Chapter Text
Part II: All That Rises
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
― Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
Severus Snape
In February, Severus Snape woke in clean sheets. The sun shone brightly in his bedroom, so high overhead the rays hit the floorboards in narrow bright bars just below the window. Jarring, to wake when the day was half over. Like waking upside down.
Memories threaded through his wooly thoughts. The battle. He bolted upright. A headache throbbed, but no other pain presented itself. He jerked the sheets off. His legs were still attached. He let out a breath as he struggled to remember how he'd ended up there. That's right, Hermione had freed him. Dragons ridden by the resistance. Had they won?
The image of a skinny, scarred figure rose. He spoke in Parseltongue and smiled with the Dark Lord's cruel smile.
Potter.
He stumbled downstairs, fragmented memories jostling his thoughts, and found Potter in the kitchen. Chair had grown its legs, giving him extra reach. He herded chopped peppers into a pan and watched them sizzle. He turned—although Severus's footsteps couldn't be heard over the whistling kettle—and transformed. His shoulders relaxed, and the tightness around his eyes smoothed. He broke into a smile.
It was startling, the contrast from the last expression he'd seen on that face. There was no cruelty. This must be Potter's smile. He couldn't remember seeing it before. At Hogwarts perhaps, during a quidditch match, or with friends.
Part of him dared to hope. "Was it real?" His mouth was dry. He was still in his pajamas, and he'd come downstairs barefoot. His long toes pressed against the kitchen tile, patchy red and white, and calloused where his boots rubbed. It took effort to look up, but he had to see Potter's face, look into his eyes to know the truth. "Is it over?"
Potter's smile softened, and his head tilted up in that way that meant he wished to speak. But he didn't nod or shake his head, didn't grab a book to point at the words. He spoke. Not faint, not raspy, but firm and clear. "Yes, Severus."
It came back in fragments. Dragon roars and human screams. Potter speaking. If the curse on his voice had broken, then… "The Dark Lord?"
Potter was close now. There was something deep in his eyes—fire and darkness. But his words were calm. "Dead."
Severus shook his head. "He'd done something to you. Pieces of his soul—"
"Destroyed." In an action reminiscent of his old form of communication, he handed Severus a folded Daily Prophet and tapped the headline.
Dark Lord Dead
A dozen reliable witnesses confirmed the body in the ministry morgue is He Who Must Not Be Named, called The Dark Lord by his followers. The killing curse is recorded as the C.O.D. No one has stepped forwards to take credit.
"They've nothing to worry about," says rebel leader Sirius Black, who led a successful breakout of the underwater prison Azkaban and continued on dragonback to defeat You-Know-Who and his followers at the Callanish Standing Stones. "It might be an unforgivable, but I forgive them. They're a hero." Black then described You-Know-Who with words unprintable by this publication.
Ron Weasley, Black's right-hand man during the breakout and battle, was one witness who identified the body. "Only saw him in battle, but it's not a face you forget, is it? Good riddance."
Meanwhile, cleanup continues at the Callanish Stones. Muggle-repelling charms have been in place since the night of the battle…
Severus sat heavily at the kitchen table and glanced at the paper's date. He froze, staring at it. "The twenty-eighth of February? I've been unconscious for a week?"
Lines deepened around Potter's eyes, and his mouth tightened. "You were injured. Physically and mentally. That first night, I thought…" Potter closed his eyes and shook his head. "I consulted your books and did my best, although I'm no healer. Mostly I used potions for your physical injuries and debated over whether to use legilimency to look for mental injuries. I decided it might cause more damage. But you got better steadily. Responded clearly when I asked you questions, although I suspect you don't remember that. You did most of the work yourself."
"I've had mental injuries before," Severus murmured, scanning the paper. "Sometimes it was a choice between protecting myself or protecting my secrets. I had to allow the injury. I have a method of healing from the Dark Lord's invasions that's nearly automatic at this point." The next page of the Prophet listed Death Eaters presumed dead and others considered missing. Most were dead, including Lucius Malfoy. "Strange. I'm not on either list. If I'm not dead and I'm not missing, what am I?"
Potter's gaze fell on the paper. "It's probably incomplete. I imagine they have other things on their minds at the moment."
"Perhaps you're right. Draco's not on either list, as well." He hoped Draco had survived and escaped. Last he'd heard, he'd been working with Hermione, albeit reluctantly.
He read article after article about the Dark Lord's demise and the aftermath. A weight settled onto his shoulders and the back of his head, its pressure dull and deadening. He tried to concentrate. "It was you, then? You killed him?"
Potter frowned. "Others did the actual deed. Both times. It turned out it wasn't difficult to encourage Tom to kill the… to kill Voldemort."
Severus tensed instinctively. That name always produced a slight burning in his forearm, even when the Mark had visibly disappeared after the Dark Lord's first death in 1981. But there was no burn now. He dropped the paper and rolled up his sleeve. Gone.
He felt that he'd missed something, some essential part of the plan he should've done. "You're certain? He's—"
"Severus. I'm certain."
Not a single faded line marred his forearm. He could feel the difference. In the years after that Halloween night, there had always been an itch, something under the surface waiting to get out. But there was no sensation other than the cool air on his bare skin. A tremor ran through his hands until they shook so badly that the paper rattled. He realized he was losing control.
But Potter was there. Potter took away the newspaper and wrapped Severus's shaking hands around a warm cup of tea. Nothing was said about the outburst, for which he was grateful.
It was the shock, of course. He'd hoped for this for so long. The threat of torture and death no longer hung over him. The wizarding world was safer than it had been in years. Miraculously, he and Potter and many members of the resistance had survived. It was over.
