Archive of Our Own ^beta

Snape was breathing.

Unbelievably, he was breathing. Alive. He didn’t look much like it, but he’d somehow survived, and Harry couldn’t look away. Just a few hours ago, Harry had walked through the Great Hall, past all the bodies laid there, lifeless and bloodless and empty. He’d seen Tonks, and Remus, and Colin, and Fred, and… too many. Harry himself had died and come back again, and it felt horribly unfair that they hadn’t.

But Snape had lived. Against all odds, like Harry, he’d lived.

Harry stared. Snape had always loomed over the students, swooping down the corridors with his robes and his scowl and his greasy hair. He’d always looked so imposing, but now… The door opened and closed behind him, and McGonagall came to stand next to his chair.

“You should go be with your friends, Harry.”

But he didn’t think he could. Outside, outside of the Hospital Wing, out there in the castle, on the grounds, people were laughing, crying, shouting. There was rubble, and blood, and still smoking ruins. But here, in this quiet, hidden room that no one but Harry, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor McGonagall knew about… “It’s quiet here, Professor.”

She transfigured a bin into a stool and sat heavily. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

They fell silent, after that. Harry looked at how thin Snape’s wrists were, almost as white as the sheets they were resting on; the only splotches of colour were bruises, some shallow cuts, and blood still caked under his short nails. Harry’s eyes travelled up to Snape’s face, his sunken cheeks, the purple bruises under his eyes. His black hair, strewn over the pristine pillow like an oil spill, was longer than Harry remembered from the previous years, as if he hadn’t taken the time to cut it in months. There were thick bandages around his neck and chest, on one side of his face, and some blood had seeped through the gauze.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she started, then cleared her throat. “I hadn’t noticed how bad…” She waved a hand at the bed before getting a handkerchief out and dabbing at her eyes.

Harry swallowed, looking at how the thin bed sheet that covered Snape couldn’t hide how hollow the stomach was, how skinny the legs. “I don’t think he wanted anyone to notice.” Not with the way he threatened, and strode, and loomed, and all that had been before he’d become Headmaster and placed there to, officially, do Voldemort’s bidding. “It’s weird,” he added. “To see him in white.” Like a shroud, but that was not something Harry wanted to think about right now.

“I’m sure he would be horrified.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “White’s not his colour.”

“Definitely not.”

There had been a lot of red, back in the Shrieking Shack. A lot. McGonagall had spotted him trying to sneak away from the Great Hall and insisted on accompanying him to retrieve Snape’s body, and at first Harry hadn’t been happy about it, but when they’d got there…

“Severus,” McGonagall choked out when she spotted him, limp and lifeless on the old and dirty floorboards. She picked up Snape’s wand, brushed some hair away from his face… and right then his black eyes snapped open and he made a horrible sound, something between a croak and a wheeze.

“He’s alive!” Harry shouted like an idiot, and fell to his knees by Snape’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do; none of the simple healing spells he knew would help and he was scared of even touching Snape and making things worse, but Snape’s terrified gaze found and latched on his and Harry froze. “Professor?”

Snape tried to speak, but he could barely breathe, air rattling through the holes in his throat that were still oozing blood; his hands spasmed as if trying to grab his wand, or maybe Harry, but only grasping air. His eyes twitched away from Harry’s then and found McGonagall, who had just sent a Patronus to Madam Pomfrey.

The wheezing coming from Snape sped up; his eyes widened, but when they fell on his wand in McGonagall’s hand he stilled. His face smoothed out, and his head jerked like he tried to nod but just couldn’t move enough to do so. His lips moved, and Harry frowned. What…?

“No,” McGonagall said. “We’re not here to kill you, or whatever else you’re thinking. It’s over, Severus. Do you understand?” She knelt by his side and took his hand, looking like she was about to cry. “You-Know… Voldemort’s dead, and it’s over.”

He stared up at her, then at Harry, the painful-sounding wheeze too fast, too shallow.

“It’s true. We won. Couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”

And to Harry’s horror, Snape’s eyes grew shiny, too shiny; he mouthed something that looked like “Over?” before he lost consciousness again, right as Madam Pomfrey ran out of the tunnel and joined them.

“I can’t believe he survived that snake,” Harry said.

“He’s a tough bastard, always has been, even way back when he was the smallest, scrawniest first year I’d ever seen.” McGonagall glanced at Harry. “Even more so than you were.”

Harry remembered the memories he shouldn't have seen, remembered the small boy crying in a corner. Yeah, he could believe that, even if he wouldn’t say so to McGonagall. It felt… disrespectful, somehow, and it had been an invasion of privacy he wasn’t proud of, even though he was still glad to have had that glimpse in the man’s life, all things considered. It made Snape seem more human and it had helped him trust his dying memories, but it also made Harry wish he’d seen some joy in there. Even though he shouldn't have seen anything. Ugh, ethics – Hermione would probably have opinions about it, but he wasn’t about to ask her. She had other things to deal with; they all had.

McGonagall finally stood up and smoothed her robes. “Poppy said that with the doses she gave him, he won’t wake up before tomorrow at the earliest. If he does.” She looked away for a moment. “I understand that you have questions for him, and frankly so do I, but they will have to wait. He needs to rest and get better, first.” If he can, she didn’t add.

Harry didn’t want to leave; he wanted to stay here where it was quiet and (almost) no one could find him, he wanted to ask him how he’d done it, ask him to talk, ask him to help Harry figure out how to mourn. He wanted Snape to wake up and ask him, Harry, to stay, so he didn’t have to leave and be the Boy Who Lived, Again. Be the Saviour. But here, in this still, white room, there was a man who deserved to rest and heal for himself, not to fulfil a promise. Besides, Harry could imagine Snape wouldn't appreciate seeing him first thing when he woke up.

Harry’s chair screeched on the floor when he stood, loud on the flagstones. He held his breath for a few seconds, then relaxed when Snape didn’t move. McGonagall sighed; her robes rustled as she turned around and that was when Snape jerked awake. His fingers clawed at his throat and his eyes darted everywhere; he patted the bed as if looking for something – his wand, probably – and his breathing grew faster, panicked. Whatever they’d told him in the Shack hadn’t stuck.

“You’re in the Hospital Wing,” Harry started, trying to pull Snape’s hand away from the bandages, but Snape didn’t look like he heard anything. He tried to push Harry away, wouldn't look him in the eye; he tried to roll to his side and push on his elbows but he was too weak to get anywhere. McGonagall rushed to his bedside and firmly pushed him down on the bed before he fell off.

“Stop it, Severus. It’s over: you’re safe, Harry’s safe… oh.” She sat on the mattress and pulled both of Snape’s hands in her lap. “Oh, Severus, I’m sorry for doubting you, even if…” She glanced at Harry, then at the door; the message was clear enough and Harry stepped away.

Just before he left the room, he heard a choked-off sob coming from the bed, though he wasn’t sure who made that sound.

He closed the door, and rested his head for a moment against the wood. He had to go back into the world, face all the losses and the grief and the horror of the day.

He didn’t see Snape again for months.

To be fair, Harry didn’t even think much about him, once he left the Hospital Wing.

There were the funerals, the celebrations, the trials; he made sure Snape’s name was cleared as well as Draco’s, and then he just spent his summer between the Burrow and Grimmauld Place. Hermione left for Australia to get her parents back, so he and Ron spent a lot of time together. Molly needed to fuss over them, and George pretended he didn’t need help with Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, but he couldn’t even finish a sentence without looking to his side, his voice tapering out into nothing, and his face crumpling. Harry tried to rekindle the flame with Ginny, too, but their hearts weren’t in it, and things just fizzled out. He didn’t really feel sad about it, or happy. It just was.

And when the Burrow was too much, Harry, Ron, and sometimes Ginny worked on Grimmauld Place – dusting, cleaning, tearing wallpaper off and blasting ancient cobwebs, until the stench of despair and prejudice started to fade, just a little. Andromeda visited sometimes, bringing Teddy with her and helping out with what Black heirlooms they found; some she took back with her, some she explained, some she told them to get rid of. The Black legacy wasn’t something that should be inflicted wholesale on little Teddy, she’d said, and Harry agreed wholeheartedly after digging through trunk after hidden room after secret compartment of Dark artefacts and books with snapping teeth.

And then, sometimes, in the few moments he had to himself, Harry thought.

He thought about his future, and whether he still wanted to be an Auror; he thought about his past, and maybe visiting Godric’s Hollow. He thought about returning to Hogwarts for the final year, or preparing his NEWTs from Grimmauld; he thought about going on a trip around the world, or going to a Muggle university.

When September came, though, he knew he wasn’t ready for Hogwarts. McGonagall owled him, and he stared at the cracked ceiling above his bed for several nights, but in the end he couldn't go back to being a student there. Sharing a dorm and sharing a table, seeing curse marks in every corner and pretending he cared about House points… no, even if she’d offered special accommodations for the students who also were War veterans, he couldn't. Like most of their yearmates, Harry, Ron, and Hermione agreed to come to the castle at least once a week to discuss assignments and progress, and they had free access to the grounds and of course the Library – including the Restricted Section, which made Hermione honest-to-god squeal – but they didn’t have to see the empty seats in class or at meals, and Harry was grateful for that.

Of course, Hermione made sure they kept on track, but now that Voldemort was gone, Harry found it both easier and harder to keep up. Easier because he wasn’t fighting for his life and against a Dark Lord, which in fact made a big difference, but also harder, because everything tasted a little bit of ash. It was tough to concentrate on the theory behind turning a china teacup into a stoneware mug, after – after everything.

But somehow, the days, the weeks, the months went by, and it was Christmas. The castle, Harry thought, looked as magical as he had when he’d been a First Year, a lifetime ago. Most of the students taking the year from home had agreed to spend a week at Hogwarts while it was mostly empty, both to spend time together again without gawking First Years, and to catch up on what studies and experiments they couldn't always do from home.

Harry, however, refused to go down to the Potions lab.

It felt like intruding on too many memories, even though Slughorn insisted; Harry had to remind him that he’d sent all the assigned brewing homework from Grimmauld and that his potions had been good enough that Slughorn had never asked him to do over any of them. But going down there… the persistent chill, the weight of the castle right above them, the Occlumency lessons and the detentions, the Potions lab and the Prince’s book… It was too much.

But it put Snape back at the forefront of his mind, and after a few days, he knocked on McGonagall’s office door.

“Professor,” he said. “I mean, Headmistress.”

“Harry.” She called for tea and shortbread, and settled into the high-backed chair behind her desk. “How are you doing?”

“Er, well.” He squirmed under her gaze, unblinking and patient. “Yeah, things are… fine.”

“Good.” She sipped at her cup, her eyes never leaving him.

“Um.” Harry looked up at the walls. Most portraits were empty, and Dumbledore was snoozing in his, or pretending to snooze; Harry wouldn't put it past him. “Does anyone ever ask about Snape’s? His portrait, I mean. Uh, Professor Snape. Headmaster. Er…” He grimaced; he was going at it the wrong way already.

“Few people do, actually. Most assume that he wasn’t really Headmaster, or that you have to complete a full year to get a portrait.”

“Right.” He turned his cup around on the saucer, and when he almost dropped it for the second time just put it back on the desk and sat back. “Good. Um.”

McGonagall stared at the cup, his hands, his face, and finally bent to rummage into a drawer at the bottom of her desk, emerging with a bottle of something that looked suspiciously alcoholic. She poured a generous dose in her tea, and when Harry nodded, splashed some in his too. “Whatever’s on your mind, young man, just spit it out; you’ll feel better afterwards.”

“Er, it’s about Sn- Professor Snape.”

“I’d gathered.”

“Um, he was a private man, and, uh, the portraits…”

She smiled slightly, and waved her wand above her head. “I’ve tightened the privacy spells when I came into office, but now they can’t even hear us. Speak freely, Harry.”

He breathed out, nodded, opened his mouth, and then – nothing came out. Too many questions were trying to get out at the same time, and he only managed to get a sympathetic look from McGonagall. He grabbed his tea, swallowed too much of it in one go, and almost spat it out when the alcohol he’d forgotten about hit his tongue. Once he’d finished wiping his mouth and making apologetic noises, he raised his eyes to look at McGonagall, who was clearly trying not to laugh at him.

“I see. Well, he’s still alive, if that’s your concern. He knows he doesn’t have to fear Azkaban, but he prefers to stay away. Apart from Poppy, you, and me, no one knows he survived. Unless you’ve told…?”

“No! No, I haven’t. I just… Where does he live?”

She sighed. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Harry.”

“But…”

“Are you in touch? Does he write to you?”

“As you said, he’s a very private man, and he keeps to himself.”

“But someone has to know where he is, right? Unless – wait, is he somewhere Unplottable? Or, no – are you his Secret Keeper? Can you tell him…”

“Calm yourself, Harry. I haven’t seen him since he left the Hospital Wing, and I don’t think Poppy has forgiven him for running away so early.” She pursed her lips. “Well, there was definitely no running happening, but at least he was well enough to sneak out. He left a note asking us not to try and find him, and we’ve tried to respect that. He deserves some peace; I think.”

Harry sat and digested this for a while, weighing his thoughts. In Snape’s shoes, he’d have done the same; if he hadn’t had Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Molly and Teddy and everyone else to tie him to the here and now, he’d have fled. No more Prophet, no more expectations, no one to tell him to think about his future and start dating and speak at Ministry events. But… “I think I have to see him.”

“Harry,” McGonagall said gently. “Harry, even if you found him, I am not sure he would like to see you. After… everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but… I can ask him, you know? Once I find him. Ask if we can talk a bit, leave if he doesn’t want to.”

“Albus told me, once, that you went into his Pensieve and looked at Professor’s Snape’s memories.” She looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “And as you said yourself, Severus is a very private man.”

“I know better now; I swear. If he tells me to go, I’ll go. Or, I don’t know, if he throws a jar of something slimy at my head; I’ll understand that, too.”

“I’m not sure you should, but I don’t think I can stop you, can I?”

Harry looked down at his hands, clasped tightly on his lap. Maybe she was right, but it didn't really feel like he could just not try. At least try. Snape had disappeared right as Harry had finally learned the truth about him, and it stung. All the questions he had and couldn’t ask to the one man who could answer them… “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is. Well, if you do find him – if he lets you find him, I should say, and you two can manage two civil sentences without shouting at each other…”

Harry’s lips quirked up.

“If you can do all of that, give him my respects, will you? And tell him not to be a stranger, if he can.”

“I will, Professor. I promise.”

And he meant it, at the time.

Harry wouldn't even tell Molly or Ron, of course, but on leaving the Burrow after Boxing Day he mostly felt relief. The mix of noise, yelling, jostling, and enthusiasm all mingled with mourning – Molly shouting for Fred to come and help her and the awkward silence that followed, things like that. Things that kept happening.

He left for Grimmauld Place, and spent two days comparing the notes he’d made in Hogwarts with what he found in the Black library. Hermione would be proud, he thought as he contemplated the vial of memories sitting on the kitchen table. The silver strands were still moving, still alive; their owner was still alive, too. The books said their slow whirl should have stopped by now, if Snape had died, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t, and thanks to some not-quite-Ministry-approved magic Harry was going to find him, following the thin thread of self that still tied the memories to the man.

And then – and then, Harry wasn’t sure. He had so many questions – What was my mum’s favourite colour? Why did I have to die? Did you love my mum? Do you hate teaching that much? Do you hate me that much? And yet, he couldn't imagine asking them, not to Snape’s face. He’d get hexed for sure, thrown out on his bum and a door slammed in his face for good measure. Maybe get a chipped cauldron chucked at him, too. Snape had never taken kindly to questions, or to Harry for that matter. But he’d known his mum, and who else would tell him about her? Everybody else only talked about James Potter, and Harry needed to hear about her, as well. After seeing Snape’s memories, after talking with Remus, too, it wasn’t his dad he wanted to know more about. Not anymore.

But – he was a Gryffindor, right? And Snape had always said he jumped in without thinking first, and clearly thinking was only stalling him and making him hesitate. It was early evening, already dark outside, and if he wanted to do some snooping around it was as good a time as any. It wasn’t late enough that someone out and about between Christmas and the New Year would be conspicuous, right? And the low light would blur his features. It was perfect.

So he put on a coat and a scarf – first his red and gold one, then after shaking his head, changing it to a dark grey one he’d found in Regulus’s old bedroom - then grabbed the vial and recited the spell. Once he felt the pull, he stepped outside of the house so the wards wouldn’t prevent him from Apparating, turned the vial into a bastardised compass and held on for dear life. It wouldn’t be as precise as a Portkey, but…

“Ow,” Harry said.

He’d landed in a mostly empty car park, cramped between a Woolworths and a nondescript residential building, somewhere in…

“Locus.”

He was in Sheffield. Not Cokeworth, then. Did Snape leave Spinner’s End? Harry crept out from behind the lorry, his boots crunching on the light coat of snow that had fallen after the supermarket had closed and the cars had left. The memories were a bit more lively already, and the closer he got to the building, the brighter the vial got; he was on the right track. He wrapped his hands around the handle of his wand, hidden under his coat, and walked closer, past a closed pub with boarded windows. Its name, The Witch’s Head, was still painted on its front; Harry shuddered.

The pavement was worn down, and the bus stop had seen better days; trash was overflowing from the bins and some of the street lamps were dead. It still looked better than Spinner’s End, but not by a wide margin; the heavy glass door that led into the building was cracked and after casting Alohomora to get inside Harry saw that several mailboxes had been broken into. He peered at the names, and finally – yes. Snape, one said.

Could it be that easy? Was he hiding in plain sight, among Muggles? Harry couldn’t feel any magic, no wards thrumming against his skin, no power making his hair stand on end. Snape, paranoid bastard that he was, would have put up wards, right? Even if everyone believed him dead; he had made too many enemies to rely on only that… Unless the entire area was booby-trapped? Harry narrowed his eyes at the walls and ceiling, but so far no cinderblock had tumbled down on his head and it didn't feel like Dementors were hiding in the lower ground floor. Harry looked at the vial again, and nodded to himself. No, this was the right place.

There was no floor indication on the letterboxes, so he started to climb the stairs, keeping an eye on the vial all the way. It got steadily brighter until he got to the fourth floor, and after shuffling between all the doors he found the one – well, what he hoped was the one. He waited for a moment, expecting Snape to jerk it open and scowl at him before yelling, and it almost made Harry smile to picture it.

But the door stayed shut, so Harry considered the doorbell, decided it would be too shrill, and knocked.

And waited.

And knocked again.

Oh crap, Snape could be out! Or – no, the vial said he was here, but… maybe asleep? He had to sleep sometimes, right? But it wasn’t that late, and…

The door rattled and stuck and finally opened with a yank.

“What?”

Harry’s tongue froze to the roof of his mouth. “Er,” he said.

The heavy-set man towering over him scowled, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting over a very broken nose. He had short, steel-grey hair and the knuckles gripping the door jamb were thick and scarred. He scowled, waiting for Harry to say something.

“Um, hello?”

“What d’ye – oh.” The man’s eyes fell on the vial, and his scowl deepened. “You’re one of them,” he spat. “Go away, I don’t want you lot here.”

“But…” No. He’d faced Voldemort, he could face a bad-tempered older man, right? “I’m looking for, um, Mr Snape.”

“That’s me.”

Harry’s eyes widened. That’s – oh. Oh. Smooth the face, darken the hair, and you got the man from Snape’s memories. His father. What was happening? What was Snape doing here of all places? His parents had been fighting in the memory, and his dad had looked like he had been about to hit his mum, or maybe child Snape; it didn’t make sense.

“So? Anything you want to say to me, kid?”

“Er, I meant… Professor Snape?”

“There ain’t no professor here. Take yourself and your stupid little sticks and your bloody little lights out of my sight, and never come back.”

And then, a voice Harry had heard for years floating between bubbling cauldrons stopped Snape, Sr from slamming the door shut. “Let him in.” It was raspy, breathy, and came from further inside, and it was Harry’s Snape. The Snape he knew; the one he’d come looking for.

Harry gave the older version a winning smile and walked past him as soon as the door opened wide enough, and then he stopped. The inside was all brown and beige and grey, a TV was turned on at a low volume further on, and through a doorway he could see Snape, Severus Snape, Potions Master, former Headmaster of Hogwarts, (not quite) Posthumous Order of Merlin First Class, Death Eater, Spy, and member of the Order of the Phoenix, glaring at him from a sofa he didn’t seem inclined to leave.

“He’s one of them,” Snape, Sr said from behind Harry.

“I’m one of them,” Snape, Jr snapped back.

“Not the same.”

“Isn't it?” Snape looked away then, his eyes going back to the TV. It was showing an animal documentary, with lions and gazelles and wildebeest. He blindly reached out to the small side table next to him and fumbled for a cigarette, which he lit with a very Muggle-looking lighter. His fingers, very white against the faded black of the too-big sweater he was wearing, were shaking slightly, and he curled them into fists in his lap, the cig dangling from his lips. The lit end was worryingly close to the blanket he was bundled in. “What do you want, Potter? I’m dead.”

“You’re not.”

“He’s dead to you people,” Old Snape growled, “and don’t you forget it.” Well, it looked like the sunny disposition hadn’t come out of nowhere.

“I’m not here to force you back in. Though Professor McGonagall said to tell you not to be a stranger, and I promised her I would.” Harry walked closer and set the vial of memories next to the pack of cigarettes. “I wanted to give those back to you.”

Snape didn’t even glance at them; his eyes stayed glued to the TV and he didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge the vial, didn’t acknowledge Harry hovering an arm’s length away.

His father, though, did. “And you’ve just done that. You can bugger off now; we don’t want you here.” He took a step forward, clearly ready to drag Harry out by the scruff if Harry overstayed. “I’m not afraid of you lot.”

“He’s Lily’s son.” Snape’s whisper was enough to stop his father in his tracks.

“What? That cunt?”

Harry gaped. “Hey! She was…”

“She was shite! Thought she was better than my son here, didn’t she? Once she’d made posher friends that didn’t come from bloody Cokeworth… A right cow, even worse than her snotty sister! At least that nasty little arse-face was honest about it; that she was! And that tosser here is her son? And you’re letting him come in here and…”

“Stop it.” Snape took a long drag from his cigarette and closed his eyes, still facing the TV. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Like hell it wasn’t!”

“She’s been dead for a long time now; it’s all over. Leave it.”

“And she died because of you,” Harry blurted out. “Shit, I mean…” He slapped his hands over his mouth.

“Yes,” Snape said. “She died because of me.” He raised the fag to his lips again, and didn’t open his eyes. Harry stared at the tremor in Snape’s hands, and the bruises under his eyes.

“You tried to save her, too.”

“I tried. I failed.” Another drag. “And I’m sorry about that, Potter. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No. I mean, yeah, now you’ve said it, but… it’s not what I came for.”

“But now you’re leaving.”

Harry thought very hard about his words to McGonagall, and decided to follow his gut instead. “No, I’m not.” He took off his coat, unwound his scarf from his neck, and sat in the armchair closest to him. It was lumpy and not very comfortable, but he squared his shoulders and looked straight at Snape the Elder. “Your son saved my life, you know. He saved a lot of people. He got an Order of… oh, I’m sorry, I should have brought it to you; I didn't think…”

“You usually leave the thinking to Granger. Or even Weasley, when he gets his head out of his arse.” Snape rubbed his face, and went back to staring at the TV. “I don’t care about the Order of Merlin, Potter. I don’t care about any of it. Sell the gold and buy a new broom with the money, for all I care.” He crushed what was left of his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and bent forward, gripping the cushions under him.

His father hurried to him, like he thought his son was about to fall face first on the dubiously beige carpet, but Snape grunted and caught himself on a flimsy-looking bookshelf, making it wobble dangerously. Harry watched him shuffle away from the room, one hand on the wall or whatever piece of furniture was closest; Snape, Sr followed and Harry could hear some angry-sounding mumbling and hissing from behind closed doors. After a few minutes, older, bigger, and arguably meaner Snape stomped back in, glaring at Harry.

“Why are you still here? Fuck off and never come back.”

“No.”

“No, eh? He said you were stubborn.”

“Yup, I am.” Harry grinned, the kind of grin that Ron said made him look slightly deranged. Good, that was the vibe he was going for. He let his wand dangle between his knees, and gently tapped it to cast a privacy spell. They were going to talk at some point, even if for now Snape’s dad was ignoring him as he folded the blanket his son had left on the sofa, emptied the ashtray, turned the TV off.

Once he’d run out of little chores, Harry struck.

“Did you know I saw some of his memories? You didn’t seem to be a great dad.”

Snape the Grey stared at him with the same dark, unblinking eyes as his son. “I wasn’t.”

As soon as Tobias had, finally, left him alone, Severus sat up on the bed and glared at the bare wall in front of him. The room was mostly empty. There was a crappy, second- (more likely third)-hand twin bed Tobias had got his hands on when he dragged his son back with him, a small trunk filled with a few of Severus’ books from Spinner’s End, one plastic folding chair with some clothes thrown over it, and a three-legged stool that served as a bedside table. He’d tried to read some of Tobias’ books that he bought in bulk at Oxfam, but nothing really held his attention. He kept falling asleep after a few pages, like he did when watching the telly. He knew he should have stayed at Hogwarts a bit longer, but… he couldn't take it. Minerva’s sad eyes and her constant apologies, Poppy’s worried expression that she couldn't entirely hide… and the castle itself. Too many memories eating at him.

He’d had to escape.

He’d left for Spinner’s End, but several days after he’d Portkeyed there with his emergency, and illegal, Portkey, he’d only managed to go from sofa to kitchen and back. And that was when Tobias had graced his doorstep, although he’d spelled the house to look and feel as empty and dark as most others in the street months before the final battle, and added some Muggle-repelling charms on top. But there was one other person living two houses down, who’d known him since childhood; an ancient woman he suspected was a Squib, because she’d always seemed to know more than she should have, if she’d been a Muggle. She had to have spotted the owls that Minerva and Poppy had sent him (and that he had never replied to), and warned Tobias. Severus really shouldn't have opened the windows; it wasn’t like the stale air would have killed him. Since apparently nothing could, not even a giant, poisonous, deadly, magical snake carrying a shard of the Dark Lord’s soul.

So, even as he’d tried to leave the Wizarding world behind, it had to come back to him, and in Potter’s form no less.

Potter, who had apparently decided to have a chat with Tobias Snape himself, magic-hater extraordinaire. And of course, Severus couldn't let go. He knew how his father could be, and how quick Potter’s temper was.

He swung his legs out from under the covers, slipped thick socks on, and grabbed a ratty bathrobe. He was always cold these days; years of being acclimated to the cool, damp dungeons had been erased by Nagini. Of course. He gritted his teeth as he made the trek back to the door, then a few more steps to get closer to the living room. He let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting behind the door Tobias had left ajar, and waited. Potter’s magic washed over him instead of stopping before Severus and forming a tight private bubble. He rolled his eyes; the boy had no subtlety or finesse at all.

The room behind the door was mostly silent apart from some domestic noises – a blanket being shaken out, the thunk of the stone ashtray hitting cheap wood.

And then…

“So why is he here?”

“None of your business.”

“You still haven’t kicked me out.”

Tobias grunted. “He warned me it wouldn’t work.”

“No, probably not. He’d say something like I tend to stick my nose where I shouldn't, or something like that.”

“Exactly that.”

“Ha.” Potter huffed, but he sounded amused more than offended when he spoke again. “Yeah, I can believe it.”

“Tea?”

