FIC: Unearthed (PG-13)
Title: Unearthed
Type: Fic
Age-Range Category: Five
Characters: Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley
Author: titc
Beta(s):
Writcraft
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Years after the war, a hand shoots out of the dirt. It turns out Severus Snape lives, after all. Sort of.
It's a slow process.
First, there's the weight, pressing down on his chest, on his eyelids. Then, there's the taste of dirt on his tongue, the grittiness on his gums, the air he can't breathe because there's no air, and that's when the need to get out out out kicks in.
He fights against the dirt as a primal and uncontrollable dread tears through him. He manages to move a leg, an arm; he punches and he kicks and he twists every which way until, finally, he can feel one of his hands is free, grasping nothing but air, nothing but freedom. He struggles towards the air; the little consciousness he has starts to fade away as his brain shuts down from lack of oxygen, as the little energy the panic gave him dwindles to nothing, and finally-finally, his head isn't compressed by dirt, dirt, and more dirt. He pants for a moment, until he becomes dimly aware of something-noise, he realises. Noises, loud… shrieks?
"AAAAH!"
Severus scrabbles around with his free hand and tries to hoist himself out some more, but he's exhausted. He doesn't manage to free more than half his torso, which is not a lot of progress. He thinks he should, perhaps, try and open his eyes; it feels rather chilly and it might not be too bright out here.
"Ugh," he says.
"Oh, fuck me," he hears. Ha. He recognised the words, and the voice isn't entirely unfamiliar.
He rubs his eyes, and tentatively slits them open; it's fairly dark, and he opens his eyes a bit more, looking around. His sight is blurry, and he can only make out vague shapes, until a bright light is shoved in his face. It's his turn to shriek and he shields his face from the light; it feels like whoever is there is trying to stab his brain through his very eyes.
"Blimey, it's really him!"
The voice reminds Severus of exploding cauldrons, toads hopping around in classrooms full of volatile potions, and foolishly brave Gryffindors…
"L'gb'm," he pushes out. He sounds like he's gargled gravel-well, that's not far from the truth, actually. "F'ck."
"Professor! You're alive!"
No shit, Sherlock.
"Let me help you, just-oh crap oh crap, wait, I'll send a message to Pomfrey and McGonagall, oh Merlin, right, take my hand-can you take my hand?"
Has the boy forgotten he's a bloody wizard? What did the last seven years teach him if not how to use magic, however badly?
Longbottom pulls on his arm and almost dislocates his shoulder, until he eventually remembers he has a wand and uses it to levitate most of the dirt away from Severus. And, finally, finally, Severus is out of that hole. He can't even hold himself up; he collapses into a probably very undignified pile right by the side of the grave that wasn't, panting and spitting out bits of dirt and roots.
"Neville, what is… Oh! Oh, Severus!"
He doesn't need to check who it is; he recognises Minerva's voice. She pats his cheek and lifts his torso, and he understands most of what she says, although paying attention to the flow of words is more and more tiring. All he gets is that they all thought him dead, which he must admit he believed himself, and this and that about Potter and the Dark Lord and Hogwarts and Merlin, although that last one might have been a curse. She manhandles him some more and he suspects a hug is coming, but he's so unused to all of that that he promptly throws up grave dirt and possibly a few worms all over her, before blessedly losing his grip on consciousness.
*
He comes to in the Hospital Wing; the smell there never changes. Although… he gives to another sniff, and is mildly horrified to realise that the potions are all slightly off. Not off as in bad, just… off. Oh. They're not his; someone else brewed them. Either Poppy doesn't like Death Eater-made potions, or… or, he was stuck underground for longer than he first thought.
He doesn't like that second idea one bit.
Right, first things first: he's at Hogwarts, not Azkaban. Not Azkaban yet, at any rate. Minerva didn't try to kill him earlier, so perhaps his true allegiances are known, but can he trust any of that? Could it all be a ploy to… to… he sighs; he has no idea if it's a scheme from one side or the other, if someone is toying with him and expecting him to reveal his betrayal. Lulling him into a false sense of security, until he reveals…
"Professor," he hears to his left. "I know you're awake."
Oh, bollocks. He refuses to reply, and keeps his eyes closed.
"I can't believe you're alive; I thought you died. I saw you die!"
Saw him? Oh, no. It's Potter, isn't it? Potter's come to-he represses a shudder-talk to him. Severus sighs, manages to lift a hand to his face and rub it, and blinks from behind his fingers. He keeps his eyes barely open, and peers at the shape in front of him. The room is mercifully dark, so he takes his hand away and opens his eyes a bit more. It's not comfortable, but still very far from the stabbing pain he felt from getting a lit wand in his face.