But the weight remained, heavy and numbing.
xx
One morning in early March, Severus stayed in bed. Over the past few days, as he read articles about the war's end, the weight had sunk so deeply it grew exhausting to move. He couldn't explain it. He should feel ecstatic, free. No more dangerous spy missions. No more healing and hiding of Potter. He'd done his duty and had no more responsibilities. But freedom felt like a spinning freefall.
Getting out of bed became more and more difficult, until that morning, when he didn't bother at all.
Potter eventually came to find him, Chair clack-clacking on the stairs, and a soft knock—and then a more insistent one—on his bedroom door.
"I'm fine," Severus called. "I'll get up in a moment."
Potter went away for a while, only to return with a tray of food. The battered Queen Elizabeth coronation tray, now used for Severus's benefit.
"I said I'd get up," Severus said. "I'll eat breakfast then."
Potter set the tray on the bed. The tightness in his shoulders was back. "This is lunch. It's half past noon."
Severus stared at the soup and sandwich. "I can get my own meals."
Potter kept his grip on the tray, his thumb working frantically at a bit of rust on the edge, as if he planned to sandpaper it smooth with his nail. "All right," he finally said. His voice pitched up, unnaturally high, and he stopped and swallowed. When he spoke again, it was smooth and even. "Bring the tray down when you do." And he left.
Severus stared some more and finally spooned up the soup.
In the weeks that followed, he grew familiar with the sight of that tray on his blanket-covered lap.
It's not as though he never got up. He did. But once he'd brushed his teeth over the self-filling water bowl on his dresser or dealt with necessities, all he wanted to do was go back to bed. He continued to check the paper, scanning lists of wanted Death Eaters and feeling vaguely disappointed his name wasn't there. Draco showed up in the "missing" list briefly, only to disappear again the next day. A small article stated that he'd turned himself in and was scheduled for interrogation. That was that, then. No reason to get up and look for him. It all felt so pointless. But it was good. Peace and stability as the world carried on. He stared at the dark cracks in the discolored white walls until his gaze unfocused and they blurred into a formless grey.
Potter started changing the linens and dusting the bedroom furniture. He even showed up with a laundry basket to gather underclothes until Severus chased him out with snarled invectives.
Then the scritch of the scrub brush started. Quietly, coming from downstairs, or louder, on the steps. Scritch-scritch-splash, throughout the day and into the evening. When it scratched outside his door, Severus called out that Potter didn't need to do that. He'd get up in a moment and use a cleaning charm.
The brush paused, and Severus let out a breath. Then it started up again, and he turned over and buried himself in the blankets.
One day, the scrubbing stopped, and violent ripping sounds began. Severus got out of bed for that, opening the door to Potter tearing down the wallpaper in the opposite room. Chair's extendable legs had grown so Potter could reach the edge of the ceiling. He peeled a strip of wallpaper, sinking to the baseboard, and then scoured the drywall whilst Chair kicked the shed rolls into a pile.
Potter's gaze snapped up, and he tensed. "Sorry." He held up the strip of wallpaper. "Mildew. Did you want me to clean and save it? For your room, maybe?"
"I don't care about the wallpaper, Potter."
Potter approached. "The noise, then? Silencing charms are tricky for me, but I could draw on the magic of the house wards—"
"I don't care about the noise. I care about…" But he couldn't think of an end to that sentence, so he slammed the door in Potter's face. God, he was so cold. So cold and tired. He fell back into bed and pulled the blankets up, hoping for sleep. Instead, he stared at the water spots on the ceiling to the accompaniment of ripping wallpaper.
xx
In May, Severus woke to an unfamiliar noise. Not a brush scrubbing or wallpaper tearing. A long, slow scraping, like when he stirred a highly reactive potion. It came from outside his window.
He dragged himself out of bed and pushed back the curtain.
The top rail of Chair scraped against the garden wall as Potter clung to its arms, his face buried in his hunched shoulder. Chair inched towards the shed in the garden.
Severus shoved the window up and leant out. "Potter! What do you think you're doing?"
Chair stopped, and Potter's shoulders hunched further as his head twitched. He opened one eye, glancing up and then immediately back down.
Of course. Looking up at Severus meant looking at the sky, a painful act for someone with agoraphobia. Potter shouldn't be out there at all.
Severus raced downstairs and into the garden. Potter's face shone with sweat, and the hair around his temples was soaking wet. He panted harshly, his chest jerking with each breath.
Severus loomed over him, blocking his view of the sky. "What could you possibly need from the shed?" he asked. "If you're thinking of cleaning it, it's not worth—"
"Paint," Potter said between gasping breaths. "We need paint. None in the cupboards, so I thought—"
"There's no paint. The house hasn't been painted in years." If ever. He certainly had no recollection of it. He knew every mark made by a slammed fist or a thrown dish. "I'll get paint if it's so important. And we'll deal with this"—he gestured at the sky and Potter winced—"together. There are desensitization techniques—" He stopped. Potter wasn't in the right frame of mind for details. "I'll show you later. Back inside, now."
Potter shuffled in whilst Severus hovered over him, blocking as much sky as he could. He was yet again in his pajamas and barefoot, and now in the bloody garden.
But Potter needed him. More importantly, he needed to overcome his agoraphobia and become independent. He'd never been on his own, going from school to a dungeon to this house, and focusing all his energy on surviving besides. He must've been cleaning because there was nothing else to do. Trapped here by his phobias whilst Severus lounged in bed and felt sorry for himself.
How long had it been since he'd put on street clothes? He couldn't remember. Humiliating. He hadn't moped like this since his final argument with Lily. He'd come close when she'd died, his grief and guilt like anchor chains dragging him beneath the surface. But Albus had needed him to report on the scattered Death Eaters and search for signs of the Dark Lord's return. Establish himself as a potions professor and all the assorted tasks that came with that. There hadn't been time for indulgence.
