Chapter Text
The house materialized through the shimmering air, and Severus Snape stood at the edge of the cobblestone path, his single battered trunk floating beside him, and stared at the cottage that would apparently be his home for the summer.
It was... picturesque. A two-story cottage with warm honey-colored stone walls and a brown tile roof accented with black wooden trim. Cobblestone paths wove through carefully tended bushes of roses, like something out of a storybook. The windows had boxes of geraniums, bright red against the stone, and ivy climbed around the doorframe and up toward the roof in artful spirals.
It was nestled between two large trees, their branches forming a natural canopy, with more bushes and flowers surrounding the front. A chimney rose from the roof, promising warmth and comfort and all the other things people said a home should be.
Severus stood at the edge of the path, his single battered trunk floating beside him, and wanted to run.
"Ah, here we are!" Professor Dumbledore's voice was relentlessly cheerful behind him. "A lovely home, is it not?"
Severus said nothing. His jaw ached from clenching it during the entire journey from the Ministry.
"Minerva and Poppy have been most gracious in offering to house you for the summer, my boy," Dumbledore continued.
Severus' fingers twitched with the urge to hex something. He was not Dumbledore's boy. He was not anyone's boy. He was just a problem to be solved, a charity case to be shuffled off to someone else's care because his father was rotting in a Muggle prison for murder and his mother was six feet underground and there was no one else left who would take him.
"I'm certain you'll find it a comfortable arrangement," Dumbledore added, moving past him toward the door.
Comfortable. As if Severus were going on holiday rather than being shipped off because he had nowhere else to go. Nothing about this was comfortable. Everything about this was humiliating.
"Professor Slughorn remains your legal magical guardian, of course," Dumbledore added, as though this were a comfort. "But given his... commitments, this seemed the most practical solution."
Practical. Like storing an unwanted piece of furniture in someone's spare room.
The door opened before Dumbledore could knock, and Minerva McGonagall stood in the doorframe, her expression as stern as it ever was at Hogwarts.
But at least he knew what he was dealing with. At least she wasn't going to pretend this was anything other than an obligation.
She wore Muggle clothes—dark trousers and a simple cream blouse—which was jarring. He'd never seen her in anything but her professor's robes and tartan.
"Albus," she said crisply, her Scottish accent more pronounced outside of school. "You're early."
"Better early than late, Minerva!" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "May we come in?"
McGonagall stepped aside without a word, and Severus found himself moving forward on numb legs, his trunk following with a soft whisper of magic.
The interior was warm. That was his first thought—physically warm, magically warm, the kind of pervasive coziness that spoke of heating charms and careful maintenance. The space was deceptively large, clearly enhanced with expansion charms. The entryway opened into a sitting room with worn but high-quality furniture, chairs with deep cushions, a fireplace with a mantle covered in photographs and small trinkets.
Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with volumes. A staircase with a polished banister led upward. Through a doorway, he could see a kitchen, and the smell of something baking wafted through—bread, maybe, or biscuits.
It made his chest tight. Made him angry, though he couldn't have said why.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, clasping his hands together. "Shall we get young Severus settled?"
"His room is ready," McGonagall said. She hadn't looked at Severus directly yet. "Second floor, second door on the right."
"Wonderful, wonderful. I'm sure you'll be right at ease here, my boy." Dumbledore beamed at Severus. "Do write if you need anything. Minerva and Poppy will take excellent care of you."
"Thank you, sir," Severus said flatly, the words devoid of any emotion.
Dumbledore's smile faltered slightly—probably at the complete lack of gratitude in Severus' tone—but he recovered quickly. "Yes, well. I'll leave you to it, then. Good day, Minerva."
"Albus."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and suddenly Severus was alone with Professor McGonagall in her home, and the silence pressed down like a physical weight.
McGonagall finally looked at him properly. Her eyes swept over him—too thin, too pale, hair lank and unwashed, clothes that didn't fit properly, the shadows under his eyes that spoke of weeks without proper sleep—and her expression gave nothing away.
"Your room is upstairs, as I said," she told him, her tone brisk and businesslike. "Second door on the right. The bathroom is at the end of the hall. The third door on the left is Poppy's workroom—do not enter without permission. Some of her experiments are volatile."
"Yes, Professor."
"McGonagall is fine here. Or Minerva, if you prefer. You're not at Hogwarts."
"Yes, Professor."
Her lips thinned, but she didn't correct him again. "Poppy is out at the moment—gathering supplies in the village. She'll be back within the hour. Dinner is at six. There are house rules we'll discuss then. For now, get yourself settled. Make yourself..." She paused, seemed to reconsider her words. "Unpack your things."
She didn't pretend he belonged here.
Severus appreciated that, in a bitter sort of way.
"Yes, ma'am."
McGonagall studied him for another long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she turned and walked away, disappearing through a doorway that probably led to a study or office, and Severus was left standing alone in the too-warm, too-nice entryway with his battered trunk and nowhere else to go.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step feeling like a concession.