“What? Uh, yeah, sure.” Tobias stomped away to the kitchen, and came back a moment later; Severus peered through the crack and saw him with two mismatched mugs hooked on the fingers of one hand and the Typhoo in the other.

“We’re outta milk,” he said before marching off again.

“That’s fine.” No sugar was mentioned, and Potter didn’t ask. Tobias brought back the ancient kettle Severus remembered from when he was a boy.

They were silent for a while, and it wasn’t the kind that ended in offers of lemon drops. Severus waited; out of Tobias and Potter, one or the other – or both – was bound to go off at any moment. “I’m not getting the biscuits out. Not for the likes of you.”

“You don’t want me here; I get it.”

“If you don’t like it, leave. Don’t let the door hit you on the arse.”

“I’m not scared of you, you know.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Snape – your son – was way scarier when I was a kid.”

Severus smiled a little. Well, he’d certainly strived to be; good to know he hadn’t been entirely unsuccessful.

“Not anymore? You think he’s some weak pansy, now?”

“Um – no, I don’t. I really don’t. I’ve just, I’ve seen worse, now.”

“Hm.”

Tobias, as Severus knew all too well, didn’t like pansies. He didn’t much like his son either, although what Severus had to assume was misplaced, too-late guilt had led to their current cohabitation. It wouldn’t last long.

“He said there was a war. Two wars, really. That kids like you fought a war.”

“He did, too. For longer than I was alive.”

“Right. And you think that’s normal? You think that’s good?” His voice was rising already, and so was Severus’ hair, all over his body. He remembered what it led to, that voice. He remembered how powerless he’d felt, whenever his parents had started shouting. It had been all the scarier because he could remember an earlier time when things had been different, but then… but then.

Tobias was on a roll. “You lot, always talking about your magic, waving your bloody sticks around like it makes you better than us normal people…” He slammed his hands on the table and Severus shuddered, his fists opening and closing around nothing. He’d left his wand in the room; it wasn’t like he could use it, and he had to trust Potter could deal with Tobias Snape. The man was nothing, to a boy who’d faced the Dark Lord and come out the victor. “You’re not. You’re not! Your goddamn magic… we’d have been better off without it, I’m telling you.” Severus looked again through the crack and saw Tobias with his back turned on Potter, his shoulders shaking. He was angry, but not yet taking it out on Potter. Maybe he was scared of Potter’s wand; maybe now that he was sober he was better at keeping his violence in check. Either way, Severus didn’t trust it would last forever. It never had, before.

Potter’s fingers squeaked against the cheap plastic tablecloth that had been a cheery red, years ago; one of his hands was rubbing against the back of the other. “I like magic. It saved me.”

“I bet you wouldn't have needed to be saved, without it.”

“That’s not…” Potter’s voice petered out. As much as it pained Severus to admit it, Tobias was right. No magic, no Dark Lord. No Boy Who Lived, no prophecies.

“What did you see?”

“What?”

There was a dull thump like a chair’s legs hitting the carpet. “You said you saw memories. What did you see? What do you think you know?”

Oh. Oh no. Severus would kill him if he heard Potter talk about any of that.

“Oh, now you’re clamming up, eh? You’re right; I was a shit father. Got laid off, started drinking, joined protests, then riots, and drank some more.” He snorted. “I was in and out of jail for a while, until that bitch Thatcher…” His jaw tightened. “Even killed a guy. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, right? Father and sons, both killers.”

Harry swallowed. “So am I.”

That shut Tobias up, for all of five seconds. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“The old nutter, the one at your school, he sent you to kill; I reckon?”

“Well, to be killed, actually.” Potter paused. “I mean, I got better, so it turned out alright in the end for me. I was one of the lucky ones.”

“Goddammit.”

“Why do you care? If you hate wizards so much.”

“Why do I–” He stopped, took a deep breath, and started again at a lower volume. He’d said he’d had anger management courses in the clink; maybe it had somehow paid off. Or maybe it was only delaying the inevitable. “Why do I care? Your precious magic destroyed my wife’s life and almost…” He cleared his throat. “It crushed them. All their hopes, crushed. All the life in them – crushed. My wife’s folks kicked her out when she married me because I’m not part of your little cult; when she brought Severus over so he could meet his grandma and grandpa, they just…” Severus squinted through the crack and saw Tobias pretend he was holding a wand and doing, in fact, a pretty good job at mimicking a Blasting curse. “We fought over it all the time. I didn’t want her to teach her ways to our boy; I didn’t want him to go to your damn school; I just wanted to keep him away from all that crap. But it was all he wanted, of course. I tried to beat it out of him when I got too drunk, and all I did was push him further into it.” He raised his mug, glared at his tea, then gulped down half of it. “And then Eileen… I was serving time then. I wasn’t there.”

Tobias thunked his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands, breathing slow and controlled, and Severus leaned away from the door and covered his mouth with his hand; it wouldn't do to have them hear him have a… a fit. Something. His lungs were rioting and he was fighting not to pant, not to scream, not to claw his face off. He buried his face between his raised knees and clamped down on everything, every feeling, every thought.

But then, Tobias spoke again, and Severus couldn't not listen.

“I learned shit, in jail. I got better; I didn’t let anger control me no more. Quit drinking, took classes. But it was too late; she was dead and Severus… Well, he was already teaching at that school by then. Fucked up his life royally and he wasn’t even twenty-two. Twenty-two! I was a shit father; I won’t lie, but without your stupid sticks he’d have been better off. He’d have got himself a normal life, but now instead he’s more ghost than man! His Ma would still be here, and she wouldn't have let him…”

This time, his voice broke, and Severus shuddered, crossing his arms over his head. He’d never heard Tobias say these things; he’d never heard him say why he hated magic so much. His throat felt too tight, like two enormous fangs were spearing him again, tearing him open again; he distantly heard glass breaking, and then something rained on him.

“Professor?”

He managed a growl, but nothing more.

“Don’t move; there’s glass all around you and in your hair.” Tobias didn’t sound angry, didn’t sound like he was about to hit him; still, Severus refused to open his eyes. The magic he’d thought almost dead in him since Nagini was now bubbling and boiling and roiling under his skin, about to burst out of him, and he couldn't do anything about it. He had no control, just rage and fear and horror, unable to stop any of it.

“Reparo. There, no more shards. Um, what’s happening?”

“Step away, Potter,” he finally managed.

“You look like you’re about to be sick.”

“He’s about to blow up, like when he was a boy. His Ma would just… you know.”

Just as he thought he was about to explode, a cool spell wrapped around him and absorbed the violent magic that burst out of him.

“Foolish hand-waving not so foolish now, eh, Professor?”

Severus snarled but didn’t manage more than that; what little energy he’d possessed had drained out of him and he felt himself crumple.

“Don’t tell me you got a sprog yourself; you said you were eighteen.”

“No, but I have a godson. I know how to deal with accidental magic and tantrums.”

“M’not a child,” Severus gritted out. There were arms around him, arms he didn’t recognize, arms that were attached to a body too thick to be Potter’s. Arms that had caught him before he ended up on the floor, like a sad, tired sock whose only destiny was the landfill.

Potter got on his other side and helped Tobias haul him up and help him back to his little room with its little bed. “You know, McGonagall said you left the Hospital Wing way too early, but I thought after all these months you’d be… you know. Better.”

“I’m dead,” he muttered as they manhandled him back in the narrow bed. “Dead men don’t get better.”

“Drama queen,” Tobias said.

Potter snickered. “You should have seen him at the school.”

“I saw him as a teenager, kid. That was plenty enough for me.”

The glint in Potter’s eye would have worried Severus if he’d had the energy; as it was he feebly batted off the hands that tried to tuck him in like a child and fell asleep mere seconds after his head hit the thin pillow.

Once they were back in the sitting room, Snape’s father closed the door behind him and did his best to loom over Harry. He was a big man, wide shoulders and thick arms that he crossed over his chest. Harry could see old scars over the fingers; two were crooked like they’d been broken and never set right.

“Right. And now, kid, I think you should leave.”

“But…” Harry glanced at the door behind Mr Snape, then back at the man. “I’ll be back.”

“No. You won’t.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“You did. He doesn’t want to talk to you. He doesn’t owe you shit.”

“No, I know that, but…” Harry tried very hard to forget about the promise he’d made to McGonagall to respect Snape’s wishes, and went on. “He’s not well. I’ll ask Madam Pomfrey about it; maybe she knows…”

“Pomfrey? The doctor? She’s still at that school?”

“Er, yes. You know her?”

“Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need you, all right? He doesn’t need your sort. You’ve done enough harm.”

“He’s… ”

“He’s what?”

He’s a hero, he’s sick, he’s the only one who will remember my mum. “Look, the magical thing, I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will know what can help, okay? I just… I just want to help.”

“You’re eighteen. Go be eighteen, but elsewhere. Do you hear me?”

Harry glared at him, but only got a frown in return.

And then an abruptly cut-off shriek made them both whip their heads and look at where the sound had come from. They rushed back to the small bedroom and Mr Snape almost crashed through the door, practically throwing himself on the bed where his son was shaking so hard the flimsy frame was rattling against the wall; Harry followed and stared. Blood was seeping through Snape’s shirt, streaming from his nose, his mouth; his lips were moving but he made no sound. Harry cast a Revelio, but there was nothing with them, nothing but cheap furniture and more Snapes than Harry had ever thought he’d share space with.

“Talk to me, son, what’s happening? There’s blood; why are you bleeding? Let me see.” He kept trying to lift Snape’s shirt to check where the blood was coming from but Snape kept trying to wriggle away. A pulse of magic, wild and aimless, flew past Harry and made a plastic chair wobble.

“Wait,” Harry said. “Step away. I think he’s panicking.”

“What?”

“Step away,” Harry repeated.

Mr Snape’s eyes fell on a book that was inching closer and closer to the edge of the trunk it was on, and he finally took a quick step back. “What…?” he whispered again.

Harry knelt by the bed, careful not to touch Snape, and looked at his wide unseeing eyes, at the blood still dripping from his nose, his mouth, at his parted lips though which air was wheezing past too fast.

“It’s December 1998,” he said, “Vol… the Dark Lord’s dead, we won. You’re in, uh, Sheffield, in bed, in your bed. You’re safe.” He blinked, trying to see Snape and not Hermione still half-caught in a nightmare from her time at Malfoy Manor, trying to remember what Madam Pomfrey had told them to do, when one of them was trapped in their mind. And he tried not to think about himself, choking on air until he registered Ron’s face, Ginny’s voice. He kept his voice as even as he could, his breathing as slow and regular as he could, until Snape’s frame started to relax a little, finally.

“You’re bleeding. Can I look?”

Snape’s eyes fluttered before focusing on Harry. “Bleeding?”

“On your back and chest, your neck. Oh, and your nose. Can I…?”

Snape stared at his wand for a moment, then gave a jerky nod. As Harry cast Episkey on his nose, Snape’s father came closer and reached out to lift the shirt, but before he’d got close enough to touch him Snape had violently flinched away.

“…don’t,” he rasped.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Snape bent his head enough that his entire face was hidden by black hair, and his father stomped out. He raised a hand to his face and it came back red with blood. “Ah,” he said. He fumbled for the box of tissues on the makeshift bedside table and started to wipe the blood from his face.

“I could, you know…”

“What are you still doing here, Potter?”

“Wow, you sound like shit.”

“And probably look like it.” He squirmed away from Harry, glaring from under the hair. “None of this is your business. Go away, before you’re sucked up into this.”

“And what is this?”

“As I said, none of your business.”

“It looks like your magic…”

“I know what it looks like. There are potions, I just… I’ll be fine.”

“There are potions, but you don’t have them?”

“I’m a Potions Master, Potter.”

“Yeah, but you can’t brew right now; you can barely walk.”

“Piss off.”

Harry bit his cheek so he didn’t laugh; plain, simple, normal human swearing from Snape was surprising. “Can I check you first?”

Snape sighed, but moved just enough Harry could lift his shirt and stare. Harry had expected the scars from Nagini to have reopened, but there also were long, red lines criss-crossing his torso, and in several places the skin had broken and blood was seeping. Some looked a little like Sectusempra, but not all. Some looked different.

“If you’re just looking then I…”

“No, no, sorry.” Harry ran his wand along the lines, closing the open wounds and cleaning the skin as it went. “I thought it was all from, uh, you know, the war, but…” He remembered how Snape had flinched away from his father.

“It was a long time ago, Potter. Leave it.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” he said. “With him.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“But…”

“Are you deaf?” he jerked his shirt down. “You’re the Saviour, Potter, the Boy Who Lived and Lived Again. You did what you were expected to, and now you’re free. Free. Do you understand what that means?” Snape tugged the bedsheets back over his legs and faced Harry. “Nothing else, no one else is your responsibility. You can do what you want. So go, now. Shoo.”

“You’re free, too. You don’t have to stay here with him, if you’re – um.”

Snape’s lip curled. “If I’m what, scared? A coward?” He spat the last word.

“No, definitely not that. But you were very young, and…”

“So were you. We both saw what we shouldn't have seen.”

“The Dursleys never hit me. I mean, they did other stuff, but…”

“He was drunk then; he’s not now.” His fingers curled in the blanket. “And your aunt and uncle are despicable.”

Harry looked down for a moment; Snape seeing, actually seeing him, was a lot to take in. “Look, what I mean is, you could come with me. There’s lots of room at Grimmauld place; you wouldn't even have to see me.”

“Charity, Potter?”

“No! You could – there’s lots of stuff you could do! Lots of books to read, and Dark stuff.”

“Dark stuff,” he said with very Snape-ish disdain.

“Yeah!” Harry had an idea. “We tried to clear out the place a bit, and Andromeda – Tonks’ mum – she helped, but there’s lots that we didn’t know what to do with. Felt dangerous, so we thought maybe Bill could look at it one day, but I don’t know when he’d have time, and he’s got other stuff to deal with, and…”

“Stop babbling.”

Harry’s teeth clicked.

“The Black library? And Dark artefacts?”

“Um, yeah. There’s a lot.”

“And you and your merry little band of do-gooders piled all of it in a corner and hoped the problem would go away someday, somehow?”

“No, not – well. Kinda?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “You could ask Malfoy.”

Harry made a face. “I don’t think… we’re not really talking. We’re not fighting, but we’re…”

“Ignoring each other?”

“Right, yes. That.”

“He’s the product of his upbringing, nothing worse. Bad enough, but…” He breathed slowly for a moment, his fingers restless on the thin fabric. “I have hope he’ll grow past it. Still, he and Narcissa should be able to give you a hand. They owe you, and they won’t forget that.”

“I’d rather ask you.”

“Potter, I have no control over my magic at the moment, and I fall asleep if I sit for more than an hour. I am fighting to stay awake at this very moment. You can’t ask me.”

“Well, if you got better then I could.”

“So that’s your new goal? After saving the world, saving Severus Snape, by forcing him into health so he can get your sorry arse out of the fire, safe from the Blacks’ collection of Dark paraphernalia?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, I owe you. Look, just… think about it, okay? I’ll owl Madam Pomfrey tomorrow and I’ll come back as soon as I can, okay?”

“No.”

“Great.” He grinned, and then grinned even wider at Snape’s ferocious scowl when it dawned on him that no, Harry was not going to acknowledge his answer and that yes, he was going to fuss with the blankets.

Once he left the room, he realised he’d forgotten to tell him about McGonagall again, but he figured he’d have plenty of opportunities soon. He found Mr Snape sitting at the table, elbows on the wax table cloth and face buried in his hands. He raised his head a bit when Harry stood in front of him and said, “So you’re taking him away from me, back into your world? My own son?”

“I…” Mr Snape’s suspiciously shiny eyes pushed all of Harry’s words back in his throat.

“I can’t help him. I tried; god knows he should get more from me than what I gave him. But he made his choice a long time ago, eh? Thrown in his all with you lot, for all the good it did. Not that we Muggles, as you say, are any better.”

“Things are better now,” Harry finally got out. If he said it, maybe it would make it feel truer, somehow.

“I bet that’s what your aunt thought once she married that stuck-up walrus with a broom up his arse, eh? Your grand-parents never had a good thing to say about Tuney once your mum turned out to be one of your lot, and her sister turned into someone who’d marry that twat Dursley and think it an upgrade. We parents fuck up, eh? We sure do.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about your mum. I get angry sometimes, but I shouldn’t. She was just a kid, too. They were just kids, like you.”

“Um.” Harry blinked. He hadn’t expected any of that – more broken families, everywhere. From the Weasleys and the giant hole in the middle to Hermione’s parents who hadn’t fully recovered from the memory charms, from the Durlseys to the Snapes… he wasn’t ready for that. He had never been ready for anything that life had thrown at him, and he was only eighteen. “Right. Thanks. So, um… I’ll be in touch?”

Mr Snape looked away and turned on the telly, dismissing him, and Harry let himself out.

Well, he thought. Well, shit.

Potter sent an owl the day after, a surprisingly well-behaved animal that politely waited on the windowsill until Tobias finally deigned to open the window, grumbling and glaring for all the two minutes it took for the bird to come in, perch on the back Severus’ chair, and allow him to untie the letter. It accepted a bit of bacon from his mostly untouched breakfast and gulped it down faster than Severus had managed to eat half a slice of toast. He recognized the writing but didn’t open it right away; Severus needed to fortify himself with more coffee first.

Once Severus waved the owl off with a muttered “No reply,” Tobias turned his frown from the owl to Severus.

“Didn’t cook a fry-up so you could give it to a bloody bird.”

“I didn’t ask for all this.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Tobias’s voice rose. “Look at you!”

Severus clenched his hand into a fist, and didn’t reply.

“You’re skin on bones, and I…” He stopped to take a deep breath before continuing at a lower volume. “What am I supposed to do? You’re not getting any stronger, and you won’t even let me take you to the doctor!”

“A Muggle doctor won’t help. You know this.”

Tobias didn’t reply, only sat in front of Severus and watched him. Severus tried to force down some more toast, half a slice of tomato, but he could feel his stomach spasming and he stopped again. He’d survived Nagini’s venom, yes, but not unscathed. At least Tobias hadn’t prepared a large amount this time; however much he yelled, he’d learned how pointless it was.

“You’re just like your Ma, you know.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t let you end up like her. I’m not losing you like…”

“Don’t.”

“I fucked up; I know I did. I won’t let it happen again, not on my watch. You need one of your magic doctors; I’ll find you one.”

“No.”

“Son…”

“They all think I’m dead, and it’s better this way.”

“I’m not watching you die!”

“Then you shouldn’t have come and dragged me back here. You could have let me be; it’s not like you cared before.”

“I did!”

“You never did, not in thirty years!” The plate in front of Severus rattled and the fork fell from the edge and clattered on the tablecloth; he watched his fist on the table and opened it slowly. He wouldn't let Tobias push him into violence; he wouldn’t be violent. He’d slipped before, yes, but very rarely, and he’d never… he wasn’t Tobias. Even without the potions, he was in control. He wouldn't slip.

“That’s not true.” Tobias grabbed Severus’s forearm and squeezed until he got a glare. “I always knew how you were doing. That old man at the school, and the Scottish woman, they’d send me postcards, letters sometimes. Severus has joined the faculty, or Your son’s published an article, things like that. Showed them off at the clink; I did. I was the proudest Da there; I can tell you.”

Severus tried to free his arm, but Tobias held on tight. “You killed her,” he whispered, “and I still have the scars.”

“She chose to die, and I sure wasn’t innocent. I’m not letting you – I’m not making the same mistake.”

“I’ll never forgive you. Never.”

“I know.” Tobias rubbed his face with his free hand. “I know, and that’s fair. But I still have a few years left to tell you I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll hear me.”

Severus doubted it. If he had any say in the matter, if he weren’t so weak, he wouldn't be here. “Let me go.”

Tobias sighed, a long, slightly shaky sigh, and opened his hand. Severus snatched his arm back and hid both hands under the table, bowing his head so hair could hide his face. He felt like he was a boy again, small and powerless and with a father he didn’t understand. In a few months, Tobias had gone from gruff but gentle to a roaring, violent monster, made worse by all the booze; after that he’d been in and out of the house – out for a day of protests, a weekend with the lads, a month in jail. Those had been the easier days, rather than the days he was in, reeking of stale alcohol and fighting with his wife and pinballing between paying not enough or too much attention to his son.

And now, now Tobias was the Da of his early childhood again, still big and loud and rough, but soft, under all of that. Like the way he looked at his Ma in that wedding picture, the one on the dresser in his bedroom. Severus had walked in there once, looking for an extra blanket, and walked right out. He’d rather be cold than have a past he barely remembered taunt him.

But Severus could never trust him again, not like he did when he’d barely reached Tobias’s hip. There was too much hate, and violence, and rage, and tears; there was a dead woman between them, now. There was that feeling of betrayal from when he’d realised his father would never be his Da again, that his old Da was no more; there were the traces of his violence on Severus’s skin, now faded, and on his mind, still vivid. Still burning. Forgiveness… Severus would never get it for his own sins, wouldn’t even dare ask for it, and he didn’t have it in him for his father’s. He was dry, empty, a husk in mind and body, but somehow he wasn’t dead. Yet.

“What’s in that letter? Is it from that boy?” An olive branch, another one. Tobias would try again and again and again, until Severus took it, or until he died, whichever came first.

Severus bit his cheek, and finally opened it. “Yes,” he said, quickly going through it. “He’s coming back.”

Headmistress McGonagall looked surprised to see him back at Hogwarts, but he only had to say, “It’s about Professor Snape,” and she Flooed Madam Pomfrey right away.

They met her in the Hospital Wing, a tray of tea and biscuits on the matron’s desk. The Headmistress pulled a flask from her robes and poured a generous dose in her cup and, at Pomfrey’s nod, her cup too. Harry shook his head; he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget anything.

The mediwitch rested her cup on her knee and asked, “How is he, then?”

“And where?” McGonagall asked. “I know he’s not in his house, and I know he wouldn’t want us to look for him, but…” She sipped some of her doctored tea and raised an eyebrow. “And I’m quite curious to know how you managed to find him.”

Harry looked into his own cup, but just like in Divination, found no answer in there. “Well, I, uh. You know I had some of his memories, right?”

Both women nodded.

“Well, I… found a way to use them to help me find him.”

“That doesn’t sound very legal.”

His lips twitched. “Well, probably not. Found out about it from the library in Grimmauld Place.”

“Ah. I see.” McGonagall pursed her lips, but more for show than anything else. “Well, it worked and you lived to tell the tale, Potter.”

“Yeah. He didn’t even try to hex me, so…” They all shared a small smile. “He’s… uh, he’s not alone.”

“Tobias,” the Headmistress said. “He’s with his father, isn’t he?”

“That man? We can’t leave Severus with him; he’s violent and a drunkard!”

“Yes, Poppy, he was. But you know Albus and I kept in touch with him; Albus hoped that he’d reconnect with Severus.”

Pomfrey tsked. “The Headmaster was a great wizard, but he was not without his faults.” Both women glanced at Harry; he squirmed. “Encouraging that man to believe he had any right to his son’s life… He used to – you remember how the boy was, every September!”

“I know; I do remember. But he’s changed.”

They paused, the mediwitch looking like she’d bit in a lemon, both presumably waiting for Harry to tell them more. Well, that was why he’d come; he needed help and for that, he needed to give them some details. Even if Snape would have his guts if he knew.

“His dad is, uh, he said he was a shitty dad, but I think he’s trying to help Sna- Professor Snape. He went to Spinner’s End and brought him back to, uh, to where he lives.”

“And Severus let him?”

“I think he didn’t really have a choice. He’s… not doing very well.”

“I’m not surprised; with his injuries and that snake’s venom still not fully purged, he really should have stayed here.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Poppy; you know how he is.”

“But he’s never been that close to death, and at least when he was hiding in his rooms here, I could check on him.”

“Potter – Harry.” McGonagall set her empty teacup on the table. “How is he, really?”

“Um… he’s, uh. He looks really tired, and like he’s not eating a lot.”

“And?” Pomfrey’s eyes zeroed on him; she expected more. She knew there was something he was not telling.

“He’s a bit, uh, volatile. His magic, I mean.”

The two women shared a look, but didn’t elaborate.

“I think he needs some potions, and I bet he can’t brew them. He can barely stand.”

“He’d have to get the ingredients, for a start, and I doubt he’d risk being seen in a shop.” McGonagall poured more from her flask and added a dash of tea, just enough to pretend she wasn’t drinking only alcohol.

“Do you have the potions? I could take them to him.”

“Hm. He used to brew whatever he needed himself so they were tailored for him, but I do have a few more generic ones that could help. And he needs to eat; when you brought him back from the Shack he was already too thin and I’m sure he’s not any better.”

“And I bet he doesn’t get any sun.”

Madam Pomfrey stood up and opened a cabinet, muttering and moving phials and bottles. “Aha!” She came back with a satchel that she handed to Harry. “There; he’ll know what to do with those.”

Harry took it, eyebrows raised. He was curious; was she going to tell him what the potions were? “Are those… antivenom?” He made to open the bag, but Pomfrey tutted.

“A patient’s treatment is confidential, young man.”

Harry nodded and tried his best to look abashed, but he would definitely try and look later, once he was back at Grimmauld Place. He didn’t think she would poison Snape, but if he knew what he needed, maybe then he could tell what the problem was, and how to help?

“When are you going back, Harry? Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Hm. I could lend him my house; I’m hardly ever there during the school year. And it’s not too far from Ullapool, so it would be easy for you to go and check on him,” she added for Pomfrey.

“I don’t think he wants to see anyone,” Harry said. “Well, I don’t think he wants to see me either, but, um.”

“But you’ve got your mind all made up, whatever Severus says?”

“I just don’t think he should be so alone. I couldn’t have done it, you know,” he waved a hand, unwilling to say he’d killed Voldemort, “I couldn't have done any of it without him. He said he didn’t care about his Order of Merlin, but I’ll take it to him anyway. It’s got to mean something, right?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Let us know how it goes, please,” Madam Pomfrey added. “And tell him I’ll come as soon as he says the word.”

Harry agreed, though he wondered if Snape’s father would be very happy to see more of the Wizarding world intrude on his life. He seemed to have quite a grudge, but then again, few people were as stubborn as Harry, and for now Snape himself was not strong enough to butt heads with Harry.

He’d make him see; he’d drag him back into Wizarding society again and get him better and, finally, talk to him. Talk to him for real, ask about his mum, tell him Harry knew how much he owed him. And maybe they could both apologise to each other, too.

Because, maybe, they needed that first.

Neville Flooed in on the morning of the 29th, arms full of parchment and notebooks and, of course, a box of seedlings for Grimmauld Place’s small garden. He planned to spend the morning going over whatever books on Herbology and magical plants were in the Black library, to try and assess if any were particularly interesting or totally outdated; if he had doubts he would put them aside and check with Hogwarts’ Library, or ask Madam Sprout.

Harry left him to it after they shared a coffee, and went to a room he was using as a study to tackle a Transfigurations book that he really should have started on earlier; it was part of the Auror curriculum and he needed to read it. It was just that, well, Harry was having doubts about that career. Going after criminals according to a law he didn’t always trust, witnessing more harm and more death, following orders and having a boss… was it really for him? Still, he didn’t have any better idea, and everyone seemed to think it was his destiny, so here he was, at least until he had some sort of epiphany about his future.

Mid-morning, Neville cleared his throat from the door and Harry (gratefully, though he would never admit it out loud) lifted his eyes from the book.

“So,” Neville started.

Harry closed the book and waited.