"Potter," he says. It sounds more like a low, raspy grunt, but it'll do.
The blurry shape moves closer, wood grates on stone, and Potter sits by the bed. "I owled Narcissa; I know the Malfoys will be chuffed to learn you're alive."
"Chuffed." That doesn't sound like a word any self-respecting Malfoy would utter, but Severus doubts the boy spends his time with them.
"Yeah. She came with me to the Shack after we won; we didn't… "
"Won?"
"Er… " A beat, then Potter speaks again. "I thought the Headmistress told you? Voldemort's dead. It's been more than five years, actually. She told you, right?"
"Five… " Five years? No, no…
"You didn't know?" Potter's voice is very small, but Severus doesn't give a flying flobberworm's non-existent arse about his contrition. "Oh, I shouldn't have dumped this on you right now; you're barely out of the grave, crap, I'm botching it all up… "
Quick footsteps, the screech of metal on metal, and when Severus turns his head in the direction of the sound he's immediately assaulted by sunlight streaming through the windows. "Auugh!"
"Oh no, what did I do? Help! Help, someone!"
"G'way," Severus grunts. It feels like his eyes are melting out of their sockets, like Nagini has bit him right through his skull, like there's a miniature Dark Lord Crucio-ing every cell in his brain, like…
Quick footsteps clacking on the flagstones, then: "What did you do to my patient, Mr Potter?"
"I don't know; he's-I think he's crying blood! Did I hurt him?"
"Close those curtains first; that's what's hurting him."
"The curtains? The curtains are hurting him? That doesn't make sense; why won't people just tell me the truth?" the boy grumbles, but he complies.
At last, the burning, piercing pain abates somewhat, and Severus can breathe a little better.
"How are you feeling, Severus?"
"Shit."
"Shit? Like shit?" She tuts. "Well, I'd prefer a different word choice, but it gets the idea across. Can you let me take a look at your face, now?"
He doesn't move; he can tell the light has thankfully dimmed again from behind the blankets he's hastily pulled over himself, but he's not willing to risk lowering them.
"Please?"
"He was crying blood, Madam Pomfrey. Blood!"
"Yes, Mr Potter, you've said." She pats his wool-covered head and gentles her voice for Severus. "Please? I'll be careful; I promise." She stresses the I, and even Oblivious Potter doesn't miss it, given his indignantly whispered "Hey!"
"Ow." Severus hopes that the short word is enough to convey his pain and his desire to avoid more pain. He's had his fill, thank you very much.
The mattress dips as Poppy sits on the edge of it, patient and quiet, and after a while, Severus starts pulling the blankets down. He keeps his eyes tightly shut, but he can feel her fingers on his skin, then healing magic over his face, seeping into his pores, his dermis, down to the bone. He tries to keep still, but he's never liked having magic aimed at his person and in particular at face, healing or not.
"There's only a little blood, Mr Potter. It's mostly dirt that must have been stuck in his tear-ducts. There, Severus, you're all cleaned up now." The mattress bounces back when she rises. "And Mr Potter, do refrain from letting in too much light when the patient has just spent five years underground."
Oh, right. Five bloody years.
"He survived that snake; a little sunlight won't kill him!"
"Fuckin' hurts," Severus grinds out.
"Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, I didn't think, sorry."
Obviously.
"You know, I've thought about it, and I think I know what happened."
"Open'd curt'ns?"
"No! No, I mean, why you're alive."
"What's your theory, Mr Potter? I found traces of antivenin in his blood, but," she pats Severus's hand over the blanket, "I'm assuming you took some as a preventative measure?"
He nods, gingerly. He's not risking spraining his neck so soon after crawling out of a grave.
"Um. I'd just come back to life myself, right? So I… had the… magic?"
"Ah, this clears things up. Well, it's a good thing you're an Auror and not a Healer, Mr Potter." Severus can tell she's more amused than annoyed, but he's more annoyed than amused when she leaves him to the tender mercies of the boy, shutting the door behind her.
"I didn't want to say in front of her, but… when Mrs Malfoy and me" (Severus winces) "went to get your body, I still had the Elder Wand and the Cloak with me."
Severus doesn't really follow so far; he raises his eyebrows and hopes Potter understands he's going to need a better explanation.
"Right, the Deathly Hallows-have you ever heard of them?"
"Hm." They're more than just a tale, then. Did Dumbledore actually plan for Potter to use those?
"So, I had them all at one point, including the Stone, and they helped me come back to life after, well, you know. It had been the Headmaster's plan, right?"
He died. Potter actually died, and was resurrected.
"I think we buried you not too far from where I dropped the Stone when I went to fight Voldemort that last time, and since I still had the other two… bam."
