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Chapter Text

July, 2012.

Curtains billow in a summer breeze drifting through an open window, and hair lifts and rustles quietly against the pillows. The room is dim but not dark, the gentle scent of freshly cut suburban lawns mingling with the unmistakable aromas of lemon verbena and sex; the quiet here is undisturbed by the sounds of the life outside their walls.

She lies on her side, curled towards him but not touching exactly. Hovering within reach, one might say. He lies stretched on his back, one arm across his chest, another flung above his head, and with his fingers tangled in the strands of her hair that have wound their way towards him in her sleep. They are covered, in varying degrees, by a white cotton sheet; the other bedclothes lie pooled at the foot of the mattress, cast off in the heat of the afternoon and their own exertions.

The bedroom is nondescript: a relatively modern wooden bedframe, solid but plain, and a large wardrobe from the turn of the century before last. It's the sort of room you might find in your grandmother's house - calm and serene in shades of sage green and buttercream. Tranquil. A place of simple comfort without ostentation of any kind. There are two wooden bedside lockers, each with its own plain cream coloured lamp. One is laden with paperbacks, professional journals, a profusion of writing implements, and dog-eared notebooks. The other has a volume of Oscar Wilde, a biography of Janis Joplin, and an empty tumbler alongside a black silicone-strapped men's wristwatch. There is a black leather holdall in one corner of the room, tucked behind an old-fashioned wing-backed chair, and a pair of black boots sit neatly beside it. These signs of someone on their best behaviour as a guest are confirmed by the single hairbrush and black hair tie that rest on the right-hand side of a dressing table that's littered with bottles of body lotion, hair detangler, and pots of multivitamins and cod liver oil tablets. This apparent awareness of boundaries contrasts sharply with the obviously post-coital couple sleeping on a late July Sunday afternoon. What is one to make of them?

He is older than she, possibly by a decade, perhaps by two. His hair is black, silky and long, drifting about his neck as he sleeps, and he has yet to find much grey there. His skin is weathered like someone who spends a lot of time outdoors, but he's naturally pale, not given to tanning easily. His body is slender and lithe, definitely someone who moves comfortably in his own skin, and while not stereotypically handsome, he is striking. You would look twice if you passed him on the street. It's an unusual face showing signs of wit and intelligence even in sleep. You can see where the lines will be more prominent when he wakes, but he will look none the worse for it. His nose is a little larger than might be ideal, and you can assume - quite correctly - that he got teased about it as a child. His sinewy shoulders lead to arms unobtrusively roped with muscle, and there is what looks like a faded tattoo on the inside of one forearm. You can draw the conclusion of a misspent youth without going too far astray. His finely boned wrists give way to strong, capable hands and long, dexterous fingers topped with close-cropped nails. One or two might be slightly bitten, and some of the others appear to be grass-stained. His torso is marked with faded seams of scar tissue but, given that they are all long since healed and faded, it might put you in mind of Kintsukoroi - the Japanese practice of fixing broken ceramic with gold-dusted lacquer. In short, his scars, while clearly the result of vicious wounds originally, now add to the compelling sight he makes, glistening against the porcelain pallor of his skin.

His bedmate is slim, narrow in all regards but doesn't look underfed or ill, simply not designed to be curvaceous. She has light brown hair with the occasional bloom of copper tints which are, to the envy of many who have no other reason to notice her, entirely natural. Her hair is prone to wildness, although not nearly as much as she believes, and is currently snaking its way out of a loose bun at the back of her head. Given its entanglement in her lover's fingers, it's not a huge step of the imagination to think that it may have had some help. Her features - which could legitimately be called gamine - are dotted with freckles, and her skin is smooth and unblemished save for slightly chapped lips. She could be a dancer, but there's an air of practicality about her that contradicts this if one looks more closely. She's almost certainly a runner. She has an inquisitive face; it is the face of someone who always has a question, and who takes notes on your answer. It is a face to be found most usually behind a book or a computer screen, and one senses a keen intelligence that is not afraid of hard work. It's a given that the overflowing bedside locker is hers, a fair match for her overflowing mind and her insatiable curiosity. She bears her own scars, also faded, although not so numerous as his.

Her eyes flutter now. A motorbike going too quickly down this quiet residential street has dragged her towards consciousness, although her companion sleeps on. She leans up on one elbow, watches him for a moment while she frees her hair from his fingers with an overwhelming tenderness in her expression, and then quietly leaves the bed. Stretching, she walks to the bathroom and turns on the shower taking care that the intervening doors are closed so as not to disturb him. She washes her body and her hair slowly and methodically, enjoying the feel of water travelling over her skin, and the looseness in her muscles. When finished and towelled dry, she returns to the bedroom to pull on clean underwear, a Greenpeace t-shirt, and some old battered jeans before bundling her hair back up and making her way silently downstairs.

This house belonged to her parents and, aside from general maintenance, she has changed it as little as possible in the years since they left it to her. This is partly due to sentiment and partly due to practicality - she rarely relies on solely one or the other. It is comfortable, lived-in, and clean. The kitchen - undoubtedly her favourite room - has french windows opening out into the garden that let in a flood of sunlight and birdsong when she unlocks them.

She turns on the kettle and flips the switch for the CD player so that Nick Drake's  Five Leaves Left  plays softly in the background. A quick rummage in the fridge shows that there is salad, cheese, and soup for a light dinner, or some ingredients for spaghetti if he fancies something more substantial. Locating some crusty bread in the cupboard, she sighs happily, content in the knowledge that she does not need to go into hunter gatherer mode at the local supermarket. If she can make it through until tomorrow morning without having to see anyone outside of the walls of this house, she will deem it a good day. She makes some tea and sits at the old scrubbed kitchen table to revel in the peace and quiet that this afternoon has brought.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

March - June, 2010.

Their reunion when it happened was not particularly auspicious. They had bumped into one another, literally and quite painfully, in Piccadilly Records, Manchester, where Hermione was shocked to see her erstwhile professor in an elderly Radiohead t-shirt and an unzipped hoody. This was such a far cry from his old buttoned-up teaching robes of years gone by that she thought for a moment she must be hallucinating.

She had travelled to Manchester to meet up with a friend at the Royal Exchange Theatre and, having the morning free, was ambling around at a loose end. On the assumption that record shops are always a good idea, she wandered in. She was so engrossed with a copy of The Rolling Stones' Sticky Fingers LP that she collided thoroughly and heavily with Snape long before she had a chance to realise who it was. He was, as ever, quicker on the uptake.

"Ah, Miss Granger. How unexpected!" he said in tones that propelled her instantly into being thirteen and insecure again.

It took her a moment to find her tongue, such was her surprise, unsure whether to be alarmed or relieved as he stood there, looking down at her, apparently prepared to wait for an answer. Hermione apologised profusely while wondering what on earth to call him - he wasn't her professor any more so the title was inappropriate, and she couldn't quite entertain the notion of using his first name uninvited. Mr Snape, on the other hand, was just, well,  wrong.

They spoke briefly but not unkindly for several moments before he departed, leaving her utterly bewildered, having seen someone who she hadn't been sure was still alive. In the days that followed, the memory felt more like something her subconscious had dug up while she slept. To see him, there, looking like that, and gone again so quickly, was beyond surreal.

She thought of him repeatedly and intensely upon returning home, aggravated that she didn't have more data to work with. She tried searching the internet but could find no trace of the man, and in time she came to believe that he would be a mystery that would remain unsolved. After all, even if she found him, tracked him down, what could she possibly say to rationalise such peculiar behaviour?

Her old school was something that she had turned her back on within twelve months of leaving it; seeking information there was not a step she was prepared to take. It had taken her long enough to find her place in the world after her time at Hogwarts was completed, and she was simply not prepared to open herself up to that level of scrutiny again.

In short, unless she wanted to hang around record stores in Manchester on the off-chance that he might show up again, she had no choice but to let it go. And as she had a full-time job, nay a career, near her hometown in the south of England, loitering in Lancashire was simply not a runner.

Nearly three months later, she was accosted by her elderly next-door neighbour as she came home from work one evening.

"Hermione, dear," said Mrs Westcott, "I'm glad I caught you. The postman left a package for you today. Let me just run inside and get it for you."

If Hermione thought that the likelihood of her eighty year old neighbour running into the house was slim, she was mercifully too polite to say so. When the parcel was handed to her, and she saw that unmistakable handwriting on the brown paper packaging, it was all she could do to stammer her thanks and make it through her front door without fainting.

It seemed that if she had not found him, he could still find her.

Chapter Text

June, 2010.

The delivery sat in her kitchen for twenty-four hours before she gathered the courage to open it. While she did not think Snape meant her any harm, she was alarmed by its arrival which was wholly unprecedented. They had had no contact since she left her 'other life' as she now called it, and his polite if formulaic enquiries as to her health and the reason for her visit to Manchester when they met had not given her cause to suspect that he wished to resume their...what? Acquaintance? They had hardly been on friendly terms in their previous incarnation as teacher and student, despite Hermione's undoubted respect for him.

And yet here was an unsolicited package sitting on her table. Brown paper over bubble wrap if her fingers were to be believed, addressed with black ink, and sent by way of the Royal Mail with not an owl in sight. How very normal in spite of its undeniable abnormality. When her inevitable curiosity outweighed her confusion, and she carefully slit the neatly sellotaped ends, she found a handwritten note in a plain white envelope, and the same Rolling Stones LP she'd been holding when they collided.