Now he had time. More than he knew what to do with, and he'd used it poorly. Standing in the garden in his pajamas was far better than wallowing in bed. Right now, he might look a fool, but it was for a purpose.
Potter's gaze stayed on the ground, and he stumbled into the door frame. Severus instinctively reached out to steady him, and Potter sucked in a breath.
Stupid. They'd had a moment of understanding months ago when they'd gripped hands, but that didn't change Potter's history. He didn't need to be reminded of Death Eater hands on him. Severus resolved to be more careful. He'd become entirely too familiar.
Potter's shoulders relaxed when they entered the kitchen. He stopped and took several deep breaths, wiping the sweat off his face. Then he frowned and tilted his head towards Severus. "What colors will you get?"
So Severus, for the first time in his life, went to the shops for paint samples. Soon the kitchen was the sunny color of lemon sherbets and the front room walls reminded him of a cup of tea with just the right amount of milk. Then Potter sent him off to the charity shops and jumble sales to buy old jumpers, which became enormous piles of wool strips scattered about the house, and eventually thick overlapping rugs with winding patterns in Gryffindor reds and golds.
It was when he was picking out new towels at Tesco that he ran into Jeremy Loach again.
"Ah," Severus said, at a loss. The day they'd met at Tesco, he'd been out of his mind from Potter's mental attack and had come across as a raving lunatic. "I appreciated your assistance."
Jeremy stared at him for a beat, then gave him a polite smile. "Of course. I trust you found what you needed?"
The last time he'd seen Jeremy, he'd been desperately looking for Potter. Had he mentioned that? "Yes."
"Very good, sir." Jeremy returned to his clipboard.
Severus was loath to bring up his embarrassing behavior, but there was something strange here. Surely encountering an old classmate stark raving mad wasn't that unremarkable? "You do remember? Last Christmas Eve?"
Jeremy frowned. "I was working that day. But I don't…" He stared at Severus, and his face cleared. "Wait. I know you. Snape, from Georgette Primary? I'm Loach. Jeremy Loach."
The penny dropped, and his jaw spasmed painfully as his teeth clenched. "And Christmas Eve?"
Jeremy snapped his fingers. "That's right. You were in a terrible state that day. And we took the bus?" He rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, everything's a bit jumbled." He looked up brightly. "Severus. I'd forgotten, but your name is Severus. You're doing better, then?"
Severus barely heard him over the grinding of his teeth. "I'm fine. Would you excuse me? I need to speak with someone."
He apparated three streets over from Spinner's End and walked in a zigzag, knocking on familiar doors along the way. When he returned home, he confronted Potter. "Would you mind explaining why no one in Cokeworth—the town I grew up in—remembers me?"
Potter, working through a new rug at the kitchen table, froze, his gaze darting to the exits. Then he let out a breath, set aside the rug, and met Severus's glare, tapping his fingers together. "I thought it best."
A familiar cycle went through Severus: rage, followed by fear of losing himself to that rage, followed by icy control. Control that kept him still but allowed his voice to chill the room. "Did you? I don't recall your consulting me on the matter."
A tic worked Potter's cheek. He cleared his throat. "Severus, you were—"
"I was what?" His voice grew quieter and icier. "In need of your protection?" He recalled how he never appeared on those lists of wanted Death Eaters, and he dropped to a whisper. "Afraid of being found?"
Potter swallowed. "Have you seen the…" He nodded at the paper on the kitchen table. The headline read:
Sirius Black New Minister of Magic
In yesterday's provisional election, Sirius Black won the majority vote for his proposed card system, rewarding the heroes of the resistance and sanctioning those who betrayed their countrymen…
Severus rolled his eyes. Leave it to Black to brag about his heroism enough that competent officials and ideas lost against him. "I can handle Black," he said. "If I'm taken to court, I have evidence. Information Hermione gave me in our meetings, my memories, and my time with you."
"I'd need to be a witness, then."
The edge of Severus's anger softened. "We're working through your agoraphobia. You've already improved."
Potter nodded, staring at the table. "Have they destroyed the Throne Room, do you think?"
That was it, then. Potter didn't want to go anywhere near the Ministry. "You don't need to be a witness if you don't wish. Or you can offer a written statement. I'm sure Hermione or Weasley can arrange something." His voice gentled. "And I imagine they're wondering where you are."
Potter's face reddened. "About that."
Severus took a long, steadying breath. "What?"
"They don't remember me anymore." His mouth twitched. "Us. If they did, they'd look for me."
"And so? We can explain why you need to live here temporarily. Or you could move in with one of them. I'm sure they'd be happy to accommodate you." At Potter's pained look, he said quietly, "Is this about what happened with the person disguised as Hermione? If you—"
"Don't." Potter had gone ramrod straight. "Don't talk about that."
"I had the same rule for myself once. To never speak of your mother. But she's gone from this world, and there's no repairing that. If there were, if I could see her again, no matter the cost to me—"
"Don't." Potter snarled, his lips pulling back from his teeth, and slammed his fist on the paper. The moving pictures burst into flames. Potter hissed and drew back as the paper flared into an inferno and then crumbled into smoking ash.
Potter stared at it with wide eyes and then turned a deep shade of red and crumpled in on himself, pulling his fists into his lap and staring down at them.
In that moment, Severus deeply wanted to squeeze Potter's shoulder, in the way Albus had done for him when his duties as a spy had been particularly difficult. But that would only make matters worse. He focused on simple fixes instead. "Wand."
"You don't need to warn me every time. I can handle it." But Potter still tensed and turned away as Severus cast an aguamenti and a cleaning spell.
Wand-phobia was another issue they'd have to resolve if Potter was ever to rejoin wizarding society. One thing at a time. Severus pocketed his wand. "How long do you plan on maintaining this forgetting spell? Not another six years, I hope?"