"Bam?"
"Yeah, like they say in the stories, Master of Death if you have the three Hallows and all that."
… and now Severus has another life debt to a Potter.
"So I figured it means we've saved each other's lives, right? I don't owe you a life debt anymore? I was worried, you know; I thought that since you were dead I couldn't repay it and that it was bad luck or something."
"No debt." Severus isn't going to argue the opposite, even if he thinks the boy is really not the sharpest knife about this, or about anything actually. They're clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel to recruit Aurors these days.
"Cool! Okay, I think I should maybe let you rest now; you look knackered." Soles squeak on the floor, and he speaks again. "Can I come back another day? I'd really like to-but only if you want it too."
No, Severus doesn't want it either.
"And I'm sorry about the curtains."
"s'fine."
"Great!"
Potter leaves, whistling some horrid tune (or out of tune) and having misunderstood Severus, possibly on purpose.
Which means he will be back.
Fuck.
*
While he's still mostly bed-ridden, stuck inside a room all day (and all night) long, Severus has to endure several visits from his former colleagues. It is, of course, about as far from pleasant as one could imagine. Eyes are dabbed (Sprout), false cheer is offered (Flitwick), and empty lies are told about his House doing so very well and Potions class being a favourite among students (Slughorn). The worst, however, is Minerva, who comes in, points her wand at a chair, and transfigures it into a frame.
Into which Dumbledore appears.
"No," Severus says, gripping the blankets between his fingers so he doesn't throw something, anything, at the painting. His voice has improved from before, which is good, but he deeply, deeply regrets that his sight also has. It means he can't escape the two Heads' stares, their fake compassion, the falsehood he can see on their faces.
"My boy," Dumbledore starts.
No. Absolutely not. "Don't call me 'My boy.' I was your tool, your spy, your killer, but now I have nothing else to give to you."
"But… "
Minerva waves her wand and the old Headmaster dashes from the frame just before it turns back into a chair. Severus wonders if his painting survived; if it did, it was a close call.
"He insisted," she says.
"And you've always wanted his approval."
"Well, for a time. But he's not as popular these days as he was five years ago."
"Oh?" He settles back against the pillows. "His fashion choices were criticised in Witch Weekly?"
"Severus," she chides. "Not everyone can stick to a one-colour palette."
He looks down at the green shirt he's wearing courtesy of Pomfrey, looks back at her, and raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, you know what I mean. But to go back to Albus… well, it's all because of Harry."
"Of course it is."
"Do let me finish, please." She folds her hands in her lap before continuing. "You remember giving your memories to him, don't you?"
"Yes." When he was dying a death that didn't stick.
"Well, they made quite an impression. He campaigned afterwards to 'set the records straight,' as he put it, and made sure that your name was cleared and that Albus's tendency to, ah, focus on the larger picture at the expense of individuals' wellbeing, might have been… questionable."
"That's one way of putting it; he sent the boy to live with Petunia Evans, and after that it only went downhill."
"And he wasn't too kind to others either. Like you."
"At least he didn't pretend to like me much."
"Well." She clears her throat. "Harry's been very insistent on telling everyone about your virtues, and Albus's flaws."
"He's got a big mouth."
"He's grown to admire you, Severus. In fact, he's… oh, I shouldn't tell you; I think he'll want to tell you himself."
"Tell me what?"
"You'll see. Oh, don't make that face; it's nothing to worry about."
Which of course means it is. "He's told me enough already."
"Ah, yes, he's mentioned telling you about what happened after you… died, for want of a better word, and he said he might have overwhelmed you."
"He tried to burn my retinas off."
"Well, at least you didn't throw up earthworms on him."
He smirks. "It wasn't all earthworms."
"Small mercies." Minerva waves her wand and a tray appears. "Tea, Severus?"
She sends a cup to hover by his side when he nods, and he is glad that he's getting stronger everyday. Apparently, being a corpse (or as good as) for several years wreaks havoc on one's muscle tone, and holding the saucer steadily feels like a win.
"Thank you," he says. He can be polite, when the occasion calls for it, and while he won't admit it out loud, he is not proud of the earthworm-vomiting incident.
Minerva looks over her shoulder, then takes a small flask out of her robe. "Sugar?" she asks a bit too loudly, winking at him.
"Don't mind if I do."
She tops his tea up with some very welcome whisky that Poppy would be unhappy to learn he's drinking, and replies with an equally slightly-too-loud, "Cheers."
She rolls her eyes at his ambiguous reply, and he picks up the silver spoon so he can pretend he's stirring the sugar into his drink. It's warm, a bit too warm for comfort, and he wonders how hot the tea must be to have heated the metal this much.
