Chapter 23: Severus Snape: Deck the Halls
Severus Snape
Severus pressed harder against the gap. The drywall clacked and slid backward, the wood frame all in one piece. Behind it was the cupboard of the house next door.
Despite the visible gap in the drywall, the wards weren't broken. They were elastic. It was the only way Severus could describe the feeling of pushing through them, as if stretching some invisible boundary to its limit. And then, after passing through the neighbors' cupboard and into their front room, the wards shivered and slipped away behind him, snapping back into place.
The house had the reverse layout to his, with the cupboard and stairs on the opposite wall. The front room was dark and dusty, and the weakening afternoon sunlight from the gaping kitchen doorway strained to reach across the floor. On the far wall, someone had spray painted "Satan" in red letters, above a collection of pilfered church votive candles. Teenaged muggles playing at casting dark magic. Something they could outgrow and put behind them.
Severus stood quietly in the shadows, letting his eyes adjust. Then he pressed against the wall near the kitchen doorframe, ducking his head inside and checking for signs of life. Empty cupboards and drawers, all open, and a wide track mark through the dirt, winding past an upturned table. Someone had searched for food.
He cast silencio and climbed the stairs slowly. In the front bedroom, slatted light squeezed through the boarded window between shredded lace curtains. A family of mice nested in a hole in the wall, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Memories of the neighbors overwhelmed him: blond hair and ruddy faces, loud shouts of the two boys through the walls, then shouts from the parents about money, then silence. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to shut it out.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he came back to himself, but it was still light out. Minutes instead of hours, then. He'd slipped back onto the landing when he heard it: scratching and scraping.
He gripped his wand, his breath rough. Potter had left him like this. Pulling the strings while he slowly unraveled, risking his life if he were summoned by the Dark Lord. Well, Potter's fun was over now.
The back bedroom was in far worse condition. Mold and mildew decorated the walls. Bare rafters framed a large hole in the roof. Below, drizzle fell on a scattering of roof tiles and dead weeds spurting from the floorboards. Vines spilled through the empty window frame and across the walls. A broken bedframe tilted drunkenly against a ransacked dresser. On the wall to his left sat shelves of rotting books, although some were in surprisingly good condition.
Severus narrowed his eyes and spotted familiar titles. Those were his books, pilfered along with his food. And there, a collection of charmed objects from his house. More signs that Potter was here. His gaze darted from the broken furniture to the piles of rubbish.
The mound in the left corner shifted, old wrappers and bottles avalanching down the slope. A shadow moved behind it.
Severus angled against the door frame and aimed his wand. Potter's memory spell had been rendered ineffective with the Dark Lord while he remained obsessed, so stunning Potter couldn't make things worse. He cast stupefy silently.
Movement erupted to his right. A formation of broken glass flew at him. He ducked, and it shattered against the wall. Broken floorboards and roof tiles rose and attacked. He shot one spell after another, shattering each as they dived at him.
A leather belt sprung, buckle snapping, and wrapped his wrist, restraining his wand arm behind his back. A moth-eaten winter scarf knotted around his shins and yanked, toppling him. The belt on his wrist tightened painfully, but he wouldn't drop his wand. He tried to grab the belt with his other hand, and the belt lashed out, stinging his fingers.
He twisted, and the belt struck between his shoulder blades. Like summoned spirits, the memories possessed him. His father's rough voice: "C'mere, Sev'rus." The clink of the unfastening buckle spiking his terror; clinging to the kitchen table as lashes seared lines across his back.
He wouldn't get dragged into that well of memories. Not now. He grabbed the belt by the buckle. It coiled on his forearm like a hissing serpent.
Potter darted past him, heading for the door.
With his wand arm bound to his back and his other arm wrestling a belt, he didn't have many options. He pitched forwards, falling on Potter and rolling him deeper into the room.
Potter thrashed in his one-armed grip, breaking loose and scuttling out of reach. He pressed himself against the wall.
Snarling, Severus freed himself and got to his feet, striding across the room. "This has gone far—"
He stepped on the circle of weeds and roof tiles, but the wood had rotted through. The floor gave way, and he lurched, scrabbling for purchase as floorboards cracked around him. He hung on, halfway through the floor. A sharp clatter and roll sounded below him—his wand falling. Accio, he thought, but both his hands were occupied with holding himself up. He stretched his arm to free his hand and gain leverage.
