FIC: Home, Adrift

[mothwing]

Title: Home, adrift
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9597
Characters and/or Pairings: this is mostly a story about Severus and his father, but there is Severus Snape/Minerva McGonagall, past Severus Snape/Lucius Malfoy, Tobias Snape/Eileen Prince

Summary: Professor Snape was dead, and Severus was alone. He did not mind. He was adrift, unmoored. It was difficult to feel professorial in Cokeworth. It was difficult to feel anything but out of place. Not that he had ever fitted in. He walked up and down the high street for hours, not even getting suspicious looks from the other people. This was not an area where grown men in funny clothes walking up and down high street aimlessly in the middle of the day got funny looks. This was not the kind of place where people looked at one another at all.

Author's Notes: I did a thing. There were several things floating around my mind when writing this. Mostly how I think it is unfair that working class fathers seem to be portrayed as violent substance abusers more than middle class parents, and the fact that I can see Severus having developed his precocious and excellent Occlumency skills early on as a defence mechanism when dealing with an abusive Legilimens. Also how much of Severus's life is spent doing what other people tell him to. So, this happened. Thanks so much Crocky, for bearing with me.

Prologue

The click with which the door behind him closed brought him back and his shoulders hunched slightly immediately, looking around for signs of trouble in the hallway illuminated by the street light outside. But there were none. The oppressive scent of potpourri filled his nostrils, and as he made his way across the plush but worn carpet, he felt something too deep for words and too old to be conscious relax. There was nothing lying about, and no random stains in the carpet. This already was a good sign. There were no coats on the hooks, another good sign. The only pair of boots were old wellies that had stood there when he still lived here. He took a deep breath, synthetic roses and patchouli.

A peak into the front room revealed furniture he had not seen before, slightly worn, cream coloured and stain free, and for a moment he wondered if he was in the right house. But the scent of familiar stale cigarette smoke emanating from the kitchen reassured him. He furtively glanced into the kitchen as well—nothing on the table, the bin not overflowing, no staggering towers of dishes. Something else unclenched. There was a shopping list on the notepad by the fridge in his mother’s cramped, spidery handwriting. He read it. He relaxed further.

Silently, he padded up the stairs. The door to his old room was ajar. He peeked in and saw boxes and a fitness bike. On silent feet, he turned and felt his way to the master bedroom, brushing the bottoms of familiar picture frames until he reached the door. It slid open at his touch and he crept his way into the musky darkness. It was a pleasant surprise, too. He sat down on the bed and felt the chilly, smooth surface of the duvet that his parents threw across it during the day. He lay back, sinking into the duvet with his entire body, shoulders, lower back, legs, feeling the chill seep into his back and surprisingly feeling the tension ebb out of him entirely.

Home.


Hours later, he felt more than saw someone hovering over him, putting a wool blanket over him, and leave again. He turned in his sleep.

For the first time in months, there were no dreams.


Chapter 1

It was still dark when a wheezy dark sound woke him. He reached to his left. The bed next to him had been slept in and he felt a little sheepish. He briefly deliberated washing up in the bathroom, then decided against it, suddenly apprehensive of meeting anyone. He briefly undid his clothes to use cleaning spells, then refastened his buttons with practiced fingers, brushing them through his hair in want of a comb. The yellow light seeping in from the street showed that his mother’s vanity was still sitting in the corner of the bedroom, its rich dark wood and tall mirror clashing almost comically with the plastic coated bedframe that dad had purchased at a jumble sale in earlier days. He rubbed the salt from his cheeks and chin and chased the beginning stubble from his face with his wand, too. Then, he took a deep breath and slipped down the staircase.

With practiced ease he avoided the one that creaked, silently moved towards the kitchen in the back of the house, halting at the door, immediately engulfed by a waft of cigarette smoke, tea, and toast in the dim light drifting in from other houses windows and the far street light. A shape turned and flipped on the kitchen light. Instinctively, Severus shied away and raised his hand in front of his eyes.

“Bloody hell,” a gruff voice said, “you look older than me!”

Moments later he felt himself embraced in a warm hug by dad, whom he remembered taller and stronger, but who had long since been of a height with him.

“Dad,” he croaked, suddenly unable to speak, as the other man patted his back and stepped back.

“Sit,” dad said, indicating the kitchen chair. He put down a cup of sweet black tea in front of him. “What happened? Did the blond guy break up with you?”

Severus had not missed this conversation, and still, against his will, his upper lip curled slightly.

“For the last time: I am not in a relationship with Lucius Malfoy.”

“Right, right. But you are still a fairy right?”

“Wizard, father.”

“Right. Well, you must forgive my confusion, what with the dress and the long hair. Suits you, mind.”

He did not relax into the familiar taunt that carried no sting, his fingers finding the scratch in the table, remnant of a thrown bottle long ago. His father watched him for a moment, then took another drag from his cigarette and flicked it into the bin, from whence smoke kept curling towards the ceiling in strangely angular patterns. They drank their tea in silence until the unsaid threatened to drown him.

“How’s mother?” Severus croaked.

“Fine, grand. She’s working a late shift, will be back in about an hour. Has been going to her meetings. She’s doing well. It’s been about two years now.”

Severus did not reply. He drank his tea, not wanting to talk. He felt his father’s ever sharp, dark eyes on him.

“So. Are you in trouble?”

He managed a nod.

“Right. Did they send you packing?”

Severus felt his shoulder automatically give the half-shrug that he always had as a teenager. He tried to make himself look up but failed. He picked at the scratch in the table.