✪
The second floor hallway was wider than it should have been—more expansion charms at work. Five doors, all closed. Severus found the second on the right and pushed it open.
The room was small but meticulously clean. A bed with a faded blue quilt, neatly made. A wardrobe in dark wood, the doors slightly ajar to show it was empty and waiting. A desk beneath a window that looked out over what must be the back garden—he could see herbs and vegetables in neat rows, more flowers, a small greenhouse. Bookshelves on one wall, empty. A grey rug on the floor. A lamp on the desk. A chair.
It was more than he'd ever had at the house in Cokeworth.
The window, he noticed, opened onto a section of sloped roof. Easy enough to climb out. Easy enough to leave if—when—this all went wrong.
Severus set his trunk down and stood in the middle of the room, breathing carefully. In. Out. In. Out.
He should unpack.
He opened his trunk with a flick of his wand and stared at the contents. Not much.
Clothes first. He pulled them out mechanically, hanging them in the wardrobe or folding them into the drawers beneath. Most of his shirts were too small now, pulling tight across the shoulders. His trousers were worn thin at the knees. Everything was faded, some things patched multiple times. Hand-me-downs from his father, mostly, taken in or let out as needed.
His school robes were in better condition—he'd taken care of those, at least. Needed them. But even those were showing wear.
Three pairs of socks. Two pairs of shoes—one for school, one for everything else, both too tight. Underwear that had been washed so many times the elastic barely held.
This was what he owned. The sum total of fifteen years of life.
He shoved the clothes back into the trunk, he would bring them out when needed, and turned to the books.
These, at least, mattered. These he'd chosen, earned, carefully acquired over years.
He lifted them out one by one. It wasn’t a large collection, but the weight of them was solid, familiar. Many of the covers were worn soft, spines cracked like old scars, pages yellowed from endless rereading. Some still smelled faintly of damp stone or old potion spills; others carried the dusty, metallic scent of paper that had survived too much handling. They were advanced texts, dense and unforgiving, the sort of books meant for students far older or far more privileged than he had ever been. Potions, mostly, heavy tomes and thin, brittle volumes alike—but tucked between them were works on runes, arithmancy, herbology, even a few creature guides with torn edges and ink-stained corners.
The notebooks came last. Ten of them, bulging with cramped handwriting, potion drafts, crossed-out failures, and the occasional burn mark from experiments gone wrong. He held them for a long moment, thumb brushing over the roughened spines. He debated for a second on putting them up with the rest before ultimately deciding not to.
His mother's wand went in the desk drawer. He hadn't been able to look at it properly since the Aurors had given it to him, along with her other personal belongings. A wand, a wedding ring she'd pawned years ago and somehow gotten back, a locket that didn't open. That was what remained of Eileen Snape née Prince. A woman who'd had magic once and had let it drain away into nothing, bottle by bottle, year by year.
Severus looked around the room again. His clothes in the wardrobe. His books on the shelf. His few possessions tucked away in drawers.
The bed was soft when he sat on it. Too soft. He was used to a thin mattress on a metal frame, springs that dug into his back. This felt like it would swallow him whole.
He lay back anyway, staring at the ceiling. Plain white plaster. No cracks, no water stains, no peeling paint. Just clean and smooth and perfect.
The house was so quiet. No shouting. No breaking glass. No stumbling footsteps. Just silence, and the distant sound of a clock ticking somewhere downstairs.
Severus closed his eyes and immediately saw his mother's face—pale and drawn, eyes unfocused, gin on her breath. Saw his father's fists. Saw blood on the kitchen floor.
He opened his eyes quickly, heart hammering.
No. Not thinking about it.
He sat up and looked at the window again. The roof beyond it. The garden below.
He could leave. Right now. Climb out, find his way to... somewhere. Anywhere.
But Dumbledore would just find him and bring him back. And then McGonagall would have proof that he was exactly the troublemaker she expected, and this whole humiliating arrangement would get even worse.
So he stayed. Sat on the too-soft bed in the too-nice room and waited for whatever came next.
✪
An hour passed. Maybe two. Severus had no way to tell time—his watch had broken months ago and he hadn't been able to afford to fix it.
He'd been sitting on his bed, staring at nothing, when he heard the front door open downstairs. A woman's voice, lighter than McGonagall's, saying something he couldn't make out. McGonagall's reply, equally indistinct.
Footsteps on the stairs.
A knock on his door—soft, almost hesitant.
"Severus? May I come in, dear?"
The tone made his teeth clench, but he said, "Yes."
The door opened and Madam Pomfrey stepped inside. She wore Muggle clothes too—a floral skirt and cardigan—and her hair was down instead of pinned back like it was in the Hospital Wing. She looked softer. Younger. She was smiling, and it made Severus immediately suspicious.
"Hello," she said warmly. "I'm so glad you're here. I hope you're settling in alright?"
She was looking at him with her head tilted slightly, her eyes soft and concerned, and there was something in her expression that made Severus' chest go tight and hot.
Pity.
She pitied him. Poor little Severus Snape, orphaned and homeless, so tragic, so sad. She probably thought she was being kind.