Potter rushed forwards, snatching his hand and biting hard. Potter certainly had teeth now.
Severus yelped and tried to pull back. The shifting of his weight loosened more boards, and he slid down further. He knocked his chin against the floorboards but held on.
Potter flattened himself to the floor. Now at eye level, they stared each other down.
How far of a drop was it? He might escape without injury if he let go and landed properly. But he wasn't here to escape. Instead, he tried for his most commanding voice. "Potter—"
A belt flew to each of his wrists, wrapping tight and pulling until his arms were stretched to their limit on either side. Potter grabbed Severus's head, pressing his thumbs to his temples. But the physical pressure was nothing compared to the magical pressure.
Severus scrambled to close his mind, but the compression was already inside, suffocating his thoughts. His fear ticked up, and he tried to slow his breathing. The room grew darker. Listen to me, he wanted to say, and perhaps he did. But the creeping darkness swallowed his words and the room until nothing remained.
Severus woke to something hard dragging across his back. He cracked his eyes open. Potter sweated and panted as he forcefully yanked him in increments across the floor. It was slow going. Severus was not a heavy man, but he had at least three stone on Potter, and Potter unable to stand, besides.
A presence brushed against his mind. Potter, whose mental profile he'd unfortunately come to recognize. Severus kept himself relaxed, carefully calming his thoughts. He tracked Potter's creeping path until he reached a few precious memories he'd tethered in place: memories of Lily and Albus. And that single memory of Potter he could keep in his grasp.
Potter ignored the rest and went straight for the memory of the Triwizard Tournament, loosening the thin threads that held it in place.
His memory of Potter entering the maze hovered, ready to float away into the aether.
Absolutely not. Rage burnt through him, and he grabbed Potter by the sides of his head. His occlumency might be weak, but his legilimency was as strong as ever. He glimpsed Potter in his workroom, altering the potion that caused his occlumency to slip away. He seized on the memory. Potter's spells were undisciplined, going more on instinct, but he clearly drew on the alternative properties of the ingredients, adding extra heat and magic as if brewing within the vial. To reverse the effects, he could—
Potter wrenched away, breaking contact.
He was so close. He nearly had the cure. Potter wasn't going anywhere until he'd given up his secrets and regretted every spell he'd ever used against Severus. He snarled and lunged after Potter.
Potter stopped and flattened himself against the wall, but Severus kept going. He'd knock Potter unconscious, see how he liked it.
Severus's fist missed Potter's dodge and went straight through the drywall. Dimly, he registered the pain in his knuckles as he punched again with his other fist.
Potter ducked, dropping to the floor. Severus's other hand also smashed through. Now he was stuck, kneeling in front of the wall, both arms lodged wrist-deep in plaster.
Slithering along the baseboard and past his legs, Potter got behind him. He rose and pressed an arm against his jugular in a chokehold. It was as if magic powered it, because the grip crushed, despite those skinny arms.
The peeled paint blurred and dimmed. Severus yanked his hands free in a spurt of plaster dust, whirling and slamming Potter against the wall.
The impact broke through to the bedroom in the next house over. Severus turned as he fell, landing on his side.
Potter, still clinging to his back, grunted as chunks of plaster rained down. He loosened his grip as he hunched protectively.
His throat now less constricted, Severus shouted "Accio," snatching his wand as it flew, and twisted out of Potter's grasp.
Potter scrambled away, through the large hole.
Severus raised his wand, but one belt was back, tightening and immobilizing his wrist. He cursed, grabbed a chunk of plaster, and threw it.
The chunk hit Potter on the back of the head, and he sprawled on the floor.
Severus ducked through the hole and approached Potter, ready to drag him back to his house, but hesitated. Something about Potter's stillness told him he wasn't unconscious. He was waiting for his next chance to attack.
He wouldn't give him that chance. Potter had made a grave mistake by taking his occlumency. He'd root out the antidote from Potter's mind and show him the true power of mind magic. He cast the body-bind curse used in interrogations.
Potter jerked to his knees, his face upturned and his eyes forced open.
Severus grabbed him by the shoulders and plunged into his mind.