“Oh lad. Well. It happens. They’re different from us, and you, well, with your background, you didn’t exactly ever make it to Eton, it’d always have been difficult for you to stick with it.”

He did not look up, the teenager once more taking over in this familiar environment and did not reply. There was a pause and then his father stood with a creak of the rickety chair. He stretched.

“Right. I’ll fix up a place for you. Do you want to hang about here and say hi to your mam?”

Severus was unable to reach Professor Snape, he was Severus and felt about ten. He kept picking at the scratch.

“Do you want to come to work with me and stay at the Gregg’s across the road?”

Severus stood and waited for his father to put on his coat and followed him out the door. The chilly morning air knifed into his neck and he cursed his lack of foresight. He had not brought a scarf. He had not brought anything. They walked in a silence that was familiar, if not entirely companionable. Dad playing his keys in his pocket in an effort not to light another cigarette. They boarded the bus in silence, his father paying his fare without comment. When they arrived at what turned out to be a bakery, his father slipped him a tenner and gave him a nod, then turned to go in to work.

As Severus queued for his sausage roll, he saw a group of youths wearing clothes quite similar to his and briefly thought what his father would have thought about their smudged make-up. Quite probably, he would have asked why he was not wearing any.

His roll finished, he deliberated about what to do with the plate and in the end just got up and fled the café, hunching his shoulders against the chill. Though a lot had changed in the years since he had last been there, but only the centre of Cokeworth was full of ghosts. Old Vimto posters (how long had it been since he had tasted that?), empty Walker’s packets (and the excitement of multipacks, all ready for various breaks), the corner store where he and Lily had bought ice creams in summer. A lot had changed, as was usual. Storefronts changed frequently, betting studios became nail salons became hairdressers. Chippies closed and reopened.

Cokeworth was a place where people came to sleep. Even in his childhood, playing in the fields and abandoned factory grounds, there had always been this sense of unease that hung about the city centre like fog. At least for him – his father was as happy he could ever be as long as he had his scratch cards, the footie and the pub at weekends. He did not look much older, his father, and better, healthier than Severus could remember from his childhood.

His parents had been young when they had him, his dad married at nineteen, Severus born six months after the wedding. And he had only very vague memories of his grandmother. He had never met his aunt, who had emigrated to Maryborough, Australia a few years after he was born. It had been bad and had only slowly gotten better. The rows about drinking, the way dad used to shout at mother, even though she could not help it, the secrets, dad’s seemingly never-ending job hunt, the air of despair that hung over the house, the way he used to hang about outside the factory, waiting for dad to get off work.

But turning the corner, he saw that a lot was gone. Whole swathes of the tenements that had become council housing had either been torn down and replaced with identical looking estates or refurbished with extensions sprouting out of the back walls like hunches. Right to Buy had seen that most of the ones that remained had been personalised out of their uniformity. Their neighbourhood was a place to come from, not to move to, and walking through the streets he was only reminded of what was not there anymore.

He was adrift, unmoored. It was difficult to feel professorial in Cokeworth. It was difficult to feel anything but out of place. Not that he had ever fitted in. He walked up and down the high street for hours, not even getting suspicious looks from other people. This was not an area where grown men in funny clothes walking up and down high street aimlessly in the middle of the day got funny looks. This was not the kind of place where people looked at one another at all.

Around midday he could ignore his growling stomach no longer and returned to the bakery, even though he had passed several places that offered food. He thought about going into the corner store, but no, he did not dare do that yet.

He selected a different kind of pastry and a mug of tea and sat at the plasticky tables, watching crumbs spill down the front of his buttoned robes. He watched the other patrons and the clock, until he felt the eyes of the servers on him. Then he left. He knew that if he walked to the end of the street and back, he would add another half hour. He did it three times, then stood at the gate of the factory, lamenting the fact that he did not smoke. It would have been an easy excuse.

The gate opened and a group of men came forth, some separate, heading home fast, driven, some walking in an aimless group, laughing and shoving each other. He peered around for his father, feeling the sudden weight settle in his stomach.

He emerged late, in a group of other joking men, and only peeled off when he spotted Severus, after pretending to ruffle the hair of a bald co-worker two heads taller than him. He stopped before Severus and looked him up and down.

“Hey, fancy a pint with the lads? … Thought not. Come on, let’s go home.”

They walked along the closing storefronts in silence until they reached a large structure and his father stopped.

“Come on, we need some bread, milk, and- did you bring a change of clothes?”

He did not reply, but followed his father into the shop, which was bright, and brightest of all the illuminated, tall letters. It was like being poured into another world, a world of muggles, and they were everywhere, pushing carts, narrowly avoiding crashing into each other at any moment. He silently walked next to the cart and watched his father select items and put them in. Off-brand, he remembered. They were cheaper. The first time his father turned to look at him, they were in the clothes section. Bright, blurred signs shouted about reductions and special offers.

“Fucking hell, lad. Do you need us to sit down somewhere?”

Severus shook his head, picked a pair of trousers and disappeared into one of the changing rooms.

He sat down on the inside and watched the feet of the other shoppers go by, waiting for the tremor to die down.

After a while, a sweater was slung across the top of the stall.

“Try this on,” said dad.

He briefly deliberated putting it on over his robes, but then simply held it up against his body and decided it was too large. He sat back down.

“Unmentionables you’ll have to pick yourself,” came his father’s voice. “How’s the sweater?”

“It’s adequate.”

“Perfect. Let’s take three. The trousers?”