Potter shook his head. "I thought we could do with a rest. Before aurors and trials and the press." He jerked his head towards the table. "I don't want them to see me like that. I just need a little more time to get it under control." He tightened his fists on Chair's armrests, the veins in his forearms standing out, then took a long breath and slowly released his grip.
He ran a finger along the freshly scrubbed counter. "It's been nice, being here. Fixing things up. I've never had a home, you know. A place that was mine."
Hell. Severus closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I suppose we can wait a few weeks. I've some savings we can live off for the present. But then you need to drop this spell and contact your friends."
A placidity washed over Potter, and he smiled. "Yes, Severus."
xx
In October, Severus dreamt of Regulus.
As he approached the anniversary of Lily's death, his dreams always grew more vivid. This year's were intense, of fighting a storm in a small boat, he and Lily only nine years old. Washing ashore alone in the Philippines and plucking glowing flowers from the jade vine under a starry sky.
But he hadn't dreamt of Regulus in a long time. Not the quiet Death Eater, but Regulus from school, his uniform tie askew from Severus gripping it as he pushed him against a wall and created delightful friction. Regulus's mouth against his ear, his breath hot, whispering, "Yes, Severus."
He woke with a distracting case of morning wood.
Sighing, he slid out of bed and headed for the new loo, fashioned from a section of his bedroom. He didn't need the extra space, and all it had taken were transfiguration spells and drywall. With the right charms, he didn't need to bother with upstairs plumbing. It was essentially a self-cleaning chamber pot in the form of a toilet, a sink where aguamenti charms were triggered by turning the faucets and a drain that vanished the wastewater. The shower worked similarly. A bit of work, but he'd decided on it once he'd discovered Potter was washing his hair in the kitchen sink. The tub was awkward for him to maneuver, and a pain in the arse besides. Chair had an impervius charm, so it could go right in the shower with him.
Severus turned on the faucet, and hot water blasted his aching head. He had to admit it was glorious. It had been a long time since he'd indulged in full-body physical pleasure. Not since those one-night stands he'd had in his twenties. Convinced they must be after something, he'd barked at them to leave the moment they woke and never saw them again. And before them, only Regulus.
Regulus. He suspected they'd both started up with each other to even the score with Sirius Black; he would've been enraged had he known. But their encounters became more intense than they'd expected. It had been his go-to wank fantasy, even with how it all had ended. Strange that he hadn't thought of Regulus for so long.
He struggled to access those memories now. Had Potter's godforsaken memory spell affected this, too? There was no reason it should. But the memories refused to surface, trapped in amber. It took some mental poking and prodding before discovering he'd unconsciously occluded them. They'd only floated free in his dreams. He released them, and it was like a dam breaking. The feelings overwhelmed him: yearning, desire, pleasure. And shame and anger, at the end.
He'd prided himself on not getting too emotionally involved with Regulus, despite what they got up to in corridors and forgotten classrooms. Listening with interest but not empathy as Regulus complained about his family, how he'd been raised by the house-elves.
Then Regulus brushed him off for someone younger, someone with better heritage. And he realized how much of his heart he'd recklessly given. He'd desperately wanted to hex him, but couldn't afford another enemy. Not that he would've risen to the status of enemy in Regulus's eyes. He smirked whenever Severus glared at him. "What did you think? That you were special? You were simply at hand."
Regulus had been his first. Severus had wanted to hurt him so badly, to make him feel something. "I'll tell your parents about us." He flushed, knowing he sounded like a jilted lover straight out of Coronation Street.
Regulus shrugged. "They won't listen to you. You'd be lucky if they even read your letter. They only read mail from purebloods, and Snape is no pureblood name."
God, how he hated his surname. So unremarkable. So muggle. "I'll firecall them."
"Oh, give it up. As long as I pretend I'm mad for girls, they won't question it. And it won't matter once I move out and produce a few heirs. You know nothing about wizarding culture, do you, Little Half-Blood?"
Regulus's nickname for him, even though Severus was two years older. But Regulus was a product of good food and good breeding, and had already sprouted into the Black height. A fire rose in him then. "I'll tell your brother."
Regulus froze, just for a second. Sirius Black had made more than one crass remark about boys who spent too much time together and shared every rumored dalliance across the school. Ironic, considering how he and Potter were joined at the hip. Even his stupid spell was clueless, labeling Severus a virgin hours after he'd snuck off with Regulus and engaged in some decidedly impure activities. Apparently, only girls counted.
"Go ahead," Regulus said breezily, but his eyes were like stone. "Sirius isn't one to think before shooting the messenger. I can't wait to hear what he and Potter do to you this time. Do you think you'll give everyone a good show?"
Severus had faltered and dropped his gaze, and Regulus had sauntered off.
He'd wanted to hex himself. Naïve little half-blood. "Never again" was his well-worn mantra, and yet people still wormed their way in. His embarrassing, unrequited crush on Lucius, until he'd successfully recruited Severus and moved on to another target. His friendship with Albus, until he'd flown off to his last battle. Albus had been his closest friend since Lily, but winning the war always came first for him. Severus couldn't begrudge him that. And he didn't allow Hermione to remember their talks. Such was his fate, to love more than he would ever be loved.
He couldn't pinpoint the moment they reached his heart, only truly feeling it after they were gone. He was left overheated and gasping, heavy-limbed and sinking into some dark place inside. It was all so exhausting.
He turned off the shower and stared at the fogged-up glass, drawing the rune for "rise" into the condensation. Used on brooms as part of their enchantment. Also on floating chandeliers, as Lucius had shown him at his mansion, smiling in mild amusement at how Severus's gaze only flicked up briefly before returning to those grey eyes.