He only has a patchy idea of what happened after Nagini bit him, and she fills in the blanks as he drinks his just-hot-enough tea while avoiding contact with the strangely still-hot spoon. He notices Minerva glancing at it a bit too often, but in that moment, he pays it no mind. This is Hogwarts, after all; magic seeps into everywhere and everything, and silver is known to be particularly permeable to it.
He enjoys his tea and starts to wonder if, perhaps, he's not going to be sent to Azkaban as soon as he can stand for more than five minutes. He could start plotting a way to get more creature comforts such as Firewhisky, and also better food than the bland porridge-like thing Poppy insists on feeding him. He'd really fancy some black pudding, actually…
*
He's catching up on the back issues of Potions Quarterly, comfortably settled in a wide armchair near the window but away from direct sunlight, when the Malfoys come in, all three of them. Oh, no-all four of them. The thing Draco is carrying has a tuft of blonde hair peeking out from the swaddling blanket, and Severus knows this means another generation of Malfoys is out to turn his life into a nightmare. Again.
Hell no.
"Severus!" Narcissa, ever the well-bred Black scion, rushes to him and takes his hands in hers. "Oh, they're like ice-aren't they feeding you here, making sure you're comfortable?"
Lucius hovers near the door, giving Severus a stiff nod but not trying for more interaction. He looks worn, older; there are deep lines on his face that were not there before. Severus feels a small twinge of vindictiveness at the sight.
"I am well, Narcissa." Well, mostly; his blood circulation is still abnormally slow; it's an odd side-effect of whatever happened when he was six feet under. It explains why his extremities are always cold these days, but he's not about to discuss the details of his medical file with her, or anyone really. "How are you?"
"Oh, we are all doing well, in no small part thanks to you."
"And Harry," Draco says.
Harry? Are they on a first-name basis these days?
"Yes, yes, and him. Come here, Draco, do introduce your son to our good friend Severus."
She's laying it on a bit thick, Severus thinks, but he doesn't know what is in store for him as soon as he steps out of the Hospital Wing, so he puts it in the Win column under Potential Allies, instead of the Annoying column. He is mostly safe for now, in this room he both desperately wants to escape and can't imagine leaving only to face whatever, whoever is waiting for him outside.
He looks at the youngest Malfoy and hopes his face displays the appropriate expression. "A son." He tries for enthusiasm, but it sounds more like he's about to give a eulogy.
"Professor, I'm so glad you're alive!" Draco sits next to him and holds out the infant. "This is my son Scorpius," he announces with a vapid expression on his face.
"The next Malfoy heir," Lucius says from the door. Both Narcissa and Draco roll their eyes.
"Yes, dear," she replies.
"But first of all, he's my son."
Lucius sniffs, but doesn't rise to the bait.
"He looks healthy."
"He is!"
Severus makes semi-polite noises throughout Draco's enthusiastic depiction of his life as a family man, and doesn't really pay attention to the details. As the sun moves in the sky, the light spilling through the window gets closer and closer to him; he wonders idly if it will burn his skin like it burned his eyes a few days before. Ever since that moment, he's made sure to keep away from strong lights, but as it is he won't be able to escape from the shadows unless the Malfoys leave in the next fifteen minutes.
They don't, of course, because Narcissa believes he absolutely must know about her daughter-in-law, about the peacock drama in the formal gardens, and how reconnecting with her sister is proof of how not prejudiced she is nowadays.
He watches as his skin reddens when sunlight touches it, tugs on his sleeves to cover his hands and hopes he doesn't end with a sunburn on his face later on. He's relieved when they leave just as the sun reaches his chest.
He's starting to think about what must have happened to him as he was lying in a grave, layers and layers of dirt pressing down upon his corpse and changing his nature. He resolves to brew the strongest sun protection potion he can as soon as he gets his hands on a cauldron again, which is not going to be anytime soon if Poppy has anything to say about it. She barely lets him go to the bathroom on his own now, but he remembers there's a mirror there. He has never paid attention to it; he knows what he looks like, but now he wonders what the Malfoys saw, what people see when they look at him.
Once he's there, leaning against the sink with both hands, he braces himself and opens his eyes. He has no reflection, only a vague, ghostly shape that seems to fade the more he tries to find its contours. It's still more than he expected; is he a ghost, then? No, he can't be: he drinks, he eats. He feels, he tells himself, tightening his grip on the porcelain. He's no zombie, no vampire, no ghost; he would recognise the signs, but they're not adding up. Or are they? No, no they're not, and yes, of course he would recognise the signs; he's no fool. He closes his eyes and tries to convince himself he's better off out of the grave, and that he's not in Azkaban.