"Dear Miss Granger,

While I am aware that you have left the magical community behind you - and it seems that there are a plethora of reasons why this might be so - people are relatively easy to find in this day and age provided one has access to a computer and an internet connection. Thus, I hope you will forgive my intrusion and accept that it comes from someone who understands the value and desirability of confidentiality. I am not in any position to share the information of your whereabouts, nor would I.

However, I felt reparation was called for. I suspect my left shoulder left a nasty contusion on your head when we met recently, and I couldn't help noticing that you were clinging to this record for the duration. I am sending it to you in the hope that it brings you the same pleasure it has brought me over the years.

You are, of course, under no obligation to respond but I wanted you to know that I was pleased to see you. While I believe I understand why you left your previous life behind, I have often wondered what became of you. I hope you have found contentment, and wish you all the best as one outsider to another.

Sincerely,

S. Snape."

If one needed a visual of the word 'dumbfounded' at that moment, the sight of Hermione Granger upon reading that note would have been entirely sufficient. 'Astonished,' 'flabbergasted,' and probably 'speechless' would have been suitably covered too. She read his short letter no less than five times, end to end, before she realised that a pot on the stove was boiling over, and her dinner was almost certainly burnt in the oven. Moreover, she found she did not care.

The rest of the week passed in a daze.

By the time the weekend rolled around, she was starting to regain some clarity. It was, after all, a thoughtful and kind gesture, a demonstration of his impressive attention to detail, coupled with an evident sensitivity regarding her desire to remain 'an outsider.' Only when her brain stopped fizzing with static and started to recover some its customary objectivity did it occur to her that he might have been expecting some degree of comprehension on her side. He had written "as one outsider to another" after all - did that mean what she thought it might? Had he turned his back on Hogwarts too? It would make sense. If she had been through what he had while living within those walls, she was sure she'd want to see the back of it as soon as practical. He had, after all, more than fulfilled his duties as both Potions master and spy for The Order, and he had been an excellent teacher assuming one was of a mind to learn.

It would be a lie to say he'd never crossed Hermione's mind in the intervening years. As she had grown older and discovered the world of Being An Adult, she had wondered about the man rather than the teacher, and had wondered about the incredible strain he had carried. She had thought, looking back, that he had a level of intelligence that was wholly wasted on the vast majority of his students, and she found that she rather sympathised with his outbursts considering the idiocy of many of her peers. Knowing now that he had survived his previous injuries - which were reported to have been grievous with much salacious detail from what passed for journalists in the magical community - she felt sure that he had turned his back for much the same reasons that she had.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

May 1998 - June 2010.

For six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione's life had been miserable. Whenever she left Grimmauld Place (where she stayed for lack an alternative), she was hounded. People wanted to take photos with her, people wanted her autograph, people wanted some proof that they had met one of the Golden Trio. Random passers-by felt it acceptable to accost her in the street to ask her about whether or not she and Ron, or she and Harry, were a couple. They asked her what she planned to do with her life. They asked her where she was going. They asked her if she wanted to go for a drink with them, to go for dinner with them, if she would teach their children, or if she wanted to hook up with their son, their brother, their nephew, or all of the above.

When she stayed in, things were no better. She received owls from all manner of businesses requesting endorsements; she got letters from the Ministry offering her jobs; she got notes from innumerable wizards asking for her hand in marriage or even, occasionally, unwashed underwear. In short, she was tormented by unsolicited attention from far and wide until, one day, she decided she could take it no more. She apparated from Grimmauld Place to her old neighbourhood and walked to her parents' house. Knowing that they were away on holiday and would be for another week she let herself in, locked the front door, sat down in their sitting room completely alone and listened carefully as the silence washed over her. At least this way she would feel alone because she was. She had spent months with people talking at  her, and she was wrung out from keeping her polite smile in place for the public. It was a relief to have no-one looking.

That silence increasingly became her refuge and, in due course, when her friends had ceased almost entirely to need her, she decided that the time had come to bow out completely. She packed her scant belongings, wrote letters, and left, not bothering to take steps to cover her tracks. She predicted - with what turned out to be a particularly painful accuracy - that no one would make very much effort to find her. The previous year had shown with depressing clarity exactly where her friends' priorities lay. While they were licking their wounds and taking stock of what would come next, she had been useful as a sounding board or a compassionate ear dispensing sensible advice. Now they were all moving on and coupling up while she faded into the background, unremarked and unneeded by the people she had spent so much of her childhood helping. She knew that if she asked for their attention, she would get it, but their lives had changed, and she had never been someone who liked depending on others. She understood that fame was not for her, and although she was still daily overcome with relief that Voldemort and Co were no longer a threat, the losses had been too great, and the scars had been too deep for too many to warrant the celebrations that her friends enjoyed. Hermione understood that the wizarding world would never be her safe place again, and upon that realisation, had not wanted to remain for a moment longer.

Her parents, bemused by the sporadic reappearance of their daughter after the war, had been kind but ineffectual. They could not begin to fathom the things she had seen and done, and in time came to believe it extremely unlikely that they ever could. After she had been living at home for a year or so, they felt quite put out with Hermione's persistent 'Otherness' which occasioned much guilt between them. When they were offered the chance to purchase the practice of an old friend in Australia who was preparing for retirement, they seized the opportunity with alacrity. They had made the house over to their only child who had said categorically that she had no desire to live Down Under and, other than the odd email or phone call at intervals, she heard little from them.

What could have felt like desertion turned out to feel very much like freedom. Thanks to her very practical and frugal parents, she was a woman of twenty-one in possession of a frankly massive mortgage-free home who needed very little to live comfortably. She took a part-time job in a local English language college while she decided what to do next. Although she enjoyed her work, when several people suggested she had a natural aptitude for teaching she explained that she had done quite enough while still in school to ever consider it as a full-time occupation, thank you very much.

"I seemed to spend most of my school life holding other people's hands for them, and thinking for them, guiding them. It was enough to last a lifetime if I'm honest. Whatever I do next will have to be for me, for the joy of it. There's no rush, and I can take my time," she told the Principal who nodded his agreement while thinking mournfully of his own overdraft and mortgage.

She spent her evenings at the kitchen table on her laptop, scouring the web for inspiration. At times she felt close to despair, convinced that she might drift indefinitely. Taking some online courses helped - at least there was a regular flow of knowledge that kept her brain working. FutureLearn.com became a playground of choice as she ran full tilt through diverse and sometimes peculiar subject matter. Modules that should have taken weeks were absorbed in hours and, in time, that too became obsolete. As time passed, she came to terms with what she had already known deep down. The fun was in the learning, the diversity of subject matter, and the opportunity to go headlong at something for a brief period before moving on to something else. The fun was in the chase. When she saw a job opening as a junior researcher for the BBC, it seemed as if it was made for her.

Almost ten years later and she was still chasing information, analysing it, categorising it, and doing what she did best. Her life was, in the main, a happy one. She worked long hours now as she had when starting out, although now it was by choice; progressing in her career had been child's play to Hermione and had happened organically with little manoeuvering required on her part. Her reputation spread quickly, soon prompting constant requests for her expertise. She had friends and colleagues who liked and respected her for her level-headedness, and her enthusiasm for her work, as well as for her wit and knowledge. She met people from all walks of life as a result of her job, and often travelled with crews as they filmed. Her practicality, consideration for others, and a lack of grandstanding ensured her a warm welcome whether she was in Aberdeen, Bogotá, or Christchurch. A passion for the arts meant spending much of her spare time at galleries, theatres, and concerts. She ran, these days for the sheer joy of it, finding that she had physical as well as mental stamina. Her days were full, and her nights passed in the sleep of the contented. 

And into this comfortable life well lived, there arrived a package. 

"From Professor Snape," she thought. "Professor, well, except he isn't any more…  Severus , I suppose.  Severus Snape sent me a present.  He took the time to find out where I live. He went back to the shop where we met, bought an album for me, and found my address and sent it to me. By post. I haven't seen the man in, what, more than a decade? And we talked for possibly four minutes about two and half months ago… I mean, good lord, what do I do with this?"

To which, of course, the obvious answer was "Say thank you!" Rummaging in her kitchen dresser, she found paper and pen and sat down to draft her response.

Chapter Text

July, 2012.

Severus wakes several hours after Hermione and lays entirely still for a moment, cataloguing each sensation as he becomes aware of it. This has been a habit of long-standing but has become a much more pleasant experience in recent years. These days, while age has increased the number of aches to be tolerated, he is at least unlikely to wake up still bleeding from last night's wounds or punishments. Rarely now does the day ahead feel to be of Promethean proportions, and he enjoys the irony that Nagini, unintentionally, became his Hercules all those years ago.

His awareness drifts to the simple pleasure of a comfortable mattress beneath him, pillows cradling his head, and the sweetness of cotton that has been washed so often that it has transmuted to silk. Curtains, open a little wider now, dip and drift in the breeze, and the sound of children playing in a garden nearby mingles with music creeping up the stairs from the kitchen. The dazzling sunshine of the earlier afternoon has gentled as the day turns towards evening so that the room glows softly. There is a fresh glass of water on the bedside cabinet beside him, throwing little rainbow glints on the wall. He notes the inevitable, inescapable scent of summer barbeques through the open window and the lingering trace of Hermione's wet hair from her shower. He can still taste her skin on his tongue, and although he feels guilty for sleeping so long, he suspects she will forgive him. Pushing back the sheet, he rises and follows in her footsteps towards the shower.

When dried and dressed, and while making the bed, he is suddenly overcome with a feeling of contentment so all-encompassing that he feels lightheaded with it. He takes a deep breath in to ground himself, to reassure himself that this sensation of expansiveness is not a dream. He stretches his arms above his head and out to the side as he exhales, feeling the space he takes up and the unlocking of his shoulders and spine. Then he straightens the bedspread and walks downstairs to see her again.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

3rd - 29th May, 1998.