He nodded and his father checked the size and put two more into the shopping trolley. He felt absurd, small, younger. He leant on the shopping cart. There were two multipacks of black socks in it.

“Is the all black thing mandatory or are these okay?” A pair of dark blue trousers were held under his nose. He took them in, the acrid smell, the incongruous white seams.

“Or should we check for something more similar to what you’re wearing elsewhere? Not taking the piss, mind, but I doubt that they offer all of this gothy stuff over here.”

He took the trousers out of his father’s hands and placed them in the cart.

“They’re fine,” he croaked.

He could feel his father’s eyes linger on him and kept his fixed on the blurry cart.

“Tell you what, there’s a café outside the shop, why don’t you get us a table there and two teas and I’ll be right out? You really do need to sit down, lad.”

He did as he was told. Ordered tea, sat down at a table from which he could see the cash registers. His father emerged a while later, carrying five plastic bags. He sat down with a small “oof” sound and an alarming creak from his knee. He chuckled when he saw Severus look surprised.

“Fifty-seven, lad. I may look younger than you, but I’m not. Still, not complaining, I’ve still got all my own teeth and my hair’s not falling out.”

He saw his father ruffling his short hair to indicate its still dark colour from the corner of his eye.

“Is this about your mam?”

He did not reply.

“She’s really doing well, lad. Two years and counting. Saw her GP and everything. Goes to meetings. She really is doing fine. She’s got her job back. Mind, it’s not anything you’d find fitting for her, but it’s a job, and she does it. She’s never complained about it, either.”

Severus looked up and saw that it was true behind his father’s eyes. He took a sip of his tea.

There were other truths. The truth was, he loved his mother. Had always loved her. Even when she got angry, even when she lost control over her actions. It was not her fault. He could see it in her actions, he could see it behind her eyes. He believed her when she apologised afterwards, when she cried at what she had done, how could he not? She could not help it. His father had often gotten angry in the beginning before he had got his job and things had been less tense overall, but he had not understood. He had only seen the outcome, the tears and occasional bruises, Severus loitering at the factory gate, the piles of garbage and dishes, he had not seen the desperate, abject need, the rage, the despair.

Severus had.

It was futile to tell him about it. But it did make him apprehensive about going back, even if it was the one place where they had to take him in and also the one place where no one would look if everyone truly believed him to be dead.

His father drained his tea.

“Come on,” he said and stood, grabbing the plastic bag with practiced hands.

Severus followed him home.


Chapter 2

He knew immediately that she was home, the scent of her perfume discernible even over the oppressive scent of the potpourri. They struggled with their shoes in the narrow hallway and then made their way to the kitchen. She turned when they came in, busy wiping down the table.

“Severus!”

The next thing he knew, she was hugging him and his shoulders untensed painfully. He clung to her, burying his face in Mam’s shoulder, something in him plummeting. After a long moment she brusquely shoved him away at arm’s length and looked him up and down, like his father had done, her dark eyes focussing on his sternly. He felt his mind empty and his breath pick up automatically, but he still managed not to break eye contact.

“What the bloody hell happened to your neck?”

“Easy, Eileen. Leave the lad. He’ll tell us when he wants to.”

“It was a snake, mother.”

His mother gestured to one of the chairs and he sat, back straight, staring straight ahead, his mind empty, focussing on nothing out of long habit. He found his face was wet. She had not let go of one of his hands.

“Healing spell?”

“Dittany. I had lost a lot of blood. But I could just make it to the end of the grounds and disapparate. Nobody knows I’m alive, and I do not think I would do anyone a favour if I came back.”

She raised an eyebrow and released his hand. He again carefully guarded his thoughts and crossed his arms tightly.

“Well, thank you very much indeed.”

“You are not in danger.”

“But of course they would come looking here.”

“No, they would not. They’d try down the street at Li- at my place.”

“Well, that is true, I suppose. But still, Severus. To give it all away…”

He did not reply, but held his mother’s gaze steadily, his mind carefully blank. She did not pry, but shook her head and looked away. He managed to lean back in the chair a little,

“Tea’s up,” his father announced, putting down three mugs in the middle of the table.

His mother’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but then she let herself be distracted by the tea. Severus uncrossed his arms and took the cup, sipped the hot liquid. It burned his throat when he swallowed. He fixed his eyes on the scratch on the table.

“Should one of us nip round and try to get at least some of your valuables?”

“Thanks, father, but I did not think I was going to come back, so I did not leave any there.”

“Alright, what about other things?”

“It’s not safe.”

He did not meet his father’s eyes.

“Who will come looking?”

“I don’t know, mother- that entirely depends on which side won.”

Without preamble, she reached out and bared his left arm.

“Shouldn’t this make it obvious?”

He stared at his arm, the scarred mess on it.

“I am not sure what it means, mother.”

This time, he did meet her eyes and felt her fleeting attention search his mind. He could see that part of her was terrified. He was terrified himself, he supposed.

“They won’t come looking here,” he said quietly. “The security spells prevent it.”

“Wouldn’t Malfoy know?”

He gave a mirthless bark of laughter.

“Do you really think that I ever invited Lucius here? Or that he cared to visit me at … my place? No, mother. You are quite safe, trust me.”

“Well, good. We don’t need any trouble with any of them,” she gave his left arm a painful squeeze, “or the other side, for that matter. They’ve done enough to you.”

He kept his eyes on the table and his mind blank. It was quiet for a while.

“Leave the lad,” his father said in a quietly warning tone. “Come on, Severus, let’s get you upstairs. You need a lie down.”

Mam shook her head, her lips a thin line.