At least Severus was in no danger of such mistakes this year. Sealed off from the wizarding world, from even a dalliance with a local muggle. He'd learnt to leverage his impenetrability into an air of mystery, at least long enough to get whoever it was into bed. He certainly couldn't rely on his looks. But even his meager moves wouldn't help when no one could keep him in their head for more than a few minutes. His comfortable accommodation with Potter might eventually turn into a friendship like he'd had with Albus, but Albus had needed him. What Potter needed was to stop hiding at Spinner's End and be with his friends.
He wiped away the rune in frustration. He'd risk the wrath of the wizarding world and imprisonment if it meant the end of feeling hopelessly stuck, going round and round the house in an endless cycle of meals and sleep, peering out at a world he couldn't join.
As he dressed, he pushed his memories of Regulus and the others behind his walls. They slid back easily, sealing themselves off almost of their own accord.
Concerning. He was occluding far too much. Necessary when he'd been a spy, both to keep secrets and to prevent distressing memories from affecting him. But he'd needed moments to release the pent-up emotions, as his former students could attest. Now it worked perfectly. Potter's image of an invisibility cloak as a second wall had proved more beneficial than he'd anticipated. This double layer of mental walls absorbed any discomfort before he had a chance to fully register it.
He descended the stairs and stood in the front room, his feet sinking into one of the overlapping red and gold wool rugs. "You're not turning my house into the Gryffindor common room. These rag rugs—"
"Boucherouite rugs, Severus." Potter nodded towards the nearest bookshelf. "Construction and Enchantment of Flying Carpets gave instructions."
"I'm surprised you haven't charmed them to fly up to the ceiling. It's the only surface left to cover." There were even soft rugs piled on Potter's bed upstairs and covering the empty spots on his bedroom walls.
Potter sat in front of a handcrafted loom, guiding recycled threads into an intricate pattern. The treadles were customized to be within his reach. He used them deftly, hands gliding to the clacking beat. "It's cheerful. Would you like something silver? Or green?"
The reds and golds went well with the other changes, inasmuch as Severus understood how colors go with one another. Glowing lengths of pine crackled merrily in the fireplace. The writing desk and bookshelves had lost their splinters and scratches and gained a warm, well-oiled look. The sofa no longer sagged, and the ragged hounds-tooth upholstery had been transformed into soft linen striped in bright blue and caramel. The house hadn't felt this comfortable since… well, it had never felt this comfortable. He hadn't realized how the greying walls and half-broken furniture had weighed on him. How much mental energy had gone into sitting on the sofa just so to avoid the broken springs, or remembering to step over the loose floorboard by the door, or to turn sideways near the dresser where a protruding rusty nail caught on his robes.
He could have fixed all these things himself, of course, but it was just a set of rooms. Suitable for keeping the weather out—or at least it was now, since he'd repaired the roof. No need to spruce it up with unnecessary luxuries. But now, he found himself running his fingertips across the glossy desk or gazing at the vivid colors that had sprung up like flowers in the desert.
"Wait, I have some green." Potter set aside his weaving and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with three plants in terra-cotta pots gathered in his arms. He settled them on the windowsill, vines spilling over while lustrous greenery unfurled. It reminded him of jade vines, the leaves glowing in the pale light before dawn.
"Oh, that's lovely," Severus murmured. He stepped close and rubbed a baby-soft leaf, a bright scent bursting forth as it uncurled between his fingers.
Potter tilted his head and gazed at him, his eyes nearly as green and gleaming as the fresh leaves.
Something about the silence made Severus uncomfortable. He withdrew his hand and straightened. "I only mean they'll be useful. Peperomia is part of an infection-reducing potion, Calathea ornata is part of a lung-enhancing potion, and Nematanthus gregarius…" He frowned. "…is part of a befuddlement potion that shortens memory."
"Known as the goldfish plant, yes. It's also used in certain variations of the calming draught to quiet obsessive thoughts. Considering how frequently you bring up my forgetting spell, it's something you should look into."
"Perhaps I should brew a calming draught. Listening to your cheek is raising my blood pressure. Although before I added the goldfish plant, I'd first need…" He trailed off before he made a fool of himself. Because Potter knew. He'd observed brewing techniques for weeks until Severus finally allowed him to prepare ingredients, then brew simpler potions. Potter had become marvelously adept, and now they brewed together frequently.
Potter's recitation of ingredients and use of potions memories had paid off. Or perhaps it was simply his quiet attentiveness, or Severus no longer assuming the worst of him. He'd treated Potter like one of his NEWT students, and he'd kept up. At any rate, he hardly needed a remedial lesson.
Severus cleared his throat and nodded at the plants. "Where did you get them?"
"You had seeds among your potion ingredients. Still viable with encouragement. I kept them in my bedroom until this morning." Potter went back to the loom and touched the warp and weft threads, tracing the pattern growing beneath them. "Would you like breakfast?"
Severus had offered to cook several times and been waved away. You've made enough meals for me. But he had one request. "Outside."
Potter's smile dipped, but he nodded.
With an upstairs loo and the cupboard under the stairs now a small WC, they no longer needed the outside privy. Severus was happy to do away with the shed full of his father's rubbish, as well. That left room for a table outside, which he insisted on using daily, even casting a shield charm overhead when it rained.
"Problem?" Severus asked. "You've been adjusting well. No staring at the ground, or rushing inside the second you finish."
"Oh no, your techniques have been helpful. You've more books on the subject than I'd expected."
"I studied it in my role as head of house. You're not the first student who's needed them."
"I'm not your student," Potter said heatedly, then looked away. He took a breath, and his features smoothed out. "Just because I'm sitting down doesn't mean I'm not fully grown. Don't talk as if I were a child."
"I didn't think I was." Severus was taken aback. Potter rarely showed his temper these days, and never over such an innocuous statement. "Perhaps we should stay indoors today if you're having a relapse." He gazed out the window. It was one of those beautiful autumn days, clear and crisp, where the vibrant sky brightly outlined the turning leaves.