The magical press had made much of the fact that Snape had ended his days as the chew toy of Voldemort's pet snake. When he had regained consciousness several weeks later in St. Mungo's, he had been somewhat dismayed to discover this ignominious death was to be his official ending in the history books. But when he remembered all that had preceded it, he supposed it didn't matter.

His first few days after reawakening had been difficult. He was weak and felt permanently exhausted in a way that was impervious to his usually formidable will. In a hidden ward at the top of the hospital, with private medical staff who had been sworn to secrecy with Unbreakable Oaths, he had time to gather his thoughts and to decide how he felt about his survival. Initially, he was overwhelmed with frustration; his body would not do as he asked, and his magic was patchy and prone to glitches. His exhaustion increased the more he fought it, the more he demanded of his magic and himself. In the end, it seemed wiser to surrender to reality. At least there was no one to see him like this.

He later found out that Minerva and Filius were responsible for this respite. Riven with shame when they learned Severus' role (thanks to Harry and the Pensieve memories,) they were adamant that no further decisions would be made on his behalf except those related to his immediate care. Should he recover, the two professors felt determined that Severus' future must be his own. Unwilling to back down, or to disclose his whereabouts to anyone inside of the Ministry or out of it, they guarded his privacy as a matter of honour and reparation. As two individuals of great empathy and imagination, many events of the past had suddenly become clear. That clarity brought a tangle of emotion to both: fury and disgust that Dumbledore had taken advantage of a young man's pain and confusion; sadness for Snape's isolation and burden; cautious joy that he now had a chance to start again on his terms, and fear that the emotional damage might be so severe as to prevent that. It seemed the very least they could do to keep any and all pressures away from him so that, for the first time in decades, he could make his own choices.

On the fifth day after regaining consciousness, Severus awoke to see leafy branches brushing against the window of his room as the sun painted them in myriad shades of green and gold. He watched entranced as the light moved over the upper reaches of the tree, and he felt a deep peace that he could never remember experiencing before. At that moment, he knew himself to be truly free - no masters, no mission, no amends to be made to long-dead loves - and he resolved there and then that his past would remain just that. There would be no going back, no returning to old habits or bitternesses because to do so would be to waste this miraculous opportunity. Lying in his narrow hospital bed, he swore that he would henceforth live entirely in accordance with his own wishes, and he would be beholden to none. Slowly, and with increasing anticipation, he began to consider what he wanted to do next. In the calm and order of his hospital room, he admitted to himself that it was frightening to build a life for the first time at thirty-eight. On the other hand, could he do any worse than had already been done?

Six days later when the Healers confirmed that they had done all they could, he left St. Mungo's and started the process of moving on.

Chapter Text

June, 1998 - April, 1999.

When starting with a blank slate, and almost two decades of barely touched salary, one might think it would be easy to know where to go and what to do. One would, perhaps, not take into account the years of living at the edge of crises, surviving on one's nerves and walking a precipitous line between two camps, while attempting to teach a complicated subject requiring patience and precision to students with the average mental capacity of a troll.

The sudden calm was excruciating. Severus felt as if he were permanently waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it was exhausting. 

Gratefully accepting shelter in Filius' surprisingly modern and un-wizard-like London flat, he sent instructions to the goblins of Gringott's requesting that they transfer all his assets into Muggle funds. Opening a regular bank account had been an ordeal in itself with no utility bills to his name. (He might have had to improvise slightly.) A passport was also something to contend with, but luckily at least he had a Muggle birth certificate to aid him. House elves packed up the books from his personal library in the dungeon of Hogwarts, and Filius had them forwarded to Spinner's End, which acted as temporary storage. 

Had anyone pushed him for his reasoning on leaving the magical world at this time, Snape was not sure he could have given them a clear answer. He had spent some time travelling overseas during the summer breaks between the wars, and he had always attempted to follow the old doctrine of 'When in Rome...' when he did so. His feeling now was that, if he wished to start from scratch, he should come to some acceptance of both sides of his heritage. While Severus was notoriously accomplished with wandless magic, for example, he was also curious to see who he might become if he chose not to use magic as an aid and crutch. There might be benefits to doing things the hard way for a while; even doing the washing up might help to ground him in the present while he adjusted so much so quickly. 

He had known that he could not face a return to Hogwarts; that was definitely in his past. Spinner's End was also his past, and although he wasn't above using it as a storage locker until he found a permanent residence, he was damned if he'd stay there. When he discovered that a developer had been sniffing around the area looking to build a new 'luxury' apartment block, he thought all his Christmases had come at once. He sold the crumbling house which was on a row of semi-derelict buildings, banked the proceeds, and revelled in the soaring freedom he felt in knowing that the bloody place would be obliterated. He didn't care about the gentrification of Cokeworth; he could not imagine that anyone who knew it as it had been would ever willingly live there. Instead, he gloated mildly over his increased bank balance and tried to envision a home of his own.

He contemplated moving southwards permanently; he had occasionally thought it might be nice to be nearer the sea - Brighton, maybe? No, too expensive - and there was an undeniable energy in London that he enjoyed. But some part of Tobias' genes made themselves known, and a voice somewhere to the rear of his hindbrain told him to stop being such a nesh bugger and to settle his roots where they belonged. Hiring a car, he packed a bag and left London for a week-long expedition north.

Severus had always loved the moors near Manchester, and no history of murderous evil could deter him from his joy in the wild open spaces of Saddleworth. He explored its edges afresh with a view to finding a home and felt compelled to follow, one sunny August day when he spotted a signpost for Scapegoat Hill. The irony was such that he felt he could not ignore it. An absence of suitable properties had almost demoralised him before he found an estate agent listing what looked like the perfect stone cottage on a reasonable amount of land just down the road in Golcar. Its simplicity and solidity appealed to him. He booked a viewing for the following morning, and when he discovered that the house had a dry stone cellar, he offered the asking price on the spot. He was enthralled by the potential, excited that it had an allotment included in the parcel of land, could see productive and happy years stretching ahead. Severus, usually patient and methodical, gave his heart to the house as soon as he saw it, and what he came to learn of the town in the following months only made him love it more, especially when he discovered that Golcar's emblem was the Hugeneot lily. The historical precedent of finding a haven from persecution lay gently upon him, and he felt the omens were good.

Hallowe'en saw him settled in his new sanctuary and starting to repair some of the more dubious decorating choices of its previous occupants. He scraped off fossilised wallpaper from decades gone by, and set himself to design a home where he could feel wholly comfortable. He postponed setting up the cellar as a lab, unsure if making Potions would be part of this life yet. In the interim, he used it to store his collection of cauldrons and glassware, collected earlier in the month from Minerva's tartan travesty of a cottage. 

He had been nervous about seeing her - it was only the second time since he'd woken up and found himself in hospital - but her delight in his recovery and freedom was evident, and he observed no reproof in her manner. Sitting over afternoon tea in her parlour, she had been at pains to say what she felt was necessary in her usual direct way.

"Severus, my boy, I've known you since you were eleven years old and I am ashamed that I never saw what was happening to you. No, don't look at me like that; I need to say it, and you need to hear it. I'm ashamed that I doubted you, and I don't blame you for walking away from the life that hurt you so badly. If Albus were here, I'd tell him where to shove his 'Greater Good', and I'd smile while I did it. But there are people who care, lad; there are people who want you to be happy, and I'm only one of them. We're here if you need us for anything...if we can help, at all... It's not only that we owe you so much, and Merlin knows we do, but we're fond of you. And that's so much easier now we can understand why you acted like such an arse for so much of the time."

She had smiled that mischievous, sparkly smile of hers and Severus had been astonished to feel tears pricking his eyes. He had made his excuses shortly after. Deciding to write to her once a month, he never said precisely where he had settled, but the post office box he used in Huddersfield gave her enough of an idea. He knew she wouldn't pry, but he appreciated knowing that there was someone invested in his wellbeing after spending so much time alone.

In fact, Snape discovered that there were friends to be made all over his new town. He consciously worked to overcome the reserve he had cultivated and made a point of talking to anyone who showed the slightest inclination. After meeting George and his Jack Russell terrier, Frank, outside the post office one afternoon, he learned that there was an informal group who played Backgammon on a Tuesday evening at the Rising Sun pub; he went. He was the youngest man there by a good twenty-five years, but it was a relief to mix with people who knew nothing about him and who accepted him at face value. When he visited the butchers on a whim for pork chops, not long after he moved in, he saw a flyer for a book club. When Harry behind the counter noticed, he said that it was a club his sister Susan had just started the month before and, as long as he didn't mind being surrounded by middle-aged women, he'd be very welcome. Severus grinned and said he might give it a try. He chatted to the staff at the local garden centre when he went to buy seeds for his vegetable patch and listened to their advice on gardening tools. Bit by bit, and despite often finding it very tiring to go against decades of training and self-discipline, Snape wove himself into the fabric of the town. 

Six months after he moved in, the nightmares started again.  

Severus' house.

Severus' house - 2.

Chapter Text

June, 2010.

Hermione had intended to write Severus Snape a letter of thanks for his gift, but when she sat down with pen and paper in hand, she realised that it was not so easy. The basic courtesies flowed swiftly, but what came next was not as simple. As before, she wondered about the man and found that, despite his much more...relaxed appearance when they'd met in Manchester, she could not extricate him from her previous experiences in Hogwarts. How could someone that buttoned-up and severe now be found in slightly ratty band t-shirts and hoodies? Was it a genuine change, or had he just transfigured his clothes to Muggle-wear? And how strange to have to consider such a thing these days! 