“They used you, Severus. Both of them. And both of them had you kill for them. It’s a disgrace what they get away with, what they are allowed to do. You’re well rid of them.”

“You’re not helping, Eileen.”

“Someone needs to say it—“

“Maybe, but not now. Look at him. Come on, lad, let’s get you upstairs.”

An arm on his, the scrape of a chair. He was gently manhandled upstairs. He had one foot on the first stair when he realised that he was shaking. His father gently propelled him into the bathroom. He had lain out some of his own pyjamas and Severus mechanically showered and stepped into them. When he emerged, his father had put up the guest bed in his old room and was carrying bedding over.

“Here you are,” he said, holding it out. “If you wake up, we’ll be up for a while yet, come back down if you feel like it.”

He sank into the guest bed, feeling a spring dig into his right shoulder. Above him, he knew was the same ceiling. The same wallpaper. Unseeing, stared at it for a while. He had hated it here in the end, hated the neighbours, hated the rows, hated the causes. ‘I can see that you are lying, I can see it right there, you’ve gone and hid it all.’ – ‘I’m sorry, Mam, please stop!’ – ‘Where is it?” – ‘I’m sorry, Mam, please—’ – ‘Eileen, what the bloody hell are you doing? Stop it, put the wand away, for fuck’s sake, how many times—‘

Empty your mind.

Control your emotions.

Sleep.

There was someone in his room.

He reacted instinctively by fumbling for his wand. Yelled the spell before he had even gotten to his wand to make sure that the attacker would know that he meant business. That he could still defend himself. There was a deafening crack and a thump as the fitness bike crashed against the wall.

“It’s me!” came a strangled shout. His heart was racing, blood was pounding in his ears. Dad was standing next to his bed, his hand around Severus’s own, violently shaking wrist. “It’s me, Severus. You’re home. You’re safe. Calm down. Calm down.”

His wand clattered to the floor and he fought for a shaky breath.

“I’m just here to see how you are and if you need anything. Your Mam’s back at work, she’s doing a late shift. I’m due the same time as yesterday. We’ve got a new foreman- or foreperson, I suppose, it’s now. They’ve got around and made us all start using new terminology because someone from the office said to. The lad’s are taking the piss, obviously, but I suppose it’s alright in this day and age…”

Control your emotions. He exhaled the breath he had been holding and focused his eyes on his father’s. It was him, he was not an intruder pretending to be him. His heartbeat was a drum in his head. He freed his hand and fumbled to pick up and pocket his wand from the floor next to the bed.

“Father,” he said in a strangled whisper.

“Probably should have knocked,” dad said. “I didn’t want to wake you up. Bad dream?”

Severus pulled himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly.

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

Chapter 3

They stood on the back porch together, his father smoking, him not trying to inhale the smoke. He had spent so many hours in this backyard. His father’s admonition to go play outside and his mother’s to not play with muggles had resulted in him playing outside alone most of the time, exploring the backyard, and later, when he had learned the timeframe of his mother’s mornings, the abandoned factory and the river.

Sneaking out had never been the difficult part, it had been coming back and getting the timing right. It had been easier if his father was there, in the beginning. If he was not, it too often meant endless interrogations and dissections of what he thought and did. (‘How dare you say that about me?’ – ‘I didn’t say it, I just—' – ‘I heard it just the same. It’s rude to think that of your mam.’ – ‘But I just—’). It had become a carefully timed procedure. Add enough alcohol, and she became genial, too far gone to pry into his mind. No alcohol and she was desperate, in pain. Too little and she was suspicious, easily enraged. It was a subtle science.

“Come on, none of that,” his father said quietly beside him, almost gently, none of the usual boisterous gruffness in his voice. “Come now, keep it together.”

Control your emotions.

He took a deep breath and held it, then vigorously rubbed his face.

“Is your mam right, did they make you kill anyone?”

He could lie to himself, he could keep things from his mam, it had become a game of sorts, but something made him hesitate to lie to his father.

“Fucking hell, lad.” His father flicked the dog end into the abandoned neighbour’s garden where it sent a curling ribbon to the sky. “Is that why you left? Are they after you?”

He shook his head.

“No. It was… you might say it was assisted suicide.”

“Oh, Severus. Why did you do it?”

“It was me or one of my students.”

“Fucking hell. What kind of place is that school of yours? Dangerous beasts, suicidal people asking students to help them along, health and safety would not be having any of that if this were happening around here. They’d have a field day. Entire place’d be closed down.”

He did not reply to his father’s wry joke but pulled his crossed arms closer to his body, chilled to the bone, the weight of the past few days pulling him down.

“It’s good that you got away. People like them always find a use for people like us. Doing what they feel they’re too good for to do themselves.”

A few years ago, he’d have violently contradicted and they’d have had a row. A few years ago, he would not have stood here on the porch next to his father, union man and suspicious sort, at all. A few years ago, he would have denied his father’s name and part in his life. Now, he was not so sure anymore.

He ignored the proffered pack but obligingly flicked his wand to light his father’s cigarette, him making quiet appreciative noises as he inhaled, the red dot at the end of the cigarette lighting up his features as it flared.

Cast adrift under the strangely reddish sky of Cokeworth in his childhood backyard, next to his muggle father, he realised that he had never felt as isolated before. Even before school, there had always been the dream of going to Hogwarts and never coming back, the infinite possibilities rolling out in front of him like the days that seemed endless. Now, even the rickety fence of the backyard seemed a prison. He had returned where he started, and he could never go back. It already felt far away. His robes had smelled of smoke, blood, and gore before he cast the cleaning spell on them. He had found two snake scales in the pockets and one lodged into the skin of his chest.