“Um, so, I went to the kitchen for a tea break and, well, I couldn’t help… I swear I wasn’t prying! But, it’s just, they were just there, you know?”

“What, teapots?”

“No! No, just, the potions.”

“What potions?”

“Those next to the brown bag?”

Harry frowned, until he remembered. Snape’s potions! He’d taken the satchel in the kitchen and taken the potions out, trying to guess what was in them. Each bottle had a list of ingredients, but Harry had been unable to make heads or tails of them, even if he recognized some of the active principles in them.

But Neville had.

“They’re not for me,” he said.

“Right, yeah, sure.” From Neville’s face, he didn’t believe Harry. “It’s just, I recognize some of those, from the ward my parents are in.” Uh oh. “You know, mood enhancers and magic stabilisers, pain relievers, and some that they give people with spell damage, like from Crucio or Imperius. Those really mess up your nervous system.”

“I just picked them up for someone else, Neville.”

“Right.” Neville cleared his throat. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry stood up and walked around the table he’d been studying at. “Neville, I can’t tell you who they’re for, but they’re not for me. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But for someone else? Is it Ron or Hermione?”

“No!”

Neville looked unconvinced, but followed Harry back to the kitchen without any more questions. “I may have to come back tomorrow, for the books; I don’t think I’ll be finished today.”

“That’s fine; the Floo’s open to you.” Harry looked at the bottles and frowned at the labels. “How can you tell what they’re for?”

“I recognize the ingredients list, mostly. Those look like the generic versions you’d give someone before you’ve tailored the recipe for a specific patient, or at the start of treatment to see what works and what doesn’t.”

“Uh.” Harry put them back into the satchel, adding a cushioning charm so they would be safe from breakage. “I didn’t even know what they were for, when Madam Pomfrey gave them to me. I’m just the go-between.”

“For a mystery patient that she knows and can’t visit, and who can’t go to Hogwarts or St Mungo’s.”

“Right.”

Neville raised his eyebrows, but after a last glance at the bag only nodded and left, promising to come back the next day.

Okay, Harry thought. Well, time to go back to Sheffield.

Potter kept his word.

Severus was minding his own business, working his way through the paper’s crossword while Tobias had gone to the Tesco, when there was a polite knock. Severus shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole; wild hair and then a close-up of a vividly green eye were clear enough. He opened the door and glared down his nose at the brat, trying to look like he was casually leaning against the jamb instead of relying on it to stay upright.

“I thought you’d just Apparate in without warning.” He tried not to wince; the first words of the day were always particularly harsh on his heavily scarred throat.

“That would be rude.”

“Yes; that is why I expected you’d do that.”

Potter rolled his eyes and raised a small leather bag. “Can I come in? I got your, um,” he glanced at the other doors, “medicine.”

Severus sighed and stepped back. “Fine.”

The boy walked straight to the sitting room and set the bag on the table; he was obviously holding his tongue as he watched Severus slowly make his way back to a chair and half-sit, half-fall into it.

“She’s worried, you know. Both of them – Madam Pomfrey and the Headmistress.”

“What did you tell them?”

Potter looked shifty. He’d have made a shit spy, really. “Um, not much?”

“How reassuring.”

“Hey, they really care. That’s nice, you know, when people care about you.” His eyes kept darting everywhere, and he finally asked, “Uh, where’s your father?”

“Out.”

“Oh.”

“Quite.”

“Right.”

Severus watched him fidget for a few entertaining moments before saying, “If you want tea, you’ll have to make it yourself. Kitchen’s through that door,” he added with a wave of his hand.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you want tea? Or something else?”

Severus blinked.

“I mean, if I’m boiling water for one, I can just as well do it for two.”

Oh. “Fine.”

The boy jumped up and pushed the bag in Severus’s hands before going into the kitchen and banging cabinet doors. While he was busy in the kitchen, Severus took the phials and bottles out and felt a sudden prickling behind his eyes. He recognized them; he’d brewed them himself as part of Poppy’s regular stock. They were not exactly what he needed and had been prepared with young people in mind, not an adult male with his own, particular needs, but they were a start. She’d taken them out of the Hospital Wing, out of the Hogwarts stores, for someone who didn’t even work there any longer. Someone who’d killed a beloved Headmaster, betrayed his colleagues’ trust, let the Carrows…

“I didn’t know what tea you’d like, so I brought them all.” Three different boxes tumbled on the table, followed by two mugs and a kettle that Potter directed to settle down more gently with a wave of his wand.

“I’m not picky.”

“Well, you get to choose anyway.” Potter dropped a teabag in his own mug and poured water over it. “Are those okay? I mean, Madam Pomfrey said they were not as good as potions specifically tailored for you, but that they would still help.”

Severus nodded. He should say yes, should thank Potter; he couldn't. He managed a jerk of his head, but he didn’t trust his voice.

“You don't want tea after all?” Potter pointed his chin at the empty mug in front of Severus.

Ah. He peeled one hand away from the ceramic and spread out his fingers; a slight tremor was visible. “Nerve damage. Can’t lift the kettle when it’s full.”

“Oh.” Potter busied himself with another teabag and the kettle, and pushed the full mug back into Severus’s hands. “The venom?”

“Partly.”

“But the potions will help, right?”

“Maybe.”

“So you can’t brew?”

Severus raised an eyebrow.

“Right, stupid question.”

“Indeed.” Severus looked down into his tea, then back up at Potter. “Am I to be your new project, Potter?”

“What? No! I just… I saw your memories, and now I don’t like thinking… it’s just not fair. You deserve more than that.”

“More than what? I’m not dead; I’m not even in Azkaban. You didn’t see all my memories, Potter, only those relevant to what you had to do, and enough to convince you. I have done many, many terrible things.”

“But you’re still here, and now everyone knows what side you were on. You could come back, get proper treatment, and – I don’t know, open your own Potions shop or something! Do whatever you want! What did you think you’d do after the war?”

“I never thought I’d survive it, especially not as a free man. I never planned for it. I thought the Dark Lord would find out who I was loyal to and would kill me for it, sooner or later.” He shrugged. “He did kill me, so I wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“He didn’t! You’re alive and free!”

The front door opened and closed, and heavy steps announced Tobias. He frowned at Potter on his way to the kitchen, bags dangling from his thick fingers, and grunted something that could have passed for a greeting if one were generous.

“Good morning, Mr Snape!” the boy called out. “Wow, it’s weird to have two of you now.”

“Two of…?”

Tobias stomped back into the sitting room, mug in hand, and pulled the chair next to Severus. “Two Snapes?” He fixed his tea before looking at the boy. “I have a brother too; there’s three of us.”

Potter looked blown away at the idea.

“It’s not that uncommon a name, Potter. Though there must be more Potters than Snapes. Terrible thought.”

They sipped their tea in slightly awkward silence, Tobias looking as dour as ever and Potter staring at him and generally being abysmal at hiding his curiosity. Severus ignored them both, until Tobias spoke again.

“So, you here to take him away?”

“I’ve just brought him potions, sir. Medicine.”

Severus raised an eyebrow; Tobias got a spontaneous Sir.

“Bet you didn’t come just out of the goodness of your heart, though.” He frowned. “He’s done enough for you lot; you don’t get to ask anything else from him.”

“I really just…”

Severus tapped a fingernail against his mug to get their attention. “Potter needs help with some books.” He pursed his lips. “And I imagine you’re preparing for your NEWTs?”

“Yeah, most of us – our year I mean – we’re preparing from home.”

“Where are you staying, Grimmauld?”

“Yeah. I’m on my own; Kreacher’s there and my friends visit sometimes, but that’s all. You’d be safe.”

Severus snorted. “Safe. As if.”

“So you’re going.” Tobias looked resigned. “Don’t pretend you won’t; I can see it.”

Severus didn’t reply; he just took a potion bottle and poured some in his empty mug before swallowing it, then repeating the process for another potion, then another.

“I’ll Side-Along you, but I can’t take you directly into the house; can you walk a bit?”

“Of course.”

Tobias had a different opinion. “What’s ‘a bit’?”

“Um, like from here to the Woolworths?”

Severus stood up. “I’ll get changed,” he said, and made for his room. His thin pyjamas were not going to cut it, and with his luck someone would see him. Weasley or Granger were bound to spend a lot of time around Potter, and he refused to reveal his continued existence while wearing worn sleepwear. Worn, black outerwear would be marginally better, and above all a turtleneck to hide most of the mess Nagini had made of his throat.

Tobias, under his usual stern face, was worried. He took Severus’s arm as soon as he reappeared in the living room and made him lean against the sofa while he left the room for a minute. He came back with an old scarf, one Severus recognized.

“I didn’t know you still had it.”

“Your Ma made it for me; of course I do. It’s soft and warm, and your neck…”

“I’ll be fine.”

Potter watched them from the kitchen door, a small but disturbing smile on his face as Tobias fussed over Severus.

“So you say. You’ve never been good at taking care of yourself, just like your Ma. You’re a little Prince, all right? And you,” Tobias added with a finger pointed at Potter. “Bring him back to me in one piece.”

“I will.” His too-curious eyes flicked from Severus to his father. “Prince?”

“My wife’s name.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Shut up, Potter.”

“But…”

“His Ma called him her little Half-Blood Prince.”

Warmth rushed all over Severus’s face, and he glared at Tobias.

“He wrote that name on his school books,” Potter said with relish.

“Really?” Tobias turned to Severus with an expression that was hard to decipher. Sad? Happy? Severus was entirely lost.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Tobias patted the scarf one last time with that strange look on his face before leading him to Potter. “You have your Ma’s eyes,” he said. “I remember how green they were. And it looks like you’re as hard-headed as she was. I could tell you stories when you come back, and I’m pretty sure I still have some old photos somewhere. I can dig them out for you.”

“No,” Severus snapped. “No photos. And you don’t remember anything; you were either drunk or away.”

“Not always, son. Not always.”

Severus hid behind his hair until Potter had Apparated them to London and he could look up again, certain he wouldn't have to see his father’s oddly softened face. It made his stomach churn unpleasantly.

Potter set him up in a corner of the library, with a tray of tea and scones courtesy of the old house elf and a pile of books that they couldn't determine were cursed or just temperamental. Comfortably settled in an ancient leather armchair, Severus went through them and sorted them between Outdated and useless, Dangerous but useful, and All bark but no bite. On the other end of the library, Potter was reading a textbook, for all appearances diligently doing his homework and letting Severus be.

They spent a quiet couple of hours like that, until even with the potions he’d taken earlier Severus felt himself tiring out. He pondered whether he trusted Potter enough to take a nap in his presence, and the next thing he knew he was waking up to a very unexpected face.

“Hullo, sir.”

“Longbottom,” Severus rasped. He tried to blink sleep out of his eyes, not entirely successfully, but when he tried to move he found his hands were under a blanket. He fought against it until he freed his arms enough to rub his face. What was he supposed to say to a boy he’d belittled for years? Not that he’d been the only teacher to do so, but he was well aware of how badly he’d treated him. And that he’d enjoyed it, too.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Longbottom said.

Severus snorted. “I highly doubt it.”

“It’s true. There’s been enough death, and Harry said you’d actually been on our side all along. So, thanks for that.”

“I treated you like shit.”

“You did. You also helped us, when you were Headmaster. We talked about it afterwards, with Ginny and Luna and the others; when Harry told us you’d been a spy it all became obvious. Hindsight, you know?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be obvious.”

“It wasn’t then, I can tell you. We all hated your guts.”

“As you should.”

“We don’t. Not anymore. I mean, you’re a mean bastard, but you’re our mean bastard, the one on our side.”

Severus felt like he’d stepped beyond the Veil, or at least some sort of veil. “I heard you’re quite the hero now, Longbottom. I should thank you for killing that snake.” He clenched his hand in his lap so he didn’t touch his throat.

“Nasty piece of work; I’m glad it can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Indeed.” Where was Potter? Was he going to have to make small talk to all his former students? He looked around the library, but no one else was there. Unless they were hiding under that damned Cloak, or perhaps…

“Harry’s gone out; he had a shouting match with Kreacher and he left with his broom. He should be back soon.” Longbottom sat in a chair facing Severus. “We study together sometimes; he explains Charms to me and I get him up to speed on Herbology. I was here yesterday too and I saw a bunch of potions; he wouldn’t tell me who they were for but now, well, I have a pretty good idea.” He waved at Severus. “How bad is it?”

“None of your business.”

“But…”

“Drop it.”

“Come on, I know most of these potions; I know what they’re for. My parents, well, you know.”

“Yes. And as you can see, I was luckier than them.”

“I’m also doing a few hours a week at St Mungo’s.”

“Congratulations.”

“It’s just to make some money; I’m not going to be a Healer. But I’ve learned things there.”

Severus felt cornered; what did Longbottom want? “Is this blackmail?”

“What?”

“What do you want in exchange for your silence about me?”

“I don’t – I’m trying to be nice, here.”

“You don’t have to be. Your parents are the way they are in part because of me, and as I said I treated you like shit. You owe me nothing.”

“We all owe you something, and my parents chose to be Aurors.”

“I was the one to tell the Dark Lord about the prophecy; I was a Death Eater, and don’t you forget it.”

“I know, and it doesn’t change anything. They were targets because of their job already, for a start. We were all dealt a bad hand, but we won. I don’t want to live in the past. Do you?”

Severus didn’t know what to reply; he had lived in the past – or lived a life informed by his past misdeeds – for decades, and he didn’t know how else to live. But, for once, Potter’s arrival improved his situation, and he pretended to be upset that he’d been abandoned in the house by his host to try and forget how wrong-footed he felt.

It didn’t really work.

Snape looked uncomfortable with Neville around; Harry was of the opinion he deserved to feel that way at least a little bit, but Neville insisted he didn’t want to make Snape squirm. Even after Snape tried to bite their heads off, they rushed to steady him as he stood up on shaky legs to head to the bathroom; he leaned away from them and almost lost his balance as he overcompensated. His face went a dull red and he hissed like an angry snake, probably only too aware that his voice had not fully recovered from Nagini, and maybe never would.

They watched him quietly from the doorway; after another hour poring over mouldy old tomes that he read more than sorted, Snape had fallen asleep again.

“I just want to put it behind me,” Neville said. “And look at him, he can barely stand; he’s a right mess and he knows it. He’s humiliated enough, and he deserves a break. We all do; I think.”

Harry checked the silencing Charm he’d cast around them was still holding before replying.

“I put his Order of Merlin on the desk, but he hasn’t even looked at it. I thought he’d be pleased, once he saw it.”

“Well, he’s always been a bitter bastard.”

Harry hummed in agreement. “Maybe that’s why he survived after all. Too mean to die.”

“Right.” Neville sighed. “I can’t believe we were so scared of him back then. Look at him: he’s just bones, and he’s not even that tall. And points, ha. Remember, when House points mattered?”

“Yeah. Feels a century ago.”

They left him to his nap and went to the kitchen; after promising Kreacher that yes, fine, they would leave Regulus’s room untouched for now, the elf had prepared them sandwiches for lunch.

“So what’s your plan with him?”

“Plan? I don’t have a plan; I just thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

“Did you tell Ron and Hermione?”

“No, not yet. I wasn’t even planning on telling you; you just got here early.”

Neville piled food on a plate and dragged it close to him. “Those potions,” he started between bites.

“Yeah?”

“You said Pomfrey told you some of them were from before? They’re not all ‘cause of Nagini?”

Harry shook his head; his mouth was too full to speak without spraying crumbs everywhere. “Nah, some he used to take before,” he added after swallowing.

“Ugh, that sucks.”

Neville didn’t elaborate, and Harry didn’t ask.

He Apparated Snape back to Sheffield with a bag of scones and sandwiches; Snape’s father didn’t smile but still took them. Harry had hidden the Order of Merlin among the food, and he hoped that Snape wouldn’t throw it out as soon as he found it. As it was, the telly was on when they got there and Snape just sat in an armchair and lit a fag, leaning back with a sigh.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” his father said.

“Mind your own business.”

“You’re in a right mood, eh? For a change.” Mr Snape turned back to Harry. “Come back after the New Year; I’ll have dug out those photos I promised you.”

“No,” Snape said from behind a cloud of smoke.

“Did you hear me ask for your opinion?”

More smoke, but no answer. Snape, Sr shrugged; he was probably used to his son’s temper.

“I bet he doesn’t want you to see him as a little tyke, but he’ll get over it.” He sat, but didn’t tell Harry to do the same. “Look, kid, I appreciate the food and suchlike, and you should have some pictures of your Ma; it’s only right, but… I don’t want you folks to drag him back into your world. I’ve thought on it all day, and I won’t let you magic him away again. Didn’t do any good the first time around, did it?”

“But the potions…”

“Those medicines?” He glanced at his son. “If he really needs them, then fine.” It didn’t sound very fine. “But we regular folks do have proper doctors too, you know.”

“Yeah, but what happened… He almost died, sir; I was there. I saw…”

“Potter.”

“Well you did! And you need those potions; Neville said…”

“You didn’t even need me for those books. Ask Granger or Malfoy, and don’t come back.”

“I live here, son, and I’ll say who can and can’t come here. The boy comes back; if you don’t like it you can bugger right off.”

Snape crushed his fag in the almost full ashtray and pushed himself up, keeping one hand on the table. “You dragged me here, old man,” he gritted out. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I wasn’t about to let you croak in that old, rotten pile of bricks!”

“It’s late,” Harry cut in. It wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to say to stop them. “I should go.”

“You come back; you should see those pictures.”

“Send them to him.”

Snape father and son glared at each other, until Snape – well, Harry’s Snape (ugh, what a thought), curled his lip and turned in the direction of his bedroom. “I’ll pack, then.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

“Watch me.” Snape shuffled forward, breathing heavily and with his shoulders high and tight.

His father didn’t move, but his face was doing… something. Like he was seeing a ghost, maybe; Harry wasn’t sure, but then again Snape seemed barely corporeal, his clothes – probably his father’s clothes, given the fit and cut – hanging from his frame and his skin so pale. He looked bloodless, drained, old and tired and ready to die. Harry frowned before going after Snape, catching up to him as Snape tried to slam the door in his face.

“Are you really leaving?”

Snape ignored him and picked up his wand from the folding chair it had been left on, looking down at it but not casting.

“Did you leave your wand here?”

“I can’t cast, Potter, not reliably.” He sat on the bed, making it creak.

“Er. Do you want help?”

“Stop trying to be nice; it’s unnerving.”

“Well, you haven’t thrown a jar of newts’ brains at me yet.”

Snape looked around. “I can throw a book, if you’d like.”

Harry snickered before catching himself, but then he saw Snape’s lips twitch. “No throwing, sir. Please.”

“It wouldn't even hurt you, in the state I’m in.”

“You’ll get better.”

“Will I?” Snape’s eyes met his. “Should I?”

“Of course!” Harry glanced at the closed door. “Your dad is worried.”

“He’s angry. He’s always angry; I guess I come by it honestly.”

“He’s worried, too.” Snape shrugged, unconvinced, and Harry changed tack. “I won’t come back, if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t.” Snape dropped the wand on the bedspread with a sigh. “But he’s right; you should see those pictures, hear the stories. I just won’t be around for that.”

“You knew her; she was your friend.”

“And look what good it did her. Just… take them, and don’t ask me anything. Don’t come looking for me; I won’t – I can’t.” He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean; Don’t come looking for you? Are you leaving?”

Snape pulled an old, cracked leather suitcase from under the bed, and opened it. He threw a few clothes in it, the potions that crowded one of the folding chairs, then moved to open the small trunk and add a few books and a couple of boxes. He put his wand on top of the clothes, and closed the suitcase. After that, he picked the puffy jacket hanging from a hook on the door, put it on, and extracted a wallet from its pocket. He pulled some coins and notes from it and nodded to himself.

“Where are you going?”

“Elsewhere.”

The door opened and Snape’s father stood there, his arms crossed and his expression sullen. “Stay.”

“No.”

“You’re just like Eileen; you’re…”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“You can’t even carry that suitcase!”

“Look, I’ll Apparate you wherever you want to go, okay? Your house, or maybe Hogwarts? Professor McGonagall…”

“Spinner’s End a dump. Stay.”

“You’re here. I’m leaving.”

Harry picked up the suitcase before Snape could attempt (and probably fail) to carry it, and he tried to convey to Mr Snape that he would make sure his son was safe via vigorous eyebrow motions; Mr Snape stepped aside and let them go, looking upset but not trying to stop them.

“Don’t do what she did,” he said in a low voice.

Snape didn’t turn around and walked out of the flat, Harry at his heels.

“What now?” Harry asked once they were outside, under the bus stop that didn’t do much to shelter them from the bitter cold.

“Now, you leave that suitcase here and go back to Grimmauld Place.”

“But I…”

“Keep your saviour complex for better causes. I…” He sighed. “I’m tired, Potter. I did what I was supposed to do, and I should have died. I didn’t, but it’s for me to deal with. You’ve done enough for the world; you should get on with your life. Get your NEWTs, find a girlfriend, play quidditch. Do whatever you want; you’ve earned it. Just leave me out of it.”

Harry looked at him. He’d hated him once; now, Snape was just a man. Not that tall, not that evil, a little pathetic. He’d sacrificed a lot, too, like Harry; he’d been a mean bastard through it all and not entirely out of necessity. Now, it was like all the meanness and rage had drained out of him and left nothing behind. Now, when he was angry, it was only the small, quick-to-die-out flame of a match and not the fire that had warmed him for years.

“But I know you,” he said. “And you know me.”

“You’re deluded.” He turned to look at the timetable. “Go away, Potter.”

“I’m not! I was in your head and you were in mine, and also there’s no bus.” He pointed at a half-torn sign that said there would be no service for three months.

“Then I’ll take the Knight Bus. It’s not like they’ll recognize me like this,” he added with a vague gesture at his gaunt appearance, his old Muggle clothes.

Harry grabbed Snape’s arm to turn him around. “Don’t – we all owe you, too. I couldn’t have done it without you. Voldemort, I mean.” Snape stiffened. “You can say his name; he’s not coming back. But we’re alive!”

“Then act like it instead of spending your holidays trying to get whatever it is you want out of me.”

“It’s just… we’re the same,” Harry whispered.

Snape scoffed and raised his arm to call the Knight Bus, and Harry pulled it down. “Potter…”

“We are, and you know it. You saw the Dursleys; you know how it was for me. And I saw you, too.”

“More children than you imagine live in less than ideal homes. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me. Ron or Hermione, they can’t understand; you can.”

“I broke into your mind and I gave you memories for a greater purpose. We’re not friends, whatever it is you want to tell yourself.”

“You were. I mean, the Half-Blood Prince – the book,” Harry amended when he saw Snape’s wide, probably horrified, eyes. “I liked him, you know? He made me laugh, and he – you – he made me laugh, and… I don’t know, he made sense? It felt like I knew him, the way he talked about his teachers, and he explained things – I never got potions like I did that year. And it was you.”

“It was 16-year-old me being an idiot writing his thoughts down and not burning them afterwards. Not your friend: me, over twenty years ago.”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “No, I know how I felt.”

“It was an imaginary friend, Potter. You should focus on real, flesh and blood ones.”

Snape turned his back on Harry and raised his arm again, and this time Harry didn’t stop him. He cast a quick featherlight charm on the suitcase when Snape bent to pick it up, which earned him a grunt that Harry decided to take as thanks, and watched him climb into the bus without a backward glance.

When the Knight Bus had disappeared, Harry waited until Mr Snape joined him under the bus stop.

“I reckon he’s going to Spinner’s End, eh?”

“Yeah.” Harry mulled on the question for a moment, before asking: “What happened with his mum?”

Mr Snape sighed. “What’s it all to you, kid? We’re not your family.”

“I don’t have any family left, sir.” He didn’t think the Dursleys counted for much, anyway. “And he knew my mum. You did, too, even if you hated her.”

“He adored her, and look what it did to him. Living in the past, kid… it doesn’t do you any good. He’s right, you know; you should focus on your own life, not someone else’s.”

Harry watched him shake his head and go back inside, in the building with the cracked front door near the Woolworths, the old pub with the creepy name, and the bus stop with the half-torn notice.

Spinner’s End was cold and dark when Severus walked in, stepping over whatever mail had accumulated over the last few weeks. He dropped the suitcase right by the door; the featherlight charm Potter had put on it was already fading and there was no way he’d be able to carry it without. The fireplace was empty, and his magic still too unstable and fickle to do anything about it; instead, he went to poke at the old gas boiler. He still had gas there even if he didn't use it much since he rarely was there, because when he had to brew in the kitchen a Muggle-style fire was generally better than a magical one, and the cooker was still his parents’ old gas one. An ancient radiator clanked and clicked and the smell of heated dust filled his nose, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death tonight. Not that it wouldn’t solve all of his problems, and he briefly wondered why he bothered, but he also didn’t want to be cold.

Don’t do what she did.

Tobias’s words echoed in his head. Doing what she did would solve his problems, and rid Potter of his stupid fixation on Severus. It had always been an out he’d been ready to take at any moment: as a final escape from the Dark Lord if he ever were discovered, as a thought he’d soothed himself with when he thought he couldn't go on any longer, to encourage himself to hold on just a little bit more, just enough to see everything through.

And now he had; the Dark Lord was dead, Lily’s son was alive and, mostly, well. He’d been ready to let himself go when he’d fled from Hogwarts, but this strange new Tobias had found him and fed him, and Potter had decided Severus was his new project, and now he wasn’t quite sure where to stand or what he wanted. Who he was; who he could be.

He didn’t have the energy to even think about all this.

Tea, he thought. Tea, and then he’d wrap himself in blankets and sleep on the sofa. He didn’t want to face the stairs; he’d gone up once after leaving Poppy’s clutches to throw some clothes down the stairs, and it had been enough. He was marginally better now than he’d been then, but not enough that he fancied going up and down those narrow, dark stairs again if he could avoid it.

It took a while, but he was finally able to take off his jacket and lie on the sofa. It was lumpy, but it was familiar, and he was tired – so tired. He wasn’t exactly warm or comfortable, but it would do. For however long this lasted, it would do.

Severus spent his days reading, watching the empty, dingy street through the windows, and wondering if he could risk asking the nosy neighbour if she could get him some groceries. She ought to; after all, she’d betrayed him to Tobias. But it meant going outside in the rotten weather, walking to her house, knocking on her door, talking to her. He really couldn't be arsed, even if he was down to two tins of beans and was almost out of tea. It was a new year, yes; he’d heard honking far away and some brief shouting a few nights before, but there was nothing new left for him. He’d been born, fucked up, tried to right what wrongs he could, and been a true dickhead throughout.

He had not, of course, hoped that Tobias or Potter would ignore what he’d said about leaving him alone. He wasn’t that pathetic. He had not wanted someone, anyone, to remember him, to come and yell at him to get over himself and finally, finally take the hand they extended to him. They’d realised the truth in the end: that he was right, and that they were all better off without him.

So he picked up the envelopes that had accumulated behind the front door, sorted through them, and wrote his will. I, Severus Tobias Snape, sound of mind and body. Well, sound of mind, at least. Not that it mattered much; all he had was this dreary house, and books. Potions equipment. Nothing of real value, not really. Whatever the Hogwarts Library would want Pince could take, and he finally braved the stairs to take an old shoebox from under the bed. To Harry James Potter, the few mementos I have of his mother, Lily Evans. A dozen photographs, a few postcards, an old Tarot. Flowers braided into a crown, kept looking almost fresh for decades thanks to a preserving charm. A lock of red hair that she probably had forgotten she’d given him by the time they were estranged, or else she’d have made sure to destroy it. He’d never have used the hair in a potion or a spell, but of course, she wouldn't have known that.