In the end, she sent a card rather than a letter, somewhat daunted by all the questions she would not ask. She had noted the PO box address in Huddersfield and was struck by the very mundanity of it. Picturing him stalking down the Victorian streets, she saw him teaching at one of the colleges although she had nothing on which to base these imaginings. She did not expect them to enter into a correspondence, and she kept the note to a minimum; even so, it took staggering levels of will-power.

Dear Professor Snape,

Thank you for taking the time to send such a considerate gift. The Stones sound so much better on vinyl, don't you think? It was a superb payment for a very small bruise. 

It was a surprise to hear from you, I must admit, but I was delighted to learn in Manchester that rumours of your demise had been greatly exaggerated. Yes, I'm sure you guess correctly as to why I left the community. I moved back to my parent's home near London in 1999, subsequently building a career as a researcher for the BBC. This has proved a useful outlet for my tendency to be an Insufferable Know-It-All! Honestly, I don't know how you put up with us - we must have made a trying time even harder. 

Thank you. For everything.

Very best wishes,

Hermione .

When she thought about it afterwards, she realised that she had called him Professor out of habit, but it was too late to modify at that point. She wondered if he would understand that the Insufferable Know-It-All part had been humour rather than recrimination, and it plagued her for a couple of hours until a new project landed on her desk. An hour after that, she had lost herself in the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

22nd October, 2010 .

Roz peered round the corner from the kitchen to the living room where Hermione was stretched out on her sofa dozing. 

"H, I know you came here to snack, drink wine, and go to the REx tonight, yeah? But I've got a plan for tomorrow, OK? I'm going to take you to meet a friend of mine. We're going outside the city, so you'll get fresh country air too."

Roz ducked her head back into the kitchen to elude the inevitable outburst.

"I come here to relax after six solid months of chaos, and all I want is my trip to 'The Lady and the Sea' tonight, and to spend some time catching up, not an itinerary, woman!"

Roz heard Hermione lever herself upright on the elderly brown leather sofa and correctly predicted the sudden look of horror that crossed her friend's face. There was a groan.

"Rosemary Safiyya Morris, please tell me you're not foolish enough to try and set me up with someone. You must know better...  Please,  tell me that you know better...!" 

A distinctly unladylike guffaw emerged from the kitchen.

"It's not like that. I wouldn't do that to either of us! No, this is a surprise, and I'm not telling you anything in advance because I don't want to prejudice your response. Just trust me, OK? You said yourself that you need a change of scene."

Her head popped around the corner again, dreadlocks flicking against the wall and her café-au-lait skin limned by the weak afternoon sun.

"It'll be interesting, and we're not leaving here until ten o'clock which is practically lunchtime for you, so chill, yeah? It'll be a nice drive, pretty scenery, a short visit, and then back by the afternoon for takeaway and Merlot. Don't fret."

Hermione grumbled and reclined. She was too exhausted to complain, and delicious smells were emanating from the kitchen. Roz's cat, Hepzibah, hopped up on the sofa and tramped a circle on Hermione's belly before settling down to sleep, purring like a small, furry, tabby-patterned engine. The couch creaked as she reached for a cushion to put behind her head and John Martyn's Solid Air drifted gently through the room. 

The last time Hermione had seen Roz had been in June, snatching a night from a relentless workload in London to come and see Whitney Houston at the M.E.N. Roz had been so excited - it had been a no-brainer that they should go together. Now autumn was here, and it all seemed like a long time ago. 

Never one to shy away from work, even she was starting to feel that things were moving at an unsustainable pace in London. A long weekend with one of her best friends had felt like a glorious late birthday present, and she had arrived in Manchester by train a couple of hours ago. Long of the opinion that Roz's flat was a magical sort of space, she relaxed as soon as she walked through the door. Green plants glossy with health, white walls covered with Peruvian textiles and theatre posters, and a truly appalling quantity of windchimes gave the air of a wholly bohemian occupant. Psychology textbooks littered the coffee table, and Hepzibah's scratching post stood beside a massive handpan. Hermione was fascinated with the handpan and made Roz play it on evenings when they'd had too much wine. Her visits here invariably made her question why she was still living alone in her parents' colossal house. Stroking Hepzibah behind the ears, Hermione thought yet again that if she would only allow herself some breathing space, it might let her give serious consideration to how she was living. 

"Set the table, H!" called Roz. "It'll be ready in five. And there's wine in the fridge." Gently dislodging Hepzibah, Hermione rolled to her feet and went in search of cutlery.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

23rd October, 2010.

Roz tapped Hermione gently on the arm after bringing the car to a stop. 

"H, wake up, we're here, sleepy-head! I know you said you always doze off in cars, but you were out before we got off the M60! I think you set records, mate!"

Hermione groaned as she opened her eyes and gazed blearily around her.

"And yet I didn't have the brains to bring my neck pillow... Gah. You could have woken me; I didn't mean to abandon you and miss the drive. I don't know where we are, but it's glorious."

Still trying to un-crick her neck, she followed Roz out of the car and round to the front of a house drawn as if by a child. The entrance stood between two perfectly gleaming windows, and a garden of wildflowers sloped down the hill before it.

"It gets even better," said Roz with a grin and knocked happily on the navy blue door.

Enraptured by the golden autumnal light and the beautifully coppered leaves, it took Hermione a moment to turn away from the spectacle. She had heard her friend's hello, the accompanying sounds of kisses on cheeks, and winced when Roz poked her in the ribs, beaming at her.

"Hermione Granger," she chuckled, gesturing to the tall, dark-haired man dressed in ancient combats and a heavy grey roll-neck jumper beside her, "I am delighted to introduce the, frankly, ridiculously named Severus Snape. Sev, this is my over-worked mate from London that I was telling you about. OK, now I've done the polite intro bit, I need your bathroom. I'll be right back."

And she bolted into the house, calling over her shoulder about putting the kettle on. 

Hermione found herself shaking the slightly calloused and torn hand of her old Potions professor and laughed. It was completely involuntary, and she was horrified with herself. Severus, clearly also caught unawares, gazed down at her with a hint of his old disapproval and when he could see her try to gather herself together, he winked and gestured her indoors. 

"I believe," he said quietly, "that for Roz's sake, we might have corresponded previously on the topic of...organic small-holdings, wasn't it?"

One eyebrow raised in a still disturbingly familiar fashion, he led her into a kitchen with a range and wooden cupboards around a Belfast sink. It was warm and inviting, and the scarred oak kitchen table had a bunch of freshly picked carrots at one end.

"Ah, yes, I remember now," said Hermione, still feeling somewhat dazed. "A couple of years ago, I think? I'm sorry, I speak to so many people in the course of my work... I'm sure you understand."

He nodded, smiling. 

"But Roz didn't tell me who I would be meeting today so, er, forgive me if I gawp from time to time."

"I'm given to understand I have that effect on people sometimes," he said as he filled the kettle and set about assembling a tray with a milk jug and sugar bowl. He pulled a multicoloured knitted tea cosy out of a drawer beside the sink.

Hermione chuckled. "I'm uncharacteristically stuck for words, but it's truly lovely to see you. You look... Well, uh, obviously you look different, but you..."

She trailed off, hearing the sounds of Roz returning down the hallway. "Oh God, please kick me under the table if you think I'm going to say anything incriminating."

Severus grinned. "My pleasure. Just don't raise your hand if I ask you a question."

"You can talk when I have tea, Sev; cut the slacking," Roz scolded, bounding around the corner into the kitchen. "Isn't it gorgeous?" she asked Hermione, looking around. "I'd kill for a kitchen like this, but he refuses to let me move in, no matter how much I plead."

"But I do so look forward to your visits, Rosemary. I'm told familiarity is apt to breed contempt and that would never do."

"I s'pose you may have a point. But I'd risk it if you ever changed your mind," she laughed.

Severus filled the teapot, added the cosy, and looked out the window consideringly.

"I think, if you are prepared to keep your jackets on, we might have our tea on the terrace. It would be a shame to miss the colours and the sunshine, don't you think? And if you behave, there may be scones and jam too."

Roz made a happy squeaking sound and hugged him soundly. "We'll be absolute angels, I promise." Hermione nodded in agreement, taken by the delight on her friend's face.

"Very well. Take the tray out with you. I shall bring scones as soon as I've removed them from the oven. They need another two or three minutes, I think. Hermione, will you take the basket there with the cushions and blankets? You'll be more comfortable - the chairs are charming, but wrought iron's a little chilly at this time of year."

The two women gathered their respective burdens and left by the back door, Roz's exclamations and her companion's quiet responses floating back as they crossed to the terrace overlooking the valley below.

Chapter Text

October 23rd, 2010 contd.

Severus listened to the sounds of the women on his terrace, fighting the feeling of fleeing his own body as he contemplated elevenses with the Insufferable Know-It-All of old.

Roz hadn't told him who she was bringing to visit, and he hadn't enquired too deeply. He and Roz were close enough that he trusted her judgment, and he knew that there wasn't much better than these hills for calming the mind and easing the soul. If she thought that a trip to Casa Snape was in order for her friend, then she was probably right. After all, how could she have known that there was a connection? He wasn't sure, but he doubted Hermione made a point of telling the world her history. No one needed the hassle that much, did they? No, it was merely a coincidence and, hopefully, one that would cause neither of them any distress nor trouble.