He did not know who had won and wondered for a moment if it mattered. He did not know if it was the place that made him feel empty and hopeless or the situation. He took a deep breath that smelled so familiar that it almost brought the tears back to his eyes. It was probably the place that made him so thin-skinned. Control your emotions. Another deep breath. He felt his posture straighten slightly, but Professor Snape still stayed out of reach. Professor Snape simply did not stand in this backyard. Professor Snape had not been possible in this backyard. He sighed.

“Is mother’s laboratory still in the basement?”

His father, puffing thoughtfully, was worried about him and clearly did not think it was a good idea for him to do anything other than going to bed. He told him so seconds later, and Severus reflected once more on how easy and pointless it was to see into his father’s mind. Like with Minerva, there was simply no point in concentrating on finding out his thoughts, people like that usually let you know in no uncertain terms and quite directly what was going on.

He went anyway.


He was roused, many hours later, from the empty blackness of potions-induced sleep to find his mother leaning over him, watching his breath, her expression worried.

“You ought to have asked, some of the ingredients you used were off.”

He rubbed his face and made sure is expression was blank.

“I know, but in their cases it does not matter.”

“Your father’s at work. I’m off in two hours, too. Late shift again. You slept all day.”

He nodded.

“There were people at your house,” she said grimly. “Aurors, by the look of them.”

He lay back in the pillows. This was a good sign. Aurors still existed.

“Get up, I’ll do you an egg and we’ll talk about what to do next.”

He did as he was told.


Instead of investigating the house, he wandered around Cokeworth again, looking around for hours at the changes that were manifold and insignificant. There were three people in the world alive who had known the boy that lived here well enough to know what was going on. Only three. Possibly four.

Two were his parents, and one in no uncertain terms had said that she would call the police if she ever saw him again. One was complicated. He was alone. It was not only a bad thing, he supposed. The ghosts of memories filled his mind, their shapes and weight telling that it had been significant, what he had given to Lily’s son. He did not remember details, but he was happy not to know. And what did it matter? The boy-who-lived was dead, but at least he knew that and why Severus had paid his debt. Professor Snape was dead, he was free, but that also meant that he was alone, cut off from the wizarding world.

At least the wizarding world also believed his parents to be dead, so they would not be affected by his poor choices.

His feet led him past his primary school and led him back to the factory gate. It occurred to him that in all these years, he had never quite known what it was exactly that his father did in there. The sartorial changes had not gone unnoticed, from grubby work overalls to pressed, clean work overalls to shirts two times a week. He had no idea what he was doing, but apparently, he was doing it well. The driven energy that had him sit up in the kitchen until late at night, drawing circles around ads in the muggle paper had given way to an easy-going confidence that Severus wished he had.

His mother had been a different matter. She had not been a very popular witch, and for obvious reasons had always preferred to work alone and in peace. She was not particularly devoted to potions, but when the apprenticeship had come along, she had taken it and become a Potioneer. She specialised in basic potions stock blends and had delivered batches to various apothecaries through the years, supplementing his father’s income. She did not make a lot of money, and exchange rates between Gringott’s and muggle banks had always varied a lot.

And then what his father called her illness had taken over and she had stopped brewing altogether. There was no reason, it came and went, she got unhappy, she saw what she felt reflected in other people’s minds, she started drinking more, the rows started, and they had been about him so often it was hard to believe that they were not because of him.

It did not matter now, they had all come a long way since then, even though some of them where now right back where they started, only worse off, because his infinite possibilities had dwindled down to helping his mam with her kitchen brews or donning a blue overall and finding out whatever it was his father did after all.

Back at home, he itemized her ingredients, aware that it would please and rankle her at the same time. He enjoyed the thought. Then, he sat on the cream coloured couch listlessly, leafing through the magazines his parents had lying about.

It was near dusk when he gathered up his courage to sneak to his own house in spite of the danger. Lily’s house, at the very end of the road. He had refurbished it of course, but he could not have seen it knocked down. When her parents moved out and it had sat empty for a while, he had bought it, told everyone his parents were dead, and moved in. No one ever came here.

He immediately realised that it was true, someone had been there. Several someones by the looks of it. Someone had left the door ajar and opened several windows. Someone had set traps on all the doorsteps and windows which he diffused with ease. Someone had thrown down all his book cases in an effort to find hidden secrets, someone had stolen several of his books. Someone had, for some reason, taken his hat. He reached into his cupboard for a spare set of robes and froze.

Someone was in the room.

His wand at the ready, he sneaked back to the door and pressed himself to the wall.

He relaxed when he saw that it was only a cat. It looked at him reproachfully as it shot past him and out the window. Maybe. No. Empty your mind.


Chapter 4

He returned home and started dinner. His father was in high spirits when he came home, later than usual, and regaled him with tales of the man whom his father still called “your uncle Micky”. He did not know, but that man had propositioned a teenaged Severus several times in a manner that Mick-from-work would have liked to think of as joking.

Severus had always turned him down, none of the offers appealing exactly, though the thought of him knowing had terrified him for a year when he was a slightly older teenager and fumblingly experimenting with Lucius.

Well, doing what Lucius told him to do, actually, not that that was new. But Lucius had always been kind about it, occasionally even affectionate, in his distracted way. Curiously, his father had never minded after he found out, though he had been worried about the different family backgrounds. He was worried Lucius was using Severus, and he supposed, Lucius had done. But as far as Severus was concerned, everyone was always being used or making themselves useful to someone in some way, even his father, be it by his mates or the people he put on the work overalls for, as his father liked to think.