"Looking a bit pale today, eh?" the mirror says.
Severus throws a towel over it and strides out. Enchanted mirrors are dishonest, aggravating things that he should know better than to listen to. He never has, and he's not about to start today.
*
Ten days after he dug himself out from what should have been his final resting place, Severus feels strong enough to leave Hogwarts's Hospital Wing for good, and perhaps return to the Wizarding world as a full member of society. He cannot be sure he will be allowed to, but if he is, he'll need a way to make enough money to sustain himself. Still, he's got options now, more than he ever thought he would have - as long as he isn't immediately turned over to the Dementors to feed on, of course.
He ponders turning to academia more seriously, dedicating himself to writing better schoolbooks, perhaps developing a few potions. He could also have his own shop, or rather an owl-order business, so he doesn't have to deal with clients directly. Now he's unshackled from any and all master he's ever had, he's tentatively starting to look forward to the future, and in his future, he will have absolutely no Dark Lord, no Headmaster, absolutely no one holding Severus's life in their hands and doing with it as they please. He will not be forced to stay in Spinner's End, in Hogwarts, anywhere he doesn't want to be; he'll be free. Unless he's not, because really, after all he's done, should he be free?
His thoughts keep going in circles, from a glimmer of hope to all the reasons why he shouldn't indulge in foolish daydreams that can only lead to disappointment. He finds it exhausting, but he can't stop; he needs to be prepared for all possible outcomes.
When Minerva makes vague noises about enjoying Hogwarts's hospitality a bit longer and taking his time to fully recover, Severus is back to worrying again. His pervading fears about Dementors and Azkaban resurface, in spite of Minerva's reassurances. A knock on the door makes him look up from his notes to see Ronald Weasley in Auror garb, looking at him from the doorway. He grabs his wand and holds it tightly under the table, already preparing a few spells at the back of his mind. If they're to drag him back to Azkaban, he won't go quietly.
"Weasley."
"Hello, Professor." Weasley's eyes take in the drawn curtains, the thick blanket Severus has wrapped around his shoulders, the candles hovering above the makeshift desk. "You know, if you let in the sun, you might not feel so cold or need that many candles."
"Why are you here?"
"The Headmistress didn't tell you?"
"Clearly not. Tell me what?"
"Well, I'm supposed to escort you out, for safety, you understand. Boss said since I'm good at crowd management and stuff, it should be me."
"Crowd management."
"Well, everybody knows you and what you did, so. There are, um, people waiting at the gates. For you."
Ah. To curse him, presumably. In spite of Minerva's words, he can't imagine there are not a lot of witches and wizards dying to make him pay for murdering the Great Albus Dumbledore. Preferably in blood-Severus's blood, spilled on the gravel at the foot of the two columns bearing the winged boars. "Of course."
"Are you planning on hexing me, sir? Cause I can tell it's your wand under the table, and I don't think you're happy to see me. I'd rather not, you know, get into a fight right here."
"Why not?"
"Well, you're a right git, but I don't think my boss would appreciate me kicking your arse."
Severus sniffs. "You assume you'd do the kicking."
"'course! I haven't spent years stuck in a grave, but I have spent years training and working as an Auror. So." Weasley is confident, relaxed but alert, a far cry from his younger self. As much as it pains Severus to admit it, he's not wrong. Weasley would overpower him in a duel; Severus is far from fully recovered, and his wand, which was found in his not-quite-grave and surprisingly handed back to him without a fuss, has not been responding as quickly and reliably as it used to. He simply can't fight for his life with it.
"Will there be a trial, at least?" Not that the Wizengamot's idea of justice is anything close to actual justice.
"A trial?" Weasley scratches his head, and suddenly reminds Severus of the student he used to be. He was never as deviously clever as the twins, but he's always been smarter than he looked, not that it says much. "Nah, no trial; why would there be one?"
Severus looks around. "Am I allowed to bring anything with me?" Not that it will matter much if he is given the Kiss on arrival, but he wants to cling to what he can; he will treasure the smallest choice as long as it is still his. Still, that letter opener looks sharp enough, and he makes a note to pick it up as soon as he can. He'll make someone bleed if it's the last thing he does.
"Er, anything you want? I mean, the furniture is Hogwarts's, but yeah, otherwise, knock yourself out."
Will he even be fed, wherever Weasley's taking him? Eyes locked on Weasley, Severus picks the goblet of nutrition potion Poppy left him, and drains it. It's quite thick, and a dark red colour with all the iron that's into it; when he sets the goblet down on the table, he can see Weasley's eyes on it.
"Wait, that was the potion's colour, not the glass's?"