He usually approached the mind like a dense brew, agitating it and seeing what rose to the surface. Not only did it make the process more invisible and comfortable, but it informed him of what thoughts were most present in the other's mind.
But right now, he didn't particularly care what was on Potter's mind, or how comfortable he was. Severus slammed into his thoughts with all the subtlety and grace of a sledgehammer on concrete. He drove through the dark emptiness of Potter's mind and struck his vast blank wall, punching a hole through it.
The burst of thoughts and memories overwhelmed him. Bright reds and yellows exploded like firecrackers, and the rest flooded his senses: cold rainy winds and hot showers, laughter and spoons clinking against plates, rich crackling bacon and sweet pumpkin juice.
He gathered his wits and plunged deeper. Memories reeled and scattered in his wake. Colors faded to blacks and greys and sickly greens. The laughter turned cruel and mocking. Mold and mildew and stale breadcrumbs invaded, followed by the sharp sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh, and the low, hoarse groans of a voice burnt raw from screaming.
Severus quavered for a moment, but plunged on, outpacing the guilt that pursued his hardened determination. He was here for one purpose, and he wouldn't leave without his occlumency. He snatched at the memories, examined them, and tossed them aside. Faintly, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Was Potter realizing the enormity of his mistake? Discovering the full brunt of Severus's prowess? About bloody time.
Potter's shoulders quivered, and Severus caught the flickering thoughts of his conscious mind: magic collected from charmed objects, pushing against the body bind.
Stop fighting me. He changed direction and searched for specific feelings: fear and helplessness. And there, the memories that circled those feelings like satellites: Potter, his stomach twisting as Severus asked him advanced potions questions he couldn't answer; staring up at a howling werewolf; bound in a graveyard as the Dark Lord eyed him curiously. That's right, Potter. You're helpless. You've always been helpless. Give up and give me what I want.
The memories rippled and stilled, everything suspended in place. And then they erupted, fear and guilt and hatred bursting forth, throwing Severus into a tailspin. Potter's vast dark wall rose like a net, ensnaring him. It tightened, squeezing until he couldn't move.
He tried retreating to his own mind, but the dark walls trapped him. Even during legilimency, when his consciousness explored another's mind, he was always aware of his own body. But now, the rise and fall of his chest and the chill of the air grew dimmer. But he sensed Potter looming outside the walls.
Magic surged, and it felt familiar. It felt like his own magic. Of course, the charmed objects—Potter had cast another spell with borrowed magic. The spell weakened Potter's focus, and the walls thinned. Severus couldn't break them, but he could see through them, making out blurry images at the end of a dark tunnel.
Potter had broken the body bind and slid out of his grasp. He saw himself through Potter's eyes: kneeling, listing like an unmanned ship. His hands, no longer gripping anything, fell bonelessly to his sides. His dark eyes stared ahead, blinking reflexively, but he couldn't see through them.
This was beyond anything he'd learnt about occlumency. Where had Potter discovered such techniques?
Potter veered past Severus's body and headed back through the crumbling plaster hole. A memory flitted past—a flash of his kitchen cupboards. Then a series of numbers, grouped around meals. Potter was figuring how many days his food would last.
Something other than the dark walls constricted him. He had no lungs, no heartbeat, but something seized. Potter meant to leave his body there. He meant to keep Severus trapped inside these occlumency walls. Possibly trapped forever, or as long as it took for his body to starve to death. Would his ghost haunt the inside of Potter's mind? He didn't want to find out.
He tried punching through the walls again, but they had become thick and rubbery, bending and snapping back with every impact. Panic rose, but he pushed it down angrily. Potter might have learnt a few tricks, but Severus had years of experience with mind magic.
The foundation of occlumency was mental imagery, either of emptiness or of walls, usually both. But with magic, no wall was impervious, least of all imagined walls. With the right magic, nearly anything could be transformed.
He felt the barriers and concentrated. Not thick and rubbery but light and insubstantial. Smoke, perhaps. Yes, thick smoke that obscured vision but was easily passed through. But when he pressed against the walls, they were as resistant as before.
Something else, then. Paper. Rough black construction paper cut into strips, held together with paste. One only needed to press, to tear—
The walls remained solid and resisting. Potter was on the other side, anchoring the image.