He levitated the Shepherd’s Pie out of the oven and onto the table, his father giving him a grateful nod and he sat down across from him heavily.

“Have you given it any thought what you’re going to do? A holiday is alright and all, but…”

“It has only been two days, father. I can have a two-day-holiday without convincing you I am destined to live out the rest of my existence in idleness, surely.”

“Right, right, but you seem- well, you look like you’ve been through the wars, and from what your mam says, you probably actually have been, and you’re free to hang about the house for as long as you need, but I do not like seeing you this hurt, and if I knew that dragging you to my GP would work, I would. You need help, you need to figure out where your life is going, you need to know what to do next. Eat your pie.”

On that, he filled his mouth with mash and looked at him expectantly. Severus rubbed his face, then did as he was told. After half his plate was empty, his father addressed him again.

“What about your non-boyfriend? Is he still in the picture?”

“Lucius? Why?”

“Can’t he help sort something out?”

“Father, I—the wizarding world believes I’m dead. I don’t want to get involved with them. I am not even sure if he’s still alive.”

“Bloody hell, you people are so bloody dramatic. What good can come of that?”

“You people?” Severus felt his voice automatically shift into a soft, treaclish register that was guaranteed to infuriate with its polished vowels.

“Wizards. Blood oaths and fealties and that.”

“Precisely. And didn’t you tell me multiple times that it was sometimes expedient to cut one’s losses if a bad situation was continuing past the point of endurance and move on? This is me. Following your paternal advice.”

“Yes, sure, it’s a sodding family tradition, almost making it and then cutting and running when the going gets tough. I passed my O-Levels but then went on to work instead. I told people it was about money, but it was because I thought I would fail. I would have liked to really make something of myself.”

“You have,” Severus said quietly, and his dad briefly squeezed his shoulder.

“Well. As have you, and yet here we both are.” His father stretched his arms above his head. “With the important difference that I’ve got a life, and you threw away yours if they really think you are dead.”

“I cannot go back there, father. It is not a good idea. Things got rather… difficult in the end.”

His father made a gesture to continue and Severus found he did, explaining everything about his time after the mark had come back– which was half a year after he had purchased his own house and told people his parents had both died of old age. Since most of his colleagues did not know much about his background, and, except for maybe her, did not care much, they expressed their condolences and did not pry.

He told his father about his time as a spy and as Headmaster and found himself unable to explain large parts. The part about Lily’s son. Or the end. His tale petered out in a slightly disorganised fashion and he fell silent, feeling strangely empty. His father had gotten up at some point to pace and make tea, and in the silence of the kitchen he heard the kettle starting to bubble and heard the skin of his father’s hand brush against the fabric of his sweater as he lifted it again to pour the tea into cups. He looked up at him, and saw a deep rage boiling behind his eyes. He faced him calmly. The times when he liberally applied cuffs to the head had long since passed, ever since he once blocked his striking hand with a spell. Dad had been curiously amused and shared his first beer with him after that. He never understood the man.

“Fucking hell, lad. Just, fuck the bloody lot of them. How is any of this legal?”

“Well, father, as I pointed out, quite a lot of the proceedings were not.”

“Sure they weren’t, so they had you do them. Dealing with bleeding werewolves? Illegal, I’m hoping. Who’s put on were-watch? You. Mind reading- illegal. Who does it? You. Killing people? Illegal. Who did it? You. Spying? Bloody dangerous. Who did it? You. Brewing bleeding poisons? Who knows, but I’m supposing illegal. Who did it? You. Because you’re expendable.”

“It is not actually ‘mind-reading’, father, Legilimency is quite—”

“That’s what you focus on? They really ought to make you take Latin at that school, because “mind reading” is quite literally what it means.”

“Your forty-year-old O-Level expertise of Latin vocabulary notwithstanding, father, the matters are quite a bit more complex than that.”

“Rubbish.”

He sat down heavily in front of him and glared at Severus’s untouched tea. The sweetness of it made his teeth ache as he took a sip.

“We’ve been here before, Severus. You once said that they see your mam is dead to them because she’s with me. And from what you told me, that is true and all. Your headmaster picked you because you’re expendable. You don’t have a family of your own. You feel guilty because of Lily’s death, and he’s been using that for decades now. Yes, you were a criminal, out of control little shit when you were a teenager, but you were not bad, you were not a murderer. And who introduced you to that group and taught you the things you were later accused for? Wizard blondie boyfriend, that’s who, from the family who apparently keeps peacocks in their mansion’s yard.”

He heard his own voice grow cold.

“I am sure that it is your paternal instinct to shift some of the culpability for my youthful infractions away from your own doorstep and onto other’s shoulders, but have you considered that my own decisions, for once in my life, might have played a part in the matter, as well?”

His father had the audacity to snort.

“Sure. You can blame us, and things were— troubled. Course they were. But you are kidding yourself if you think that this was on us, or your choice, for that matter. We did not raise you to go around blowing things up, slashing people, killing people. We did not raise a killer.”

“That is because you did not raise me at all.”

He had not meant to shout. He felt how hot his face was. He unclenched his right hand, which had found his wand, and felt the dents on his palm with his thumb. His father sighed.

“Lad, you’re almost forty. Is it not a little late to go around blaming the fact that we weren’t always around to tuck you in at night or gave you the occasional knock on the head when needed or that your mam could see what you were thinking when in the mood on the fact that your bastard friends made you kill for them and some other bastard got you out of prison for the express purpose to spy and potentially be killed for him?”