Severus bares his teeth in a vague approximation of a smile, knowing that his teeth are probably slightly stained red. "Yes."
"Are you drinking… blood?"
Not exactly, although he supposes that the colour and texture aren't so dissimilar. But he's not-it's not blood, and that is all there is to it. "Don't be an idiot. What do they teach you, in Auror training?"
"That vampires drink blood, don't like sunlight, are very pale, and-we were right! We were right all that time, you are a vampire!"
"Asinine," Severus mutters.
"Is that how you survived? Oh Merlin, it is; it really is! Cor, I should have known; all the signs were there!"
He knocks his head with a loose fist, makes a whole production of berating himself, but leaves his own wand in its holster, and seems happy to ham it up instead of throwing a Body-Bind at Severus before dragging him to prison. He's either even more of an idiot that Severus thought him to be, or he's trying to lull him into…
"Hey, don't make that face; vampires aren't killed on sight or anything bad like that. Unless you start eating people, of course."
Severus rolls his eyes. "I am not a vampire." He refuses to entertain the idea that he could be.
"If you say so. Pretty bat-like, though."
"Oh, shut up, Weasley. I can guarantee you're not the first, tenth, or thousandth idiot to call me that."
"I bet. And you've been called worse too, right?"
Severus narrows his eyes. Is Weasley trying to be… genial? "I have, including from you."
"Eh, as I said, you're a git. Well, nice to chat and all, but I'd like to be home before nightfall, you know? McGonagall already sent your stuff to your home so take your… essays? Are you writing essays in your spare time? Ugh!… and we'll be on our way."
"My stuff? Home?"
"Well yeah, she said all your things from your quarters were packed and stored here after the war, and when you, er, rejoined the land of the living, Harry made sure your house was in one piece and safe from intrusion. As I said, lots of folks want a piece of you, but Harry's got pretty good at spells to deter curious eyes and reporter-repellent charms, so you should be left alone."
Severus stares. It's a lot to take in, and he's still stuck on… his things? his house?
"You all right?"
"My… house?"
"Yeah, it's still standing. Harry said you'd left pretty good wards on it that had barely decayed after five years; the house was just there waiting for you to come back. Just try not to drink your neighbours' blood or we'd have to intervene, eh?"
"But… " His fingers loosen and he brings his hand up from under the table to set his wand on his notes before he drops it, drops the one thing that still makes him feel just a little bit safe. "Azkaban?"
"What? No! You've got an Order of Merlin and everything; they don't put war heroes in Azkaban. Even vampire-like ones."
"I'm no hero."
"Can't disagree there." Weasley has the gall to wink at him, too. "But you still got an Order of Merlin. It's been… un-posthumous-ed or something; Harry said he'd bring it to you. Shacklebolt promised you'd get all past five years' worth of pension retroactively, too. It's not huge, but five years' in one go is still a tidy little sum of money."
House. Order. Money. Freedom? He's reeling.
So Weasley takes charge; he's loud and he takes a lot of room, with his broad gestures and constant chatter, but he's also more observant than Severus would ever have given him credit for. He takes Severus's arm to steady him when he stumbles in the stairs, he steps in front of him and shoulders their way through the crowd gathered at the gates, and he uses a nifty spell to keep a bubble of free space around them when people try to swarm them again. Not in hate, not to curse him, but Severus is still extremely happy that his robes cover most of him and that the wide brim of his hat hides most of his face.
As soon as they're past the anti-Apparition wards, Weasley takes them to Spinner's End, and Severus just stands there blinking owlishly at a door he thought he'd never see again. He's always had mixed feelings about this place, but it's his, and that means something.
After a long moment, he turns his head a little, keeping his eyes on the door. "Thank you, Weasley."
"Er, yeah, well. Thank you, I guess. You, um. You're not just a git. Still a git, but not just a git."
Severus's lips quirk up. "Don't overdo it."
"Yeah, reckon you're right. Mione says I've improved my emotional intelligence, but I don't want her to think I'm getting too good, you know? I'd disappoint her. Oh, she says hi, by the way."
"Granger?"
"Granger-Weasley, these days. She stayed home to work on her second book, but I think she'll come knocking at your door pretty soon. She's already planning a third." He sounds fond, proud even.
"Congratulations." Severus rests his hand against the door, feels it unlatch both physically and magically. Should he do the polite thing? He feels like he should. "I suppose I ought to invite you in, but I have no idea how things are inside. I probably don't even have tea."
"You've got tea and more; Harry took out the stuff that had gone bad and McGonagall made sure to restock your cupboards, so you're good to go for now."
Severus pushes the door and it opens with only a slight squeak. It's a familiar sight inside; nothing is out of place. "Ah." He isn't sure what else he could say.