He had told the truth in the note he sent Hermione; he had often wondered what had become of her and had hoped she had the good sense not to end up with Weasley when they were clearly so ill-suited. When he became aware that she had returned to the Muggle world, he had felt fleetingly relieved. The Ministry had not seduced her into wasting her talents in some dusty old office somewhere. She had not ended up with a Quidditch team of red-haired offspring. She, too, had chosen The Road Less Travelled.

For all his carefully cultivated sneering and the tones he designed to wound, hehad recognised Hermione's exceptional intellect but had found her apparent need to be the best at anything academic exasperating; it reeked of desperation and was deeply off-putting. He tired of the constant praise that her teachers heaped upon her behind the staffroom door, and became increasingly repelled by her overwhelming desire for approval. He took to docking marks from her work because she simply never knew when to stop. He had idly wished that she would develop some restraint, some discernment, show some originality. In her endless push to prove her work ethic, she regurgitated whole chunks of text - appropriately credited of course - from staggering selections of material. His frustration was that she never seemed to understand that she could condense, refine, and rework this information until she had assimilated it as her own. In short, she was a verbose parrot, and he had been suitably scathing.

Looking back with the undoubted benefit of hindsight, he saw that he had also been ferociously jealous of her despite his status as a teacher. He had shown similar intelligence throughout his school days, but no one had praised him endlessly. His teachers had been distinctly standoffish with the scrawny, ragged young Severus, and had little sympathy for his concerns. There were a couple of exceptions that the objective part of his mind was now able to recognise, but it was so easy to fall back into the angry, disillusioned, and pained young man he had been. He had had no friends to share his days with; no one had ever depended on him in school the way that Harry and Ron had leaned on Hermione. And while he had thought she was a fool to allow it, he understood the desire to feel important and useful. He had been incensed by the trio's constant interfering and trouble-making because it invariably made his life so much harder. Still more, he had also been forcibly reminded that he had not had that sense of camaraderie during his school years. He had wanted to shout at her, scare her, find out why she didn't have the common sense to keep her knowledge, her power, and her grades to herself; he wished he knew why she trotted about with her heart on her sleeve all the time - didn't she see how dangerous it was?

Realising that he was in danger of drifting away into pointless reminiscences and that his pulse was speeding, he inhaled slowly and deeply. He took plates from the big corner cupboard and warmed them in the oven, removing the scones to stand on the countertop. Rummaging in the pantry, he found the butter dish and some jam to spoon into a stoneware jar. He gathered knives and napkins, then assembled everything on another tray which he covered with a clean, warm tea-towel from the rail on the range. As he moved, he envisioned the unhappy and dissatisfied boy that he had been in school and spoke gently to the image in his mind. He reminded the boy that they were safe, that they had a life and contentment that they could never have imagined in their school days, and slowly, he felt the inner turmoil begin to calm.

When Severus had first read about parenting one's inner child, he had felt the old familiar sneer begin to cross his face. While he could hear Tobias' voice ranting in his head about namby-pamby soft southern nonsense, he had learned from prior experience that strong initial resistance to an idea usually meant it was worth a second look. An impartial review was generally sufficient to assess its merits or lack thereof. When he gave this method honest consideration, it seemed very clear that if more kindness had been shown to young Master Snape earlier on, his life might have been less the stuff of nightmares and more like something that he could look back proudly upon. Of course, that made it all sound like someone else's fault, and he would never claim that. But it allowed him to find compassion for his teenage self, and he found that, in time, it became a helpful tool. He often wondered what people would say if they say him muttering to himself so frequently. But who could know that his regular inner conversations were what helped him retain his balance in life?

Opening the back door and picking up the tray, he left the kitchen and headed out into the golden autumn light.

While Severus was ambling uncomfortably down memory lane, Hermione and Roz had settled themselves with cushions, blankets, and steaming mugs of tea to look out over the glowing valley. Roz pointed out various village landmarks and waxed lyrical about the coppery leaves for a few minutes, but eventually turned her attention to her tea. She was right though, it was glorious, and the sunlight sank into Hermione's bones until they felt like melting butter. She sighed contentedly.

"Well, I'm not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't this! A nap, tea, fresh air, and this light is amazing. Wherever did you find Mr Snape?"

"Yeah, I thought you'd approve! Can't remember if I ever told you... I tried to set up a therapeutic gardening project for people experiencing PTSD in Manchester about five years ago. I put an ad in some of the local papers asking for expressions of interest. He's had some fairly major mental health struggles in his time, and he thought perhaps he could help. I'll ask him to show us later, but he's done so much work with this land, growing vegetables and keeping some animals. He says it's saved him. And I think he's prob'ly right. He's honestly like mindfulness in action, but with a healthy dose of sarcasm. He's very gentle and initially seems very formal, but I feel that perhaps that wasn't always the case. I don't know all his history, but I know he fought in a war and almost died from his injuries before he came here."

Hermione nodded. "I knew something rang a bell when you introduced us. I emailed with him a couple of times, must have been a few years ago now, about small-holdings. They're having a definite resurgence in certain areas. He was very eloquent and extremely persuasive; evidently a knowledgeable man."

Roz rolled her eyes, giggling. "Should've known better than to imagine I might be able to introduce you to something or someone new! I officially give up."

Hermione had the grace to look apologetic.

Severus appeared around the corner bearing a tray. "Finally, something to make you desist! Rosemary, I never thought I would see the day." He winked at her, settling his various pots and plates on the table and uncovering the warm scones.

"Dig in then; I doubt you've given up on my baking, whatever else you may quit." He scooped a scone onto a plate and handed it politely to Hermione. "What have I missed by my absence?"

Hermione thanked him and put her mug on the table to pay proper attention to the scones. "Roz is peeved that you and I have a prior connection courtesy of my squirrelling for the Beeb. She was telling me how you met. And I was relishing this spectacular view and your excellent tea. I can see why you'd choose to make a home here, although I'm sure a lot of work goes into making the gardens look so artlessly graceful." She grinned at him.

He waved his calloused and cracked hands at her from across the table. "Indeed. If only we could wave magic wands, eh? But it's been such a haven for me here that I can hardly imagine another life. And when we have finished our mid-morning snacking, I'll give you the grand tour if you'd like?" He looked around at Roz, buttering her second scone, and smiled as she made small happy sounds while chewing. "We may need to leave Roz here, of course. I've left some inside for you to take home with you, Savage. You don't have to eat them all now."

Roz tried to look outraged but failed, wiping crumbs off the geranium coloured blanket that covered her up to her chest. "Sorry, Sev. I know, I'm awful, but I haven't had time to visit lately, and you know I only come for your cooking anyway. It shouldn't be a surprise any more! You and H talk amongst yourselves while I gorge myself."

Severus laughed warm and low, and Hermione had to suppress a sudden shiver that crept slowly down her backbone. She didn't think she had ever seen Snape laugh, and she had certainly never heard it. She tried not to stare. It was twelve years since they had been student and teacher in Hogwarts, and it felt dreamlike at this distance. Now that she was so deeply rooted in the non-magical world, it was often hard to remember the minutiae of those days. Of course, she remembered him teaching classes, his commanding personality and the voice that could turn one's limbs to water. Still, she found herself wondering for a split second whether one's limbs might turn to water for a different reason nowadays. His hair gleamed in the sunlight, and his dark eyes were bright and clear. He looked healthy and steady, yet softer than she recalled. There was wisdom in this man, she realised. Hard fought for and won. He had a centredness that few people ever find, and she felt an overwhelming delight that he had made it out of the nightmare they had endured. He had survived and, better yet, appeared to be thriving in this little piece of paradise. Even if that's all she ever knew, she realised that it would be enough.

Turning at her name, she realised that the others had stood up and were folding the blankets.

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I was a million miles away. What did you say?"

Roz was bouncing on the balls of her feet like a tiny child, the scarf around her dreadlocks flashing bright colours in her own personal rainbow. "We're going to see the critters! It's the second-best bit about coming to see Sev. Come on, let's go!" And she darted off up the path ahead of them.

"Do you want me to clear the tea things?" Hermione asked Severus.

"Let's do this first. I don't want Roz upsetting my sheep. Don't look at me like that; they're used to a rather more refined level of conversation and considerably less squealing."

"Do you lecture them on the correct methods for processing ingredients?" Hermione queried cheerfully when she was happy that Roz was out earshot on the path ahead.

"To think you were known as the brightest witch of your age," scoffed Severus. "Of course not, sheep can't hold knives and care little for cauldrons. No. I teach them about the different grasses native to these lands, and we occasionally discuss variations that could be made to the sheep dip I brew. Come and meet them; I think you'll like them."

They ambled up the hill, both feeling surprisingly pleased with life, until they caught up with Roz who was leaning over a neat wooden fence.

"I know the chooks are behind the house, but the sheep are my favourite," she said to Hermione who admired the two fluffy and remarkably clean-looking animals that were bumbling towards them. Their sweet faces were friendly and hopeful. Severus reached into the pocket of the old waxed coat he had grabbed as they passed the kitchen door and pulled out two freshly cleaned carrots with wavy green tops still attached. He handed them to Roz who beamed at him.

"These two fine ladies are Minnie and Pom," he explained to Hermione. "Pom is slightly curlier than Minnie, but they're both very nosy and very kind. " He looked at her a second longer than necessary to be sure that she understood, but he had no real fears. She would surely realise that it wasn't maliciousness on his part.

He needn't have worried; she was delighted, her wide grin showed him as much.

"They're named after friends, and I have sent photographic evidence to that effect," he assured her. "I'm still alive to tell the tale, so it must be OK. And anyway, wait until you meet the chickens!"

"Oh dear! Do you have any more carrots in that capacious jacket? I'd like to pay my respects too."

He handed over another two carrots and watched as Roz and Hermione fussed over the sheep.