He hated it. Hated the way she was looking at him like he was something broken that needed to be fixed. Like he was fragile.
"I'm fine," he said flatly.
"That's good." Her smile didn't waver. She stepped further into the room, looking around. "Oh, you've unpacked! That's wonderful. Did you find everything you need? Is the room comfortable?"
"Yes."
"If you need anything—extra blankets, or different pillows, or anything at all—please just ask. We want you to feel at home here."
"Thank you," Severus said, because that's what he was supposed to say.
Pomfrey's smile faltered slightly. Her eyes—still too kind, too concerned—swept over him more carefully now. Taking in the oversized clothes. The sharp angles of his shoulders. The way he was sitting, rigid and defensive.
Something shifted in her expression.
"You must be hungry," she said, her voice gentler now. "Dinner won't be for a few hours yet, but I can get you something to tide you over. Some biscuits and tea, perhaps?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Severus—"
"I said I'm not hungry." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended.
Pomfrey pressed her lips together, and for a moment he thought she'd argue. Push.
But she just nodded slowly. "Alright. But if you change your mind, the kitchen is downstairs and to the left. Help yourself to anything you'd like."
She moved toward the door, then paused. Turned back. "Severus... I know this must be difficult. And I know you probably don't want to be here. But Minerva and I—we're glad you're with us. Truly. And we'll do our best to make this summer... bearable, at least. If not good."
She left before he could respond, closing the door gently behind her.
Severus sat in the silence, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs, and tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest.
✪
By late afternoon, Severus' fingers were practically twitching with the need for a cigarette.
He'd started smoking at thirteen, nicking cigarettes from his father's stash when the man was too drunk to notice. It had been a small rebellion at first, and a way to relax, but it had become more than that. It was control. It was a choice. It was something he could do when everything else was spinning out of reach.
But this wasn't his house.
He pulled the crumpled pack from his pocket—only four left, he'd have to find a way to get more soon—and stared at it. Then at the window.
The roof beyond it looked solid enough.
Severus stood, crossing to the window and easing it open. The afternoon air was warm and smelled of flowers, nothing like the industrial stink of Cokeworth. He climbed out carefully, testing his weight on the tiles. They held.
He settled into a spot where the roof was nearly flat, hidden from view by the angle of the dormer window, and lit up with a whispered Incendio.
The first drag was relief, pure and simple. The smoke filled his lungs, harsh and familiar, and he felt something in his chest unclench slightly.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the summer air.
From here, he could see more of the village. Other cottages, scattered among trees and gardens. A few shops visible in the distance. Everything neat and tidy and magical—he could feel it in the air, the comfortable hum of protective wards and household charms.
Nothing like Cokeworth.
Cokeworth had been grey and grim and full of Muggles. The streets had been narrow and dirty, lined with identical row houses in various states of decay. His house had been one of the worst—peeling paint, broken gutters, a garden that was nothing but weeds.
But at least in Cokeworth he'd known the rules. Known how to survive. Knew which streets to avoid after dark, which neighbors would call the police if they heard shouting, how to disappear when his father came home in a mood.
Here, he knew nothing. Didn't know the neighbors or the village or the rules of this house. Didn't know what McGonagall and Pomfrey expected from him beyond the vague "house rules" they'd discuss at dinner.
Didn't know how long it would take before they realized they'd made a mistake taking him in.
Severus took another drag, deeper this time. Held it. Let it burn.
He finished the cigarette methodically, field-stripped it like he'd learned to do years ago, and pocketed the remains. Then he climbed back through the window, closing it carefully behind him.
He smelled faintly like smoke now. Too late to do anything about that.
✪
Severus made himself go downstairs at precisely six o'clock. Not early enough to seem eager, not late enough to seem defiant
The kitchen was large with a scrubbed wooden table that could seat six comfortably, open shelves lined with jars and pots, bundles of herbs hanging from hooks to dry. Everything was warm and bright, evening light streaming through windows that looked out over the garden.
McGonagall sat at the table, reading the Daily Prophet. Pomfrey stood at the stove, stirring something in a large pot. She turned when he entered, and her face lit up with another one of those too-warm smiles.
"Severus! Perfect timing. I hope you're hungry—I made stew."
His stomach clenched at the smell—rich and savory. "I'm fine, thank you."
"Sit down anyway," McGonagall said without looking up from her paper. "We eat together in this house."
Severus sat at the far end of the table, as far from McGonagall as the space allowed. Pomfrey bustled about, ladling stew into three bowls, setting out fresh bread and butter, filling glasses with water. She moved like someone completely comfortable in her space, efficient and practiced.
She set a bowl in front of Severus, and the smell intensified. His stomach cramped with sudden, vicious hunger.
His mother had been a terrible cook. Not for lack of trying—she'd tried, especially in the early years—but she'd been terrible at it regardless. Burned food, undercooked food, food that tasted of nothing or too much of something. And she'd tried less and less as the years wore on and the drinking got worse, until she barely cooked at all.