Severus wanted to thump his non-existent head. All his worries about muggles sending him off to a ward with a padded cell, and here he was, in a padded cell. He tried again and again, each time with more detail: ash, then sand, then feathers.
Something shuddered when he imagined a fluttering wall of raven feathers. He immediately pressed forwards, but the wall was still firm. There was something, though—a hesitation, a slight withdrawing. Potter didn't like something about feathers. Severus pressed against the walls, picking up echoes of feelings and memories.
No, not quite feathers. A quality of feathers. Soft, black, rustling. Yes, that was it. The rustling of feathers disturbed Potter. But not feathers—wings. Tiny wings, beating with a thin, papery sound.
The walls retreated as Potter dragged them away from Severus's touch. They still trapped him, though, so Severus latched on, keeping the image in focus.
Paper-thin wings on small black bodies, that was it. The smooth wall pimpled and broke into movement. Millions of black flies swarmed and battered against him.
Severus, used to touching insects for potions, didn't flinch. He dove through, catching the edge of a memory on the other side: clusters of flies, blanketing something pale, and wretched sobbing.
Thoughts whispered. Polyjuice. Had to be, had to be. Don't think, don't remember. The memory snapped away as Potter's conscious mind fled.
Severus didn't waste his reprieve on Potter and his fears. He returned to his search, but this time he twisted and turned, hiding between memories as the flies scattered. He expected Potter to transform the flies back into a suffocating wall at any moment.
Instead, he felt the familiar tug of a strong cord that tethered him back to his body. Sensations returned: the rise and fall of his chest and the hard floor against his knees. He could have cried with relief. His body was there, waiting for him. He only had to follow the tether.
But he also felt the sensations of Potter's body crouching and gripping the handle of something smooth and cold. Outside, the streetlights clicked on, and the sudden light flashed on a steel blade.
Oh, clever Potter. Tempting him to return, to have that moment of disorientation as he settled into his body. He wouldn't be able to defend himself in time.
He resisted the trap and pulled the cord deeper into Potter's mind. More memories uncoiled, twisting and tangling. He passed through a living room where a fat muggle man shouted, his garden as his father dragged him inside by his hair, the Great Hall, looking up at himself, a sharp pain in his forehead. No, it was him looking down at Potter, that was it. But their memories were intertwining. He was watching from the kitchen door as his parents decorated the Christmas tree… but why was Tuney there? He hadn't seen her in years. And it wasn't the kitchen door, but some dark, cramped place where he peered through a slot as Tuney and a large boy hung tinsel and laughed.
A familiar ache rang hollowly in his chest. But this was Potter's memory. He was at Hogwarts, watching a train head for London for winter break, knowing Lily was on board, moving further and further away. Struggling through his first week of teaching and his first month of spying at twenty-one years old, fearful for Lily and for himself. Writhing under the cruciatus curse… No, that was Potter… No, it was…
Hermione and Ron Weasley, thrashing on the floor of the cavernous throne room. Severus frowned, trying to make sense of it. Weasley and Hermione were never taken to the throne room.
But there they were, convulsing and screaming, until the Dark Lord lifted the curse. And there was Potter, crumpled at the Dark Lord's feet, staring at his friends, his face twisted.
"Choose," the Dark Lord said. "You can save one of them. Choose, or I'll continue."
Above, a cloud of black flies billowed. A few years ago, the Dark Lord had experimented with a species of fly that acted like locusts, consuming flesh on a magical command.
Weasley looked up. "Harry, please."
Potter's Triwizard uniform was already unrecognizable, tattered and bloodstained. Green tinged his lips, a sign of the potions the Dark Lord fed him. He cradled a hand with two fingers bent at unnatural angles. His gaze drifted, unfocused, but snapped up when Weasley spoke.
Weasley crawled to him and pulled him close. "Shh, it's all right. Remember what you said? You meant it, didn't you?" He pressed his forehead to Potter's, then pulled his face into a kiss.
Hermione continued to lie on the floor, weeping piteously.
Severus was utterly confused. This was a memory? The entire scene was surreal. Weasley in love with Potter? Hermione as helpless as a ragdoll? What was this?
Potter was beyond reasoning anything out, leaning into Weasley and shaking his head, muttering nonsensically.
"C'mon, Harry, it's easy." Weasley gave him another tender kiss. "You just need to say the words."