"I'm not having—" Potter pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I'll finish breakfast, shall I? And meet you outside."
"As you like," Severus said cautiously. He passed through the kitchen, picking up the morning paper and settling at the table outside. Potter had drawn magic from the house wards and transfigured scrap wood from the shed, using leftover paint to create a quilt-like pattern and imbuing it with weather protection. It even had targeted heating charms to keep food hot or cold, as needed. Bloody brilliant, he was.
He chided himself for having such charitable thoughts about his unwanted houseguest. The next thing he knew, he'd be saying them out loud, and then he'd never be rid of Potter. He positively absorbed compliments, beaming for hours when Severus let one slip. It transformed his face into something not entirely unpleasant.
Not that his scarred face was unpleasant. Severus had grown accustomed to it, and rather liked how lines swooped and swirled towards Potter's eyes or mouth, like the intricate designs on his rugs. The raised ridges and textures—it must be quite something to touch. Or so he imagined. He'd never take such liberties with Potter's ongoing haphephobia. They should work on that as well, but one problem at a time.
The Halloween edition of the Daily Prophet, from 1981 until the Dark Lord's ascent, had offered an article noting the sacrifice of the Potters. It had been a touchstone, a small personal memorial. But today, he found nothing.
There was plenty of ink given to Black's card system: dry articles detailing the rules, human interest pieces either lauding gold-card heroes or pointing out the difficulties faced by the red-carded. And of course, op-eds, some claiming it protected the peace and others saying it created second-class citizens. But debates over moronic policies were nothing new. There should've been room for a small article. Had they forgotten? His thoughts turned grim. Had they been induced to forget?
Potter opened the back door, took a deep breath—always a deep breath—and passed the threshold, the old tray of Queen Elizabeth floating in his wake, piled with dishes. Severus had charmed it permanently to float and follow, rather than Potter needing to draw out magic to levitate it himself.
The newspaper offered a clue on why Potter was so testy. "Are you doing all right? Today?" He tapped the date.
Potter glanced at it as he set out the plates. "There wasn't an article this year."
"Did you have anything to do with that?"
Heat entered Potter's eyes, but his tone was even. "I'm not the sole reason people forget things. Sometimes forgetting has nothing to do with it. People just… move on."
"Move on," Severus repeated. "Such a juvenile phrase. As if honoring those we've lost is a bothersome trait to be tossed aside. As if the only thing worth paying attention to is what's around the next bend."
"It's not a bad thing to focus on the future. The pain of the past isn't everything we are." Potter regarded him somberly. "You still miss her?"
"I was a poor friend," Severus murmured. "Before Hogwarts, she needed me to understand the magical world. But once we were at school, she could get that from anyone, and I never really understood what else she needed." He'd kept trying to impress her with his knowledge of the Dark Arts, with his powerful connections in Slytherin. Always trying to recapture that shining light in her eyes when they were nine, and he told her about owl post and Azkaban. So focused on what knowledge and skills he could acquire. It wasn't just for Lily. He was determined to claw his way out of his family's problems and out of Cokeworth.
What Lily had wanted was to be a good person, and for him to be good with her. Even if her attempts to do so came out as scolding. He might've gained some insight and avoided major mistakes if he'd actually listened, and her absence left him feeling rudderless, until Albus. And now Albus was gone. "I still miss her."
It may be too late for him to gain friends, but it wasn't too late for Potter. He'd continue to work at it. Potter needed to rejoin the world, pick up with his friends, and leave Severus to his quiet life.
But when he retired to bed that night and found a new forest-green quilt in soft velvets draped over fresh cotton sheets, he couldn't help running his fingers over it, again and again. Every time he moved his hand away, it ached.
xx
In January, Severus woke to a present.
A box wrapped in shiny gold paper sat on his dresser. He resolutely ignored it and dressed for the day, pausing before buttoning his cuffs. He ran a fingertip along the smooth skin of his inner forearm. Completely unmarred. He still marveled at it.
It had been nearly a year, and he was grateful for Potter being there that day. For what Potter had done on that terrible night over ten months ago.
But the thing was, Potter was still there.
Paper crinkled softly behind him as he descended the stairs. He turned and found the gift hovering in the air, stalking him. Of course. When he got to the kitchen, the gift settled on the table.
Potter, sliding toast onto plates of scrambled eggs, smiled at the gift. "Waiting for me before you open it?"
"No," he replied flatly. "I don't need gifts. You already got me something for Christmas." A thick hand-knitted black and grey scarf that Severus had taken to wearing on his trips to the shops.
"But that was Christmas." Potter firmly pushed the gift into his hands.
Distinctly uncomfortable, he unwrapped the gift instead of refusing it and shoving it back across the table, as he should have. "My mistake for telling you my birthday, but you pestered me so."
It was a wand holster made of wood and oiled leather. So eminently practical, he couldn't think of a reason to refuse it.
But it filled him with dread, as did all gifts. An echo from his childhood days, when he knew he didn't have the money to reciprocate.
His mother and Lily had got him gifts every year: practical things like gloves and hats and books, although Lily added funny drawings she'd made. His father contributed too, technically, although his gifts seemed to be for some other son he wished he'd had: secondhand sports equipment and rugby magazines, as if Severus had ever played rugby a day in his life.
After he'd said those terrible things to Lily and his mother had deemed him too old for gifts, he'd expected that to be the end of it. But then, he and Regulus had started up. Regulus would never have got him something as sentimental as a gift. But Slytherins often gave each other small tokens, considered subtle messages rather than gifts. His had been a monogrammed set of silk handkerchiefs, edged with small jewels. Severus had wondered about the message—it was considered gauche to ask—and, once they'd broken up, sold them for more cash than he'd ever seen. Perhaps the message was that something that was pocket change for Regulus was a month of paid debts for Severus.