"Right, that's that. I'll be on my way. Welcome home, Snape."
The use of his name feels more intimate, more gentle than the title Weasley used earlier. He's speaking to a fellow man, not the hated figure of authority from his childhood; Severus finds he prefers it. He's not a professor any longer, not a Head of House, not a Headmaster; he's just one man, with one name, ready to make his way in the world on his own terms.
And he can have tea while he ponders how he's going to go about achieving that.
*
By the time he receives his first (unexpected, unwanted) visitor, he's forgotten all about Potter's promise to talk to him again and Weasley's reminder he'd come with the Order of Merlin that was, improbably enough, awarded to him. But Severus is painfully reminded of it when he opens the door and finds himself face to face with-oh, no. It's a horrifying trifecta of a regular Potter, a toddler Potter, and an infant Potter. Decidedly too many Potters for one Severus Snape to deal with.
"No," he says.
Potter only smiles gormlessly. "Hello, Professor."
"I'm not a professor any longer."
"All right. What should I call you?"
"You don't need to call me anything."
"Hm." He turns to the toddler, sadly without dropping the one in his arms (although one less Potter in the world would not be such a loss, Severus thinks), and crouches to be at his level. "James?"
The child takes his fingers out of his mouth and looks at his father, eyes empty.
"James."
The child sighs, glares at Severus from under a dark, messy fringe, and mumbles, "'lo."
Potter shakes his head, apparently amused, as he stands back up. "Probably the best we're going to get out of him; he's not too happy that we're not at the park today."
"What is stopping you from going?"
"Well, Ginny's busy and I-look, can we do this inside? Or do you want to keep chatting on your doorstep?"
"I don't want to do this, as you say."
Still, Severus knows some battles can't be won; the sooner he gets this visit over with, the sooner he'll get all Potters out of his life. He opens the door slightly wider and stalks to his kitchen, keeping an ear out to make sure they close the door once they're inside; one can't trust a Potter with even the obvious.
"Thank you," Potter says, ushering the boy in the sitting room and taking a small package out of his pocket with his free hand. While he waits for the water to boil Muggle-style, Severus watches as Potter, rather deftly, opens the package one-handedly, draws his wand, enlarges several items, and settles the child with his own little stool, desk, crayons, paper, and what looks like playdough in colours Severus definitely doesn't remember from his own childhood.
"I have Yorkshire Tea and Typhoo."
"Er, whichever you're having, ta. Can I have some water for James?"
Severus curls his lip at the name, but takes a glass out and spells it against breakage before setting it on the old, chipped tray. He walks back into the sitting room with the tray floating behind him, and finds Potter sitting in his favourite armchair.
"Please make yourself comfortable," he says.
"Oh! Oh, right, that was a bit rude; I guess." He starts to stand up but Severus shrugs and waves for him to stay where he is.
"It doesn't matter. Why did you come, and with two children to boot?"
"Well, I thought Ron told you; I've come to give you your Order of Merlin." Potter waves his wand and the overly-gilded box appears.
"You could have owled it and gone to the park with your offspring."
"I could've, sure, but I wanted to see you."
"I am still in the dark as to why."
"Well… " Potter's eyes fall to the infant in his arms. "This is my second son," he says.
"I suppose congratulations are in order."
Potter gives him a quick grin, like he's amused and not offended. Is Severus losing his touch?
"What did you name him, Sirius?"
"Oh no. James's middle name is Sirius." Potter laughs when Severus makes what is probably the most horrified face of his life. "Right, I thought that might not please you. But him? Ah, we went for something different. Me and Ginny, I mean." He looks a bit too slyly at Severus, as if he's well aware that he's butchering grammar, and Severus grits his teeth and refuses to rise to the bait.
"Fascinating." He stands by the sofa, arms crossed and glaring at the teapot. One more minute, and he'll pour.
Potter ignores the glaring, of course; he's never been too observant. "We decided that if it was a girl, we'd name her Lily Luna, and if it was a boy… " He looks up at Severus. "We called him Albus Severus."
"You… " Severus's voice peters out. He knows he's staring, but he can't - Albus Severus? What kind of cursed name is that, for a child that is not even yet aware of much beyond hunger, discomfort, pain?
"I thought, we all thought you were dead, so I didn't ask you, obviously. But I guessed that without the two of you, I wouldn't be here, and Voldemort" (Severus winces) "would have won."
"It's a mouthful," Severus finally manages. It's all he can say for now, out of all the many swirling things in his brain clamouring to come out.
"Yeah, true; that's why we call him Al."
"But… why?"
Potter shrugs. "It felt right. Still does."