There were two objects chained to Weasley—a battered fob watch attached to his hip, and a rusty trolly wheel to his chest. Hermione had two as well—a cracked fountain pen on her back and a broken picture frame on her hip. Useless muggle objects that should be in a rubbish tip—and exactly the sort of thing portkeys were made of. And Weasley urging Harry to 'say the words.'
Severus was familiar with the Dark Lord's methods, and the pieces came together. Telling Potter he could 'save one.' And two portkeys, on different parts of the body, both triggered by a word or phrase. All it would take is to set the portkeys to the same phrase, but different destinations. The Dark Lord wasn't satisfied with killing one of Potter's friends. He wanted Potter to do it.
Bile rose in his throat. Polyjuice. Of course. Weasley had his faults, but he was no coward. He'd never plead for his life or throw Hermione to the wolves like this. But hair samples were collected from all prisoners, and the Dark Lord had no shortage of desperate witches and wizards who would act out whatever role asked of them to save their families. This was a depraved little play designed to break Potter.
Potter tried to turn his head to look at Hermione, but was too weak to break Weasley's embrace.
Weasley pulled Potter's face down into the curve of his neck, running his hands tenderly over his tangled black hair. "You've been strong. I'm so proud of you, Harry. But you don't have to be alone anymore."
Potter, his mouth open against Weasley's neck, gave a small nod.
Severus knew what would happen next with terrible certainty. "Don't," he whispered, but he was not a part of this memory. He could only watch it happen.
Hermione, perhaps sensing it as well, began crawling towards Harry.
Harry breathed out, his gaze swimming in the middle distance. "I choose Ron."
Severus turned away before he had to witness it. It must have happened quickly—too quickly for Hermione to scream. There was only a wet tearing sound, and he couldn't tell if it came from the body or from Potter's own throat.
Something landed heavily on either side of the throne room. The black flies hummed as they descended.
"Very good, Harry," the Dark Lord said.
Very good, Severus. His and Potter's guilt bled into each other. He needed to get out, get away. The throne room receded. He caught a last glimpse of the Dark Lord levitating Potter's grasping form. "Yes, yes, you can have him in a moment. First, I must see…"
The rest of his words were lost in the buzz of flies.
Severus spun into the twisted memories… Hermione, living and breathing, talking about Potter and pumpkin juice. "We tried to be there for each other. To be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal."
But Potter's memories dragged him deeper, into his own dark places. And then it was the night of the final Triwizard task, after Potter had gone missing, and he was kneeling in front of the Dark Lord, trying desperately to win his trust back, and revealing none of that desperation on his face or in his thoughts. He must show that he was a true believer, that he had never wavered.
The Dark Lord, scrutinizing Severus as he crawled through his mind. "But why? Why should I believe you remained loyal? I killed that woman you wanted." He added belatedly, "she wouldn't step aside."
The tone was mild, and there was no feeling behind it beyond curiosity and self-interest. That woman you wanted. The Dark Lord didn't know the warmth of your best friend's hand on a summer's day, the comfortable silence of lying in the cool grass together, the uncontrollable giggling that overtook them. That was what Lily was and would always be.
But the Dark Lord only understood lust and desire, and Severus leant into that, knowing the Dark Lord most trusted those who reminded him of himself. "A foolish passing fancy. There are other women," he said easily. "Better women." But there were no other women, because there was no other Lily.
It was the memory of Lily's smile that pulled him from those dark depths. He followed the light of their summer days together until he broke free, waking in the bedroom of the abandoned house. Somehow, they'd fallen back through the hole in the wall.
Potter curled in on himself, his eyes tightly shut, his face so flushed he looked feverish.
Severus dragged himself closer and stared at the broken roof. Despite the drizzle peppering his face, he felt miserably hot, his shirt and trousers sticking to him. The air felt thick and hard to breathe, like the inside of a stuffy house on a sweltering day. He needed something clean and clear in his lungs. He cast a freezing charm and a fresh air charm, and a wind swept through. The grey drizzle burst into dancing snowflakes.