Severus was suddenly on his feet, his wand pointing at his father, whose eyes showed that he had no idea how much danger he was in. And yet, here Tobias was, planting his feet, crossing his arms, and gave that infuriating little upward jut of the chin that meant he was not about to back off.

“Been waiting a long while to do that, have you? Well, go on. Show me what you’ve got.”

“You absolute swine—” A string of swearwords burst from him, and not in Professor Snape’s voice, either. This was Severus, and years of hurt, helplessness, fury, fear, feeling so small and hopeless that any way out at all had seen impossible.

His father’s shoulder in his face. His father’s arms around him. Dad had no idea in how much danger he had been. None. Severus half-heartedly strained against the embrace, but then let himself sag limply against his father’s shoulder.

“I know, lad. I know.”

Chapter 5

In the end, he had untangled himself, pulled himself together, taken a shower, and stared at himself in the mirror until he recognised the person looking back as a functioning member of society. Empty your mind. Empty black eyes stared at him like dark tunnels, sunken in their sockets. He looked ill, and he did look older than his father, or maybe more careworn.

He looked away. Not quite Professor Snape yet, but he was getting there. He tried the glowering, stern expression he had practiced for weeks before he started teaching, the one Minerva always used.

“Very well,” he tried, and felt deep relief when the clipped tones matched the ones before his outburst. His voice was still there. That had taken practice, too, the vowels changing to diphthongs and shifting, cadences changing, voice lowering, his vocabulary matching that of Lucius and his friends, though he would never match their perpetually bored sounding tones.

He washed his hands again for something to do and straightened his sweater, the one his father had picked for him in the store. It fit surprisingly well, though it was a bit broad in the shoulders.

The doorbell rang.

At first, he could not place the sound, so rare was this an occasion. His father answered, and a moment later muffled voices moved from the hall to the kitchen.

He loitered in his room to avoid whoever of his father’s unfortunate mates had come over, but then he decided to start a batch of antidote stock in the basement and started down the stairs as quietly as he could.

And then, something in the muffled voices he heard from the kitchen made him freeze and his heartbeat throb in his ears.

“Nah, haven’t seen him, sorry, can’t help you there.”

“Oh. Well, that is a shame. I had dearly hoped… and I am sorry that I cannot be the bearer of better news.”

He froze in front of the kitchen door, one heartbeat, two heartbeats. Control your emotions. Then, he entered.

For the second time that day, he found himself in a tight hug and felt his throat close tightly.

“I am so sorry, Severus,” came Minerva’s very choked voice. “I should have known. I only truly realised when you did not kill me in the duel.”

He stood, frozen, feeling her body pressing against his, the rims of her glasses digging into his shoulders, and something in him thawed, time seemed to freeze.

His father tactfully squeezed past him, leaving them in the kitchen. Severus felt his head sink onto Minerva’s hair, which smelled of heather and rain. The novelty of the situation almost made him want to sink to the floor and hug her legs, so grateful was he to her for being there. Home.

He felt the faint tingle of her magic on her skin and felt as though someone had cast him a lifeline. After a long moment, she abruptly turned and wiped her face with a tartan handkerchief that she seemed to conjure up from thin air.

He found himself unable to speak and just took a small step back, suddenly scared that she would dissolve into thin air if he stepped away too far.

She blew her nose noisily and sat down heavily in one of the rickety chairs. The unreality of seeing Minerva McGonagall in his kitchen rendered him speechless. But the dewdrops in her hair and on her green robes showed that she was real. The faint scent of her was discernible above the oppressive potpourri scent, and the small scuffmarks on her black boots convinced him entirely that she was not a vision.

“I looked everywhere for you, but you were not there. Potter told me that you had been killed, but your body was missing. I asked around and found that aurors had found your house ransacked. But when I saw you there…” she broke off, quickly hiding her glittering eyes behind her hand. “I was so relieved. So incredibly relieved. It made me realise how much I missed you during the last year. You’re so important to me.”

Important. He did not know where to look. The honesty in her statement was palpable, written all across her features. As always, it immediately made him feel better about himself and about everything else, really. Dumbledore needed him and therefore he was only to be expected to be eager to keep him mollified, but Minerva did not need him, and had made it quite clear that she was weary of the Headmaster’s erratic hiring policies (“Why on earth would you hire him? No, no, of course he is qualified for the subject, he is a very sound Potioneer, but a former Death Eater, Dumbledore? My apologies, Severus, but I really do not see this as a good idea.”).

And still, she had always been honest with him, that foolish witch, honestly confronting him when he joined the staff and questioned his motivations to be at teacher (“Couldn’t you have joined the Order in literally any other capacity? Why teaching?”), honestly coached him in his early months (“You ought not to dock points for missing punctuation, otherwise nobody will win the house cup this year”), let him know when he had earned her trust (“I know Dumbledore’s view, but I must say, I am happy to see that the student I remember still remains. And I trust you. I hope that you do not hold my initial trepidation against me.”) and honestly given him a bottle of extremely potent whisky to celebrate him genuinely improving (“Do not under any circumstances let the students see this or drink during the week. Slainte mhòr!”). He did not drink, for obvious reasons, and had been startled at how the liquor affected his ability to focus, and for the first time in his life had understood his mother. The bottle sat on a shelf in his private quarters and he only ever shared it with her, and they only ever took one drink of a night. Minerva had a fairly down-to-earth, medicinal approach to the stuff.