Then, a long drought, until a gift arrived with his December post his first year teaching. Albus, glancing his way with twinkling eyes, looking every bit the part of Father Christmas. Another gift followed in January.
Years later, when the school closed, he'd gone deep into Death Eater circles, and neither of them could risk sending packages to each other. Albus had said he would hold on to them until after the war, promising a party "with all of Severus's friends," whatever that meant. He'd adamantly refused, and Albus would increase the scope, eventually calling it "the big bash."
Severus had no great collection of gifts for Albus. But he'd spent their time apart carefully fashioning a phoenix out of stone. He had no great skill at carving and had relied on spells to help with symmetry and form. It was laced with protective charms that had taken him weeks. After Albus had died, he'd flown to the coast and let it fall into the sea.
Now it had started again. He didn't want gifts. He didn't want Potter knowing his birthday. Potter would expect a gift for his birthday, no doubt. Well, he wouldn't get one. Severus would nip this in the bud.
But Potter was leaning forwards in Chair, his eyes bright.
Severus slipped on the holster. It fit perfectly, as if Potter had memorized the dimensions of his arm. The leather was woven together in strips of different colors, the engraved brands of secondhand shoes and belts still visible.
Potter gripped the table edge, his fingers tapping. "I'm sorry it's not perfect."
"Nonsense. Perfection is rarely what it seems." Severus shut his mouth. He was being entirely too complimentary again. But he couldn't help running his hand over the holster. Potter would be in a funk for days if he refused it or threw it out. Besides, it was a way to remember his time with Potter after he left. There was something apt in its imperfections, in how the contrasting pieces fit together so well. He gave Potter a quick nod of acceptance and felt dread rise again.
xx
When it was February again, Severus found himself lost in shades of blue. Far too many shades of blue. But he'd narrowed it down to Cerulean Blue and Bright Cerulean.
He studied one paint sample and then the other. Why hadn't Potter specified? There's a beautiful color called cerulean. It'd look lovely upstairs. And Severus, without being asked, had ended up at B&Q, trying to decide between two identical colors like an idiot. It didn't matter which Potter liked, because he was leaving soon. Severus would make sure of it. He'd brought it up multiple times. The war is over. Your friends would be happy to host you. And finally, we can't hide in this house forever! But Potter had put him off. He had more distraction techniques than this aisle had paint colors.
Why were there two ceruleans? No one could possibly prefer one over the other. Although now that he looked closely, Bright Cerulean was the pale shade of the Himalayan blue poppy, whereas Cerulean Blue was darker, closer to Salvia guaranitica. Potter didn't like the dullness that came from painkillers brewed with the blue poppy, whereas he'd been quite curious about the mental alertness potion Severus brewed with Salvia guaranitica. Cerulean Blue, then. Just to get Potter to shut up about it. He grabbed two pots of paint and headed to the counter.
He wouldn't bother at all if they weren't having an after-Valentine's Day sale, although what house paint had to do with Valentine's Day eluded him. After a year of no income, they were low on funds. He shouldn't buy anything more than the essentials. If they were careful with money, they could last another few months. But he didn't want to last another few months. Perhaps running out of food would finally convince Potter.
He could barely navigate to the register between displays of discounted Valentine's Day cards, sweets, and ugly pink stuffies. The week after a holiday spotlighted how soulless it was—all sugar and scrap for the rubbish bin.
The clouds had finally broken that morning after two weeks of rain, and everyone was out, strolling the pavement. Difficult to find a place to disapparate. He headed for an alley and bumped into a familiar face—familiar to him, anyway.
"Sorry about that," Jeremy Loach said, balancing several bags. One toppled onto the pavement and spilled out several pink stuffies.
Severus sighed and helped Jeremy collect them, waiting for the inevitable.
"Wait." Jeremy paused, pink unicorn in hand. "I know you."
Severus nodded jerkily. "I bought a snowman. You escorted me home." He avoided Tesco just to dodge this conversation, which had quickly become rote.
"That's right. Snape, isn't it? I can't believe I forgot you."
"That makes one of us."
"What?"
"Nothing." The unicorn had fallen onto the pavement again. "Let me help you with that."
Jeremy smiled. "You've changed since our school years."
"Oh?"
"You've warmed up. Life must be going right for you."
Severus froze. "It isn't. It's completely out of sorts."
Energized by his sudden irritation, he went back to the shop and returned the paint. Then he found a place to apparate home and strode into the kitchen.
Potter was cooking potatoes and red beans for lunch—a concession to their limited budget. But he'd added dried herbs, and the scents were enticing, reminding him of the many meals they'd had here and in the garden. So comfortable and easy.
He stood behind Potter, hesitating. The door to the garden was open. He was inclined to follow habit and sit at the table, the charmed air around it chasing away the chill. Enjoy the cup of coffee already there, steam curling invitingly. Pick up the newspaper folded neatly beside it. But he'd relied on habit too long. It was time to talk about the thing that Potter had no interest in talking about.
"Potter…" He hesitated again. Why was he having such difficulty with this?
Potter turned and smiled. "Yes, Severus?"
Ah yes, that. The smile. And something else. Some inner tranquility in the face of Severus's own scowling and sharp retorts. He had lost his ability to intimidate Potter, which left him on rather uncertain footing in disagreements.
Potter gave Chair a tap, and it sidled out to the garden. He placed a glossy blue serving bowl between their plates, full to the brim with beans and sliced potatoes. Another tap, and Chair slid into place.
Severus had offered to try again with Potter's legs, although he had run through every counter-curse he knew. But Potter had waved that away. I'm tired of thinking about them, Severus. I'd rather focus on other things. Anyway, what would Chair do without me?
Severus sank into his seat and drank his coffee in one go. The bitterness was bracing. "Potter," he began again.