"Does it?" Severus murmurs, sitting (rather heavily) on his parents' old sofa. It creaks under him, and he suddenly feels as old and worn as that worthless piece of furniture he should have thrown out decades ago. But he still remembers leaning against his mother as she read him the Tales of Beedle the Bard on this very sofa, and he has never managed to bring himself to actually see it through.
He's shaken out of his memories when he hears Potter pouring tea in the two cups and setting the pot back on the tray. He's sliding his wand back up his sleeve when Severus finally looks at him.
"I'm sorry; I didn't think it would upset you."
"Those names are a heavy burden," he replies, voice low.
"The past is a heavy burden, but we learn from it. We can take inspiration from it, but it's not… our names are not a guideline on how to live our lives, or who we are."
"Although it should be said that Severus is not a name that fostered a warm and nurturing personality in me."
Potter snickers. "Well, no. But you got the Roman nose out of it, eh?"
Severus surprises himself with a burst of laughter at that, and it feels like he's just been slammed back into his body. He hasn't laughed, he hasn't had a genuine, honest laugh, in a long, long time. "Cheap shot, Potter," he manages once he can string two syllables together.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Would you like to see him? Your namesake?"
"See him?" Severus eyes the bundle warily; the infant has been quiet since Potter's arrival, but he doubts this would continue if Severus came too near; he has never had the most soothing effect on children. At least the older one has kept busy with his crayons and not bothered them so far.
"He doesn't bite; he doesn't even have teeth." Potter doesn't wait for an answer and stands up, crosses the space that kept them safely apart, and plops himself right next to Severus. The sofa creaks some more, and then suddenly Severus has a very small, very warm bundle thrust into his arms. He instinctively tightens his hold and slowly looks down. Only a tuft of jet-black hair is visible, but Potter leans over and pulls the blanket down enough that the child's face is uncovered.
"He was born with that hair," he says softly. "James's is more of a dark brown, but I think Al takes after you."
"I'm not the father, Potter."
He laughs. "No, right, you're not. But it's fitting, don't you think? And look… " He tickles the child's belly through the fabric and Severus freezes; why is he waking him up? Babies are loud, yes? "Don't worry, he's a really quiet one."
And he is. The child yawns, makes a disgusting wet noise with his mouth, and blinks. His eyes are bright green, even more vivid than Potter's, or maybe it's that he doesn't wear glasses.
"There's magic in your son," he whispers. That hair, those eyes. No Muggle or Squib newborn would come to the world with them. Lily's eyes had been so luminous, too. He swallows.
"Yes, both are definitely magical, but with Al, it's been very obvious from birth." He coos at his son, who wriggles in Severus's arms. "Oh, are you comfy, Al?"
"You should take him back." Severus moves to return the child to his father, but Potter lays a hand on his arm and pushes it back.
"You're not going to break him. Come on, walk around a bit. He'll go right back to sleep."
"I don't think… "
"Go on; I need to see what James has been drawing. Please?" He speaks like he's asking Severus for help, for a favour; and Severus is a bit lost. It's probably not life-debt material, but perhaps something he can dangle in front of Potter one day, when it is his turn to need something from Potter. Not that he plans on ever seeing him again, but…
The child snuffles, and Severus stands up. He takes slow steps and then, when the child doesn't protest, slightly faster ones. He walks around the sofa, then to the bookshelves, then back to the sofa; all the while, Potter is mostly focused on his older son but regularly glancing at Severus and nodding, like he believes Severus needs reassurance.
He doesn't, of course.
He ends his little stroll in front of the window, once the child appears to be deeply asleep again. Severus looks up and through the pane of glass, but it's getting dark outside, and he can't make out much. Instead, he sees the infant's reflection in it, like he's floating, unsupported, in the air. He starts to move away from the window so Potter doesn't realise the man holding his newborn is a little too vampire-like to be safe, but all of a sudden, Potter is standing by his side.
"You look at peace," he murmurs at the window. "Both of you."
"I don't… "
"Look."
Severus looks. He can see the muted colours of Potter's reflection in the window, the pale shape of the blankets in his arms. He takes in the long, dark arms holding the child, a black-clad torso, long hair, longer than he's ever worn it. He follows it up until he sees his own face, not as distinct as it would be in a true mirror, but enough that he recognises himself: a narrow, white face with dark curtains on either side, a large, hooked nose in the middle of it, a thin slash of a mouth, two black eyes that he's often been told are unsettling. He blinks, looks again. Yes, it's a familiar sight, but there's also something that he has never seen there, on this usually harsh face. Something unfamiliar, but not unwanted, either.
"See? You're really alive," Potter says. "You're really here. You made it."
"Yes," he whispers back. "Yes, I'm alive."