And then, when they had been working alongside for a while, the miracle happened. She told him about her brothers, and about her parents, and he quietly felt himself stopping the pretence around her. He always had, imitating Lucius’s vocabulary, his mother’s clipped tones, even though she knew him from childhood. She had never referred to him as “that Half-Blood” or even “Prince”, but still. With Minerva, there was no need for pretence, and after a while, no insecurity. With her, he just was.

She was also the only one who had not immediately assumed that if things were going badly at home, his muggle father was the problem. He had never told her, not having been brought up to air their private affairs in public, but he had been grateful nonetheless for her quietly questioning the assumption everyone made.

And now she was sitting in his parents’ house, and he found himself staring at her. Her even being alive meant that Dumbledore’s side had won. He had still failed Lily’s son, and the grief lurking behind Minerva’s eyes told him that it must have been a large price they paid. He fought to keep himself closed off from other minds.

“I’m not going back,” he blurted.

She considered him for a second, “That is. Understandable. I am not here to bring you back.”

“I missed you, too,” he added, feeling, not for the first time, that he had forgotten how to speak during the past days. “Last year.”

“Oh, Severus,” she said, her voice sounding choked again, quickly looking out the window at the wheelie bins. “I never… I never should have doubted you, last year, it all made no sense—”

“You didn’t. Five times. That is, I had to obliviate you. That often. Last year. You’d worked it out. I had to start avoiding you because you always did. Figure it out. And you needed to truly believe that I was not on your side, otherwise you would have been in grave danger.”

She was staring at him again, now he was the one watching the wheelie bins, because even though she was not a Legilimens, the sharpness in her small, red-rimmed eyes seemed designed to see right through everything he was.

In the end she reached across the table to put her hand on his in her quiet, honest fashion. He thought about what his parents would think when they found him like this and he realised he did not mind either way. He could feel the heartbeat in her wrist and the magic seeping out of her finger tips. For some reason, he felt himself take a deep breath.

They sat for a while, the rain that had started patting the wheelie bins, occasionally squeezing the other’s hand as if to confirm they were still there.


“You could at least offer your young Lady a cup of tea,” his father said from the doorway.

He jumped and out of reflex pulled at his hand, which was still entwined with Minerva’s on the table, but hers did not move, so he gripped hers ever tighter.

“Yes, thank you, Mr Snape,” she said.

“Oh, please, none of that. Call me Tobias, “Mr Snape” is my son at that school,” he quipped and she gave a little laugh.

To Severus’s slight surprise, his father felt bad for lying to her and quite liked her. He also thought that they were an item. This news deeply thrilled him for some reason. Were they? Minerva—did not mind, he realised.

Then he thought back, she never had minded. She had been quite up front about it, too. He had ignored it. In fact, he had never let himself see that, firmly believing he would soon be dead, anyway, and it would not matter.

And now they were not dead.

His father started whistling tunelessly as he put the kettle on and made tea. He then retired again, having put down the cups in front of them and given Severus a clap on the shoulder.

“’Courting in the kitchen’,” Minerva said suddenly. He stared at her, slightly startled. “The song. Your father. Well. He has a different idea of what is going on in here.”

“I do not mind in the slightest,” he found himself saying, suddenly unable to look at her again, lest he see her thoughts. He felt foolish. Like a damn teenager. But he did not mind. This was different from Lucius, where there had been no reason to sit and talk together or hold hands or, really, interact in any other way than they did when they were alone. Those times were always hurried and followed Lucius meaningfully locking the door and explaining what Severus was to do. Excited, he always had. Lucius had been thrilled at what he could make Severus do, Severus had been thrilled at the sensation the actions brought forth. It seemed like a natural extension of the dynamics their friendship had and stopped once he surpassed Lucius in his position among the Death Eaters. He was strangely sad to give it up, but Lucius had simply never locked the door again.

With Minerva, there were no explanations or expectations, there was no script, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to shut down the exciting possibilities his imagination conjured up.

“I am also not sure how to court, let alone in a kitchen,” he said in a voice he hoped to be deadpan, aware of his heart hammering in his ears.

Minerva gave a laugh, but there was no sting and the brief squeeze she gave his hand prevented any that might have been possible.

She was still smiling when he leant over to kiss her, and suddenly they were standing, pulling at each other’s clothes to get closer together, their hearts hammering against each other through their ribcages which were pressed together, too. He heard the front door give a click as his father left.

She pulled back a little and he saw her hesitate briefly, not wanting. What? She was worried she was pressuring him, that this was going too far, that—he decided to shut up her mind by pressing her against him and kissing her until she shut her eyes and stopped thinking. Her hair was escaping from the bun and he was out of breath when he led her by the hand, down the hall and up the stairs and pulled her down on the floor with him.

Epilogue

Later, when they lay entangled on the blankets, his head on Minerva’s shoulder, he felt strangely melancholy. There had been no reason to wait, and the theft of those years together rankled. He found he was not sure who to be angry at, however. It was done, In the past.

He closed his eyes. He would have to tell his parents. He would have to find a new place to live. They could not stay here, Minerva could not stay with him, her entire life was that school, but he was not going back. He would carve himself out a new existence somehow, but Professor Snape was dead.

In this moment, with the night having descended over Cokeworth and the pub the next street over spilling its drunks into the rainy summer night, it did not matter. At some point, Minerva, whose breath lifted and lowered the arm he had slung around her, would wake. Rather sooner, he would have to disentangle from her to find out what was painfully digging into his hip underneath the blanket.

This could not last. It would end, everything did.

But for now, it did not, and he was home.