Potter had sliced the potatoes into uniform wedges, something he'd picked up from Severus. He set his fork to the side. "Yes, Severus?"
Yes, Severus. The two words Potter always had at the ready, in that sweet, placid voice, whenever Severus raged at him or snapped at him or said anything at all to him. Yes, Severus. With that beatific—idiotic—smile. Maddening. And when had Potter started calling him Severus? It was entirely too disarming. He was reminded of Albus, how he had tried to put people at ease, even when they'd much rather be tense.
Severus folded his hands and leant forwards. "It's time we talked about the spell."
To his credit, Potter didn't feign confusion over the topic at hand. He gazed steadily across the table. "What is it about the spell that bothers you?"
Oh, that was a clever tactic. Make this about Severus, as if it were he who had the issue in need of resolving. He'd used such methods himself as a spy. "You're still hiding. Worse, you've got me hiding with you."
"Hiding is such a loaded term. I prefer to think of it as a bit of a rest. A respite as the world sorts itself out."
"Hmm. And how long is this respite going to last? It's been a year."
Potter's eyes grew troubled. "I hardly need to spell out the danger. You read the Prophet."
Potter wasn't wrong. Reports of hunted-down Death Eaters were understandable. Reports of spouses and relatives of Death Eaters being brought in for questioning months later, less so. Black's card system was in full effect now, and even the most ephemeral links to the Dark Lord were factored in. It was not a good time to be a former Death Eater, or even someone who lived with a former Death Eater.
And yet, he chafed under the rules of his new life. The desire to clear his name and rejoin the world had grown stronger, despite the risks. A cage was still a cage, after all, even if it came with catered meals.
"I do indeed read the Prophet," he replied. Does it not bother you? That our system of justice is failing? The world does not appear to be—as you said—sorting itself out."
"I can't imagine what I could do."
"The name Harry Potter still carries weight—or it would, if you allowed people to remember you. Remember us."
Potter paled. "I doubt people would be impressed by a boy dubbed a savior who got captured and held prisoner for six years."
"And grew into the man who killed the Dark Lord."
"Tom killed Voldemort. And Alzarad killed Tom. Perhaps the Ministry should ask Alzarad for advice. He has thoughts on the treatment of dragons."
Severus leant back and rubbed his brow. "This can't go on forever. How do you imagine we'll continue? Shall we grow old here, barely having any contact with the outside world?"
Potter's smile was weaker this time. "Is that so terrible? I enjoy living here."
"Do you? Or are you simply afraid of being anywhere else?"
Potter's gaze grew steely. "Don't tell me what I'm afraid of."
Severus kept his temper in check. He needed Potter to hear this. "We've no money. The amount I'd saved will soon run out, and your fortune was plundered when the goblins switched sides. We need income unless you plan on wandering the moors."
Potter's face took on a dreamy softness. "That sounds rather romantic."
"Yes, well, I haven't the boots for it. The spell, Potter."
Potter nodded. "Perhaps gradually this time. Not a sudden inrush, but memories surfacing naturally. And only a few people at first. I don't want the entire world—" He stopped, his mouth twisting. "I don't want to be that Harry Potter again."
"Hermione, then. After her unsuccessful political run, she's kept a low profile, but she still works at the Ministry."
Potter's eyes widened. "You've been in contact?"
"I've kept tabs on her indirectly." He couldn't resist the occasional apparition to the wizarding world, careful to keep his face hidden. "She no longer needs missives from the Phoenix."
"She's still okay?"
"As durable as a steel teapot. She may be a good place to start. Ron Weasley as well. They could ease us back into society. We can meet and discuss it."
Potter shifted. "At the Ministry?"
Potter's memories of the Ministry building were another hurdle to overcome, and one that could wait. "Walking into the Ministry is too much exposure at this juncture. Perhaps they'll come to us."
Potter arranged and re-arranged the angles of his fork and knife against his plate. "What are we supposed to do after all this time? Invite them to tea?"
"Why not? It's a start."
"Couldn't we contact some associate of yours?"
"Most of my associates died in that last battle. And the ones from Hogwarts see me as a traitor. Hermione can ensure I don't end up arrested." He frowned. "You allowed them to remember you before, when no one else could."
"I didn't want to be completely forgotten."
Something about the way he said it, the way his fingers gripped his fork, made Severus want to reach out. Instead, he softened his voice. "You won't be forgotten. There's not much chance of my forgetting you. You could barely manage that even when you wanted to."
"True." Potter smiled and gave Chair a tap. "Let me get you more coffee."
"Potter…" This was why he rarely softened his voice. How Potter was still serving him lunch after a year. "We haven't finished this conversation."
"Surely it can wait. Your food is getting cold."
"There are warming charms."
"Well, I'm hungry. Aren't you?" Potter refilled the coffee and returned to his side of the table.
He was, in fact. Fretting over Potter consumed a lot of energy. He cut into a potato and opened the paper. He only swallowed a mouthful before he froze. "I'm afraid we may need your friends' help sooner than expected." He slid the paper across the table and pointed to the front page article.
Ministry Bans Mind Magic
On the anniversary of You-Know-Who's defeat, the Ministry has decreed a ban on spells that affect the mind, including occlumency, legilimency, and memory charms. Minister of Magic Sirius Black has said that the ban will take effect next week. "It's well known that [You-Know-Who] and his followers used such spells to torture and interrogate. They're dark magic."
Parliamentary secretary Ron Weasley said that they were working on methods to detect mind magic, and those using it would face fines and sanctions, if not arrest…
Potter looked up, his eyes solemn. "Invite them to tea, you said?"
Severus nodded grimly. Get Potter's friends here and get them talking again. The rest should come naturally. And if not, he'd make it happen. He was going to get Potter out of his house, no matter what it took.