"I take eggs from the chickens, but the animals that live here are friends rather than food," he clarified to their appreciative nods. "I'm not a vegetarian as such but, well, one doesn't eat one's friends. It's not polite."

Roz laughed one of her trademark filthy laughs and Severus pulled her dreads gently in reprisal. "Be still, woman. You're lowering the tone as usual! Stop crooning over the girls and come to say hello to the bird brains."

Hermione realised belatedly that Roz had indeed been singing Barbra Streisand's version of It Had To Be You to the sheep, and she hugged her friend impulsively.

"Did you ever bring your handpan to play for them?" she asked and saw Severus look curious. "You know about her genius on the handpan, don't you?" But he shook his head.

"Not only am I unaware of Rosemary's mastery of this whateveritis, but I'm also at a loss to understand what the whateveritis is. Do explain!"

"A handpan. It's this incredible thing that looks like a spaceship. You play it with your hands, and it makes slightly spacey gentle music. Roz's brilliant with it. I make her play it for me sometimes when we've had too much red wine. "

"No such thing," said Roz breezily. "As too much red wine, I mean. It's a very relaxing instrument to play, and you can't really make a mistake with it - an important consideration when you're drinking. I'm sure the sheepies would love to hear it, but it's the wrong time of year for making music in fields - too muddy between now and summertime. Remind me next year." And with that, she patted Minnie and Pom once more and trotted off down the path, singing about chickens.

"I shall have to wrangle an evening invitation, it seems," said Severus mournfully. "It wouldn't do to have to wait that long for such entertainment." He scritched the sheep behind their ears, Hermione bade them goodbye, and they headed back down towards the house.

"If Miss Morris weren't in such a ferocious rush to play the Pied Piper with all my creatures, I would have shown you the allotment area too. I know that you city types aren't necessarily excited by carrots and cabbages, but I have to take out my extreme satisfaction with this year's growth on someone. The neighbours all discover pressing engagements if so much as a sniff of a vegetable enters the conversation these days." He sighed dramatically and then grinned. "I shall be the smug one when they're queuing for their sprouts in Morrisons come Christmas time."

She laughed at both his humour and the thought of what thirteen year old Hermione would have to say about this future version of herself discussing organic veggies with her terrifying Potions professor. Her hands, tucked into the pockets of her ancient Berghaus coat, curled in happiness at the idea.

Walking down past the house, they came to another outbuilding made of sturdy stone. It had a meshed enclosure around it, and Roz was unbolting a door to go inside. Five chickens danced around her feet, looking for scraps and pecking at the ground in a hopeful fashion.

"Ah, more introductions," said Severus. "Now, who have we got? The two fluffy ones with the excessive headgear are Sybil and Aurora; they're Polish chickens and completely charming while also being rather batty. Well, quite," he added at Hermione's snort of laughter. "Then we have three Marans, the darker feathered ones; these are Rolanda, the grumpy looking one is Irma, and that's Wilhelmina. And that great lump over there, Gallus Gallus Domesticus himself, is Lockhart: Rooster about town. He's exceedingly full of himself and convinced that everyone needs to hear him shouting at about four o'clock in the morning, and then he forgets he's already made a fuss and does it all again at six. Nevertheless, his very pomposity is entertaining. He's an excellent reminder never to take oneself too seriously."

"Good lord, I can imagine. Especially not at four o'clock in the morning anyway... Imagine loving the sound of your own voice that much!"

Roz looked over at her two friends cackling at one another and grinned. "He's very handsome, excuse you," she said and chuckled when they laughed all the harder.

In due course, when the chickens had been fed scraps, and Roz had made sure to collect the extra scones from the kitchen after bringing in their tea things, farewells were said.

"It's been a complete pleasure," said Hermione and Severus in unison as they shook hands. Roz rolled her eyes, and then pounced on a small, neat black and white cat as it came around the corner of the house. "Poppy's come home! Poppy, it's insulting to arrive just as the guests are leaving, you know," she gently scolded the purring feline in her arms. She stroked its ears and rubbed her cheek against Poppy's fur.

"Ah. Yes. Always has more important things to do, rounds to make, you know..." said Severus, trailing off and looking oddly shifty.

"Look at those pristine paws," Hermione cooed, "however do you keep them so clean? They look starched." She nodded to him reassuringly. "Roz, we really should go. We're running late, and we've taken up so much of Severus' time already. Thank you, Severus. It really has been lovely to meet you like this. So much nicer than, umm, emailing and so on. And it's fitting that I to get to say thank you for your help after all this time. You've got such a peaceful home, this really feels like a little patch of heaven after the noise of London."

"You're very welcome. I agree, it has been lovely - you picked a splendid day to visit, and you're very welcome to come again. Roz says you're working yourself too hard; life is slower in this part of the world. I don't think I could ever go back to the way I lived before; even the thought of it makes me queasy. But I've earned my rest. I'm sure you have too."

"I keep thinking it's time to take my foot of the accelerator and then some other fascinating project lands on my desk," agreed Hermione.

"Right now, your fascinating project is an Indian takeaway and a bottle of Merlot," reminded Roz. "It will take us an hour or so to get home so you can have another nap in the car on the way back!"

Hermione blushed and shook her head. "I think I'll try and stay awake this time. I'm not even sure where we are! You could abandon me in the middle of nowhere, and I'd never find my way home!"

They both laughed with her, and after Roz gave Severus a massive hug, the women bundled back into the car. They waved happily as they drove until Severus was no longer in view.

Hermione was expecting it, but she chuckled all the same when Roz's inevitable barrage of commentary began before they had even left the town.

"So, was I right or what? It's gorgeous, isn't it? I knew it would do you good, and I know some part of you is going to start thinking about how cool it would be to have your own sheep too! Imagine, H - imagine selling that bloody great pile of a house you live in and moving somewhere where you can breathe clean air..."

"It's beautiful here, and the air is delicious, the sheep are adorable, but I'm not sure I want to be responsible for other animals when I haven't even had a regular boyfriend for the last six years! I think you might be getting ahead of yourself, Roz."

"And what d'you think of Sev? He's fascinating, isn't he? I don't know how long I've been flirting with that man, but I never get anywhere. It's demoralising is what it is; I reckon he'd be the perfect friend with benefits!"

Hermione found herself quite unable to respond to that and Roz chuckled. "Don't go all shy on me now, mate. You saw those hands too - I bet he could play a woman like a musician plays on strings. Dextrous fingers, you know..." She trailed off with a happy noise and Hermione concentrated very hard on not thinking about those fine, strong fingers that had moved through Potions prep with such agility. The dark eyes smiled into hers in her memory, and she quickly changed the subject to more comfortable matters as they sped along the motorway.

Chapter Text

November, 2010.

Hermione dug her frozen hands further into the pockets of her trusty Berghaus raincoat and located her house keys with an unintended whimper. It was a freezing cold Tuesday evening, the rain was pouring down, and she was soaked from her thighs down to her Merrells. Mostly, commuting by public transport was the best option when working in the city. Driving into the office was more trouble than it was worth, and that was before one considered London's congestion charges and parking costs, but on days like today, she could imagine that sitting in traffic might have a certain appeal. Of course, that would mean buying a car...

November had arrived with miserable weather: endless downpours to batter the coppered foliage from the trees on her road leaving the gutters overflowing in a soupy mess; grey skies allowed minimal sunshine, which made everything feel ten times worse. Hermione could live with cold, but this felt like being stuck with a Horcrux again, and she found herself day-dreaming of Christmas lights coming to break up the interminable gloom. Kicking off her shoes when inside the front door, dumping her rucksack, and hanging her dripping jacket on a peg in the hall, she squelched upstairs to take a hot shower. The bathroom filled with comforting warm steam as she stripped off her sodden clothes, and she sighed with relief as she stepped under the scalding water. Halfway through washing, she realised she had run out of shampoo and conditioner.

Wrapped in her heavy towelling bathrobe, Hermione crossed the hall to her bedroom. Aside from the radiators' slight hum, the house was silent; it felt slightly stale and abandoned. Sitting at her dressing table and picking up a brush, she started the process of untangling the knots in her damp hair. She'd been away for the last week, and as had occasionally happened recently after returning from work trips, she felt awkward and slightly overwhelmed by the place she called home.

She had never understood her parents' insistence on such a large house; there were six bedrooms, and it wasn't as if they had been the type to take lodgers. They rarely had guests to dinner, never mind to stay. The Grangers had rattled around in about half the house when she was a child, and her parents had shown no signs of wanting more children. They worked a lot; their hours had only increased when she went away to school. However much credit she was prepared to grant them in other matters, Hermione was very clear that her parents had no imagination. Accepting that fact, it seemed likely that they had simply never given the point any further thought after moving in, having achieved the state in which they intended to become accustomed. Hermione understood about being busy but, increasingly, she felt that a family would appreciate the space in a way that she no longer could. It had been a long time since she had revelled in the silence and solitude that this place afforded her. Once again, she promised herself that she would make time to reflect upon her life. Soon.

Wandering downstairs, she found the kitchen to be disastrously empty. Unusually so. Before she had left last week, she had emptied the fridge, having come home once too often to milk that tried to march to the bin by itself and bread that all but waved. Even the freezer showed nothing more than half a packet of peas and a desperate need for defrosting. Sifting through a pile of post on the kitchen counter, Hermione found a local Indian takeaway menu and phoned in her order for delivery. She knew a supermarket expedition would have to be undertaken and that a proper inventory of the house would be required, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. Refusing to contemplate leaving the house again that night, she put a plate in the oven to warm while she waited but ended up eating straight out of the containers when the food arrived. She watched the BBC News at Ten and went to bed; she was asleep in seconds.