Severus picked up his spoon and forced himself to eat slowly. Carefully. Not like he was starving, even though he was.
The stew was good. Too good. It made his throat tight.
Pomfrey settled into her chair with her own bowl, and McGonagall finally set down her paper. Both women looked at him with expressions that were too hard to read.
"So," Pomfrey said, her tone light and pleasant. "We should discuss the house rules, just so everyone knows what to expect."
Here it was. The list of restrictions and requirements. The ways they would attempt to control and manage him.
"First," McGonagall said briskly, "meals are at eight for breakfast and six for dinner. Lunch you can help yourself to—the pantry is always stocked. If there's something you want that we don't have, add it to the list on the counter and it'll be purchased."
"Second," Pomfrey continued, "we all contribute to the household chores. Cooking, cleaning, garden work. We'll rotate responsibilities weekly so no one gets stuck doing the same task all the time."
"Third," McGonagall said, "if you're going out, let one of us know where you're going and approximately when you'll be back. We're not imposing a curfew or restricting your movements, but we need to know you're safe."
Severus' fingers tightened around his spoon. "I don't need a keeper."
"You're fifteen years old," McGonagall said, her tone sharp. "That's hardly old enough to be wandering about unsupervised without anyone knowing your whereabouts."
"I've been taking care of myself for years—"
"Yes, I'm sure you have." McGonagall's eyes were hard. "And you've done a remarkable job, clearly." Her gaze swept over him deliberately. "But you're here now, and here we have rules. This is non-negotiable."
Severus bit down hard on his bottom lip, tasting iron. "Fine."
"Good." McGonagall picked up her spoon. "Any questions?"
None he could ask. "No."
They ate in tense silence for several minutes. The stew sat heavy in Severus' stomach, every bite a struggle.
"And," Pomfrey added, even more gently, "if you want to talk. About anything. Your mother, or... or anything else. We're here."
Severus nodded stiffly, not trusting his voice.
That tightness in his chest was back, worse than before. His mother. His pathetic, drunk, useless mother who'd let his father beat her—beat both of them—and had never fought back, never left, never done anything but drink herself into oblivion night after night until finally his father had gone too far and—
No.
Not thinking about it.
"May I be excused?" The words came out rougher than he'd intended.
Pomfrey and McGonagall exchanged a glance.
"You've barely eaten," Pomfrey said.
"I'm not hungry."
"Severus—"
"Please." He hated how young he sounded. How desperate. "May I be excused."
Another long look between them. Then McGonagall nodded once. "Go on."
Severus stood so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. He made himself walk—not run—out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
He stood in the middle of the floor, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists.
His bottom lip hurt where he'd bitten it. He could still taste iron on his tongue.
This was going to be a very long summer.
✪
Severus lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, and couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft. The room was too quiet. Everything was too much and not enough all at once.
At the house in Cokeworth, he'd gotten used to noise—his father's shouting, his mother's crying, the television blaring at odd hours, neighbors arguing through thin walls. Silence had been rare and usually dangerous, the calm before another storm.
Here, there was nothing. Just the distant ticking of a clock somewhere and the occasional creak of the house settling.
It should have been peaceful.
It felt like waiting.
Severus rolled onto his side, pulling the quilt up higher. It smelled clean. Like lavender and something else he couldn't name. Nothing like home.
Home.
That word again. What did it even mean?
Not the house in Cokeworth. That had been a prison, a battlefield, a place to survive rather than live. He'd spent most of his childhood trying to be invisible, trying not to provoke his father's temper or trigger his mother's tears.
And now both of them were gone—one to a Muggle prison, one to the ground—and he was here, in a stranger's house, expected to be grateful.
He wasn't grateful. He was angry and scared and so tired he couldn't think straight, but he wasn't grateful.
McGonagall expected him to cause trouble. He'd seen it in her eyes, in the way she watched him like he was a bomb waiting to go off. She knew his reputation at school—Slytherin, poor, friends with the wrong sort of people. She'd judged him already. They all had.
And Pomfrey with her pity, looking at him like he was something wounded that needed mending. Like she could fix him with warm meals and kind words and gentle concern.
He didn't want to be fixed. He wanted to be left alone.
But that wasn't an option anymore.
Severus squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep. Tried to quiet his racing thoughts. Tried to pretend everything was fine.
He was just drifting off—finally, finally—when the memory hit him.
✪
Soft hands. Wrinkled but gentle, smelling of flour and herbs.
"Милый мой," a voice said. My dear. The words warm and loving in a language he barely understood but had learned to recognize.
Long dark brown hair streaked with gray, pulled back in a loose bun. Warm dark brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled.
She was baking something. Honey cakes, maybe. The kitchen was warm and bright, and she was humming something under her breath—a Russian lullaby he'd forgotten the words to.
"Come, Severus," she said, switching to accented English. "You help Babushka, yes? We make something good."
Small hands—his hands, younger—reaching up to the counter. Her lifting him so he could see, so he could help stir the batter.