The winter before Hogwarts, before Gryffindors and Slytherins and all that followed, he and Lily had stood in the falling snow, catching flakes on mittens and noses and tongues. "Make a wish, Sev," Lily had said, and he'd wished with all his heart. Even then, before he understood his romantic inclinations leant the other way, he hadn't imagined marrying Lily. Marriage, as far as he could see, was a way for people to make each other miserable. He imagined a little sailing ship on the sea, far away from everyone else, where he could show her all the wonders of the magical world. There'd be nothing but waves and wonder and Lily's kindness, and they could both be happy, forever and ever.
Lily blinked at him, eyelashes sparkling with snow as if touched with fairy dust, and asked him what he wished for.
Even then, he sensed she might slip away from him. Like snowflakes, anything sparkling and new melted away once he touched them. "Nothing special," he said, but he hoped maybe Lily had wished for the same thing. It might come true if Lily wished for it. Only good things could happen to her.
A snowflake landed in the corner of his eye and melted, running along his nose. It was a portent, and tears followed its path as his body shuddered. He bent over Potter, trying to regain control.
A tear fell on Potter's lip and the tip of his tongue darted out, tasting it. Otherwise, he was frozen in place, eyes so wide they threatened to pop out of his head.
Wry laughter overtook him and eased his taut muscles enough that he sat back. "What, didn't think I was capable? I'm human, despite what you may think. It's only…" He shook his head. "I wish things had gone differently." He laughed again, quietly, at the enormity of that understatement. He wished he'd taken Hermione's advice, and joined Albus's cause sooner, and never revealed that prophecy, and never become a Death Eater. He wished he'd never said 'mudblood,' never gone to Hogwarts, never been born.
Potter sat up and pulled a book on magical creatures from the shelf. He flipped to a section on herbivores, pointing at two words: her, friend.
Severus stilled. Potter must have been as tangled in their combined memories as he was. He resisted the urge to cast obliviate and thought of Hermione's advice on Potter and trust:
Be Gryffindors. Honest. Loyal.
And he'd replied that he had honesty and loyalty in short supply. But with a slow uncurling in his gut, he realized he needed to scrounge up what he could.
He took a breath. "She was my friend. My best friend. My only friend, until…" Until I killed her. He was breaking apart again and closed his eyes until it passed. Merlin, he hadn't even found out how to restore his occlumency. He was worse than before. Memories of Lily flowed, as fresh as the first day. And his desperate attempts to keep her safe. My Lord, please. Spare her. What a fool he'd been.
Potter rifled through the book. He stopped at an illustration of a phoenix and looked up questioningly.
The Phoenix. What a grandiose title for his meager efforts for the resistance. "It's just a name." Severus wiped his face, thinking of Fawkes. "My tears are perfectly useless."
Potter looked over several pages, carefully picking out words. He showed them to Severus one by one.
-see-memory-pumpkin-juice-
Potter paused, his hand shaking, but he finally pointed to the last word.
-alive-
That horrible memory. Potter wasn't talking about Lily. He was asking about Hermione. Struggling through his own guilt and shame, but he didn't have to live with it.
"It wasn't her," Severus told him in a rush. "Her or Ronald Weasley. Neither has been imprisoned anywhere but the camp under Warden Umbridge." He hesitated. "Until several weeks ago. Weasley's at Azkaban now."
The refrain of Potter's thoughts clicked into place. Polyjuice. Had to be, had to be.
"You were right. They take hair samples at the prison camps. It wasn't her."
Potter reached for his book again, and his finger found a word:
-someone-
And Severus understood all too well. The nameless casualties. "Yes, it was someone. But you weren't given a choice."
Another turn of the page:
-my-choice-
Potter closed his eyes briefly, lines tightening across his face.
-best-friend-
His throat hurt, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. "I know. But that's not…" Not what? He thought of all the excuses he'd tried over the years that he'd rejected as pathetic, false, cowardly. How could he say them to Potter when he didn't believe them himself? So he said the only thing that had ever kept him going. "There's no time-turner that can save her, no going back. There's only the next day, and the next. Who do you want to be in all those days marching forwards? What choices can you make so that you can live with yourself?"
A cramp ran through his calf. He shifted and rested against the bookshelf, stretching his legs. "I became Dumbledore's man because of…" He hadn't said her name out loud in years. Too dangerous, too painful. He tested it on his tongue now, softly. "Lily. Your mother. I'll always regret what happened to her. But I don't regret what I tried to do for her sake. To save others, to protect you. To be a better man." He shook his head. "Even if I failed."