Her clock radio woke her at six o'clock the following morning as it did each weekday. She rolled over in bed, opened her eyes, and the lance of pain that seared her head was her first indication that all was not well. Everything ached. She felt shivery. And when she reached for her water glass, it hurt to swallow. Rummaging in her bedside cabinet, she found Ibuprofen and downed two, grimacing. Easing onto her back very gently, she lay for a moment with her eyes closed while James Naughtie gave the news headlines on Radio 4 - strange that a voice could be so comforting purely because it was familiar. Oddly, that was what convinced her; the thought of lying in bed and dozing while that well-known lilt chivvied politicians and questioned experts felt like the best option available. She left the radio on but set another alarm on her mobile phone for half-past eight. As it happened, she awoke again at twenty past. Calling her manager, she said that she had what seemed like the onset of the flu and that she needed to visit her doctor to confirm. Unsurprisingly, he told her to stay away from the office and to update him when she knew more. Next, she called her GP's surgery - mercifully only a five minute walk away - and made an appointment for mid-morning. After that, she headed for the shower, having first tied her hair up in a bun so she could keep it from getting too wet.

The lack of food in the house posed a problem, but a little digging at the back of a cupboard resulted in an elderly box of herbal teabags. Chamomile tea with some honey helped soothe her throat while Hermione scribbled a restrained shopping list. It seemed she might be home for a while.

Wrapping up in extra layers and pulling on her mercifully dry coat, she threw her wallet and phone in a spare rucksack and slowly made her way to see her doctor. There was a new Receptionist who didn't know her. It wasn't surprising. Despite this being the same surgery she had attended since babyhood, she hadn't had cause to visit for...she thought about three years. Her GP confirmed this when she went in. After the usual small talk and then a quick assessment, Dr Walsh confirmed Hermione's self-diagnosis. Fluids, rest, and Ibuprofen were prescribed and, following a standard blood pressure check, she was written off work for two weeks rather than the one she was expecting.

"I haven't seen you since early 2008," said her GP, "and until now you've always had very healthy blood pressure. I know you run, and you live a very active and busy life, but you look awful, and it's not just the flu, Hermione. You need to slow down, or you're going to set yourself up for trouble in the future. You've lost weight since I saw you last, but you didn't really have any to lose. I've written you off for two weeks, and I want you to take all of it before you go back to work. I know Christmas is on its way, and lots of people get busy around that point, but I want you to come back and see me in January. If there's no improvement in your blood pressure, I will have to consider medication to get it under control. I've known you since you were six years old, and you've always been a sensible girl; please don't become one of my problem patients. I'm worried about you."

Suitably humbled and feeling distinctly guilty, Hermione thanked Dr Walsh. She had been feeling rough since the summer and knew that she'd been procrastinating about her health - both physical and mental - for too long. There was always one more thing to do, or one more programme to work on, or a couple more questions to answer for people who needed her. Now she had been stopped for her own good. As she left the surgery and walked down the road to the local Tesco, she had to accept that she felt overwhelming relief, despite her shiveriness; the responsibility had been removed from her shoulders - she could pause for breath for the first time in months.

Hermione ambled around her local supermarket, carefully keeping her distance from other customers, and tried to decide on the essentials. She had written the basics on a list, and she could feel that there was a definite limit to her physical endurance at this point, but for the first time in weeks, she had time to consider her purchases. In the end, she bought several large cartons of soup, some soft bread, a net of startlingly orange oranges and a box of bright red cherry tomatoes, cheese and crackers, tea bags, milk, brown sugar, and her usual shampoo and conditioner. On the way to the tills, she got distracted by a massive chocolate display and bought a huge block on impulse. Then she dumped it all into her rucksack and lugged it back home. She had just enough time to unpack everything, make some tea and take it upstairs with her before her legs started to grow weak. She threw her clothes in her laundry bin, found her cosiest pyjamas and got into bed. The radio was still on, a constant companion in the otherwise silent house; she lay listening to it, drinking her tea and took another two Ibuprofen. She fell asleep without realising.

Gasping for breath, tendrils of hair sticking to her face and neck with sweat, Hermione sat up, suddenly wide awake. The bedside clock radio told her it was half-past two; the darkness outside the bedroom window clarified that it was the middle of the night. She didn't recall what she had been dreaming, only that something or someone had been chasing her. She had been fleeing in fear for her life until she had stumbled in her dream and woken up. Turning on the bedside light, she breathed slowly and deeply, willing her racing heart to calm. She still ached all over, and her temperature was high based on how cold she felt, but on the other hand, she'd just slept for thirteen hours which was...well, unheard of. It was clear she would be awake for a while. She felt clammy and slightly peckish. Perhaps something light to eat, and then a bath? Tugging on her dressing gown, she shuffled downstairs to the kitchen.

She heated soup in the microwave and drank a glass of water while she waited for it. She buttered bread and took the bowl and plate over to the kitchen table before fetching her laptop. She ate slowly as she typed up an email to her boss explaining her situation and letting him know that she had a sick note for the next two weeks. She added some details that might be useful in her absence and then, feeling slightly shaky, noted that she would not be checking her work emails while she was ill. She hit 'Send' before she could re-think it and put a quick Out of Office message on her emails. Then she shut down the machine and put it at the other end of the kitchen table.

Deciding that she had eaten enough, she put her crockery in the sink and made herself some tea. Her body still felt tired, but her mind was wide awake. Walking into the hallway to check that the front door was locked and chained, she noticed that her travel bag was still sitting in a damp mess; she took it upstairs with her and put dirty clothes in the laundry bin while waiting for her bath to run.

She had poured half a bag of Epsom salts into the bath in the hope that it would ease her aches, and some lavender oil went in for good measure. It smelled lovely, comforting and warm. At the bottom of her travel bag, she found The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, bought in Heathrow at the start of her trip - she took the book and her tea and, sinking into the hot scented water, began to read.

Two hours, and several hot water top-ups later, she thought she might sleep again. Hermione rarely read fiction, but she had been absorbed by the detail and the intensity of the writing, and she was thoroughly enjoying the book. The Epsom salt bath had warmed her bones and soothed her aching joints; the fluffy towels were warm from the radiator. She dried herself quickly, moisturised, and found clean pyjamas.

Lacking the energy to change the sheets in her bedroom, she unplugged her radio, picked up the water glass and the Ibuprofen and moved into one of the unused rooms. Each bed in the house was made up and ready for use, and they all had electric blankets. In a few moments, the chill had been chased from the sheets, and she crawled in, sighing with relief. She remembered to turn off the alarm but left the radio on low so that she could wake to friendly voices. She took two more pills and fell asleep immediately.

The next few days followed much the same pattern. Hermione slept as her body fought off the flu, and when she woke, she ate soup with crackers and cheese, drank tea, and read in the bath. She had resorted to a grocery delivery on Monday when her food stocks were low; it felt indulgent but was necessary. On the basis that she would not be carrying it, she filled her cupboards and freezer and restocked her bathroom.

The delivery driver was the first person she had seen or spoken to for four days - she was sorely tempted to invite him in for tea just to revel in the presence of another human being, but she tipped him and sent him on his way. As she closed the door, she felt an overwhelming sadness.

Living her life as she did, a study in perpetual motion, Hermione hadn't truly been aware of her own isolation. She had acquaintances that she socialised with, but this was all dependant on her being healthy and present. There were colleagues who liked and respected her, but no one close enough to call on for help in a situation like this. Roz was her best friend, but she was in Manchester with Hepzibah; she couldn't just ditch everything and come to Hermione's aid. In trying to keep everyone else happy and avoid awkward questions about her past, Hermione had held the world at arm's length. She had been involved with a couple of men, but no relationship had lasted longer than a few months. She had been very open about not wanting anything serious, and everyone had walked away amicably. But not to the extent of being actual friends.

For the first time in a very long time, she wished that someone would come and take care of her, that someone else could help do the things that others took for granted: put on a load of washing, change the bed, put out the bins, pick up groceries, make her a cup of tea. She didn't have a preference for who it might be at this stage: her parents, a partner, a friend - anyone who could carry some of the load would be welcome.

So it was that Monday afternoon found Hermione crying over bags of shopping in her kitchen while some rational part of her brain berated her for such weakness. Eventually, it gave up in the face of so many tears. The ice-cream melted before she got it into the freezer, and she cried some more thinking of how Crookshanks would have licked up the spillage in days gone by. In the end, that was what brought her back to herself. Crooks had died five years ago - it was hardly a new grief however much she missed him.

Hermione was nothing if not sensible. She realised that this was of her own making and could not be resolved with a quick fix. For now, she would concentrate on unpacking the shopping, making tea, and watching a feel-good film on the sofa. There was a soft woollen blanket on the couch that she could wrap herself up with, and a massive bar of chocolate to indulge in. With this thought in mind, she finished up in the kitchen and ambled into the sitting room.

The year she came home, she had watched hundreds of films. She had missed cinema visits while in the magical world; they could keep their magical photographs if she could keep the real moving pictures, she had decided. As it turned out, 1999 had been an excellent year for movies, and she had many of them on DVD. She dug out The Thomas Crown Affair, wrapped herself in the blanket, and lost herself in admiration for Rene Russo's character once again. From the first time she had seen her, Hermione had wanted to mature into that sort of woman: intelligent, elegant, confident, and sleekly sexy in an impeccable wardrobe.