He went through the mementos, one by one, and wondered what she’d have thought, to see him now biting his cheek so he wouldn't cry over an old, yellowed picture of them in the park that had since been replaced by a shopping centre. Petunia was on the swing, grinning like she used to before Lily started Hogwarts and she grew bitter, and he and Lily were behind, taking turns pushing her higher and higher. He remembered how loud she’d shrieked, delighted by the height and her parents’ encouragement. But in all the afternoon, no one had gone as high as Lily. Perhaps he should write it down; perhaps he should give Potter more than 30-year-old pictures.

He spent two days, slowed by this fatigue he couldn't shake, filling pages and pages about her. He was fairly certain Black had told him many stories about his father, but Lily? Who would have told him about Lily?

So he wrote and wrote, until his fingers cramped and he had put it all on paper, all the reasons why he’d loved her and all the reasons why he couldn't ever forgive himself for betraying her. He owed Potter as much and more.

He’d eaten his last food days ago, and he’d used (and re-used, and re-re-used) all his tea. The idea of starving to death didn’t appeal, but neither did it horrify him. He was too tired for such strong emotions these days. Funny, how with all the potions he would take, before, to help him Occlude constantly, he hadn’t managed that level of numbness. Now, without those potions, without Occluding, he’d reached an astonishing degree of… of nothing. Of emptiness.

Well, he also wasn’t taking the other potions he would take back then, those that kept him awake, kept him alert and functioning as efficiently as he could on as little sleep as was humanly possible. Probably even less than that, to be fair. He never told Poppy the truth about it because what he did tell her had made her read him the riot act. He’d ignored her; he’d had a job to do at the time, more important than anything else.

And after one particularly unpleasant evening with the Dark Lord, soon after his return and when he’d been quite displeased that Severus hadn’t brought him the boy, he’d added nerve-numbing potions. As a potioneer, he was pretty proud of it: he’d managed to make it so it lessened sensitivity to pain, but not smell, touch, sight, or hearing. He needed those, for his job(s). It still affected taste, and he’d had dizzy spells sometimes, but most of the vital autonomic processes worked well enough. He’d just replaced most of his meals with an easily digested nutrition potion, and got on with his tasks. He’d left his research notes in the Headmaster’s office, hidden under a spell. Phineas’s portrait knew where they were, and Severus had made him promise he’d reveal them one year after Voldemort’s defeat, if it happened, and if Severus himself didn’t come to retrieve them. He wouldn't, of course, but St Mungo’s healers might find some use for them.

It was early January; Phineas would tell Minerva in about four months. After that, they would probably come and check Spinner’s End, find his dessicated corpse, and his will. Potter would get the shoebox and all the pages he’d written, and he, Severus Snape, would have really done all he could. Not enough, never enough, but all he could.

He gave a last once-over to the room, put the book he’d just finished rereading back on the shelf, and laid down on the sofa under scratchy woollen blankets. He didn’t expect to get up again.

Harry could tell there were pretty strong wards and Muggle-repelling charms at the end of the street, but also that they hadn’t been renewed in too long. It was easy to find the right house, and while he knew some of the wards meant to make it look as derelict as others in Spinner’s End, it was pretty obvious that it didn’t need much help with that. He knocked, waited a bit, then knocked again.

“Prof… um. Sir?” Should he call him Mr Snape? That put the elder Snape in mind, not the dungeon bat. Who was neither a bat, nor in a dungeon, actually. But there was no sound from inside, and Harry didn’t want to stay outside the house for too long; it was too cold and after the weeks camping in the forest of Dean, Harry really didn't like the cold.

“Point me to Severus Snape,” he told his wand, and after some hesitation it pointed through the door, straight and true. “Right. I'm coming in!” he called through the wood.

A simple Alohomora opened the door, and he found himself in a gloomy room that was barely warmer than outside.

“Hello?”

A fridge hummed.

“Are you… oh no.” His eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and he could see the lump on the sofa. And, above it, dark hair spilling out from under blankets that looked older than Snape himself. “Hey,” he said. “Hey!” He patted the lump where he figured a shoulder should be and shook it gently, then a bit harder; finally he got a groan. “I thought you were dead!”

He pulled down the blanket and had to stifle a gasp; Snape’s face was gaunt – well, even more gaunt that a week earlier – and his eyes took a while to focus, though he didn’t say anything. He looked like microwaved fish and chips, really, and a bit confused. Harry managed to get him to sit mostly upright, and cast a warming charm on him.

“You look terrible,” he said.

Snape curled his lip and his shoulders twitched. “Do I?” Wow, he sounded terrible too, worse than the last time Harry saw him. “Why d’you come?”

“I was worried. So was your dad, and the Headmistress. And Madam Pomfrey. And Neville asked if you’d come back, too. What did you think you were doing?”

He didn’t get a reply; Snape just hitched the blankets further up on his shoulders and let his head fall back on the cushion, closing his eyes.

“Are you hungry? Or maybe you’d like some tea?” Harry spotted a door and opened it. Aha! It was the kitchen. He opened a cupboard, then another, then the fridge; looked at the rack next to the sink: one chipped mug, one spoon. He found two empty cans of beans in the bin, one of tuna, one box of cheap tea biscuits, and old teabags. Right. He returned to the sitting room, where Snape hadn’t moved an inch.

“You’re daft,” Harry told him. He sent a Patronus to Kreacher and went to the windows, pulling the curtains apart to let more light in; it didn’t make the room look much better but at least it felt less like a vault. The fireplace was cold and it didn’t look like the wood kind; the bucket next to it was empty, with only a layer of black dust at the bottom. Bucket in hand, Harry went back into the kitchen, opened the door that led to a small garden that couldn’t have seen a rake or a shovel in years, and found a small pile of coal under an awning. Soon he had a fire going; it added some much-needed light and heat to the house. He had no idea how long it would last, but it was a start; the radiators looked ancient and felt barely warm when he checked one.

He turned at a pop behind him, and saw Kreacher had come, along with several baskets. “Master Harry called,” he said.

“Yes! Thanks, it looks great.”

The elf took the baskets to the kitchen and sent some trays to hover by Snape and Harry. Soup, tea, broth, mashed potatoes; all in small quantities but Harry was pretty sure Kreacher was busy filling the cupboard and ancient fridge.

“You should eat something, Professor.”

“Not a prof’sor.”

“You should eat something, Sev.”

Snape sighed, but raised his head from the back of the sofa. “Your mum called me that,” he rasped after clearing his throat. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“She did?” It was unfair of him to suddenly drop such a nugget about her just to distract Harry, but if he wanted more, he needed to make sure Snape didn’t drop dead before the day was over. “And I’d rather you ate something, or else Kreacher is going to be upset.”

Snape glared, but Harry sent some broth to knock repeatedly into his hands until he raised them to grab the mug. “Not hungry.”

“You should be.”

“You’re not my mother either.”

“I could go and get your father, if you’d prefer.”

The glare intensified.

“Hey, speaking of. What happened to your mum?”

Well, that turned out to be the ticket; Snape finally lifted the mug in shaky hands and took a small sip. He still looked pissed off, but then again this was Snape; he always did. While he was busy ignoring Harry, Harry himself decided to look around a bit more after sending the other trays of food back to the kitchen. Books, books, rows of old books; unsurprising. The table was bare apart from an old oil lamp that he lit with a flick of his wand, a box of matches and an empty pack of cigarettes next to it, neat piles of paper, and another box, the kind that you got when you bought shoes in. Harry was about to start reading when Kreacher popped back in the sitting room.

“You knew Master Regulus,” the elf said.

Snape nodded warily.

“You were friends. I will help.”

And then he popped out. Soon after, they heard noises coming from above them; furniture noises and elf grumblings.

“He shouldn't bother,” Snape said.

“Well, good luck telling him that; Kreacher does what he wants.” Harry sat on a worn armchair near the fireplace. The coal was still burning, and he felt positively toasty so close to it. “Thank you,” he said. “For telling me something about my mum.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’d like it if…”

“No.”

Well, not like Harry had expected anything else.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I told you; everybody is worried about you, but I’m the one they all expect to go and poke the dragon in his den.”

Snape’s lips twitched. “You’ve always liked snooping where you’re not supposed to. At least you’ve ditched that cloak.”

“Hey, I’m not sneaking around after curfew. I’m an adult now, not a schoolboy.”

“Hm.” He was flagging; it was obvious in the way his eyes kept fluttering like he was fighting to stay awake.

Harry picked the mostly empty mug before it slipped from Snape’s lax fingers and took it back to the kitchen, leaving it in the sink for later. He looked at the dismal garden through the dusty window; he could spot a few magical plants from here but the bigger part of it was taken over by weeds.

There was a pop behind Harry.

“Is Master Harry staying the night?”

Good question. The house was uninviting and Snape a terrible host, yes, but… well, Neville was right. There had been enough bad stuff, enough suffering, enough death, and he didn’t want to see more of it. Snape was an arsehole, but he wasn’t only an arsehole, and he was also one of the few people still alive who could tell him more about his mum.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Kreacher didn’t seem surprised, and showed him to the bedroom upstairs. The other room had been converted into a small study with a potions ingredients cabinet, and between the two there was a small closet. The bed had fresh sheets on and the elf had left another basket with a change of clothes and some toiletries, but the room felt about as welcoming as the rest of the house.

Harry thanked the elf and climbed down to the main room, where Snape was already sleeping. He figured he could spend the evening looking through all the papers left on the table, and then find a book to read.

He tossed and turned for what felt like the whole night in the unfamiliar bed.

Snape hadn’t expected to survive; he’d written his will and… Hours later, Harry still couldn't wrap his head around it. He’d left Harry a box of stuff from his mum, and he’d written down the memories that went with them. There were pages and pages, in the same handwriting he remembered berating his work back at Hogwarts, but this time telling the story about two kids playing with mud and calling it a potion, or squeezing through torn wire fencing and watching trains rattle past, hoping to see the Hogwarts Express. There was a picture with Aunt Petunia laughing, a lock of red hair, and a set of Tarot cards that felt really old. There was a flower crown, a glittery butterfly hair tie, and postcards that his mum had sent her friend Sev. He’d kept it all in that little shoebox, cast preserving charms on it, and sat down to make sure Harry knew his mum had been his very best friend in the whole world.

And, at the bottom of the box, there was an envelope. Harry opened the flap and pulled out a card and a picture; it was a wizarding photograph of his parents holding him and beaming, and the card was from Aunt Petunia. You should know she’s happy. Stay away.

Snape hadn’t mentioned it in the pages he’d left Harry.

Finally, weak sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, and Harry got up. He shuffled into the bathroom, a cramped space next to the kitchen, and fought with the shower to get hot water. He couldn't find any string to pull or anything like that, like at Privet Drive, but he figured he could put a heating spell on the water pipes and that it would do the job. There was a yellowed plastic stool in the shower stall, the kind that used to be white long ago but gave up somewhere along the way, and it only dawned on him mid-wash what it was for. It turned out that sitting instead of standing under a hot spray wasn’t bad, actually, even when you were not hurt or sick.

Once he was done, as he was drying off his hair with a towel he’d charmed to be warm, he thought of finding Snape all alone in his cold house the day before, and figured a nice hot shower couldn't hurt. Right? It would do wonders, Harry decided; a hot shower, a hot breakfast, and he would have to feel better. And then, when the grumpy git was in a better mood, Harry would ask him about his mum.

Except Harry hadn’t anticipated how weak Snape actually was. The grouchy and uncooperative part didn’t surprise him, but he’d thought Snape would actually walk under his own power to the bathroom.

He could not.

Kreacher had to intervene before Snape went into a full meltdown; as it was the windows were rattling when the elf popped in and declared he’d help like he had former Masters in the past. He mumbled something about Regulus that seemed to appease Snape somewhat, and they disappeared into the bathroom together. Kreacher had presumably dealt with sick Black family members before, so Harry figured he’d know what to do. He heard the pipes groaning and decided he had the time to reread some of the memories Snape had written down.

When he got out, wrapped in flannel pyjamas that Harry vaguely remembered he’d seen in a cupboard at Grimmauld Place, thick woollen socks, and an old dressing gown, his hair was still damp and dripping on a towel thrown over his shoulders. With Kreacher still hovering nearby, ready to catch him just in case, he made it to the sofa and sat heavily.

“You were not supposed to see these yet,” he said.

“Oh, did I mess up your plans to die first?”

Snape sighed. “You can take them with you.”

“Ta. Might do that, yeah. Tea?” He didn’t wait for an answer and went to the kitchen, busying himself with the kettle. Kreacher had disappeared again to parts unknown, either off to polish Walburga’s silver spoons or attacking the mouldy grout in Snape’s bathroom; Harry was grateful for the privacy anyway. When he brought a tray with tea and a piece of toast, Snape was running his fingers through his hair, scowling at the knots and yanking too hard.

Harry set the tray on the floor and sat next to Snape, taking his hands away. “Let me.”

“Potter…”

“That’s not how you do it. C’mon, just…” Harry looked around and Summoned a candle holder that he transfigured in a wide-toothed comb. “Turn around; I’ll sit behind you.”

Snape gave him a disturbingly weak glare, and actually did as he was told, lifting his legs on the cushions with difficulty and wrapping his arms around them. “This is silly.”

“It’s not; it’s nice to have someone else do your hair.”

“Not that you'd know.”

“I used to do Ginny’s, until she chopped it. And Bill often does Fleur’s.” Harry gave him tea before settling behind Snape, comb in hand.

“They’re married, Potter. We are not, to my knowledge.”

“Uh huh. Wow, that’s quite a mess; I’m the one who’s supposed to have wild hair here, not you.” He picked a handful of hair and started at the bottom, separating the strands as gently as he could.

“I’m supposed to have greasy hair.”

“What you have is split ends, actually. Should cut an inch or so off the length.” Up and down, up and down, slowly and more smoothly with every stroke. “Also, Hermione says human touch gives you… ozytozin?”

“Oxytocin.”

“Yeah, that. Good stuff, apparently. She read about it in a book.”

Snape shook his head, but he sounded a little bit amused when he replied, “Of course she did.”

“She’s into psychology at the moment; don’t start her on grief and trauma and things like that.”

Snape sipped his tea, not replying, seemingly lost in his thoughts. His hair was horribly tangled, but it was rather soft and not greasy at all, fresh out of the shower. Harry found the repetitive movement and narrow focus soothing, and he almost dropped the comb when Snape spoke again.

“Your mother liked plaiting my hair,” he said to his knees. “She grew hers out so I could return the favour.”

“I found the lock in the box with the pictures.” He tapped his wand to the comb, narrowing the gap between the teeth, and started again. “Thank you. For the stories, I mean. You didn’t have to.”

“You should…” Snape’s voice cut off, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “You should have them. Know her.”

Harry picked the empty mug from Snape’s hands and set it on the floor; Snape rested his head on his knees.

“Why aren’t you getting any better?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it matters. It matters to me.”

Snape shrugged.

“It does! And not only to me; your dad is worried, and McGonagall, and…”

“My father feels guilty. You have no reason to care; none at all.”

“But I do. I’m not the only one who does but I’m the one who’s here, so that’s who you get.”

Sitting so close to him, Harry could see the slight quivers in Snape’s shoulders, could hear his irregular breaths. He put his palm flat on Snape’s back and even through the fabric, he could count the vertebrae, and feel how he shuddered. He wasn’t sure what to do; Snape was not like Ginny or Hermione or George. Sick or not, he would murder Harry if he said anything. So he resumed working on Snape’s hair; the comb soon glided smoothly through it and he kept at it for a while, pretending everything was normal. But now that he’d started, it looked like Snape couldn't stop, and Harry, well. Harry thought about the little girl on the pictures, and the lock of hair, and the little boy who kept that lock of hair for more than twenty years; he thought of Remus and Tonks and little orphaned Teddy; he thought of another orphaned boy sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs, fated to die so another wizard would die for good. He rested his forehead against Snape’s back and maybe he cried a little, too.

They never talked about it afterwards. But it was there, and it only made Harry more determined that he wouldn’t let Snape wither and die, however much the man wanted it. He convinced him to eat some toast and asked him for help on a Potions assignment, and after a nap, when Snape was still loose-limbed and not fully awake, dropped his bombshell.

“So it’s your birthday tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“What kind of cake do you like? Chocolate? Toffee? Something else?”

“…cake?”

“I’ll send an owl to Hogwarts and Kreacher can leave a note to your dad. Neville can drop by, too. And you could always let other people know you’re still alive, if you’d like; I’m sure that there are other teachers that…”

“Potter. What did you do?” Oh, he was fully awake now, and he was pissed off. Good; a furious Snape was an improving Snape.

“Um… nothing yet?”

“Potter.”

“Okay, not telling anyone for now. You're right, too many people would be exhausting, and your house isn’t that big. Unless we do it at Grimmauld Place? You could even spend the night; there’s plenty of room. What do you say?”

Potter was insane.

He’d barged in, sans cloak, not even trying to sneak in but just invading Severus’s quiet and bollocksing up his plans, because Potter.

He brought noise, chatter, that ancient elf, and warmth. He thanked him for the photos and memories, and didn’t make fun of him when Severus tried and failed to stifle his moment of weakness on the sofa. He just… he was there. The only explanation he would give was, There’s been enough death and despair, don’t you think?

And… Severus found he couldn’t let the boy see more of it. Not Lily’s son, not from him. So he let him keep thrusting bowls of soup in his hands, helping him work on regaining control of his magic, and he even let him get Poppy, Minerva, and Tobias to Spinner’s End for his birthday. They didn’t stay long; it was too overwhelming, but for an hour or so four people smiled at him, brought him tea, and made plans for his future. He mostly sat there and managed a little conversation, though he was tempted to throw his slice of cake in Minerva’s face when she suggested he come back to Hogwarts to teach at NEWTs levels, either Potions or DADA.

“Once you’re better, of course,” she said, “and you’d still be Head of House. You were good at it. It would leave you time to work on your projects, too. Filius is serving as my Deputy, but I don’t think he’ll do that forever; if you’d like to…”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m still Marked; parents would riot and so would the Board… and Slytherin House carries enough stigma as it is. I’m not coming back, and you surely can’t suggest me as Deputy.”

“Well, look, the offer’s on the table. Horace accepted to fill in as Potions Master and Head of House for now, but he doesn’t want to work full-time; you can think about it for now.”

He narrowed his eyes. “There, I’ve thought about it.”

“That was quick; think some more.”

Severus stabbed the meringue mushroom with his dessert fork, but she only smiled at him and patted his hand before turning to chat with Tobias about footie of all things. Would horrors never cease? He turned his attention to his plate and ignored whatever conversation happened around him until he was done.

After the cake, Poppy took him to the bedroom and examined him. She frowned and tutted, and after scolding him she put a few phials on the bedside table.

“To start you over,” she said, “and don’t you stop your treatment this time. You’re in a sorry state, young man; you know better than to go sulk here on your own with your health as it is.”

“I’m not dead yet.”

“Not for lack of trying! At least you’re already weaned off that ghastly cocktail you used to take. How are your bowel movements?”

He glared.

“Don’t give me that look; I need to know if there’s anything I missed. So?”

Humiliating question after humiliating question, she dragged answers out of him that he would have preferred to keep quiet about, and she kept shooting him looks when he wasn’t clear enough to her taste. The worst of all was when she asked about his libido, and at that point he snapped.

“I can barely get up the stairs; I’m really not… thinking… about that!”

“You’re not even 40, Severus; it’s part of most wizards your age’s natural functions and a sign of good overall health. Of course, I’d expect some disruptions given the past few years.” She peered over her glasses at him. “And all the potions you took and didn’t tell me about. And that you stopped taking, of course.”

He grunted something that vaguely sounded like a yes.

“Good. I’m not asking to make you squirm, Severus; you know that.”

“I really don’t.”

She gave him a quick, evil grin. “Fine, maybe a little. Give it a few weeks, four months at most, and if it doesn’t come back, talk to me – or another professional, of course.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I’ll ask.”

She wrote a list of potions, salves, and exercises, and made him promise to take good care of himself. “Your hair already looks better than it has in years; it’s a good start.”

He didn’t tell her about Potter’s involvement in that, but she still asked how often he visited (Just the once, he just hadn’t left yet) and how long he usually stayed (Too long, which was, after all, quite true).

“Well, it’s good that between him and your father, you’re not left on your own, isn’t it?”

All in all, it could have been worse, although he was glad to hear their goodbyes; he was exhausted. Tobias gave Potter an old photo book before leaving, and Severus braced himself for more questions from the boy. The prospect wasn’t as daunting as it would have been, not so long ago.

Potter finally left on the Sunday evening that followed his birthday. He accepted the shoebox that Severus thrust into his hands with minimal protests, and threatened to come himself every day if Severus refused to let Kreacher help. The elf popped in every afternoon, sometimes with food, and took it upon himself to clean the house. Potter had apparently spent months working on Grimmauld Place and it looked like it had given Kreacher ideas, albeit ideas that were not quite in alignment with Potter’s, because he kept grumbling about painting without magic and how eggshell wasn’t a proper Wizarding colour for a respectable, most noble, (etc etc) house. Severus let him be; if the elf wanted to scrub every dark corner of this house, he didn’t have a problem with it.

In between Tobias’ visits, which generally were spent playing checkers or card games, he passed the time sleeping, eating a little bit more everyday, and trying simple spells again. His magic was finally showing signs of recovery, but it was not responding as it used to; it didn’t feel weaker but it did feel wilder. It was like relearning how to control it all over again. Poppy had warned him about it, back when he’d woken up in the Hospital Wing; it wasn’t unheard of after a brush with death like his. He’d almost bled out and Nagini’s venom had wreaked havoc with his body; it was to be expected. He would never shout again, but he could speak, and that was already good enough. As Potter would say, he was alive.

He should be grateful.

He tried to be, even as he was going on cautious walks: first just to sit in the dilapidated garden at the back of the house, wearing a thick coat and with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Then he tottered around the house, then down to the end of the street, and the first time Potter had to come and get him, because he couldn’t walk back.

“The elf ratted me out, didn’t he?”

The boy laughed, taking Severus’s arm and letting him rest most of his weight on him. “He did. I was done with that essay anyway; your advice helped.”

“Good.”

About once a week, sometimes twice, Potter would visit. He often brought his homework, and after two months Severus started tutoring him. They didn’t call it that, but Potter was turning out to be a better student when he was not busy fearing for his life and that of his friends, or maybe it was Severus who had lost his touch. Although he doubted he could really say or do anything that would truly threaten Potter, not after… everything.

“Neville asked if he could come, too. He said if you haven’t bitten my head off yet, maybe there’s hope for him.”

“What about Granger? I’d have expected her to ask, not Longbottom.”

“Well, she doesn’t know you’re alive.”

Severus stopped walking in surprise. “You didn’t tell her? Or Weasley?”

“No! I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“Oh.”

“You thought I would anyway?”

Severus paused. “You’re close,” he finally said.

“Yeah, we are. But I don’t want to betray your trust either.”

“Ah.” Severus resumed walking, suddenly much more aware of the arm he was leaning on. Potter was not the child he’d been, not any longer, and there had been more than one reason for that child to act as he did around Severus. Some of those reasons had been Severus’s fault, too; he was well aware of that. He wasn’t sure either of them had had much of a choice, back then, but now? Well, now, things were different. They didn’t have to keep ploughing the same furrow, deeper and deeper again. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Potter grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Sod off, Potter.”

“Oh good, I thought you’d been Imperius-ed or something.”

“Imperius isn’t a verb.”

“Swot.”

“Says Granger’s best friend.”

“Hey!”

As they reached the front door, Severus stopped again. He looked at the peeling paint, his feet, the sun low on the horizon. “You can tell them. Not anyone else, but Granger and Weasley… I understand it must cost you to keep it from them. And…” He took a breath. “I doubt Weasley would be tempted, but if Granger… It’s fine if… I have books here that…”

Potter nodded and patted his back awkwardly, and one week later he owled to ask if his three friends could come.

By the end of March, Severus’s Mondays and Thursdays had turned into informal classes with four Gryffindor; mid-April, girl Weasley and Lovegood joined them, and on a Sunday at the end of that month, as they were sharing a basket of finger food Kreacher had packed for them, Potter asked him about Malfoy The Younger.

“I didn’t know you’d become bosom friends.”

“We’re not, but we’re on civil terms. His mum invited us for tea, but we haven’t taken her up on it yet.”

“I assume she’s trying to restore the Malfoy name.”

“Maybe, but we don’t have great memories of the Manor. Hermione refuses to set foot there ever again.”

Understandable. “You could suggest another place. Neutral ground, if you will. Being seen in a public space with you would do wonders for their standing in society, if that’s your choice.”

“Yeah; I’ll think about it.” Potter munched on his sandwich. “I see him at Hogwarts from time to time; he pretty much keeps to himself but we’ve talked a couple times. He thanked me for clearing your name.”

“You did more important things than that.”

“He said he’s grateful for not throwing him and Narcissa under the bus too.”

“And getting rid of the Dark Lord, I hope.”

“Yeah.” Potter paused. “He’s not proud of it, you know.”

“I can imagine, yes,” he replied drily. “I don’t think he had much of a choice.”

“No, probably not. I think it would do him good to talk to you.”

Severus rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh. “Am I to become the confident of a bunch of teenagers now?”

“Well, you were Head of House, and might be again. That's kind of the same, right?”

“It is not, Potter!” Severus threw his napkin at him, and realised he was almost smiling. At Potter.

The shock didn’t fade until late into the evening.

One morning, Severus woke up with a strange sensation in his body. Well, one particular part of his body. He was forced to acknowledge what it actually was when he shifted and choked on a moan at the sensation of fabric rubbing right there. He would not let it win; he was the master of his own body, not the other way round. He vaguely remembered Poppy asking him about it, but right now he was focused on trying not to lose control. He was not panicking, he told himself; it was not unexpected. She’d warned him, and it had happened to him before, even if a long, long time ago. It was fine. He lifted his knees so the covers wouldn’t weigh on it, and did some breathing exercises that he hadn’t practised since his early days learning Occlumency. Empty the mind, detach from the body; he could do it. He was good at it.

When he felt confident he could move without risking an… accident, he gingerly climbed down the stairs and stood under the coldest setting of the shower for long minutes. His mind was empty. He wasn’t thinking of anyone; he wasn’t having fantasies. He wasn’t a pervert; he wasn’t. He may have been a Death Eater but he had never been like some of them.

No, it was nothing but a natural reaction to him having stopped constantly Occluding and taking too many potions for years and years. It didn’t mean anything apart from his body getting healthier; Pomfrey had said so. Just like having more appetite, or actually enjoying sitting outside in the sunshine. Same thing. It didn’t mean anything. It really didn’t mean anything.

And it might, he realised with dread, happen again.

Draco Malfoy knocked on his door one afternoon.

He looked as blond and pale as ever, holding himself straight and proud, but his silver eyes were red-rimmed, and a few tears escaped when Severus opened the door.

Severus cleared his throat, looked away when Draco quickly wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I think that’s my line.”

“You… no, you have nothing to be sorry for, sir.”

“Don’t sir me; you’re not my student.”

The young man laughed, wetly. “You’re right. I… can I come in?”

Severus realised they were still on either side of the threshold, staring at each other like they were seeing a ghost. Which, Severus allowed, wasn’t that far from the truth. “Of course,” he said before moving to let him in.