Potter had gone still, and Severus hoped he was listening. "I can help. Or I can at least try. I know you'd rather it be anyone else but me. I'd rather it be anyone else but me. But it isn't, and here we are."
Potter set the book aside and sat quietly. They stayed like that for a while, just breathing, Severus trying his best to get used to Potter in a way he'd never done before.
He stood. The wreckage of two houses surrounded them, now lightly dusted with snow. He cast protection charms on the books. They would still be there later, or not. They were only books, after all. And he'd said all he could say to Potter. Except for one thing. So he said quietly, "come home."
And with that, he left, descending the stairs. He glanced at the hole in the cupboard, but decided he'd endured enough indignities for the day, and used the front door.
The house was cold and dark. Dim shapes clustered on the floor from when he'd emptied the shelves. He set the beef to cooking and prepared the batter for the Yorkshire pudding. Chair trotted anxiously after him and he patted it on its back rail. "Yes, I found him. Good Kindling. Were you trying to get me something for Christmas?"
He returned to the front room and sifted through the items on the floor until he found the snowman. It wasn't the easiest transfiguration spell, but eventually the cardboard box stiffened and grew into a trunk and branches, and the shiny plastic burst into clusters of green needles, filling the room with the sweet scent of pine. A milk crate became a stand, and soon the tree occupied a space near the window.
An untangling spell helped with the garland and lights, and he spun it around the tree, but left the tinsel draped over Chair. "There. Something to occupy you."
As Chair tossed clumps of tinsel towards the tree, a creak emanated from the cupboard. Potter was there, hand on the doorframe. He eyed Severus warily, but nodded a greeting.
Severus stepped back, giving him space. Potter moved to the tree and touched the tinsel tentatively. Slowly, he gathered a clump thrown on a branch and separated the strands.
Severus studied his face. He still looked haggard, thin, haunted. But Potter had lived with his pain alone for a long time. Severus knew what it meant to have that thing that pulsed in the darkness to the beat of your own heart. You grew to accommodate it, to accept its rhythm and carry on. It was that or go mad. And Potter, despite appearances, despite the Dark Lord's best attempts, was not mad.
He flashed again on the boy entering the shadows of the Triwizard maze, of Lily's smile, and how some things disappear into the darkness forever.
The tree lights blinked, summoning a memory. But it was something bright and clear, of sparkling snow and winter mornings. He picked up a clump of tinsel and laced it between the needles, angling each thread so it glimmered.
"A bit of cheer." He lay more threads, wondering what one said to someone who'd nearly ripped away his sanity and tried to kill him. Only one thing came to mind. "Happy Christmas."
Potter blinked slowly, then beckoned him closer.
Severus hesitated, remembering all of his tricks. But Potter was here, and that was the best sign he'd seen since this had all started. Slowly, Severus lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of him.
Potter made eye contact, and the landscape of Severus's mind shifted. All of his attempts to rebuild his walls, all the stone blocks that had slipped away into the darkness—they were all there, ready to be rebuilt. And bits of knowledge, nuances to occlumency that he couldn't keep in his mind. They had always been there, but he hadn't seen them. "How?"
Potter's presence touched the barrier he'd used to hide the occlumency—something fluid and shimmering. The barrier wasn't stone or brick. It was an invisibility cloak.
Severus let out a deep breath, and something tight in his chest settled. Potter hadn't taken anything from him. It had been right there. He just hadn't been able to see it.
They stayed like that for a while, watching the hypnotic blink of lights. Even Chair stayed quiet. Then Severus returned to the kitchen so they could have a late dinner.
The savory aroma of roasted beef and gravy had filled the kitchen when he heard the slide of hands and knees and a soft thump. Potter was waiting at the table.
Severus picked up the plates and nodded to himself. Potter was here, and he was safe.
-Author's Note-
Posting will be less frequent after this chapter. The rough draft is complete, but revising and polishing take time, and I'm low on buffer chapters. I plan on posting every four weeks or so, but life is not predictable, so I won't make promises.
I'd also like to collectively thank everyone who's posted encouraging comments. You may not think you're doing much, but your enthusiasm is hugely important and motivating to fic authors. Taking time to make another person's day a little brighter shows your kindness and thoughtfulness, and I appreciate you!