Safe. He'd felt safe.
✪
Severus woke with a gasp, his cheeks wet.
For a moment he couldn't remember where he was. Then it came back—McGonagall's house. Pomfrey. Summer. Everything.
The memories were fading now. Seven years was a long time. He was losing her piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Severus wiped at his face roughly, angry at the tears, angry at the grief, angry at everything.
He got out of bed and went to the window, opening it to let in the cool night air. The stars were bright here—brighter than in Cokeworth, where light pollution washed them out. The garden below was silver in the moonlight, peaceful and still.
He wanted a cigarette desperately but didn't let himself have one. Not in the middle of the night. Not when they might notice.
Instead, he sat on the floor beneath the window, drew his knees up to his chest, and made himself breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
Just breathe. Just survive. One day at a time.
That's all he'd ever done. That's all he knew how to do.
He'd survive this summer too. And then he'd go back to Hogwarts, back to his classes and his research and his carefully constructed walls, and he'd pretend none of this had ever happened.
It would be fine.
It had to be fine.
So Severus sat in the dark, arms wrapped around his knees, waiting.
✪
Three days passed in careful, uncomfortable politeness.
Severus helped with chores when asked—washing dishes, sweeping floors, pulling weeds in the garden. He appeared for meals on time and forced himself to eat enough that Pomfrey wouldn't fuss. He spent the rest of his time in his room, staring at his meager book collection and wishing desperately for something, anything to occupy his mind.
McGonagall watched him constantly, clearly waiting for him to slip up and prove her low expectations correct. Pomfrey tried to engage him in conversation, asking about his classes, his interests, whether he'd like to help in the garden or learn about her healing work.
Severus answered in monosyllables and retreated at every opportunity.
He felt like a wild animal in a cage. A well-appointed, comfortable cage, but still a cage.
The village beyond the house called to him. He'd seen it from his window, winding streets, other cottages, a few shops in the distance. In Cokeworth, he'd spent half his life wandering the streets after dark, disappearing for hours when things got bad at home. It was his escape, his freedom.
But here, he had to ask permission. Had to tell them where he was going, when he'd be back. Had to submit to being monitored like a child.
He lasted three days before the walls started closing in.
On the fourth night, he waited until the house was quiet. Until he was certain McGonagall and Pomfrey had gone to their rooms. Then he climbed out his window onto the roof, moving silently from long practice.
The night air was cool and fresh, smelling of flowers instead of industrial waste. Stars blazed overhead, undimmed by city lights. Severus picked his way carefully across the tiles to the edge, where a sturdy trellis offered an easy climb down.
His feet hit the ground with barely a sound.
For the first time since arriving, he felt like he could breathe.
The village was quiet at this hour—past midnight, probably. The cobblestone paths wound between cottages and gardens, everything neat and tidy even in the dark. Wards hummed in the air, protective and watchful, but none of them seemed to register him as a threat.
It was nothing like Cokeworth.
Cokeworth had been all harsh angles and grim functionality. The whole place carried a permanent film of exhaustion, as if the town itself was tired of existing. Harsh brick angles cut against a sky that always seemed gray, no matter the season. Rows of narrow houses sagged under their own weight, stained with decades of smoke and neglect. The streets smelled of exhaust, rust, and factory air that felt heavy enough to sink into your clothes. People moved with their shoulders curled inward, eyes dulled by routine, every corner had held the threat of trouble—drunks shouting, kids looking to pick a fight, adults pretending not to see.
Here, everything was soft and safe and magical. Houses with thatched roofs and flower boxes. Gardens full of plants that glowed faintly in the darkness. A handful of shops dotted the lane, each marked by a cheerfully painted sign: a tiny apothecary with glass jars twinkling in the window, a bookshop with stacks visible all the way to the rafters, and what looked like a cozy café spilling warm light and the smell of cinnamon into the street
There were barely any people. He passed one witch hurrying home, her wand-light bobbing ahead of her. An old wizard smoking a pipe on his front step, who nodded at Severus without seeming concerned about a teenage boy wandering alone after midnight.
Safe. Peaceful.
He walked for nearly an hour, memorizing the layout of the village. Where the main street led, which paths connected to others, where he could disappear if he needed to. Old habits. Survival instincts that didn't know how to turn off just because the danger was gone.
By the time he made his way back, the first hints of dawn were touching the horizon. The house rose up ahead, dark and silent, and Severus felt a hint of relief wash over him.
The trellis creaked under his weight as he climbed. He'd made it halfway up when a light flicked on in a downstairs window.
Severus froze, heart hammering.
"You can come in through the front door, you know."
Pomfrey's voice, gentle and amused, drifting through the open kitchen window.
Shit.
For a moment, Severus considered just climbing back down and running. But where would he go? And Dumbledore would just drag him back.
He climbed down slowly, defeat bitter in his mouth, and made his way around to the front door.
It opened before he could knock.
Pomfrey stood there in her dressing gown and slippers, her hair down around her shoulders, holding a cup of tea. She didn't look angry. She looked... tired. Concerned.