Draco stepped in, visibly braced himself, and before Severus could try to guess what was happening he had an armful of Malfoy, sobbing on his shoulder and babbling about how happy and grateful and sorry he was.

“So am I,” Severus whispered. “So am I.”

Potter and his study group took their NEWTs and they all managed to get Es and Os. Severus tried not to be proud of them and failed abysmally.

They sent him cards and some gifts: a book from Granger, potions ingredients he’d harvested himself from Longbottom, a fruit basket from the Weasleys that Severus carefully checked for booby traps from the remaining twin’s shop, and in the case of Draco a very fine set of robes, For when you’re ready to come back to Wizarding society.

Which… well, he was going to. He’d been pushing it back again and again, but he needed a job, and Minerva’s offer was the best one he could get for now: something familiar, with a lighter workload that would accommodate his still fragile health, and in a castle where he’d be generally safe from people bent on revenge from either side of the war. He was conflicted about going back to Hogwarts, of course; too many memories waited for him there, but he’d already talked with Filius, Horace, and Pomona; they were all expecting him. He’d even had Minerva retrieve his notes under Phineas’s supervision, and he wanted to refine his research now he had the time to do so, maybe work on the side effects.

So, starting September, he’d resume his duties as Head of House, and teach NEWT-level Potions and the occasional DADA seminar. He wasn’t sure the announcement would go down well in every corner of Wizarding society, and he could already picture headlines on the Prophet, but at least he’d have the best robes among all the staff for his return.

Harry looked at his reflection in the mirror. The young man he saw there was so far removed from the boy in the cupboard under the stairs, and yet he didn’t feel so. He’d always be that little boy, but… not only.

Now, he was 19, he had successfully completed his Wizarding education, and he was a godfather. He didn’t have to worry too much about money, and while he didn’t have his parents, he had loving friends and a surrogate family with the Weasleys. And he was starting to make his own path in life, one that he’d chosen for himself.

After they got their NEWTs, he’d invited all the study group that had formed around Snape, and they’d talked about their plans for the future. Neville wanted to study Herbology, Ginny had already started try-outs with several teams, Luna was planning to work six months, then travel six months, and repeat that until she had enough to write a book on magical creatures. Malfoy was quiet, as he often was these days, but he finally said he wanted to study law and business in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Harry didn’t think it sounded very exciting, but Malfoy didn’t look like someone who was looking for excitement, so that would probably work out for him. Hermione, in true Hermione fashion, couldn’t make up her mind; she liked Runes, and Charms, and Transfiguration, and Potions, and even History of Magic; for now, she was leaning towards applying to be an Unspeakable.

But all of them agreed on one thing: they refused to have anything to do with death and fighting ever again.

Ron and Harry had finally admitted they didn’t want to be Aurors, and Molly had been so happy she’d started sobbing (in joy, she’d assured them, but Harry had still found it a bit worrying). Ron had decided to join George at the shop; he already had plans to expand the business and focus on the commercial side so George could tinker all day long in his lab if he felt inspired. Malfoy had tentatively offered his help and advice on the legal side of things, if they ever needed it; seeing Draco and Ron shake hands while trying very hard not to make a face had been priceless. Harry, on the other hand…

Harry wasn’t entirely sure. He’d found he liked studying on his own after this quiet year, and also that there was so much he’d missed while dodging dragons and fighting Dementors. He’d found this awe again, the wonder he’d first felt at 11 when discovering magic, and he wanted more of it. Hermione, of course, approved, and he was pretty sure Snape also did, though of course he wouldn’t say anything. He only did that thing where one side of his mouth went up and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Obviously the height of approval, from him.

So Harry would just catch up on what he’d missed, and maybe also spend more time experimenting Muggle life. After spending all these years facing death in the Wizarding world, he wanted something else. He thought he might take different courses in a Muggle university; he’d also spotted classes for adults who hadn’t had regular schooling and he figured he really needed Muggle education bases. He decided to try courses on anatomy, psychology, Spanish, and Botany. He reckoned the Latin he’d picked up over his Hogwarts years would help with Spanish, and he hoped Herbology wasn’t too far removed from Botany. And if not, well, he liked gardening. Flowers were pretty, right?

The first time Harry knocked on Snape’s office door, he had a sudden moment of disorientation remembering all the times he’d gone down there for a detention or one of those horrible Occlumency lessons.

But things had changed since then, and both Snape and Harry had changed. They owled each other sometimes – or rather, Harry wrote letters, and Snape sent back short but, for him, polite notes – and Harry thought catching up in person would be nice. He walked in when the door swung open, and smiled at the familiar sight of Snape grading.

“Still a lot of red, uh? The more things change.”

“Potter.” He put his quill away and leaned back in his chair. “To what do I owe the honour?”

“You know, my name isn’t Potter Potter; it’s Harry Potter.”

Snape crossed his arms and raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I just thought I’d say hi, since I was here.”

“To visit the Library?”

“Yeah, I wanted to check if there’s any magical studies of what I’m studying in uni.”

“Flowers?”

“No, the head stuff.”

“I know what psychology is.”

“Right. It’s just that most wizards don’t, so I tend to say head stuff instead.”

“Did you go through the Black library?”

“What I could find there was mostly curses to scramble someone else’s brains, so…”

“Ah. Well, that’s not unexpected.” Snape stood up and led the way to a door hidden behind a bookcase; it opened into a narrow corridor and that ended on another door, one with strong wards on it.

“Your rooms?”

“Indeed, Potter, my rooms. I don’t sleep upside down in the rafters, you know.”

“I used to think you didn’t sleep at all; you were always stalking the corridors at night.”

Snape pursed his lips. “How would you know that I was always stalking the corridors at night?”

“Oh, woops.” Harry sat in the armchair facing the one Snape had dropped his teaching robes on. “Seriously, did you ever sleep?”

“Not much.” He had raised his voice a little since he was facing away from Harry, busy preparing tea in the little kitchenette that occupied a corner of the large room. His voice got raspier the louder he was, and his loudest was still far from a shout. The scars were hidden under his collar and his hair, which he tied in a loose braid that kept it out of his face. It fell over his shoulder, coincidentally covering the side of his neck and face where Nagini had attacked. Harry had only ever seen a few red lines creeping up past his jawline, but Snape was always pretty self-conscious about them and often angled his head and body just so, and generally wore a scarf and a high collar.

“Is it better now?”

“Did you come to discuss my sleeping habits?” He brought the tea and settled on his armchair, watching Harry. “What are you up to these days? You can’t be spending all your time studying.”

“Well, what else should I do?” Harry fluttered his eyelashes, probably looking about as innocent as an owl with a mouse’s tail hanging from its beak.

“Visiting one’s old teachers isn’t very high on the list.”

“Well, it’s high on my list. And I don’t do anything special; I spend a lot of time with Teddy when I’m not at uni, and sometimes I help Ron and George out at the shop when they need an extra pair of hands. They’re doing a brisk business selling… well, I should probably not tell you.”

“Please spare me. Their Splode Surprise is the bane of our existence; I don’t envy Horace having to deal with that with the junior classes. It’s bad enough when Prefects have to come and get me when a game goes too far in Slytherin House.”

“How are they doing? Your little snakes, I mean.”

“Children are surprisingly resilient, as you know yourself. Many are not doing well, of course; it’s to be expected, and they’re facing nasty prejudice sometimes, but…”

Snape looked proud of them, and Harry was glad that they had a Head that looked out for them. They talked for more than an hour, Snape sharing some staff gossip and Harry finally admitting that he was also experimenting dating now that he’d enrolled in Muggle university.

“No one knows me beyond Harry Potter, regular bloke; it’s… I like it. I need it, I think.”

Snape nodded. “And is Harry Potter, regular bloke, turning a lot of heads? Are the ladies fighting for your attention?”

“Well, um. A couple girls, yeah. And…” Oh, crap. He hadn’t wanted to add that And.

“And?” Of course, he’d picked up on it.

“Um, and blokes.”

“Regular blokes, I hope. We wouldn't want to dent your regular record of regularity.”

“Yeah, it’s all very… regular.” He blew out a breath. He hadn’t known what to expect from Snape; he was relieved he didn’t react. “You don’t mind?”

“Mind? Mind what? Blokes?”

“Yeah.”

Snape shrugged. “Whatever rocks your boat, Potter.”

“Oh. Oh, good. What about your boat?”

“My boat?”

“What rocks yours?”

Snape gave him a blank look.

“I know you liked my mum, but… it was a long time ago, and now you’re free to… um…”

“I have better things on which to spend my time.” He’d closed off, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was because he’d mentioned his mum or because of the topic. It was late, anyway, and Snape probably wanted to be left alone.

“That’s fair. Hey,” Harry said as he stood up, leaving his cup on the table between them, “I’m reading a book on Alchemy but there’s some stuff I don’t think I understand; would you mind if I brought it next week? I’d like to ask you if you could explain it to me. If you have time, I mean.”

“Alchemy? My my, you’re really branching out. Hm, let’s say Saturday,” Snape replied. “I should have more time.”

“Great! I’ll see you on Saturday, then.”

He let himself out via a different door than the one that led to Snape’s office, looking forward to the following weekend.

As weeks, then months went by, Harry became a regular visitor in the dungeons. Slytherins first eyed him warily but, since he only smiled and nodded at them before politely knocking on their Head of House’s office door, they slowly thawed around him. Some nodded back, a few wished him a good afternoon or evening; he even ended up privately speaking to a few. He was happy to, and Snape seemed to think it helped the kids. He was fiercely protective of his little snakes, and from what Hagrid said he butted heads with other professors whenever he suspected the slightest discrimination or unfairness against them. Harry figured they needed someone in their corner, and while Snape hadn’t gone back to Hogwarts with a lot of enthusiasm, he really did take it seriously.

After all, he knew how it felt when no one rooted for you. Things had changed for him as they had for Harry, but it was something that they had in common, and that Ron or Hermione wouldn’t really get. Oh, they understood it, but they’d never felt it. They’d never bear the scars, and sometimes, when Harry spent a Sunday with the Weasleys, it felt like… he wasn’t sure what it felt like. Weird? Hermione would roll her eyes if he said that out loud. Weird? She’d ask. Come on, Harry, you know more words than that! And yeah, he did, but he didn’t have words for that kind of weird: relief that they didn’t know how it felt, jealousy that he would never get what they grew up with, happiness that he could have it now. Giddiness, even, when Ron tackled him and Ginny rapped his head with her broom and Molly hugged him. And sadness, when it overwhelmed him and he had to take some time away from them.

Many of the Hogwarts students had their own scars, too, all of them who had grown up during a war, seen their families torn apart, seen death and violence, felt fear and hate. Fought, sometimes. Fought for their friends, their families, or fought their own friends and families.

It wasn’t fair, but they’d build a better world for them. They had to, and Harry wanted to live in a better world.

He knocked on Snape’s door and let himself in; the office was empty but the door leading to Snape's personal laboratory was open.

“Hi,” he said, leaning against the door jam.

“Potter.” He didn’t raise his head, all his focus on a slimy something that he was… denerving? “You’re early.”

“A bit. Too early?”

Snape only grunted in answer, eyes still on his knife.

It wasn’t a good day; he was sitting on a high stool instead of standing up as he preferred while brewing. Few people knew that he had not fully recuperated, and Harry was pretty certain that in class, however he was feeling, he would never use a stool. But here, in his private space, he allowed himself to be more… human. Was it the right word? Harry wondered, smiling a little. He liked seeing this side of Snape, the human one. Well, he didn’t like that sometimes his nerves flared up and he was in pain, or had dizzy spells, or fought through his exhaustion to reach the end of the day. But he liked that Snape let him bear witness to it, even if it was mostly because he couldn’t always hide it.

“What are you making?” He went to peer into the simmering cauldron.

“It’s an experiment. I’m trying to turn an arthritis potion into a salve.”

“You have arthritis?”

“Not yet.” He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. “For Tobias. A salve would make it more Muggle-friendly than a potion that makes your joints flash blue, but the ingredients don’t lend themselves well to a different texture and the flash is hard to get rid of. The substitutions I’ve tried so far don’t work as well.”

“Right. Can I help?”

“No, I’m almost done with this batch; we can look at your notes then.” He started to chop the now-denerved slimy thing. “I was expecting you later. Date gone wrong?”

“Not wrong, just boring. There’s no, um, connection.”

“They’re Muggles. That’s your problem.”

“So your dating advice is to only date wizards and witches?”

Snape sneered. “I don’t give dating advice. But after taking courses at a Muggle university, you’re going back home to Grimmauld Place, you see your magical friends, and ultimately you want to apply what you’ve learned to the Wizarding world. You can’t even bring them home because there’s a house-elf who doesn’t like Muggles much. At least Granger kept her roots in the Muggle world and can probably switch easily enough; she has to be used to hiding that side of hers, but Weasley? You can’t have him meet your latest paramour and not expect disaster and many Obliviates to follow.”

“I guess.”

“You… guess.”

“It’s not bad; I’m having a good time overall.”

“And yet you’re in the dungeons of your old school on a Friday evening, talking about your love life woes with the teacher you hated the most for many, many years.”

“Well, I don’t hate you anymore.”

“Be still my heart.”

Harry snickered. “Oi!”

“Go to the Weasleys if you want coddling,” Snape replied with a haughty little sniff.

“Says the man who brews me my very own, only for me, potions.”

“Patient-tailored brewing is a valuable skill, Potter, and I like keeping all my knives sharp.”

“Of course you do.”

Snape then lifted his chopping board to add the slimy thing into the slowly thickening potion, but he froze for a second, his jaw tightening. He angled the board and let the chopped bits slide slowly into the mixture, his arms stiff, before dropping board and knife with a loud clatter as soon as it was done, leaning forward with his hands flat on the worktop. The twisting movement had been painful.

“Do you need…”

“No. I’m fine.” His harsh breathing said the opposite.

“Okay. Don’t move; let me try something.”

It was obviously coming from the neck and shoulders, where the nerves and muscles had been most impacted by Nagini’s venom. Harry whispered a spell over his hands and when they felt warmer, he settled them flat against Snape’s shoulder blades. He left them there for a moment, then started moving them gently, applying a bit more pressure where it felt needed. He was careful to avoid the scarring on the side of Snape’s neck, but he grew bolder as he felt Snape minutely loosen up, letting his fingers reach up and massage the scalp, too.

“Is this okay?” he said in a low voice.

“I… yes.”

Ben, a mate from his Botany class, had offered a massage to Harry once after he’d winced and limped his way to the lecture theatre on a Monday morning. He’d spent Sunday afternoon playing Quidditch at the Burrow, and woken up almost too late for uni, with all his muscles protesting and bruises blooming where the Quaffle had found him. Ben had taken pity on him; he played rugby in his local team and swore that nothing helped like a good massage. He’d picked up some things which he applied to Harry, and it soon led to other things between them. They were still friends, exchanging notes and sharing a beer after class sometimes, but while the relationship had petered out Harry only got more interested in massages. He went to a few workshops, wondered if there were spells that could do the same things, and read up on kinesiology.

And now, he was using all he’d learned on Snape, whose shoulders were dropping from their too-high position, whose head now rolled more easily on his neck when Harry gently moved it, whose back didn’t feel like concrete any longer. His blinks were getting slower, and his face was relaxed, his lips parted when Harry pulled Snape’s head to rest against his breastbone.

“Still all right?”

“Potter…” His voice never entirely lost that rasp after giant fangs pierced his throat, but right now it sounded like Snape was just waking up, still fuzzy-headed and half-asleep.

It could give one non-sleeping but still bedroom-related ideas, actually. It was, Harry thought, a very good bedroom voice. He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“That’s… that’s enough.”

“Okay.” He carefully moved Snape’s head back in a normal upright position, and took a step back. Snape was breathing slowly, his hands loose on the worktop, a few locks of hair that had come free from his braid obscuring what little of his profile Harry could have seen from behind him.

“Leave your notes,” he said in that voice, “and come back tomorrow. If you are free.”

“I am.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Harry reached out and almost touched Snape’s shoulder, but stopped a hair’s breadth from it. “Are you…” He tried again. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. I am feeling better, thanks to you. But…” He was hesitant, like he didn’t know what the right words were.

“That's – that’s okay. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Yes. Tired.” He sounded like it; that was true. But there was something else, something that sat wrong in Harry’s belly.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Snape’s head jerked. “I am fine. Good night, Potter. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Good night, then.”

He managed to uproot his feet from the flagstones, one after the other; he closed the door to the lab, the door to the office, walked up the stairs and found himself on the Hogwarts grounds, under a clear starry sky.

His mind was everything but clear as he made for the gates.

They didn’t talk about it the next day, or the next week. Snape was careful to keep his distance from Harry, sending teacups and books floating to him or leaving them on a table for Harry to pick. He was as Snape-ish as ever when reading something that he didn’t like – Potter, he’d say, don’t tell me they’re teaching you about blood circulation and not mentioning Ibn al-Nafis? He refused to accept that magical texts had not made it into Muggle corpus. But it’s been centuries, Potter! An indignant Snape, when it was not aimed at Harry, was in fact quite fun to be around, even if he was acting a bit strange at the moment.

Once, though, their hands brushed when reaching for a biscuit at the same time, and Snape jerked his arm back like he’d been burned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just surprised.”

Harry let it go, but he found the dull red spreading on Snape’s cheeks a bit suspicious.

Two weeks later, he found Snape in his lab, using the stool again.

“I brought the handbook they have us work on,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“A batch of Pepper-Up for the Hospital Wing; I should be done momentarily.”

“I can wait. Um, do you want me to… you know?”

“No, Potter, I do not know. Do I want you to what?” He was crushing something in a mortar, but Harry could see his technique wasn’t as flawless as usual; his shoulders had to be hurting.

Without thinking, Harry stepped behind him and covered Snape’s hands with his. “Let me,” he said. “I can grind this for you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping you from hurting yourself?” Maybe he shouldn’t have plastered his chest to Snape’s back, which had definitely tensed up. But how else was he supposed to stop both hands at the same time? Oh no, Snape would hex him into next year and never talk to him again…

“I don’t need your help.”

Harry took a deep breath and released it before speaking, watching how it made Snape’s hair flutter. His mouth was very close to the ear hidden under the braid, and he kept his voice low and non-confrontational. He couldn’t let Snape realise how uncertain he was; he had to be all confident and casual or he’d be turned into a pile of smoking ash. “You can’t put enough force; just let me do it for you.”

“Potter…”

“I can give you a massage afterwards, if you’d like.” He lifted Snape’s hands away from the mortal and pestle and started grinding; as he was standing it was much easier for him to put the force needed to crush the hard seeds into a fine powder. Doing it magically would corrupt their properties, and Snape refused to buy ingredients already powdered.

So Harry ground and ground, his arms brushing against Snape’s shoulders, his cheek right by Snape’s cheek.

“There,” he said after a few minutes. “All done.” He put his hands flat on the table, right by the mortar, and didn’t move. He was so close he could see how Snape’s hair was a bit oily, his cheekbones turned a dull red again, how he was biting his lip.

“Thank you,” and it was the bedroom voice again.

Harry felt it was growing a bit hot in the lab, even though the cauldron was on a very low fire. “In the potion?”

Snape’s head jerked a yes, and Harry picked up the mortar and let the fine powder slide down in the cauldron. “All done.”

“Yes.” Snape extinguished the flames with a wave of his hand, but didn’t move beyond that.

Harry rested his palms on Snape’s shoulders, digging in a little with the tips of his fingers. “You’re too tense.” His hands weren’t shrugged away, so he started moving them.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Snape whispered.

“Giving you a massage. It’s therapeutic and I’m working on getting a licence, you know.” There, he could keep it all professional sounding. Even if it didn’t really seem to relax Snape, this time. “It’s just me; no one else is here. Just Harry.” He worked on a muscle group that felt particularly tight for a while, before speaking again. “You know that’s my name, right? You can call me Harry. The sun will still rise in the morning.”

“I don’t think one is supposed to be on a first-name basis with one’s massage therapist, Potter.”

“It’s been almost two years. Three, since I was your student.”

“You still come to me with your schoolwork.”

“You asked me to show you what Muggles do.”

“Potter…”

He retaliated by digging slightly harder than necessary in a deltoid. Bad move; Snape made the breathiest groan Harry had ever heard. Very bedroom-y, that groan. Something coiled in his gut.

“Fine, Harry. What are you really doing?”

“Hm. I think…” He caught the tie at the end of Snape’s braid and tugged it off. “I might be… trying to seduce you?” There. Bold, Gryffindor. Absolutely bonkers, too. Oh god, Snape was going to kill him, but… in for a penny, in for a pound, right? “Is it working?”

“No.” It was barely a whisper.

Harry gently undid the braid and let the hair fall on Snape’s back; it reached below his shoulder blades by now. It was thick, black as coal, slightly oily; it smelled like a Potions lab. He started to comb his fingers through it. “Do you want me to stop?”

“This isn’t a therapeutic massage any longer.”

“But do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he replied after a long silence. “Not yet.”

So Harry didn’t stop. He worked on his scalp, his neck, and for the first time his fingers brushed against the edge of a scar, peeking out just above Snape’s high collar, where it was usually hidden by his braid. After he was done with that, he spun the stool around and picked up one of Snape’s hands, gently working the joints until they were loose enough he felt he could move on to the wrist, the forearm, the elbow. He avoided looking into the eyes he knew were fixed on him, because he wasn’t quite sure he was ready for whatever would be lurking there. Good? Bad? He was so quiet; what was he thinking?

Harry himself was done thinking.

“So, uh.” He kept his gaze on the hand in his, then moved it up, up, up. Bold, he remembered. He was supposed to be bold. Reckless. It had turned out alright, yeah? “What about now; do you want me to stop?”

It was the smallest shake of a head, but it was a no, so Harry cupped Snape’s jaw and got closer, closer, close enough that he could feel hot breaths on his lips.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to. Do you want me to?”

“Harry…” He closed his eyes. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Severus’s lips parted, barely; his head angled the smallest degree, and Harry kissed him. It was light, chaste, brief, and it was followed by another light, chaste, brief kiss, then another. Then one hand settled, so lightly, on his waist, and Harry stepped between Severus’s legs, and he moved his own lips to cheeks, eyebrows, forehead; each touch light, each touch chaste, each touch brief.

It was so different from how it had been with Ben, and Jan, and Peter; it was different from the fumbling and the giggling with Ginny, too. There was no hurry to get to the good parts, no hurry to get it done. This was it, and it was good. No pressure to get anywhere, even if he was hard. This was enough, because this what they were doing, right here, right now.

It lasted… it was hard to say, but the candle floating near the cauldron was much smaller than it had been when Severus finally turned his head to the side and gently pushed Harry away with a hand on his sternum.

“Enough.”

Harry wondered if the stage beyond bedroom voice had a name, because wow. “Okay. How are you…”

“I’m fine.”

Harry was a bit worried; even after putting his glasses back on all he could see was a curtain of hair that made him almost (almost) regret untying it. “Do you want me to stay? We don’t have to…” Snape shook his head. “Um, okay. Do you want me to leave?”

“Please.”

“Severus…”

Oh wow, that got him a reaction; Severus whipped his head around to stare at Harry, eyes narrowed. “Taking liberties,” he said.

“Well, I thought…”

“It’s… acceptable.”

Harry grinned, relieved. “Great! So, er. Can I come back?”

Severus’s lips (red, plumper than usual) twitched. “You haven’t even left yet.”

“Right. But can I?”

“Next week. I can’t… Come back next week.”

That was a bit of a blow; it was Friday, and Harry had hoped to resume the kissing before Monday. But Severus asked for time, and Harry could give him time. No one was trying to kill them, or send them to die, or any of the other stuff they’d survived. “Next week it is. Owl me? Just to let me know…” that you’re okay. That I didn’t break you.

“When I’m done with your handbook.”

Okay, good enough. “Good night, Severus.”

“Good night.”

Harry found himself back at Grimmauld Place with no memory of how he’d got there, his thoughts too caught up on what had just happened. He wondered how Severus was doing, back at Hogwarts. He wondered how he’d manage to wait an entire week.

Severus’s main feeling was… confusion. Harry Potter, the Harry Potter, not even 20, had… done… that.

He was so confused, in fact, that he very firmly put it out of his mind for the next few days. Or he tried to. It kept coming back – ghostly hands on his neck, his face; damp breath on his lips. It was all memory, but it attacked him at the oddest times.

“You’re jumpy,” Tobias told him on Sunday, when Severus brought him the new and improved Muggle-friendly arthritis salve.

“Am I?”

Tobias eyed him a bit too closely, and Severus decided Occluding was absolutely warranted. He kept it up throughout the week, determined not to be caught out by students or Minerva. He kept thoughts of Harry – Potter – at a distance, and pushed the entire Friday evening far, far under, as far as he could from the surface of his mind.

Which may have been somewhat too much; when Potter strolled in his office the next Friday, Severus had forgotten to expect him.

“Hi.”

Severus looked up, remembered why he’d pushed everything down, and swallowed. “Potter.”

“Oh, it’s back to Potter now, uh?”

“It’s…” How could he sound that bad when he hadn’t had a single cig in the entire week? He tried again. “It’s your name.”

The boy’s face twisted. “Yeah. I just thought we were past that.”

Severus set his quill back in the holder Pomona had gifted him and crossed his arms. “I read your book.”

“I’m not here for the book.”

“You left it here.”

“Because we talk about these things, and I like our talks. But I don’t come just to pick at your brain.”

He walked closer, until he stood on the other side of Severus’s desk. Severus had to look up to really face him, and he hated it. Hated it. “What for, then?”

“Well, lots of things.” He pulled the chair back and sat in it, resting his elbows where generations of students before him had tried to carve grooves into the old wood with their eyes. “You know the Remembrance ceremony is in two weeks.”

Severus nodded. What was he angling for?

“I’d like you to be there. Before you say anything,” he hurried to add when Severus opened his mouth, “I’m not asking you to speak, although if you wanted to, of course… but I missed you last year.”

“I was dead, last year.”

“Well, not quite.” Potter – Harry – Potter smiled. “And I knew you weren’t. But you deserve to have your spot there. All the staff and Houses will be present, you know.”

“I’m aware; Minerva’s mentioned it at a staff meeting. I told her I wouldn’t join.”

“She can’t have been happy about that.”

“She wouldn’t have been happy at having a formerly dead, free-roaming Death Eater there, either.” Or rather, she wouldn’t have been happy at the fallout. She hadn’t protested much; she was an intelligent woman.

“I’d like you to be there anyway. You could even wear your Order of Merlin.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Your father does. People should see you at the ceremony; it would be a good sign, you know? An all-House thing? I’m going to ask Blaise to come. Oh, and I should ask Draco too, and his mum.”

“That’s… bold.”

“Well, you know me.”

“Indeed. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.”

“So, what do you say?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“For Slytherin House?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Harry’s lips quirked up, and Severus looked away.

“I’ll take it for now, but you better be done thinking next week.” He lifted a hand and the handbook he’d left one week earlier slapped into his palm. “Okay, I’m listening. What did you think, then? Since you didn’t owl me like you said you would,” he added pointedly.

“The part about herbal remedies is woefully under-researched.”

“Well, it’s not like they’re going to have a part about magical plants, is it?”

“Some of those plants used to be known to Muggles!”

Severus had a whole rant about that and he lost himself in it, finally dragging Potter to the Library and showing him several tomes on what Muggle scientists had apparently forgotten about, his finger tapping angrily on the pages.

