break the wards and unweave his occlumency shields.

He could feel Potter now, in his mind, pulling the stones free. He tried to hold them in place, but they slipped away, leaving him grasping nothing. His thoughts scattered, completely exposed. He couldn't control them, couldn't hide them.

Death was one thing. But this. It was worse than anything James Potter had ever done to him. He thrashed with frantic energy, but the ropes held him tight. "You must be happy now," he spat. "Enjoying the show? You claim to be the hero of the wizarding world, and look at you!"

Potter raised his head. Sorrow etched lines across his face. He picked up a book, Sundews and Other Known Treacherous Plants. Dipping his finger in an inkpot, he blacked out the cover until only a few letters of the title remained visible.

No hero.

He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against the door.

The walls shifted, sighed. The door clicked open.

"Potter," he said, desperate. "You don't realize the mistake you're making. You don't—"

The ropes released Severus, and he tumbled with them onto the floor. He was struggling to get an arm free when an ink-stained book crashed down on his head.