"Come in," she said quietly. "Let's not wake Minerva if we can help it."
Severus followed her inside, his shoulders rigid with tension. She led him to the kitchen, gestured to a chair, and began making another cup of tea without asking if he wanted one.
The silence stretched out, broken only by the soft clink of spoon against cup.
Finally, Pomfrey set the tea in front of him and settled into her own chair. "Where did you go?"
"Walking." His voice came out defensive. "Just walking. I wasn't doing anything."
"I didn't say you were." She took a sip of her tea, studying him over the rim. "Did it help? The walking?"
The question surprised him. "What?"
"Did it help? Whatever you were trying to work out by leaving in the middle of the night?"
Severus stared at the tea, watching steam curl up from the surface. "I just... needed space."
"That's fair," Pomfrey said, and her tone was so understanding it made him angry.
"I wasn't running away," he said sharply. "I was always going to come back. I just—I needed—"
"To breathe," Pomfrey finished softly. "To feel like you had some control. Some freedom. I understand, Severus. Truly."
"Do you?" The words came out bitter. "Do you understand what it's like to have people watching you constantly, waiting for you to mess up? To have to ask permission to go for a walk like you're six years old?"
"No," Pomfrey admitted. "I've never been in your exact situation. But I do understand feeling trapped. Feeling like the walls are closing in and you need to escape or you'll suffocate."
Severus said nothing, his hands wrapped tight around the teacup.
"The thing is," Pomfrey continued, her voice still gentle, "we're not trying to trap you. We're trying to keep you safe. And I know those might feel like the same thing right now, but they're not."
"I can keep myself safe. I've been doing it for years."
"Have you?" Pomfrey's eyes were too perceptive. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who's been surviving, not living. There's a difference."
The words hit too close to something McGonagall had said, and Severus felt his throat go tight.
"You don't have to tell us every time you want to go for a walk," Pomfrey said. "Just... let us know you're going and when you’ll be back. Leave a note if we're asleep. Something so we know you haven't vanished and we don't need to worry. That's all we're asking."
"Why?" The word burst out before Severus could stop it. "Why do you even care? You don't know me. You don't—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I know what you think of me. What everyone at Hogwarts thinks. Why take me in at all if you already think I'm—"
"We don't think that," Pomfrey interrupted firmly.
"McGonagall does. I've seen how she looks at me."
"Minerva is cautious," Pomfrey said carefully. "She's had difficult students before, and yes, she's predisposed to expect trouble based on your House and your reputation. But that doesn't mean she thinks you're a bad person, Severus. It means she's waiting to see who you actually are, rather than who rumor says you should be."
Severus laughed, sharp and humorless. "And who am I? The charity case? The problem to be solved?"
"You're a child who lost his mother and needed somewhere safe to stay," Pomfrey said, her voice firm now. "You're a brilliant student with a gift for Potions. You're someone who's been hurt and is trying very hard not to show it. And you're someone we're choosing to help, not because we have to, but because we want to."
"Why?" Severus asked again, quieter now. "Why would you want to?"
"Because we care about you, Severus," Pomfrey said, a gentle warmth threading her words. "I know it will take time for you to understand, but it’s true. We care, and we want to be here for you."
The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking clock and the faint sound of birds beginning to wake outside.
"I'm sorry," Severus said finally, the words rough. "For sneaking out. For—"
"Don't apologize for needing space," Pomfrey said. "Just... next time, leave a note. Even if it's just 'gone for a walk, back soon.' That's all we need."
Severus nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Now." Pomfrey stood, collecting the teacups. "It's nearly dawn, and we've both been up all night. Try to get a few hours of sleep, yes? And Severus?"
He looked up at her.
"Thank you for coming back," she said quietly. "I'm glad you did."
She left him sitting at the kitchen table, and Severus sat there for a long time afterward, staring at nothing, trying to process the tangle of emotions in his chest.
Someone was glad he'd come back.
Someone had waited up for him.
Someone cared.
He didn't know what to do with that.
✪
Severus managed three hours of fitful sleep before he dragged himself downstairs for breakfast. His eyes felt gritty, his head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week.
McGonagall was already at the kitchen table, reading the Prophet and drinking coffee. She looked up when he entered, and her expression was unreadable.
"Good morning," she said coolly. "Sleep well?"
"Fine," Severus lied.
"Hmm." McGonagall folded her paper and set it aside. "Poppy told me about your midnight adventure."
Severus went rigid. "I wasn't—"
"Sit down."
Severus reluctantly sat.
McGonagall studied him for a long moment, her eyes sharp. "Let me be very clear about something, Mr. Snape. When I said we needed to know where you're going, I meant it. Not as a suggestion. Not as a guideline. As a rule."
"I know—"
"Do you?" McGonagall's voice was cutting now. "Because from where I'm sitting, you knew the rule and broke it anyway. Climbed out your window in the middle of the night and wandered off without a word to anyone."