“There, Potter! This was written by a Muggle!”

When Madam Pince shushed them, they trundled back to his rooms, Potter giggling and Severus still ranting. And when he whirled on his heel to pick another treatise from his own shelves, Harry caught his wrist and held on.

“You’ve made your point,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find any mentions of those plants in older texts.”

Severus kept his eyes firmly on the spine of a book.

“It sounds really interesting, but I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since I left last week and – and I’d like to do it again, now. If you’d like.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Severus told his books.

“Did you think about it? About me?”

He swallowed. “I tried not to.”

“And how did it work out?”

Severus tried to free his wrist, but he only managed to tug Harry closer. Their eyes met; he felt like a Chizpurfle about to be split open. How had they found themselves here?

“We don’t have to, not if you don’t want to. I could be wrong, but I reckon you’re overthinking stuff.”

“And you’re not thinking enough, Potter.”

“Sometimes, thinking’s overrated.”

He snorted. “You’d say that.”

“Yeah, I would.”

It was his turn to tug Severus closer; Severus didn’t fight it. He didn’t fight Harry’s fingers undoing his plait again; he didn’t fight Harry walking him back against the books. He grabbed a shelf and held on, held on, while Harry went straight back to where they'd been a week ago. He didn’t seem to mind Severus’s too-thin lips, too-big nose; he came back time after time even though he knew how vicious Severus could be. He didn’t seem to mind Severus himself.

But then Harry took that one step closer, and their chests, their bellies, their… their whole bodies touched, and Severus couldn’t control his reaction. He pushed Harry away, sending him into the back of a chair that went down with a loud clatter.

Severus could feel, could hear his own harsh breaths; he couldn’t look at Harry’s shocked face. “No,” he finally managed.

“Yeah, I got that loud and clear.” Potter righted the chair but kept his distance. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shook his head, bit the inside of his cheek. It was that or shrieking something incoherent; he felt the panic scratching at his throat and trying to get out.

“Come on; talk to me.”

His legs were jelly, but he didn’t want to sit on the floor; he’d never stand up again, not without help, and he really, really didn’t want Potter to touch him again. He stumbled to the sofa and collapsed there, fisting his hands so they didn’t shake so visibly. He tried to grasp at his Occlumency, but what usually came so easily to him was just slipping through his fingers. Too many memories were surging, boiling up and up and almost out, but he clamped down on them as best he could. It slowed them down somewhat, simmering rather than boiling, the images going through his mind, the sounds, the screams. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause. Inhale, pause – Harry’s hand was rubbing his spine.

“You’re scaring me,” he said.

“I should.” Severus stared at the skin on his hands, the wrinkles, the small silver scars of a knife slipping years ago, the old burns, the staining that would never fade completely. “I’m not a pervert. I won’t be,” he told his hands.

“A pervert?”

“A monster. I won’t be like them; I refuse.” He fought to relax his fingers, pulled one sleeve up. The empty sockets of the sneering skull stared back at him. “Them,” he repeated. “I’m one of them, but I… I…”

“You’re not.”

“I asked for this. I wanted it. It will always be there.”

Potter sat next to him, their thighs brushing, and he threw one arm over the back of the sofa. “You betrayed them. You defeated them.”

“You don’t know all they did. I saw it; I saw everything. When the Dark Lord came back… I let them kill, and torture, and… and…” He couldn’t say it. “You saw me kill. You know what I did. But I never… I won’t…”

“What, torture me?”

Severus shuddered.

“I don’t think you will. I trust you; you only threw a jar of cockroaches at me once.” Harry squeezed his shoulders and knocked his forehead on Severus’s.

“I should apologise.”

“For the jar?”

Severus frowned. “That too.” He didn’t like being reminded of the times he’d lost his temper; it reminded him too much of Tobias when he used to drink himself into a rage most evenings. “I meant… this.”

“Hm. Tea?”

“What?”

“Tea. Don’t move,” and Harry just stood up and left the sofa.

Before Severus could decide on a reaction, a blanket had landed on his back and he could hear Harry preparing tea.

A cup appeared in front of him. “Here,” Harry said.

Severus took it, feeling somewhat lost.

“You’re not a monster.”

“The Mark says otherwise; its taint is on me forever.”

“How old were you?”

Severus didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Sixteen.”

“Sixt… Jesus. Hermione doesn’t really talk about it, but they tortured her; you know. At Malfoy Manor.” He sat back against Severus. “She’s jumpy sometimes, doesn’t like unexpected touching. Some people’s magic feels just wrong to her now, when it reminds her of one of them.”

“Muggles, Muggleborns.” Severus stared into his tea. “It was supposed to be a treat. But I was still underage, still at Hogwarts, and no one wanted to risk the Ministry finding out. So I watched. They made me watch. I was supposed to like it.”

Harry’s head came to rest on his shoulder, bafflingly. “What happened, when you got your NEWTs?”

“I found excuses.” Severus turned his head to speak into Harry’s wild hair, haltingly. “Busy brewing potions for the Dark Lord, working on my mastery, uninterested in shallow, mundane games that would do nothing to further the cause. I’d started to have some doubts, like Regulus – yes, Regulus Black – but I still thought the Dark Lord would give me power, revenge. I didn’t really care about what would happen to the Wizarding world or to Muggles. I joined because I was angry; Regulus joined because it seemed the logical thing to do as a pureblood. But we knew there was no escape, and I wasn’t surprised when he disappeared. And then I overheard…”

“The prophecy.”

Severus bowed his head. “What are you doing here, Harry? Why aren’t you leaving?”

“Well, I want to be here, and I’m not a quitter.” He took Severus’s empty cup away. “Hermione says keeping warm and eating something helps.”

“Potter.”

“Ooh, you’re getting hissy again; that’s good.”

“Potter.”

Of course, Harry had never really done what he was told, and Severus had to suffer through an evening of sandwiches, more tea, and Harry’s amused rant about Weasley’s inability to avoid shedding his shop’s wares whenever he was around Muggles.

Somehow, when he left, Severus realised Harry had managed to drag him out of his black mood.

Harry kept visiting, chatting about his classes or his internship at St Mungo’s, asking about Tobias, giggling when Severus recounted his students’ latest antics.

“They’re really not as spectacular as Neville’s, from what you’re telling me!”

“Well, I only see the NEWT-level ones. But I’ve added two evenings a week of extra tutoring for a few hapless Slytherins. I’d rather the dungeons didn’t blow up; I live here.”

“Only Slytherins?”

He sniffed. “I will not subject myself to others when I have no contractual obligation to.”

Harry nudged him. “You just want your little snakes to outshine the others.”

“Maybe.” Severus leaned back into the sofa; after 20 years, it was practically moulded to him. “I won’t stay in Hogwarts forever, but while I’m here…”

“Where do you want to go? After Hogwarts.”

“I’m open to suggestions. I doubt many would employ me, which limits my options.”

“Why not? You’re a hero.”

He snorted. “I know you’re somewhat deluded, but believe me when I say most people don’t enjoy Death Eaters in general and my company in particular.”

“Deluded, uh? Can’t blame me; I got Avada Kedavra’ed in the head as a baby.” Harry’s hand found his. “Have you decided for the Remembrance ceremony? You haven’t been seen in public since the war.”

“I work in a school, Potter; there are hundreds of students. Is that not public enough for you?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t want to be gawked at.”

“You won’t be. Though I think Shacklebolt would be more than fine with it, if you wanted to speak.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Okay. Oh, Draco and his mum said they’d be there; they’ll sit with Slytherin House.”

“Narcissa told me, yes.” She wrote to him often; now that Lucius was in Azkaban she and Draco were working on rebuilding the Malfoy brand. It was slow going, but Severus didn’t doubt they’d manage it. He sighed; there was no point in pretending he wouldn’t go. For his House, of course. “I’ll do it; between the Malfoys and I, we should divert most of the attention from the children.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. “I’m glad you’ll be here.” He squeezed Severus’s hand and left soon after.

The memory of his lips on Severus’s cheek lasted much longer.

Narcissa arrived early on the day of the ceremony.

She had taken it upon herself to ensure Severus wore clothes that didn’t shame her, Draco, or Slytherin House, since he was to be seen with them. He let her fuss with the collar and redo his plait, tying it off with a silver snake pin with emerald eyes.

“A snake, Narcissa?”

“You know what they say: what doesn’t kill you and so on.”

“It’s jewellery.”

“And resting right where Nagini failed to murder you. Very symbolic.” She patted his chest.

“I’m not a doll; go bother your son.”

“My son knows how to dress himself; you, on the other hand, have a very depressing wardrobe.”

“Efficient.”

“Boring, Severus. The word you are looking for is boring.”

He rolled his eyes but followed her out, keeping an eye out for the press that was bound to be here. He couldn't hex a journalist; that would most definitely not be a good idea, but it was a nice fantasy.

And of course, Skeeter and a swarm of her colleagues ran to them as soon as they were spotted.

“Professor Snape! Professor Snape, a word?”

“This is your first public event after it was revealed you survived; what do you want to tell the public?”

“Professor, our readers would like a picture of your scar!”

“How did you survive?”

Narcissa took one of his arms, Draco appeared on his other side, and together they marched through the throng and made straight for the Slytherin benches. Aurors were surrounding the seats reserved for school members and war veterans and once they passed the wards Severus breathed again. He had expected it, but expectation didn’t make it any easier. He nodded at his prefects and looked over at all his little snakes, like Harry called them. They were subdued, wary; some young ones slipped between bigger students to be closer to him, and as the Malfoys went to their assigned seats he took the time to talk to some of them. Nothing consequential, but a few words about school supplies and Potions grades seemed to do the trick.

“Hullo.”

Severus sent a First Year on his way and turned to Potter. “Hello.”

“You look good. New robes?”

“Narcissa’s choice.” At least the only colour she’d added to his preferred black was a dark, subdued green.

“Well, I like it. Oh! Did she do your hair, too?”

Severus lifted a hand to the pin. “I think she sees me as her doll.”

“Does she? Well, now it’s my turn.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you feel like you’re missing something?”

“Missing?”

“Your Order of Merlin. It’s exactly the right time to wear it.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Luckily I do.” Harry took a box out of his robes and held it out. “You should put it on. It’s yours.”

Severus eyed it. “It wasn’t in my rooms. Or Cokeworth.”

“No, I paid a visit to your father. He was happy to get rid of it; said it was gathering dust on his bedside table.”

“What was it doing on his bedside table?”

“I don’t know, but it was right next to a picture of you and your mum.”

Potter used his brief spell of speechlessness to step closer and fix the Order to his chest.

“There, very dignified.”

“I’m always very dignified.”

“Cockroaches. A whole jar. At a poor, helpless student.”

Severus snorted; when he lifted his eyes from his chest he met Narcissa’s. Her eyebrows were suspiciously high, and Draco was glaring at Harry. He ignored them. “You were misbehaving.”

“Misbehaving, uh? Well, that’s my brand.” He put his hand on Severus’s lower back and steered him to the back row where all adults were seated; Severus could feel the weight of too much attention on them as they moved. “I hope they got some good pictures of that Order on your chest; I could frame one.”

“Potter!” he hissed.

“What? I’m working for inter-House cooperation!”

He rolled his eyes, but let himself be led. “Truly, you’re selflessness incarnate.”

“You’re right I am. Hey,” he added once Severus was sitting, “when I visited Sheffield, couldn’t help noticing there’s something that feels a bit odd about that boarded-up pub.” He glanced at the Malfoys, not entirely trusting.

“They know about Tobias. Odd how?”

“Dunno; it’s like there’s Muggle-Repelling wards around it, but I don’t feel any. No one ever goes near it, and the graffiti and posters on it never change; I just have a feeling. I didn’t want to go investigate without you, since it's… there.”

“You are not to investigate anything suspicious on your own, Potter.”

“Well, I could have asked Ron or Hermione, but they’re busy, and I didn’t want to tell them why I knew that place.”

Severus nodded; he appreciated that. “On Saturday, then?”

“I’ll come,” Draco said. He looked at Severus and added, “I don’t trust Potter to keep you safe.”

“It’s probably nothing.” Severus sniffed. “I wouldn’t put that much into Potter having a feeling. I’ll also remind you I’m not inexperienced.”

“Nevertheless.”

Harry frowned but he nodded, albeit grudgingly. “Fine by me.”

“I was fighting a war before you were born.”

Two pairs of eyes, icy grey and vivid green, locked on him.

“I think you’re losing this one, Severus.” Narcissa looked smug, and Severus was quite certain she was counting on Draco doing some information-gathering on the exact relationship between Harry and Severus. Well, good luck to him with that, because Severus himself didn’t know.

“I won’t fight you three on this, then; do as you will. Go make your speeches, Potter; I think the Minister is starting to fret.”

Severus only hoped it wouldn’t last too long.

It lasted too long. Harry thanked him, and even Minerva, as Headmistress, somehow praised his time as a Headmaster; he could feel all the eyes that turned to him.

He ignored them all. Whatever Harry thought, he'd always be… well, he’d always be many things, but never good things: the traitor, the Death Eater, the greasy dungeon bat, the bully, the bullied. The dirty, malnourished kid with third-hand, see-through clothes, the nasty little boy who knew too many curses, the Dark Arts lover, the stuck-up half-blood who pretended he was above his betters’ little games. The murderer, Albus’s murderer.

As yet another official droned on, he cast a Disillusionment spell on himself and left the ceremony. Narcissa looked to his empty seat and shook her head, but didn’t try to stop him; the Aurors guarding the perimeter didn’t even notice him. He walked until he reached Albus’s tomb. The white stone was gleaming in the sun, pristine and as still and quiet and colourless as Albus never was. He wondered who had thought this would be the best tribute to the man, but it didn’t matter. Future generations would remember him for a very long time as a powerful and wise wizard; Severus’s memories of him were… more conflicted.

He sat on a bench and closed his eyes. It wasn’t very warm yet, not this early in the season; he didn’t mind. The noises coming from the ceremony were muted, and he breathed in the smell of the flowers growing around the grave, listened to the birds chirping. He wondered where Fawkes was. Slowly, he fell into a light meditative state, the kind his mother had taught him long ago. It had been his first step in mind magic, and here, in this quiet place, he found those familiar patterns again. He wasn’t Occluding, but he was in control of his thoughts, allowing them to sink deeper into his mind or float to the surface: playing in the park with Lily, brewing his first potion, finding her dead body – no, he let that one go far, far under – Harry chopping ginger and talking about something inane like Quidditch, his voice now familiar and welcome.

There was a walled-off room in his mind, one that he couldn't open; it had been there for as long as he remembered. Perhaps Albus had put it there, perhaps he’d done it to himself; either way he didn’t have the key. He decided once again that he didn’t really want to see what was inside, and drifted away from it, his thoughts turning to Tobias coming to Cokeworth and deciding he’d take him back with him to Sheffield. Severus had dozed in the car, not really listening to Tobias’s grumblings. He hadn’t been in a car in very, very long; probably not since Lily’s parents had taken them out to the zoo one afternoon.

He heard soft sounds behind him, and he opened his eyes as he felt two hands slide on his shoulders. He didn’t have to turn around to know who they belonged to.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Harry said.

“Aren’t they all looking for their Saviour back at the ceremony?”

“Have you ever known me to do what I was told?”

“Point.”

“I think the Malfoys are suspecting something.”

“Of course they are. Just ignore them.”

“Hm.” Harry joined him on the bench. “Hermione says she wants to meet my mystery lover, too. Prepare to be vetted.”

“Granger vets your lovers?”

“Well, after that thing with Ash, remember? She said she didn’t trust me to pick normal people.”

“Normal people?”

“Ash did try to kill me when I refused to marry him.”

“Ah. Well, I never did that, at least. I should pass with flying colours.”

“Why are you being sarcastic? You’re being sarcastic, right?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Your optimism is unsurprising but unwarranted.”

“Aw.” Harry's fingers slipped between his. “Are you coming back? There’s a buffet in the Great Hall.”

“No, I think I’ll stay here.” Severus paused. “You shouldn't have seen it. His death… he didn’t want you to see it. He knew what the prophecy said, but it doesn’t mean… he wanted you to have joy, too.”

“I’m glad I was there.”

“Harry…”

“No, I really am. No one else was there to openly mourn him, and I saw you do the bravest thing. I’m sorry I called you a coward.”

Severus sighed. “It was a long time ago.”

“Was it?”

No. No, it wasn’t. “I’m too much of your past, Harry. You should look to your future. Albus would…”

“He’s not here; we are. And you were right, you know? When you said that it wouldn’t work out with the people I dated because they were Muggles. There never was anyone I felt comfortable telling about our world; it always felt too… I don’t know; we couldn't connect fully. And we might have if I’d told them the truth, but then I’d have had to explain so much, and they wouldn't see me as just some bloke.”

“You’re not just some bloke; you’ll never be.”

“But to them I’d be different, special, magical. Literally magical.”

“Not all wizard-Muggle relationships fail; you know that.”

“No, but I don’t think it’s for me. I thought it would be easier without the Boy Who Lived crap, but it’s not, because people who know me as just Harry, regular bloke, can’t see all of me either.”

“You should put that on your calling card: Harry Potter, esq, Regular Bloke with Extras.”

“Ha ha.”

“Maybe put up an ad: Regular bloke looking for a normal partner; interest in Quidditch is a must.”

“You don’t like Quidditch.”

Severus smiled. “You’re getting smarter, Potter.”

“Oi!” Harry snickered. “What about, Regular bloke happy with grumpy, totally normal partner who should just accept degular bloke’s interest and stop complaining?”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“A real ray of sunshine; noted.” Harry leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “I have to go before they send in the troops; I’m supposed to shake some more hands. But we could… I don’t know, we could go out for dinner? Or maybe just a pint?”

“What’s wrong with Hogwarts?”

“Nothing; I’d just like to spend some time with you outside of it. You’re not a prisoner, you know, and if we go to a Muggle pub we’ll be fine.”

Apart from Sheffield and Spinner’s End, Severus realised Harry was right; he hadn’t left the grounds in a very long time. And, yes, he was free to go anywhere, if he wanted to. But did he want to? With Potter? What would people say, if they saw a young man full of life with a man like him? He sighed; once Harry had an idea, it was hard to make him change his mind. “Come to my lab when you’re done, and we’ll… talk. We’ll talk about it.” And he’d say yes, eventually. But he could put up a bit of a fight first, for appearances’ sake.

Harry smiled. “Thank you, I’ll do that. Later, Severus.”

He nodded and closed his eyes again once Harry had left, wondering what Albus would make of all this. Severus himself was damned if he knew.

They were stumbling through the corridors, more or less headed towards the dungeons, when a cat jumped out of the shadows and turned into McGonagall.

“Gentlemen.”

Harry failed to straighten, but Severus at least managed a more serious face. Oh no, his lips were twitching; Harry muffled his giggling in Severus’s shoulder. “She caught us!” he whispered. Loudly. “Oh, I think she heard us.”

“Yes, Mr Potter, I definitely heard you. Where, in the name of Merlin, have you been?”

“Aberdeen.”

“Aberdeen. Why?”

“Lots of pubs!”

“Ah. Severus, would you care to explain… no, you’re not that much more coherent, are you.”

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the dungeons. “Hangover Potion,” he said. “Down there. That I keep for staff parties.”

“Potter isn’t staff, but it certainly looks like you lads had a party and are heading to a terrible hangover, yes.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically and almost lost his balance; he caught himself on Severus’s arm before he could face-plant on McGonagall’s chest. “And then we went to the zoo!”

“The zoo.”

“Harry!” Severus hissed.

“Yes! In Glasgow! They have boas! And pythons!”

“You went to the Glasgow zoo. In the middle of the night.” She pursed her lips. “To watch pythons?”

“I,” Severus enunciated like the very drunk man he was, “am not afraid of snakes.”

“That’s good. Shall I walk you to your office, then?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t have detention.”

Harry sniggered.

“You’re lucky all the students are in their dorms. Come on, gentlemen, let’s get some Hangover Potion into you.”

She led them down to Severus’s office and they staggered after her, miraculously reaching the bottom of the stairs without breaking any bones.

“You’re lucky I know where you keep it,” she muttered as she rooted through a cabinet. “There,” she said, slamming two vials on the desk. “Drink this.”

They blinked at her.

“D’you think she wants to poison us?”

“She wouldn’t, Potter.” He considered. “Well, she wouldn't poison you. Golden boy and all.”

“I am currently contemplating poisoning you both. Now drink up.”

Mildly chastised, they swallowed the potion.

“Ugh,” Harry said.

Severus agreed with a nod, then a groan; he looked like he had a headache brewing, potion or not. Still, their minds were now somewhat clearer, and they both looked at their feet.

“Are you coherent now?”

“Yes,” they chorused.

“What am I going to do with you? Harry, you are someone our students look up to! Severus, you are a respected Professor and Head of House!”

“It’s my fault,” Harry said. “We were only supposed to have a pint and a curry, but I said we should have some more pints, and then…”

“I didn’t have to follow along.”

“I have to say I’m surprised, Severus; I don’t remember you drinking much.”

He sighed and sat in one of the visitor’s chairs. “I hadn’t had a drop in years. Alcohol would have mixed up badly with the potions I was taking.”

“Aren’t you supposed to still take some?”

He shrugged. “Some.”

“Oh, boys.” She shook her head. “You’re lucky I don’t think anyone saw you, and that there are no classes tomorrow.”

“We didn’t do anything you haven’t done,” Severus mumbled.

“Maybe so, but you never saw me.” Her smile, Harry thought, was maybe a bit too sardonic. “I’m glad you’re not brooding alone, Severus. But do try not to break into Muggle zoos at night when you’re drunk, hm?”

“Can we do it when we’re sober?” Harry asked.

“Potter, shut up!”

“I think that it is now high time you two went to bed.” She eyed them. “Should I find you a guest room, Mr Potter?”

“Yes,” Severus said.

“No,” Harry said.

They glanced at each other and looked away.

“I see. Well, I’ll leave you to make up your mind; I’m sure you’ll, ah, work it out. Good night,” she added before leaving.

Harry and Severus kept silent for a long minute.

“This is awkward,” Harry finally said.

“You don’t say.”

“She won’t fire you, will she?”

Severus glared at him. “I have an old bottle of Ogden’s that Albus gave me years ago. Better than a self-Obliviate.”

“Come on, we can start with tea, yeah?” Harry took Severus’s hand and pulled him up and out of the office, into the corridor hidden behind a bookcase.

“You’re awfully familiar with my lodgings.”

“I’ve been coming here for a year!”

“Don’t remind me.” He looked at Harry. “I’m not sure… I don’t know that it’s a good idea. You sleeping here.”

“Why?”

“You know I… you know I don’t…” He shuffled to the kitchenette; now most of the alcohol had left, he visibly felt all his aches and pains again. It had been a long day. “You’re young and healthy; you… you must…”

“Turn around.”

Severus didn’t; he busied himself with dried leaves and mugs and pouring water in the kettle the Muggle way.

“Don’t be an idiot; turn around.”

In the end, Harry grabbed his arm and pulled; Severus whirled with a snarl but Harry pushed him against the wall that separated the kitchenette and the bedroom, pinning him with his whole body.

“Harry…”

“We shouldn’t have drunk that potion; you worry less about stupid things when you're drunk.”

“They’re not stu…”

Harry didn’t let him finish. He grabbed his braid and pulled, baring Severus’s neck; the Muggle turtleneck was easy to pull down and he started kissing his throat, his cheek, his mouth; Severus made small noises and held on Harry’s hips for dear life.

“They’re stupid,” Harry growled in his ear.

“Harry…”

“Say my name again.”

Severus glared and moved to seize a handful of Harry’s hair, forcing their lips together; Harry grinned. “Nice,” he breathed. “Nicer,” he added when his palm found the bulge in Severus’s trousers.

They froze, panting in each other’s mouths; Severus shook his head minutely.

“Stop?” Harry asked.

“Just… don’t move.”

Harry waited.

Then, slowly, Severus covered Harry’s hand with his, and gave a minuscule nod.

Harry was smart enough to understand what to do.

Harry raised himself on an elbow and stared down at Severus. “Wow, you’re actually smiling. Orgasm’s mellowing you out, eh?”

Severus flipped him a limp bird, his smile widening.

“I’m that good, eh?”

“No.”

“Sorry, I am. You’re lying on the floor and not even complaining.”

“I’m trapped under you.”

“And you’re enjoying every minute of it.”

Severus grumbled something that sounded like “Depends on the minute,” so Harry cast cushioning and warming Charms under them.

“Well, I’m enjoying it. I hadn’t had sex in weeks. Months!”

“Months!” Severus’s guffaw jostled Harry. “That’s nothing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry wanted to ask how long it had been for Severus, but he wasn’t sure he’d actually had sex before. He’d sounded pretty scarred by what he’d witnessed as a Death Eater, and he knew it was one of those things he’d later pushed away with potions and Occlumency. He’d learned about the effects of those; not that Severus had told him anything beyond that he’d needed them as a spy, but St Mungo’s had a pretty good collection of medical texts, and he’d found some notes in Severus’s rooms one evening while he’d been waiting for him to solve some House crisis or another. Notes on an experimental potion that, now that he had a better understanding of these things, painted quite the picture.

“Ask what you want to ask, Potter.”

“Ugh, fine. How long, for you?”

He shrugged, though he wasn’t as casual as he was aiming for. “Fifteen years, maybe?”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You can’t just stop here!”

Severus smirked, riling him up like the evil bastard he was.

“You can’t!” Harry poked him in the ribs. “Speak, or I’ll tickle you.”

“I’m not ticklish.”

“That’s what every ticklish person says.”

“I,” Severus said, rather unconvincingly in Harry’s opinion, “despise you.”

“Sure. Now, spill.”

“It’s nothing particularly juicy; I just… experimented with the bar scene in my early days of teaching.”

“The… bar scene?”

“Where else was I supposed to find people, Death Eater Anonymous? A few Charms to be unrecognisable and improve this,” he waved at his face, “then I went to Muggle bars in London or Dublin. The cheap beer helped, too. I had some quick fucks here and there; nothing to write home about. I was drunk enough that I don’t remember much; that’s just as well. But Albus and I soon suspected that he wasn’t quite dead, and that put an end to these experiments.”

“You look fine without Charms.”

“I know your glasses are not currently on your nose, but at the very least you’re well aware I have a… memorable face. Although…” He muffled his snort with the back of his hand. “I Polyjuiced into Lucius Malfoy, once.”

“You didn’t!”

“I absolutely did.”

“That’s a load of bollocks!”

“I can assure you it is a load of pure, unadulterated truth.”

“Oh my god, tell me how it went!”

“Instant success with the gents, until they saw the daffodil tattooed on his left cheek.”

“His butt cheek?”

“What do you think?”

Harry howled with laughter. “A daffodil on his arse?”

“It’s a Narcissus flower.” Severus smirked. “For his wife.”

“He has his wife tattooed on his arse? Are we talking about the same Lucius Malfoy?”

“Could be she made him do it; Blacks are quite possessive.”

“Cor, I’ll never look at Draco the same again.”

“Yes, well. As much as I’m enjoying having that conversation while lying on a stone floor, I’d like to suggest…” He waved a hand.

“I’m not budging if the other option is you kicking me out; I’m not going back to Grimmauld Place tonight.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter.”

“Aw, I love when you talk dirty to me.”

Severus’s bed, it turned out, didn’t have black silk sheets, but it was extremely comfortable – more, he had to admit, than the dungeon flagstones, even with warming and cushioning Charms. And it wasn’t cold at all, especially when he snuggled up to Severus as soon as he was asleep.

Harry left the dungeons late in the morning; he tried to sneak out but McGonagall found him anyway. He had just reached the top of the dungeon stairs when he heard her pointed cough behind him.

“Headmistress.” He looked at her nose, her chin, her ear. He felt a bit embarrassed, really, between the previous night and being caught mid-Walk of Shame. Not that he was ashamed, but he really, really looked (and felt) like he hadn’t spent the night alone.

“Harry. I see you didn’t need a guest room last night.”

“Er, yeah. I mean, no. Um.”

“Relax, Potter; I am not asking for the details.” Her teeth flashed between her thin lips, and Harry felt like a mouse. “I must admit a certain degree of surprise, but you’ve been spending enough time together lately that I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected. It’s good to see you both happy.”

“Right.”

“However…” She sighed. “The two of you are very stubborn and prone to anger. Yes, even you, Harry,” she added when he opened his mouth. “I was your Head of House for many years; I know you. Severus is proud and volatile, but you’re headstrong and act on instinct.”

He frowned. “We’re doing fine.”

“For now. But I’ve known you both since you were so very young… I worry and I always will. Now go, students are about to flock to the Great Hall for lunch, and you don’t want to be caught here; imagine the gossip.”

“Right, I’ve had enough for a lifetime already.” Harry nodded at her, finding it a bit easier to look her in the eyes. “Running away now!”

Finding Draco Malfoy already in Severus’s rooms on Saturday was not how he’d hoped to start his weekend; Harry had been looking forward to… well, to just spend some time with Severus and only Severus, first. But as it was, both were bent over piles of papers and parchment, so he let himself in and dropped the book he’d promised Severus on the table to get their attention.

“We know you’re here, Potter,” Malfoy drawled.

“The word you’re looking for is Hello, or perhaps Good morning.”

Severus looked up. “Harry. Help yourself to some tea; we’ll be with you momentarily.”

“Still not a proper Hello; is this a special Slytherin thing?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Is he always this annoying? Oh wait; I already know the answer: yes he is. Can’t imagine why you’re tolerating him; is it his arse?”

“Hey!”

“I think it’s a compliment, Harry. I’d suggest taking it as such.”

“It wasn’t!” Draco protested. “I haven’t looked at his arse!”

“And yet you’re the one talking about it. Thanks, Draco dear.” Harry toasted him with his tea and sat next to Severus.

A quick glance at the paperwork strewn in front of them only told him he’d get a headache if he tried to understand; it was all legal and money stuff; some of the documents looked positively ancient. He tried not to look at these things too closely, though he knew he should, but Malfoy was studying it and probably knew his way around. Harry rested his hand on Severus’s warm thigh and soon Severus covered it with his; Malfoy glanced at them and pursed his lips but didn’t comment.

They'd get through the day; a quick expedition to Sheffield and then they could chop roots and slimy things together to make potions for the Hospital Wing, debate the merits of Muggle psychiatric drugs versus magical remedies, and maybe do some hands-on anatomy studies. He was in the middle of a particularly interesting fantasy when Severus kicked his shin and jolted Harry right out of it.

“Once you’re done woolgathering, Potter, we should get ready to investigate that old pub.”

“The Witch’s Head, you said?” Malfoy sneered. “Muggles.”

“Well, your mum’s family put elves’ heads on their walls, so I don’t think you have a leg to stand on. Muggles haven’t killed a witch for being a witch in centuries.”

“Not in this country, no,” Severus said. “I went to Sheffield on Thursday and…”

Harry glared. “You were not supposed to go on your own!”

“I wanted to make sure Tobias was safe. It might be that I was seen in the area, and there are enough people who want me dead that I thought he might have been in danger.”

“Former Death Eaters and sympathisers?” Draco’s poker face was, you had to give it to him, pretty good. He too bore the Mark, and Lucius was in Azkaban.

“Possibly. Or people loyal to Albus. Things looked normal that day, and I didn’t stay too long in case anyone was watching; I just added wards to his flat and told him to stay in.”

“Will he have followed your advice?” Draco asked.

“Probably not. And there is definitely something going on in that pub, but I couldn’t tell what.”

Harry chewed on his lip. “Maybe we should call in the Aurors.”

Both Malfoy and Severus looked at him with disdain.

“They won’t care about a Muggle neighbourhood.”

“And I doubt they have a lot of sympathy for anyone linked to me,” Severus added.

“Yeah, but…”

“We’ll call them if we need them. Blaise works at the DMLE; he’ll help if we ask.”

“We could ask now.”

“Potter, if it turns out it’s just some stupid Muggles trying to scare the local grannies, we’ll look like idiots. We’ll call if we need help, and not before.”

“Severus…”

“He’s right; we don’t want to be the boy who cried wolf. Not when two of us are what we are.”

Harry nudged him. “C’mon, I’m the Boy Who Lived, maybe I can be the boy who cried wolf once or twice in my life, eh?”

“No,” Malfoy and Severus chorused.

“Fine, but I hope I don’t get to say I told you so.”

“I told you so!” Harry yelled as he dodged a curse flying at his head. Crap, he could feel that he hadn’t played a lot of Quiddditch or ran for his life as much as he used to in the past two years, but mostly he was worried for Severus. He’d seen him tackle Malfoy out of the way of a hex and Harry hadn’t seen either of them since, though spells were still coming from behind the counter where they’d hidden. Except the rotten, mouldy wood wouldn’t protect them long, even with the strengthening Charms holding it together.

They’d been expected.

Severus’s father, of course, hadn’t been home, but it wasn’t like the man never got out; he liked to have a drink (Appletizer or Coke; he didn’t drink alcohol any longer) at his local and hung out with old union and prison mates from his wilder days. Those still alive, at any rate, which meant those who’d calmed down, like he had. But given the welcome they’d received when the three of them had walked in the dark, boarded-up Witch’s Head… it became very clear, very clearly that there were wizards here, and not the nice kind.

The bar counter seemed to hold for now, and someone had just cast a shield on top of it. Harry fought the urge to run back into the room and turned to the stairs leading into the cellar. He Disillusioned himself and crept along the wall, listening to any sound telling him to hurry either up or down; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to choose if he heard something from both directions. But it was clear those wizards, those wannabe Death Eaters given the skull-and-snake designs they’d etched everywhere inside, were using this place as a base, and where Death Eaters were… He remembered the Manor, after all, and even if this new version called themselves Blood Cleansers they had similar goals, even if there were less of them than during the wars.

He heard a loud crash from above and his reflexes were just quick enough to raise a shield and protect himself from the blast; bits of wood and brick rained around him and clattered further down the stairs. A door creaked below and Harry flattened himself against the wall as a red curse flew past him; he threw an Impedimenta and rushed down, throwing a hasty Body-Bind to the witch he’d just hit. He found himself in a dark, damp storage room that, at first glance, looked empty.

Except it wasn’t. Once he’d lit his wand, he found several bodies lying on the beaten earth floor. Six of them, precisely. One was Tobias Snape, and the others… He frowned; some looked familiar. He knelt and made sure they were still alive, then proceeded to check their vitals; they’d been stunned but they were otherwise fine. Mostly fine; he could tell there were two broken arms, three broken or cracked ribs, and a lot of bruising all around, but nothing life-threatening for now.

“Rennervate!”

A woman opened her eyes and immediately tried to crawl away from him, but Mr Snape caught her sweater and shook his head.

“He’s not one of them,” he said. “He’s here, too?” he asked Harry.

“Yeah, upstairs. Can you stand?”

Severus’s father glared at him in true Snape fashion and was soon on his feet and helping the others up. “We’re all regular folks here,” he said, “but that don’t mean we can’t bash these wankers’ heads in anyway.”

He hefted a broken pipe lying near, and the woman who’d first been scared of Harry picked up a piece of wood that looked like it had come from a broken crate.

“They murdered one my sons; they won’t get me. Colin,” she added when she saw the question on Harry’s face. “Colin Creevey. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you right away.”

Harry gulped. “That’s alright, Mrs Creevey. I’m, uh – I’m sorry. For Colin.”

She nodded, her eyes on the stairs. “I’ll go get my pound of flesh now.”

“Wait!”

But she was on a mission, and it was soon clear that so were the others. They all found something to take with them as a makeshift weapon, and Harry rushed to get ahead of the group to throw a shield in front of them. He heard loud Apparition pops as they reached the landing, and since the door and part of the wall had been blasted he immediately saw that the four they’d first stumbled on had become a dozen, and the bar counter was no more. He spotted Zabini and Malfoy cornering two wizards, and two Aurors were engaging another group of Blood Cleansers. Harry rolled his eyes; the name was even worse than Death Eaters.

His taking in of the scene was cut short when Severus appeared right behind him and yelled, “Get them out!” in his ear before directing shelves to fall on a cackling witch. His braid was undone, and one of his sleeves was a mess of torn fabric that looked stiff with blood.

“You’re hurt!”

Severus, of course, ignored him. He whirled to face an attacker creeping behind them but a loud thump to his left made Harry jump.

“Bastard,” Mr Snape mumbled, the pipe still held firmly in hand. “Tried to hit my son.”

“Did you just…”

Thwack!

Mrs Creevey had followed his example, and soon the other Muggles were hitting those next gen Death Eaters left and right; they were so surprised by a physical attack that they didn’t know how to react. More Blood Cleansers were popping in, but so were more Aurors, and Harry and Severus managed to drag the Muggles back in what was left of the bathrooms.

“Stay here,” Severus said.

“No.”

Father and son glared at each other while Harry anchored a shielding spell around their little group.

“They’ve targeted us because we’re Muggles with magical family members,” Mrs Creevey said. “Once they’ve killed the children and then the parents, who are they going to go after?” She raised her piece of wood. “They can come; I’m ready.”

“Then you’ll die.” Severus looked at her. “You still have a son.”

Just as he was leaving their group, a bright light almost blinded them and the walls suddenly cracked and started to crumble; Harry had just enough time to throw all his magic in the shield to protect them. The collapse lasted for longer than he expected it should have, or maybe time slowed down; it was hard to say. When the horrible noises stopped, there was rubble all around their bubble. All the Muggles seemed to be accounted for, but…

“Severus! Son!” Mr Snape, of course, sounded pissed off rather than worried.

Harry was both.

He carefully started lifting pieces of drywall and wooden beams to create a way out, but before he’d done much he saw a face on the other side of the rubble he was trying to move away. Malfoy, whose pale face was even paler with all the plaster dust on it, waved at him.

“Hey, Potter, you can stop hiding. Blaise and the other Aurors got them all and we’ve called in the Healers; you’re safe to come out and get looked at.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Severus with you?”

“Well no, I thought with his broken wand he’d have stayed…”

“His what?”

“Caught a blasting curse with it,” Severus said from somewhere Harry couldn't see. He sounded like he was in pain. Then, finally, a hand appeared over a piece of wall that was still standing, and he hauled himself up on shaky legs. “The wall collapsing finished it off,” he added, lifting one end of his snapped wand.

“Very heroic, sir, though unnecessary.” Zabini joined Malfoy and waved at Harry. “Long time no see, Potter.”

Harry nodded at him and joined Severus, helping him limp back to where the Muggles were. He wanted a good look at him first, before the Healers got their hands on him. “Come on; sit down. Did you really have to leave?”

“Some of those are former colleagues; I wasn’t about to let wet-behind-the-ears Aurors deal with them on their own.”

“They’re Aurors; it’s their job.”

“But I have insight that – ah.”

“You’re one of them,” Mrs Creevey whispered, her eyes on his arm. His sleeve was so torn that the Mark was visible.

“I was.”

“I don’t understand.”

Another Muggle, who looked a little bit like Finch-Fletchley, shook his head. “Are you the spy? My brother said there was a spy.”

“But…”

“Who’s that ponce?” Severus’s father asked loudly. “The blond one over there; looks like that other ponce who came to Cokeworth that one time.”

Malfoy huffed. “Is he talking about my father?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Can’t you make friends with people your own age, son?”

“I wish I could,” Severus said, leaning back against the rubble. “But most of them are dead.”

“Feckin’ magic,” Mr Snape grumbled. “Shouldn't have let you go to that school.”

All the Muggles muttered in agreement.

Mrs Creevey’s wary gaze on him unnerved Severus. He wasn’t surprised; he couldn't be, but it was yet another reminder of who he was, what he'd done. What he'd always carry.

He covered his arm as best as he could with what was left of his sleeve, and smeared some of the blood over the Mark for good measure. He wasn’t badly hurt, but Harry was fussing over him and Severus didn’t have it in him to protest too much. He shouldn’t let Harry associate so much with him, especially around other people who would take a dim view of this, of the boy who’d saved them all from the Dark Lord, being corrupted by the one Death Eater who lived and didn’t pay for his crimes.

Even Malfoy had paid, after all; his father was in Azkaban, and his family name forever tainted. He hadn’t had much of a choice anyway, taking the Mark under duress, a mere child manipulated by forces and wills greater than he could resist. But Snape’s own name had never amounted to anything, and he was forty. At least the Aurors milling about weren’t bothering him, and Zabini had contented himself with a polite nod before going back to his job… but they’d come. They’d have to take his statement, ask why they were here, ask why Potter was here, and ask what their relationship was, and…

“Brooding, son?”

Harry snickered. “He does like his brooding; that's true enough.”

“I don’t brood.” The potion he’d taken before coming was wearing off already and he could feel his muscles starting to seize. “You should go and look at the others; you can see I’m fine.”

“I could, but I’m not certified. I’m treating you because no one else wants to brave the Potions Master when he’s in a right mood.”

“I…” Severus sighed; he was too tired to argue, or even to glare Harry and Tobias into shutting up. He fingered his broken wand instead, poking at the splintered end and watching a drop of blood well on his fingertip. “I’ll have to get a new one.”

“Don’t you have a spare wand?”

“I lost it during a skirmish years ago.” He wasn’t looking forward to buying a wand; Ollivander would look at him knowingly and he’d feel 10 again; he wasn’t relishing the prospect. And he imagined getting the wand unregistered so he could be free from Ministry snooping would be harder than before, though at worst he was willing to try and do it himself. Still, he’d rather avoid it.

“I have wands,” Tobias said.

Severus felt his eyes widen. “What?”

“Still got your Ma’s.”

As far as he knew she’d only had the one and he’d thought it lost forever, but Severus kept that to himself.

“Oh, good!” Harry patted his shoulder absent-mindedly.” Even if it turns out it’s not the best fit, it’ll be good enough until Ollivander reopens.”

“He still hasn't?”

“No. Well, he opens for a week or two before school starts,” Harry added, “around Christmas, and then Easter, but the rest of the time he’s locked inside his shop making new ones and refusing to speak to anyone.”

“Ah.” Severus wasn’t too surprised; Ollivander had lived through his share of bad times, too.

“Well, then.” Tobias said. “Come on, lads, let’s start with getting you that stick.”

“We’ll have to speak to the Aurors.”

“I’ll let them know where to find us.”

“This isn’t how they conduct an investigation, Potter.”

Harry just grinned and winked before going to talk with Malfoy and Zabini. He was back after a few minutes; Malfoy was vouching for them and offering to take the Aurors to them later on, and Zabini rolled his eyes at Severus’s frown.

“I’m not above using the perks of my fame on occasion,” Harry said, one hand on Severus’s back to lead him out. “Malfoy promised he’d come along to play lawyer, but I think it’s just because it’ll make him look good.”

“He’s involved anyway.”

“Well, that too.”

Tobias stomped ahead, his every step showing how tired he was. They piled in the small lift, stumbled out into the hall, and as soon as they were inside Harry made a beeline for the kitchen. Severus let himself fall into the sofa where Potter had found him, staring at lions and gazelles and antelopes, all those months ago, and Tobias sat heavily at the dinner table.

“These young ones,” Tobias said. “Always so full of energy.”

Severus grunted.

“I have another wand, too,” he went on. “That old McGonagall witch, she brought it to me… something like twenty years ago; I reckon. Said she didn’t want the old geezer to have it. Said she didn’t trust him to use it well; I don’t know what she meant.”

“Whose wand is it?”

“I dunno, son.” Tobias sighed, before pushing himself up. “I’ll get them, yeah?”

He lumbered away, first to the bathroom where Severus heard him wash up some of the grime from the pub cellar, then to his bedroom.

“Didn’t want to dirty up your Ma’s,” he said as he gently set a box on the table. “There, have a look.”

Severus left his sofa and stood above the box, one hand on the back of a chair to steady himself; Harry joined him, all the tea things following him in a small procession that he sent to the table. Severus was well aware of Harry’s curiosity about Eileen and her fate, but he hadn’t told him yet. He didn't know that he wanted to, actually. He opened the box.

He heard a small thump when the lid fell from his nerveless fingers.

“Severus?”

He pushed the box in Harry’s direction. “Look,” he said.

Harry peered down then looked up at him quizzically. “I see two wands?”

“No, look. With your magic, your senses. What do you see? What do you feel?”

“I don’t… oh. Oh.” He reached out to one then snatched his hand away, throwing a guilty look at Tobias.

“Go on, boy; take it. It’s not like it’s any use to me.”

Once again, Harry reached out, and this time picked it up. “I feel…” His voice trembled. “I feel…”

“It’s Lily’s,” Severus whispered. “It’s your mother’s wand. Minerva made sure Albus wouldn't try and use it to manipulate you. Though he used that blasted mirror instead, the old bastard.”

“He sure was one,” Tobias said. “So that’s the boy’s mum’s wand? Lily’s?”

Severus nodded.

“Well, hell.”

Harry sat and held Lily’s wand for a long time in his hand, his tea going cold and his eyes very shiny.

Neither Severus nor Tobias disturbed him, and when the Aurors came knocking they were surprised to see the night had fallen already. Wands hidden away, they gave their witness testimonies and were more than grateful to see the back of them when they left.

“We should leave,” Severus said once Malfoy, Zabini, and his partner had left.

Tobias twitched the curtain away to look down into the dark street. “You sure there aren’t more coming?”

“The Aurors still have a team down there.”

“What about up here?”

Harry looked at Tobias, then Severus. “I’ve got plenty of empty rooms at Grimmauld Place.”

“Spinner’s End is closer.” And it didn’t have Kreacher, who probably wouldn't take too kindly to a Muggle invading his sanctum. Severus couldn't imagine Tobias there.

“Grimmauld…?”

“It’s in London. Big empty house; I inherited it.”

“Why do you keep it, if it's big and empty?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Well, it’s got history, and I’m basically keeping it for its heir.”

“Its heir?” Severus thought for a moment. “Lupin and Tonks’ son?”

“Yeah; he’s the Black heir, not me.”

“You could leave it to Malfoy.”

“He doesn’t need it.”

Well, point. But back to tonight’s options… “Cokeworth is closer.”

Tobias shrugged. “I didn’t think distance mattered to you lot. And those people… do they know about Spinner’s End?”

“Mr Snape, you’re welcome to come with us to Grimmauld.”

Us? Severus frowned; who’d talked about us?

Tobias had to have sensed his mood, because he sent a sharp glance at Severus before speaking. “I’m not going to Cokeworth, and I can stay here anyway; it’s fine.”

“You were attacked here; wanting to go elsewhere is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But you and my son are going to this London place, aren’t you? And he doesn’t want me there.”

“Potter’s elf won’t want you there, but that’s not my problem. I’m going back to Hogwarts.”

“Like hell you are; what’s the problem with Grimmauld suddenly?”

“You know Kreacher will not be happy with him.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Severus looked away; he didn’t want to see Tobias in Grimmauld and that was it. The elf would go out of his way to be unpleasant, Harry would overcompensate and be extra nice to Tobias, and Tobias himself had never been in a fully magical house and would be unsettled at best, in danger at worst. Severus had no desire to witness any of that. He didn’t want to see Tobias struggle, maybe even be scared; he didn’t want to face that this had been what he’d believed in, once. That he’d joined the Dark Lord because he’d wanted to hurt Muggles, back when he wasn’t able to face that it was himself he’d wanted to hurt.

“I have work waiting for me at Hogwarts. If you won’t go to Spinner’s End, then I’m going to the school.”

He stood up, movements stiff, and reached out to the wand still waiting for him in the box. It wouldn't be as familiar as the wand he got when he was accepted in Hogwarts, the one gift he ever had from the Prince side of his family, the only time his grandparents ever acknowledged him as their heir, but it would do the job until he could get a new one.

He hesitated for a second or two, and finally wrapped his fingers around the handle.

“Look into my eyes, Severus. Yes, just like that. I’ll make it go away; Ma’s going to make it all go away, you’ll see.”

He looked over his Ma’s shoulder as she was crouching in front of him. His Da was frozen on the spot, his eyes wild and roving but the rest of his body unnaturally rigid and still. They’d been shouting about Severus again, until she pointed her wand at his Da and he’d stopped arguing.

“Look at me, Severus. It’s all going to be fine. Obliviate.”

“Severus? Severus, what’s wrong?”

Severus was crouching next to his door, his parents were having a fight. Again. He didn’t want them to fight; he wanted to feel… he wanted to stop feeling scared, to stop remembering what – he didn’t want to think about it, ever, but it was always there. He felt cold, and dirty, and weak, and a coward. What was magic good for, if it couldn’t help?

“You’ll only mess him up worse, Eileen!” His Da yelled downstairs. Because Severus was already messed up, of course.

“Remembering is the problem, and I can fix it!”

Severus wasn’t sure he could be fixed.

“Take that stick out of his hand!”

He was shaking like a leaf, looking up at his Da and then down at the man. The man wasn’t moving at all. His Da’s eyes were huge and he was breathing very loudly.

“You alright, sprog?”

Severus shrugged.

“Did he touch you?”

He shrugged again. The man had tried, but he hadn’t gone very far. Not like with Jenny; she’d been crying all the time and Severus had been frozen in fear, squeezed behind the pile of old bricks and trying to be as small as he could. But he must have made a noise, because the man left Jenny and hauled Severus out from his hiding place. But Severus didn’t have a wand, he didn’t know many spells, and try as he might, all he managed was some sparks. Ma had drilled it into him that he couldn't do magic in front of Muggles, that he could have no little accidents unless he wanted bad things to happen, but now bad things were happening and he couldn't do anything. Not even a little accident.

Until his Da ran in and grabbed the man’s collar and started beating him, and beating him, and beating him, smashing his head against the broken concrete floor until he stopped moving.

“He won’t hurt you anymore,” his Da said. “Oh, no. You’re the baker’s girl, right?”

There was a clatter, and Severus felt himself sway; Harry caught his arm and made him sit down. Severus looked at his open hand, then at the wand fallen at his feet.

“What just happened?” Harry asked.

Severus ignored him. “You,” he started. He had to look at Tobias, but what would he see in that face? No, he couldn't. He was a coward, after all. He cleared his throat. “You killed him.”

Tobias swallowed. “I did.”

“Did my mother… did she know?”

“Yeah. Jenny’s parents also knew, but that’s all. And no one ever tattled.”

Harry bent and picked up the wand, holding it out to Severus. Severus eyed it, but didn’t take it.

“She obliviated me.” With that wand. She’d pointed it at him, and…

“She tried. She said you resisted it, so she blocked your memories instead.”

“She… your mum?” Harry dropped the wand back in the box. “That’s not… that’s…”

“Eileen – she did what she thought was best for our little boy. I didn’t agree, but it seemed to work. For a while.”

“He was a Muggle,” Severus whispered. “I remembered that. I remembered Muggles do bad things. I remembered I had to learn how to hurt people so they wouldn’t hurt me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tobias’s face twist.

“I’m sorry, son. Shouldn’t have happened, none of it. Not what that man did, not me killing him in front of you… And your Ma and I, we couldn’t help you, not really; we tried, but nothing we did…” He shook his head. “You got into more fights, after that. The only other kid you talked to was the Evans girl, because she was like you.”

“Not a Muggle.”

“No, not a Muggle. Not like that man, not like me.”

There was a thick, viscous mass in Severus’s chest, choking out his heart, his lungs, filling his mouth and nose and ears, covering his eyes; it felt like it was slowly killing him. Festering memories, the pus of the lies, the rotten, putrid past that surged out of the abscess. But it was too late; it had been too long. He couldn’t breathe.

“Severus, come on; breathe with me.”

“No,” he managed. He heard gasps and wheezes, realised he’d spoken between them. He was the one gasping and wheezing. “No!”

“Don’t talk; you don’t need to talk.”

Harry’s voice was calm, poised, low; he clung to it to lead him out of his own, too-personal Hell even as he berated himself for dragging Harry into it. He fought to suck air in, push it out, suck it in again; it took a while. He forced his mind and body to dissociate, then forced his mind to split itself so he could fence the storm raging inside into a corner. He felt hollow, numb, and also overflowing, about to crack with all the upheaval inside.

Once he managed to get his lungs, at least, under control, he turned to Tobias, or rather to his torso. He couldn't face him.

“I hated everyone,” he said with a voice he hardly recognized. “I hated you.”

“Yeah. You were all clammed up, and there was nothing we could do. You wouldn't talk to us; you wouldn’t talk to anyone about anything but Lily, and she was just a kid, too. That's when I started to drink too much, and got fired.” Tobias paused. “Then I drank more, and then…”

“It fucked you up,” Harry said. “It fucked you both up.”

“Yeah, kid, it did.”

“I’m glad you had my mum, at least.”

Severus shook his head, overwhelmed and trying to hold everything in lest it all exploded out. “And the officer, when I was fifteen…”

“Yeah, that was me, too. That’s what sent me to the clink, in the end. But I hadn’t meant to kill him.”

Severus focused on the fabric over Harry’s stomach; he didn’t have the strength to look at his face either. “You were right, after all. I am a coward.”

“You were eight!” Tobias grabbed Harry’s shoulder and pulled him away so he could look into Severus’s face. “You were eight! I was looking everywhere for you, and I knew you liked to explore the abandoned houses at the end of the street, and I found – I saw…” he gulped. “You were eight, both of you; what did you think you could do?”

Severus set his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. “What happened to Jenny?”

“Don’t know; her parents moved the year after.”

“Ah. Of course.” He rubbed his face, looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s late enough; I’ll be taking my leave.” He gritted his teeth; he would have to use the wand to Apparate.

But before he could pick it up again, Harry stopped him. “You’re not touching that wand again.”

“You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, Potter.”

“You don’t get to pretend nothing hurts you!” Harry’s fingers brushed his cheek and came out wet. Wet?

No matter. “It was all a very long time ago.” He tugged his wrist free and curled his fingers around the wood, wary but trying not to let it show. No fresh (old) memory assaulted him, and he closed his eyes with a sigh.

“Please, Severus. Stay with me tonight. With us,” he corrected with a look at Tobias.

“You look like shite, son. Kid’s right; tonight we stick together.”

Harry gathered Severus’s hair in a loose ponytail hanging over the shoulder like his braid usually was, taking his time to card his fingers through the worst of the snags and brushing the back of his hand on Severus’s skin. Severus felt nothing, but nothing was better than too much.

“Malfoy said he’s got a flat in Muggle London; we can ask him to let us stay there, okay?”

Muggle London, Severus thought. Malfoy’s flat. Everything but the memories that were trying to take over his thoughts; everything but the weight of his father’s hands on his shoulders. He bowed his head and let the loose ponytail hang over his face, scars and all; he tried not to think but all that he could manage to think about was his mother teaching him about clearing his mind, about hiding his thoughts from everyone, including himself.