"I was just walking—"
"I don't care if you were just walking. I don't care if you were flying to the moon on a broomstick. You left this house without telling anyone where you were going, and you didn't come back for over an hour. Do you have any idea how that looks? How that feels?"
Severus clenched his jaw, tasting iron again where he'd bitten his lip. "I'm not a child."
"Then stop acting like one," McGonagall snapped. "A child runs away without thinking about consequences. An adult considers how their actions affect others. An adult has the basic courtesy to let the people housing them know when they're leaving in the middle of the night."
"I didn't think you'd care," Severus said, the words bitter.
"Well, you were wrong." McGonagall's expression was hard. "We do care. And whether you like it or not, whether you believe it or not, you are our responsibility for the summer. If something happened to you—if you were hurt or lost or worse—that would be on us. On me. Do you understand that?"
Severus said nothing, staring at the table.
"Look at me."
He forced himself to meet her eyes.
"You want to know what I think of you?" McGonagall said, her voice quieter now but no less intense. "I think you're a brilliant student who's had a terrible life. I think you've been hurt by people who should have protected you, and now you don't trust anyone to do it properly. I think you're angry and scared and so convinced that everyone's going to abandon you that you're sabotaging this before it even has a chance to work."
Each word hit like a physical blow. Severus' hands clenched into fists under the table.
"But here's the thing," McGonagall continued. "I don't care how angry you are. I don't care how convinced you are that we're going to fail you. You're here, and you're staying here, and you're going to follow the bloody rules even if it kills you. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Severus bit out.
"Good." McGonagall picked up her paper again. "Now eat something. You look terrible."
Severus wanted to argue, wanted to leave, wanted to do anything except sit there and take it. But he also knew, deep in his bones, that McGonagall meant every word. That she would follow through. That she wasn't going anywhere.
And that terrified him more than anything.
Pomfrey came downstairs a few minutes later, took one look at the tension in the kitchen, and sighed. "I see we've had The Talk."
"We've had the talk," McGonagall confirmed.
"Good." Pomfrey began making breakfast—eggs and toast, simple but filling. "Then we can move on. Severus, after breakfast I'd like you to help me in the garden. We're harvesting chamomile and lavender today."
Severus nodded.
They ate in silence, and afterward Severus followed Pomfrey outside into the morning sun, his head still pounding, his emotions a tangled mess.
But he stayed. He helped. He did what was asked.
Because despite everything—despite the fear and the anger and the bone-deep certainty that this would all fall apart—a tiny, treacherous part of him wanted it to work.
✪
Two more days passed in careful tension. Severus helped with chores, appeared for meals, and spent the rest of his time in his room feeling restless and trapped. His few books had lost their appeal—he'd read them all multiple times already, finished his homework on the train, and couldn't concentrate enough to study his textbooks.
He needed something. Anything. A distraction from the constant loop of thoughts in his head.
On the third day after the sneaking-out incident, Severus found himself standing in the doorway of the large family room, staring at the bookshelves.
He'd noticed them before, of course. You couldn't miss them—they lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with volumes of all sizes and colors. But he hadn't let himself actually look at them. Hadn't let himself imagine that he might be allowed to touch them.
Now, with McGonagall at the Ministry and Pomfrey in her workroom, he stepped inside cautiously.
The room was even bigger than it looked from the doorway, it was spacious and comfortable. There was a fireplace, currently cold. Several chairs, all well-worn and inviting. Good light from the windows. And the books. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
Severus moved closer, his fingers trailing along the spines. The organization system was odd—not strictly alphabetical or by subject. Transfiguration theory next to Muggle novels. Healing texts beside poetry collections. History sharing shelf space with contemporary politics.
His chest ached with want.
"You can read them, you know."
Severus spun around. McGonagall stood in the doorway, still in her work robes, a folder tucked under one arm. She must have come back while he was distracted.
"I was just—" He gestured helplessly at the shelves.
"Looking," McGonagall finished. "Yes, I can see that. The books won't bite, Severus. You're welcome to read whatever interests you."
"I thought you were working."
"Forgot some paperwork." She moved past him to the desk in the corner, retrieving what she needed. "The organization system is mostly chronological by subject, though Poppy has her own logic for the healing and herbology sections. If you can't find something, ask."
She headed for the door, then paused. "There's a ladder in the corner if you need to reach the higher shelves. Try not to kill yourself."
Then she was gone, and Severus was alone with hundreds—thousands—of books.
He stood there for a long moment, not quite believing it. Then, slowly, he began to explore.
Advanced Transfiguration Theory by Emeric Switch. Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger—a much older edition than the one they used at school. Runes: A Comprehensive Guide. An entire shelf on Arithmancy, from basic primers to complex theoretical work. Magical creatures. Charms. Defense Against the Dark Arts.
And then the unexpected ones. Pride and Prejudice. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. One Hundred Years of Solitude. Poetry by Muggle and magical authors alike. Travel memoirs. Even a few detective novels that looked well-loved.
Severus pulled out a slim volume on advanced Arithmancy—far beyond his current year level—and carried it to one of the chairs. The leather was soft, worn smooth by years of use. He settled in and opened the book.