He slowly lost control, lost contact with the reality outside of his own head, and he quietly sank again under the smothering, too-real, too-close memories. He couldn’t win.

Severus was moving and going where he was told, his face blank, but he was otherwise unresponsive. When Malfoy Apparated in to give them the coordinates to his London flat and get them through his wards, he glared at Harry and Mr Snape before taking Severus’s arm and whisking him away. Harry Side-Alonged Mr Snape and they found themselves, all four of them, in what looked like a pretty grand by Harry’s standards, but probably shabby by Draco’s, hall.

“Pretty strong wards,” Harry said, “for a Muggle flat.”

“Yes, well. I can’t afford to do without; I’m sure even you can make an educated guess as to the particulars of my situation.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but if Draco wanted to be snippy, then whatever. He was about to touch Severus when Draco stepped behind them protectively.

“What’s wrong with him? What did you do to him?”

“Um, it’s…”

Severus’s father grunted. “He’s not yours, blondie; he’s my son. Now, I’ll thank you for your hospitality, but I don’t think you have any right to him.”

“I don’t…”

“Where’s the bath?” Harry interrupted. He wasn’t in the mood for their budding argument, and Severus’s empty eyes and rigid posture was scaring him.

“Big one through that door.” Draco pointed to his left. “I’ll find you some clothes and get food; you look like you need both.” His eyes lingered on Severus, visibly worried. “I owe him,” Harry heard as he led Severus through the door Draco had indicated.

The bath was a lavish affair; not up to Prefect’s bathroom standards but pretty good. The tub was huge, the towels on the rail looked fluffy and thick, and everything was pristine.

But when Harry started to take his shirt off, Severus took one step back and his empty gaze fell square on Harry.

“No,” he rasped.

Harry lowered his hands. “Um, okay. I wasn’t planning – it’s just – er. I thought we should, you know, clean up? After today.”

Severus’s mouth worked for a moment, and he finally said, “Yes.”

“Okay then. Do you want to be alone? I just thought we could…” He’d just thought they’d have a nice bath together, and he was an idiot, because it just very obviously wasn’t the right time, even if all he’d pictured was washing Severus’s hair and maybe taking a nap together. But he was thinking about what he’d like to do, about what comforted him, and he needed to use all the training he’d got, all he’d learned over the last two years. Well, the first thing he should do was get someone else, someone who was detached from the situation, but as it was, it would have to be Harry. He took a deep breath, and started again.

“Okay. Do you need a hand? You look like you’re in pain.” He looked, in fact, like he wouldn't be able to take his clothes off, not without magic, but his mum’s wand was still in its box in the hall. Not that Harry felt that he should use it ever again.

Severus blinked slowly, then moved his eyes to the door. It was like Harry’s words took a minute to reach him, as if he were very, very far away. “Tobias.” He blinked again. “My father?”

“All right, your dad, I’ll get your dad. I can do that.” Harry hoped he wasn’t misunderstanding Severus, who didn’t acknowledge him further, and left the bath.

“Mr Snape?”

“What.”

“I think he’s asking for you.”

“He does?”

Harry didn’t have time to answer; Severus’s father had already rushed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

He’d been looking at bookshelves, a bit afraid of touching anything, when he heard the front door open and close.

“So, what’s happening?” Malfoy drawled from behind him. “What happened, too? He wasn’t all weird, two hours ago.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah? Look, I know that you two have a thing going on, but I’ve known him for all my life, and…”

“It’s just… personal stuff, between him and his dad. I’m not sure what exactly, but a memory block lifted, and it’s – look, I don’t want to say more; it’s not my place.”

Draco sighed. “Sometimes I wish we were back in first year; things were simpler then.”

“You were a right twat,” Harry said with a grin.

“Oh, was I? I don’t remember things quite the same, Potter.” Malfoy tossed his head like the twat he was, making his hair flop.

“I wonder why. Is that food?” he asked, eyeing the bag in Draco’s hand.

“Yeah, I figured I should get you some takeaway for tonight. There’s a shower in my bedroom, through here, if you want to clean up first.”

“Hey, I cast some freshening charms.”

“They only go so far.”

Draco wasn’t wrong, so Harry got a quick shower and tried not to think he was wearing Malfoy’s clothes when he put on what he found waiting for him on the bed. There were no sounds coming from the large bathroom but he could feel privacy spells on the room, so he tried the last door he hadn’t gone through and found himself in a large room. Malfoy was sitting at a table, reading some documents that looked like more boring legal stuff.

“Help yourself; I put a warming charm on them. Feel free to dig in.”

“Oh great, thanks; I’m famished.” Harry devoured his curry, then remembered he was not alone, and wiped his mouth. “Er, sorry, that was a bit rude.”

Draco lifted first an eyebrow, then his eyes. “At least you appreciated my humble offering.”

“Yeah, it sure hit the spot; thanks.” He crumpled his paper napkin smaller and smaller. “I mean it; you know, and not just for the food.”

“It’s fine, Potter. I’m glad to be able to add Fed the Saviour of the Wizarding World in his Hour of Need on my calling card.”

“Oi!”

“It’ll be right under Clothed the Boy Who Lived with my Own Pyjamas.”

“Prat.”

“Of course. I have a reputation to maintain, Potter.”

“How’s it going, by the way?”

“How is what going?”

“You know, all the work you’re doing to, uh, for, your family name?”

“To clean it, you mean?”

Harry cringed.

“Well, my father is in Azkaban, I’ve publicised that I’m studying Muggle law and business, and now I’m consorting with you. It will take a generation or two, because I am Marked, but… we’ll get there.”

“I’m sorry. About your dad.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, no, I’m not sorry Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban, but I am sorry your dad is. Does that make sense?”

Draco frowned. “I hate that it does. But I grew up with two parents who loved me; I never went hungry, and I never wore hand-me-downs that didn’t fit.” He waved at the bag that held the curries he’d picked up. “I don’t mind if you eat first and thank me afterwards. I’ve learned… I’m still learning. I don’t want to be who I was, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes my father did, and his father before him. I want to be, to do better, for me and for the future Malfoys.”

Harry made a face. “Children? You’re already thinking about children?”

“It’s part of the Malfoy package deal, drilled into us from the crib.”

“Ugh. A solid gold crib, I bet.”

Draco smirked.

“And you have to produce Pureblood heirs too, I reckon?” He thought for a moment. “Pureblood families were decimated by the war; who’s actually left?”

“Few of us, that’s true. But it’s always been a lie, you know; go back enough generations, and you’ll find no Pureblood family tree is as pure as they say. I started to look into it right after the war, and it's been… educational.”

“I bet. But purebloods aren’t really purebloods, then?”

Draco nodded. “That’s part of the reason I’m studying both magical and Muggle law; some of the Pureblood inheritances are tied to keeping the line, ah, pure, but I’m trying to find loopholes to exploit and if not, ways to shift at least some of it to the Muggle world and tie it to their law. It can’t work for some of it, of course, but with the help of some lawyers…” He tapped a thin finger on a sheaf of papers. “That’s the Princes’ estate: magical legacy, artefacts, and what little is left of what they used to own. A crumbling house surrounded by land they sold over the years just to survive, some books; there’s really not much. Severus is the last heir; his grandparents died when he was still at Hogwarts, but he can’t access most of it because of the old laws that are really out-of-date with the current world. They can be appealed, though, and you have fifty years to try and find an heir before it goes back to the closest-related Pureblood family. He said he didn’t care if it worked or not, and the situation isn’t the same as mine, but it’s a small-scale first try to cut my teeth in this field.”

“Wow. I thought you were working with Hermione with her house-elf activism.”

“I am; it’s good for my public image.”

Harry rolled his eyes; if Malfoy wanted to pretend he was doing everything with a goal to improve his own situation, then good for him. He supposed Draco had to maintain his Slytherin cred, after all.

Draco waved his wand and two bottles floated from the kitchen and landed on the table.

“It’s not the fanciest, but I too sometimes partake in what the hoi polloi will favour.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

They exchanged a grin, and Harry opened his Abbot Ale – maybe not the fanciest, but certainly fancier than the cheapest one he always got at the pub – as they waited for Severus and his father to get out.

He tried not to worry too much.

Severus and his father shuffled in a little while later, Severus wearing a thick bathrobe and his father still in the day’s clothes.

They both kept quiet, though Severus seemed more lost in his thoughts than frighteningly empty like earlier, and Mr Snape hovered like he wanted to make sure his son was still here, still right by him.

“There’s food,” Malfoy said.

“You hungry, son?”

“Not really.”

“You should eat something.”

“It’s really good,” Harry added.

Severus sighed and sat down, looking at Malfoy’s piles of papers for a long moment. “Are you still working on this? There are more important matters; you know that.”

Mr Snape pulled the bag of takeaway and peered into it. “Oh, there’s some cheese nan – you used to love that! Remember when we could afford…”

“Da, please!”

Harry’s mouth fell open, and Draco looked just as surprised. Da? That was new – or, maybe, very old, and only now coming back to see the light of day. And Severus’s father – he looked so chuffed it was almost cute, but they all knew better than to comment on it. Draco’s eyes met Harry’s before sliding back to Mr Snape.

“I took the liberty of going back to your flat so you had fresh clothes; they’re on the dresser in the guest bedroom. Feel free to use my shower if you’d like, or the bath, of course. And,” he added as he turned to Severus, “I can alter some clothes for you?”

“I know Narcissa likes to dress me up, but Malfoy finery would be wasted on me tonight. Although I see Potter wears it well.” He finally looked at Harry; his eyes were clear, his gaze unwavering.

“You look better,” Harry said.

Severus made a face. “Yes, well. Occlumency has its perks.”

“You mean, compartmentalising so hard you’ll break your own mind?”

“Harry…” He sighed. “It’s a tool; I’m using it.”

Mr Snape’s hand clamped on his son’s shoulder, making Severus wince. “What does he mean, break your own mind?”

“He’s being overly dramatic.”

“I am not! You should…”

“Later, Harry,” he replied in a softer tone than Harry had ever heard from him when in public.

Draco looked between them, visibly biting his cheek, and Mr Snape’s eyebrows went up.

“How disgustingly cute,” Malfoy said.

“Son…?”

“Father,” Severus dead-panned back.

Harry stood to Severus’s other side, glaring at his father. If Mr Snape planned on being a jerk about this…

“If he hurts you, I’ll…” Thick, scarred fingers tightened on Severus’s shoulder.

“No need.” Severus tried to turn his head but aborted the movement with tight lips; he was in pain. “There's no need, not any longer. I’m forty now, not eight.”

“Still my son,” his father grumbled, but he finally let go of Severus and left the room.

It was almost morning when they could all finally go to bed. Draco transfigured his couch into a bed for Harry, and Severus and his dad took the guest room with its two twin beds.

“Would you like…?” Harry wriggled his fingers. “You look stiff. His back! I meant his back!” he hurried to add when he saw Mr Snape’s scandalised expression and Draco’s barely stifled grin.

Severus’s lips twitched, but he shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but no. Not tonight.”

“But…”

“I have some pain potions,” Malfoy said.

“That’ll do, thank you.”

Harry watched Severus take the vial Draco handed him and close the door behind him, with one last, undecipherable look to Harry. He was clamping down on his own mind, and Harry feared what would happen when what Severus was stifling inside broke through again. He felt powerless to do anything to help, but at least Severus wasn’t alone.

Draco cleared his throat, moving his gaze from the door to Harry. “I can’t believe that you and Severus are an item.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m still working out on how to tell Ron and Hermione, though I think they’ve guessed.”

“You mean Granger has guessed? Or you’re so obvious even Weasley has?”

“Oi, they’re my friends.”

“And they have your back; you know that, Potter. Severus has mellowed, and they were all civil to each other when we were preparing our NEWTs.”

“Yeah.” Still, the idea of saying it out loud was mildly terrifying.

“But…”

“What?”

“I’ll second what his father said. Hurt him, and I’ll make you pay for it. Even if it means I end up in Azkaban.”

“Ugh, who will give Severus the shovel talk?”

“Well, your friends, I presume; that’s what they’re for. I, on the other hand, am not your friend.”

“Malfoy, you’re a bloody idiot.”

The bloody idiot in question sneered and swanned off to his bedroom, blowing Harry a kiss right before closing his door on Harry’s mild Jelly-Legs Jinx.

“Twat,” Harry told the door.

The words Go to bed, Potty appeared in poisonous green on the door, and Harry stuck his tongue at it before going to bed himself, feeling slightly lighter after bickering with Malfoy.

Harry was more patient than Severus would have expected, given all their previous history, but then again there was no Dark Lord trying to murder him, and he was not fifteen any longer. Young, yes, but not fifteen.

And, to be fair, he still exploded at times; he recalled with a not insignificant amount of gleeful schadenfreude an altercation with that Skeeter woman. But he did not explode with Severus, which was, actually, a bit annoying.

“I’m not made of glass, Potter.”

Harry raised his eyes from the bezoar he was grinding. “I’m aware…?”

Severus sighed. “You’re twenty; I’m twice your age. You should… do what people your age do.”

“And what do people my age do?”

“Party, drink, find lovers, that sort of thing.”

“I already have a lover. That’s you,” he added at Severus’s sharp inhale.

“Not much of one, at the moment.”

“I plan on sticking around anyway.”

“You will come to regret it.”

Harry sighed. “Are you – is this for real? Are you trying to dump me, or get me to dump you?”

“I simply…”

“Ugh, don’t be daft.” He narrowed his eyes at Severus. “Come here, I can see your shoulders are all tight.”

Once again defeated, but truly the victor against his own doubts, he allowed Harry to make full use of his hard-earned massage therapy diploma.

Apart from Harry using him for therapeutic massage practice, Severus was not comfortable with touch, even months after the memory block had been lifted and Eileen’s wand was back in a box. Their hands brushed sometimes when they walked, but more than that and he was suddenly reminded of too many things – what had happened in that derelict house more than thirty years ago, or his Death Eater days. Or both.

It was slowly getting better, the memories less vivid, easier to push back into the back of his mind. Harry kept telling him to see a professional, but Severus refused. A Muggle one wouldn't understand all the facts, and a Wizarding one – well, there were no Wizarding ones. Not until Harry had finished his current studies, and then he wouldn't be the right person anyway.

So Severus learned to manage, speaking with his father (well, sitting in the same room as him, but companionably), taking long solitary walks in the Forbidden Forest, crafting potions. The potions helped him keep a low-level Occlumency shield ready to slam down on any memory attempting to overwhelm him at any given moment, and he felt more in control. Safer. He could keep it all at a distance if he needed, let it come closer to the surface of his thoughts when he wanted to examine it again. He was gearing up to using a Pensieve, but for that to be useful he’d need to be as detached as possible, so he could assess his mistakes. (You were eight! his father’s voice echoed in his brain. You were a spy! Poppy said. Remember Lily – that was the Headmaster. Severus, please. He knew he wasn’t ready, as long as he heard the voices. As long as he needed the voices, and couldn't use his own.)

“It’s not healthy,” Harry would say.

Severus ignored that voice.

One day in late February, as he and Harry were respectively grading and reading in his dungeon office, Harry cleared his throat and out of the blue, asked him to come with him to the Burrow.

“It’s Ron’s birthday this week, so we’re having a big party on Saturday. Molly told me to bring whoever I wanted, and I want to bring you.”

“How many people will be there?”

“A lot! Um, let me see…” He started counting on his fingers. “Ginny, George, Percy, Charlie managed to get a few days off, and Bill will come with Fleur and their baby; I haven’t seen her in ages! And Hermione of course, and her parents, and I think Fleur’s sister might come… Oh, and Luna, Neville, and I think Hermione wants Draco to come but they’re still not sure, and…”

“You won’t have enough fingers, I’m afraid.”

“What? Oh, yeah. But…”

“Harry, no.”

He looked crestfallen. “Too many?”

“Too many. I’d be sticking out like a sore thumb in that crowd, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’d be doing your scarecrow impersonation.”

“Was I just downgraded from bat to scarecrow?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You can be both.”

“Thank you.”

Severus saw Harry gnaw on his thumbnail, and slapped his hand away.

“So I was thinking… I’m meeting Ron and Hermione for drinks on his birthday night; would that be better?”

“It'll be your friend’s big day.”

“But…” He looked dejected for a moment, then brightened up. “Fine, then.”

Severus watched him stride to the other side of the room, bemused, before realising where he was going. “Potter, what are you…”

But Harry had already thrown a handful of Floo powder in the fireplace and stuck his head in the flames.

A few minutes later, he turned to Severus and said triumphantly: “They’re expecting us!”

No one was hexed, no insults yelled, and no punch thrown, so in spite of Weasley beating him at chess (Severus got his revenge later that night), Severus counted it as a win. And the jealous looks he got from Weasley when his girlfriend insisted on picking Severus’s brain between matches warmed the cockles; they really did.

And, in early April, he got a letter from Draco.

He read it once, twice, then a third time just to make sure; as soon as his last class of the day was over, he strode to the school's gates and Apparated away.

The old estate was not much above a ruin. He’d been here once before, with his mother; he must have been, oh, four or five, maybe. Eileen had hoped that seeing their grandson would mollify her parents, but even as a child, Severus had not inspired cheek-pinches and cooing. The house had looked big and opulent to his eyes, back then, but it hadn’t been, and after decades of inhabitants who lacked the finances to keep it up and being abandoned for a quarter century, Severus wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with it.

There was a pop behind him.

“Congratulations.”

Severus frowned at the very holey roof. “I suppose I should thank you for your efforts,” he told Draco.

“It has potential.”

“It needs money, a lot of money. It would probably be cheaper to tear it down and start over; I don’t have that kind of funds anyway.”

“You might.” At Severus’ snort, he continued. “Ulysses and I found out about Dumbledore’s inheritance.”

“He left it to the school.”

“He left most of it to the school; there was a part set aside for you in case you lived.”

Severus closed his eyes; he remembered Albus mentioning something like that, years ago. He hadn’t really paid attention; the idea he’d survive the war, and free to boot, had always seemed unconscionable. Immoral, unacceptable, and frankly impossible. And yet, he thought. And yet. Here I am. “I don’t want it. I killed him; I shouldn’t get anything from him. I took his life.”

“There is a clause about your refusal triggering a freeze on the rest of the assets.”

“Why do I care?”

“Because you simply do.” Draco took a step to stand right next to Severus. “I know you’ve paid for a few students’ supplies out of your own pocket.”

“Obvious poverty will paint a target on your back, especially in Slytherin.”

“As you know too well.” Draco looked at him. “And between those who have lost their parents to the war, or to Azkaban…”

Severus didn’t ask about Lucius; Draco was conflicted about his father and it was a sore topic. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Even from beyond the grave, he’s a meddler.”

Draco smiled slightly, looking quite satisfied with his scheming; Severus sighed, and started planning.

Minerva wasn’t too happy when he confirmed he’d be leaving Hogwarts at the end of the year.

“I promised you a year or two, and it’s been two years. I can’t stay here forever.”

“No, you’re right, of course.” Her spoon gently tinkled against china, and he waited. He knew something else was coming. “How is Harry?”

“Why ask me?”

She looked at him over her glasses. “You know why. He’s down in the dungeons often enough.”

“Then you can easily see him and ask him yourself; you do live here, if memory serves.”

“He’s quite keen on visiting you, and I don’t want to keep him from his paramour.” Her eye was a bit too twinkly, in Severus’s opinion. “Ah,” she sighed. “Young love.”

“Minerva.”

“What?” She took a sip of her tea, which was more Laphroaig than black tea, really. “I’ll admit it was a surprising development, but you’ve been good to each other.”

“Hm.” What was he supposed to answer? Redirection, he decided. He needed redirection. “I have a few suggestions for my and Horace’s replacement.”

“That would be helpful, yes.” She narrowed her eyes at Severus. “Although ideally, you’d do an extra year with the NEWTs levels while preparing your…”

“Minerva!”

“Well, I had to try. You know,” she added, “we’ll miss you.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“We will. I will. You’ve done good for your House these past two years, and I’ve always enjoyed our little wagers.”

“You’re Headmistress now; you can’t favour one House over the others. Which you don’t.” He smirked. “Outwardly. You’ll have to pay up before I take my leave; Gryffindor won’t win the Cup this year.”

“The year isn’t over yet.”

Severus graced her with his very best, most scathing glare that unfortunately had her in stitches. He was losing his touch; clearly, leaving Hogwarts as soon as possible was the best decision he could make.

Packing the decades he’d spent in these dungeon rooms was both easier and harder than he’d thought. Most of the furniture belonged to Hogwarts, and although Minerva told him he could take some of it with him he refused. He packed his clothes (which was quick), his books (which wasn’t), and spent some time in the labs remembering which cauldrons and rods and vials were his, and which weren’t. The initials he’d written on his own equipment had faded from the dragonhide gloves, or been rubbed away by years of use; he hadn’t really tried to remember before because he’d assumed it would all stay here, afterwards. After his inevitable death during the war. Ha.

And this, this packing, was yet another thing he had to deal with in this afterwards he’d been granted. It was a life where he had two houses, enough money to start a new career and a good enough reputation that he could publish and sell under his own name, and…

“Hullo.”

He turned around. “Harry.”

“Ready to move to your mansion?”

“It’s an ancient cottage, not a mansion.”

“Last time I was there, it looked grand enough to me.”

Severus shrugged, and went back to squinting at a knife. It had a dull blade, and he put it aside for sharpening.

“There’s a new article about us,” Harry said. “In the Prophet.”

What could they possibly be writing about? Yes, out on the school grounds during the last Remembrance ceremony, Harry had taken his hand. They had been surrounded by staff, students, Harry’s friends, Aurors; there had been press barriers. And yet, someone had managed to take a photograph, blurry and lopsided but that nonetheless graced the front page the following day. There had been wild speculations since then, although there had been less vitriol aimed at Severus than he’d expected. Still a fair amount, of course, and Harry had been quite upset, but…

“How bad is it?”

“Not too bad. They mention you’re leaving the school to embrace the Prince legacy,” Severus snorted, “and that they still can’t figure out what it is I’m studying for.”

“Do you even know?”

“Oi, yes I do! I just need to… absorb more, first. And I already have a job!”

“Part-time.”

“Well, I don’t really need the money, but it's good to keep one foot in the Muggle world and the other in the Wizarding world. And I’m learning a lot from my patients, too.”

Harry was continuing his eclectic education: psychology, dietetics, healing spells and potions… He kept adding topics to his ever-growing list of things he was curious about, and Severus wondered if he would ever stop. Not that he disapproved, of course, but he was wary of seeing him focus so much energy into, in fine, other people instead of himself. His twenties were barely starting; why wasn’t he partying, being selfish and foolish, spending money travelling around the world and sleeping every night with a new, smooth-skinned, unlined lover unburdened with his past? Hadn’t he done enough; didn’t he deserve to be young and stupid and happy?

“You’re brooding again,” Harry said.

“No.”

“Yes you are. C’mere; I’ll help.”

“I…”

Harry, of course, didn’t let him finish. He turned him around, reached up and kissed him, softly, gently. Severus couldn't take much more than this, and as it was he hated that he felt grateful for Harry’s hand around his biceps, grounding, soothing.

“Harry…”

“You’re tense; you’ve been packing everything on your own, haven’t you?”

Severus let his forehead rest against Harry’s. “I’m a wizard; I can use magic.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe that you’re shrinking your Potions stuff or all your books.”

“Some are too fragile; that’s true.”

Harry’s hand followed the arm up to Severus’s shoulder. “And now your nerves are screaming at you.”

“I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can. But,” he added with an alarmingly mischievous tilt to his lips, “I’ve also already set up the massage table in your not-a-mansion. Care to try it out?”

“I should…” Severus waved at the ongoing packing around them.

“Sod your boxes; we’ll get them later.”

Harry knew Severus was a worrier. A schemer, a mind-reader, a spy who kept tabs on everyone, but also a worrier. What he wasn’t, however, was a talker. Not when he didn’t want to tell you something, which was often the case.

But here, with Severus laid out, mostly naked, on the table, trying and failing to contain his groans as Harry helped his muscles loosen, things were easier. It wasn’t only loosening the muscles, was what Harry meant.

He talked. He started talking when they got near the end of the session, and then he’d turn on his back and stare at the ceiling and talk some more, never looking directly at Harry. He talked about his mum, whose depression – so obvious to him now that he wasn’t a child anymore – ate at her, ate at her magic until she couldn't take it any longer. He talked about his dad getting treats they couldn’t really afford for her, for Severus a few times when he’d done well at school. About Tobias’s bouts of violence, at times on the same day.

He talked about Harry’s mum, about her parents, too – Harry’s grandparents.

In the low light, with Harry’s hands on his skin, warm and relaxed, he talked. He listened. Sometimes, like today, they kissed. Sometimes, rarely, things got a bit more heated, and he pushed Harry away after a while, looking embarrassed. He only apologised the once, though; Harry had made it very clear that he wouldn't tolerate it.

But today, the first evening, the first night they would spend in this old-new house, Severus didn’t push Harry away.

Grey crept through Severus’s hair as white took over his father's, and by the time Harry’s temples started to silver Tobias was living with them, spending many hours sitting on a bench in the sun, protected from the wind by the hedges that Harry had lovingly grown around the house. He would fold his hands over a cane that Harry said wasn’t the right height but that Tobias refused to change; whenever Harry broached the topic he’d lift his chin defiantly and keep mum until Harry dropped it.

Severus went to the local pub with his father after a day of research or brewing, and even let him win at checkers sometimes. The neighbours had first been wary of that old, crumbly house getting new inhabitants; the previous ones had been unpleasant and no one had liked them. But the villagers were soon won over by the renovations, by the trees and the garden that Harry lovingly tended; such a beautiful orchard had to mean they were decent people, of course. Even if the townsfolk were a bit hazy on their jobs, and they went places without a car, and their house was full of weird things. They were just eccentric, and every self-respecting town and village had to have their eccentric neighbours, right?

Severus sat on the bench next to his father more and more often as Tobias aged and he mostly stopped going to the pub. They didn’t talk much, but they looked at peace, looking at the field-covered hills around them. Tobias smiled at the antics of Ron and Hermione’s children, yelled at the telly on football match evenings with McGonagall, and refused to call Draco anything other than That Ponce, which made Hermione frown but Draco puff out his chest.

One day, Tobias fell asleep on that bench, Severus by his side, and never woke up. Harry found them as the sun was setting, Severus sitting ramrod-straight and his father slumped over his shoulder.

“He told me I couldn't always live in the past,” Severus whispered. “But I…”

“Yeah.”

It followed you, the past; it stuck to your shoes and made you fight to escape it, though you never entirely could. And sometimes, just when you thought you were free, it came back to slap you in the face and pummel you in the gut; it took your heart out of your chest and twisted it and stomped on it. But one day, you might find you could fight back; take it in your hands and mould it into something else, turn the sticky clay into new bricks, into a new, better house to live in. And if sometimes the house was stifling, and the walls were closing in and trying to choke you, you remembered that on other days it held you up, too, that it kept you safe.

Some of those bricks were called Eileen, Tobias, Tom, Albus, Lily, some were called Harry, Draco, Minerva.

“You’re not alone,” Harry said. “We have each other, for a start.”

“I know,” Severus replied. “I know.”

Harry sat on Severus’s other side and they watched the moon rise and the stars move through the sky, their fingers twined; in the morning, their friends and neighbours trickled in to help.

And through the many years and decades still ahead of them, Harry and Severus were never alone.