Within minutes, he was lost.
The theory was complex and demanding, requiring his complete attention. Equations and diagrams filled the pages, explaining the mathematical foundations of permanent Transfiguration. His mind engaged fully for the first time in days, chasing connections and implications.
This. This was what he needed. Just something to occupy his brain and keep the darker thoughts at bay.
He was three chapters in when Pomfrey found him.
"There you are." She stood in the doorway, smiling. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."
Severus looked up, momentarily disoriented. "I—McGonagall said I could—"
"Of course you can. I'm glad you found the library." Pomfrey came closer, peering at the book's title. "Advanced Arthmancy, hmm? Ambitious."
"It's interesting," Severus said defensively.
"I'm sure it is. Minerva is brilliant at Arithmancy. I'm sure she'd be happy to discuss it with you if you have questions." Pomfrey smiled. "Are you hungry? It's past lunchtime."
Severus blinked. He'd completely lost track of time. "I'm fine."
"Severus."
He sighed. "Yes. Fine. I'm hungry."
"Come on, then. I'll make sandwiches." Pomfrey headed for the door, then paused. "You know, you don't have to wait until we're both gone to use the library. It's a shared space. You're welcome here anytime."
The thought of settling in to read while they were both present, all three of them in the same room, felt oddly intimate.
"Maybe," Severus said.
"Whenever you're ready," Poppy said, and left him to his reading.
Severus sat in the comfortable chair for another few minutes, the book open in his lap, and tried to process the feelings in his chest.
✪
That night, Severus dreamed of blood.
His mother's face, pale and lifeless. His father's fists, coming down again and again. The kitchen floor, sticky and dark. The sound of breaking glass, breaking bones, breaking everything.
He couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't do anything except watch as—
Severus woke with a gasp, his heart hammering so hard it hurt. The room was dark and unfamiliar for a disorienting moment before memory crashed back.
The cottage.
Not home. Not Cokeworth.
Safe.
Except he couldn't breathe. His chest was too tight, his lungs wouldn't work properly, and there wasn't enough air in the room, and—
Panic. He was having a panic attack. He'd had them before, knew what they were, but knowing didn't make them stop.
His hands found his hair, pulling hard. The pain helped slightly, gave him something to focus on besides the suffocating terror. He pulled harder, grounding himself in the sharp sting.
His lip was bleeding. He'd bitten it in his sleep. He could taste iron.
Breathe. Just breathe. In and out. You're fine. You're safe.
But his body didn't believe him.
A soft knock on the door. "Severus?"
Pomfrey's voice, gentle and concerned.
He tried to answer, couldn't. His breath came in sharp, painful gasps.
The door opened slowly. "I heard you—oh, sweetheart."
She was across the room in seconds, kneeling in front of his bed. Not touching him, just close. Present.
"It's alright," she said softly. "You're having a panic attack. It feels terrible, but you're not in danger. I'm right here."
Severus shook his head violently. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"Yes, you can," Pomfrey said, as if he'd spoken aloud. "Listen to my voice. We're going to breathe together, alright? Just like this. Watch me."
She breathed in slowly, deliberately, making it visible. Held for a count. Breathed out.
"Just like that," she murmured. "In through your nose. That's it. Hold for three. One, two, three. Now out through your mouth. Slow and steady."
Severus tried to match her rhythm. Failed. Tried again.
"You're doing well," Pomfrey encouraged. "Again. In... hold... out. Focus on the breath. Nothing else matters right now. Just this moment, this breath."
In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out.
Slowly—so slowly—his heart rate began to calm. His chest loosened slightly. The panic receded from immediate terror to manageable dread.
"Good," Pomfrey said softly. "That's good, Severus. Keep going. In... hold... out."
They breathed together in the dark, and gradually Severus felt himself coming back to his body. Back to the room. Back to something like control.
"Better?" Pomfrey asked after several minutes.
Severus nodded shakily. His hands were still tangled in his hair. He forced himself to let go, wincing at the sting.
"Nightmare?" Pomfrey guessed.
Another nod.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He shook his head violently.
"Alright. That's alright." Pomfrey settled more comfortably on the floor, her back against the bed. "Can I tell you something?"
Severus managed a rough "Yes."
"This breathing technique—it's called box breathing. It's used for meditation, for centering yourself, for managing anxiety and panic. I learned it years ago, and it's helped me through some very dark times." She paused. "Would you like me to teach it to you properly? So you can use it on your own when this happens again?"
"I dont wan’t it to happen again" His voice came out hoarse.
"Trauma doesn't just disappear, Severus. It lingers. But you can learn to manage it. To work through it. You don't have to be controlled by it."
Severus pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.
They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Pomfrey stood.
"Try to get some more sleep," she said gently. "And Severus? If you have another nightmare, or another panic attack, or if you just need someone—come find me. Or Minerva. We're here."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Severus lay back down, staring at the ceiling, his body exhausted but his mind still racing.
We're here, she'd said.
Like it was that simple.