The thought made her laugh when she imagined how she must look to the outside world; it couldn't be further from what she'd hoped back then. She lived in comfortable, non-descript work clothes most of the time. Or jeans and t-shirts. Or running gear. Her wardrobe was empty of designer labels on clothes or accessories; she didn't wear makeup having the genetic blessing of flawless skin. She kept her nails clipped short. Her hair was her one extravagance, more because she had never quite decided what to do with it than out of any desire to be vampish or desirable. She mostly bundled it up out of her way; she felt it would be unprofessional to shed all over her colleagues, and she disliked it falling in her face. And here she was, alone, in a dove-grey house in the suburbs of London, not quite knowing what to do with her life. Hardly a raging success for all that she loved her work. She realised as the credits rolled that she was exhausted again. She promised herself that she would do a full wardrobe review when feeling a little more healthy to see if it was possible to inject a bit more style while, in the next breath, acknowledging that she would struggle to ever be that bored. Perhaps it was better to accept that clothes weren't really her thing?

It took Hermione a full week to feel vaguely human again. In that time, she had used five out of the six empty bedrooms and had been oddly thankful that they were there, despite the house's tendency to echo. Thanks to the grocery delivery on Monday, her cupboards were well stocked; by Tuesday evening she had rewatched all her favourite DVDs, and by the end of Wednesday, she had completed her laundry. All the beds had been remade, and each bedroom cleaned. She had received some texts from colleagues during the week who sent undoubtedly sincere Get Well Soon wishes. Otherwise, the post had been the usual round of junk mail, local newspapers, and one or two bills. She had listened to books on CD or the radio as she cleaned, realising that she had gone a long time without being surrounded by the usual hubbub of voices and phone calls at work. Now that she felt more like herself, the silence was starting to feel genuinely oppressive, lurking just behind whatever she was listening to. Hermione went to bed on Wednesday night feeling pleased with her surroundings' tidiness and promising herself a walk among other human beings the following day. Maybe a few hours in a coffee shop with her book?

She fell asleep with the World Service on the radio.

Chapter Text

July 1999.

He sits up in bed as if he has been electrocuted. In a way, he has. The effects of the Cruciatus linger; nothing in the Healers' arsenal in St. Mungo's has been able to ameliorate the after-effects, although they said it would likely lessen in time. Tears stream down his face as his muscles spasm, and the resulting cramps guarantee no more sleep. It is half past three in the morning.

It takes forty-five minutes for his body to fully relax from the muscular contractions.

The nightmares started in April. Initially, he had been able to go back to sleep, but he's lucky to get four hours a night these days. He had hoped that his days of living on such short rations were behind him - it appears not.

When he can stand, he moves slowly, painfully, towards the bathroom and sets the shower running until steam curls out of the enclosure and creeps out onto the landing. He strips out of nightclothes soaked with sweat and staggers under the spray.

Severus is exhausted...and worried. Despite settling comfortably into his new community, loving his home, and enjoying the process of slowly modifying it to suit his taste, he has no one close to hand in whom he can confide. Not about the big things in his past. He continues his weekly Backgammon games at The Rising Sun, and the book club has been something of a revelation: he has always preferred the company of women. But despite having several (elderly) pub buddies and continuing one or two harmless flirtations with eligible local ladies, Severus has no safe and friendly ear that will welcome his confidences. While he is painfully used to this situation, he is starting to feel as if he might like to try the alternative for once. He has woken up in tears too many time since April - something he assumed would cease when his stint as headmaster came to a close, and he, well, died. His thought process never was too clear about what came after Voldemort's defeat, if only because he never thought there might be an After.

Despite his avowed intention to live solely in the present, he has found it's not always that easy. He spends a lot of his time alone. Time alone tends to set one invariably wandering down memory lane, a thoroughfare which, he accepts, is bounded by a river of blood and the thorniest of issues around culpability and intention. It's exacerbated by the sporadic pain in his neck from Nagini's bite and now by the broken nights full of the pain, torture, and death of other people. To the original guilt of Lily and James dying has been added years of lies; cruelty at the behest of both his demented bosses; the harshness he showed to his students - some of whom possibly deserved it more than others, but who were still children - and now his guilt for surviving the events which he was sure would kill him.

But he lived. He lived to see the summer sun slanting across his vegetable patches on golden evenings. He lived to stroll safely in the Muggle town where he now resides. He survived to have people greet him cheerfully and kindly. He is still here to play Backgammon with old codgers in the local on a Tuesday evening who welcome him each week with a variety of "Nah then, lad" and "'Ow do, Sev, lad?" which melts his heart every single time. When he went to the last book club meeting at Shirley's house, she had baked little apple pies that she served with cream. She had made him take the extras home with him, and it had so touched him that he could have wept. These little gestures of friendship have come to mean a great deal to him very quickly, but he of all people cannot truly deserve them, surely? He has already been granted much more than he could deserve. He feels as if he reels from the warm glow of gratitude to the heavy grey of the depression and apathy that will engulf him whole if he gives them an inch.

Getting out of Hogwarts and away from the magical community's fixed view of him has periodically prompted the notion that, in the Muggle world, he might have hitherto unknown options. People don't recoil from him or even consider him to be especially odd. They don't mutter under their breath or cross the street to avoid him, and no-one comments on his hair or his choice of clothing. Quite the opposite, in fact. Now that he knows a few more people, they sometimes stop him in the street to chat or ask how he's getting on. Not that that prevents the Imposter Syndrome, of course. He feels sure that something will happen to label him a freak one day, out of nowhere. Indeed he feels it is inevitable; when rather than if.

Severus has used far less magic since he left the hospital: a little assistance with the paintbrush to make sure his skirting boards are neat and some green magic for his growing vegetable garden, but for the most part, he finds it a massive relief to tire himself out day after day. He has cut back overgrown hedges, dug over new garden beds and dug in rotted manure secured from a local stable; he walks into town and hauls his groceries back on foot. From the time he staggers downstairs to inhale the caffeine that comprises approximately seventy-five per cent of his bloodstream nowadays to the time when he stretches out in the twenty-minute Epsom salt bath he takes nightly to ease his muscles and promote restful sleep (hah!), he is a study in intentional and perpetual motion. When he stops, he feels beset by that grey nothingness. Years of routine and self-discipline keep his thoughts directed elsewhere.

There have been a couple of occasions recently, though, when tiny things - losing a packet of seeds, knocking over a box of eggs which were on the edge of the kitchen table - have caused his iron will to shatter. In the first instance, the unleashed power and magical excess might have blown out his kitchen windows had he not retained sufficient sense to flee outside. A small tree paid the price, and a large stretch of the terrace showed scorch marks for some months after. The cracked eggs cooked in the literal heat of his fury and were quickly Evanesco'd away. In an attempt to ensure that his magic doesn't overrun in his sleep (which has happened to other wizards he has known in the past, often with unpredictable results,) he heats all his hot water by magic and Transfigures furniture from second-hand shops into that with which he would most like to surround himself. He has taken up magical wood-working in the evenings when he doesn't read or have social engagements because it requires focus while allowing him a modicum of creativity. In this manner, he is both pro-active and thrifty. His one other nod to his years spent in Hogwarts is his bedroom ceiling which is a starscape of incredible beauty. Never cloudy, always pristine and clear, he had spelled the plain white paint to replicate the stars visible from Scotland's highlands, far away from the Muggle towns and cities' light pollution. It brings him an illusion of peace at the end of his day.

Now, though, as he gives in to the urge to huddle under the stream of hot water jetting from his satisfyingly large shower, what he feels is desperate. It is perfectly obvious to Severus that he cannot continue in this see-sawing manner, and it goes against everything he promised himself if he allows it to continue. Psychology and therapy are not prevalent in the magical community, but he knows enough of the Muggle world to know that there are doctors who train specifically for this career. He noticed flyers for counselling services and support groups in the local GP's office when he registered as a patient not long after moving to Golcar. True, they were mainly for things like Post-Natal Depression and Alcoholics Anonymous, but there must be some way...

The biggest problem, of course, is not finding a professional to speak with. The biggest, most alarmingly huge, seemingly insurmountable problem is that when he eventually sits down with someone, Severus will have to find a way to tell his story without actually telling his story.

In the meantime, he wonders whether he could persuade his new GP to give him a prescription for sleeping pills. He used his old store of Dreamless Sleep potion up several months ago and doesn't feel focussed enough to begin brewing even the most simple cures himself. He genuinely feels that if he could sleep, even if he had nightmares, things might level out a little. His brain feels as if it's racing, and he tries not to use Occlumency these days; too many mental storage boxes feel as if their seams might burst as it is.

Severus is not delusional enough to think that it's possible in his current state, but he has begun to hope that, one day, there might be someone to help him through the worst of his fitful nights. Someone who might know him as the new man he intends to be. Someone who might understand what he was, assuming suitable editing is possible. Someone who might, at length, consent to build a life with him. He is starting to understand just how much work it's going to take before he can really consider that as an option, but it's undoubtedly a powerful inducement. He is starting to understand that what he felt for Lily was not love, but a mixture of a stubborn crush, gratitude for her attention and friendship, topped off with guilt and duty. He had yearned to possess her, to keep her close, and he now knows what that does to a person.

Turning off the shower and grabbing a towel from the rail beside him, he dries off and finds a clean t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He combs out his hair before tying it back out of his way and then retrieves his new dressing gown from the back of his bedroom door. The night is not cold exactly, but he enjoys the comforting weight of the soft fabric on the back of his neck and along his arms. He makes tea in his dark, quiet kitchen and then treads the familiar path to his reading armchair in the sitting room. A small anglepoise lamp on the side table sheds a soft pool of golden light as he settles with a small, tattered paperback in his hands. Sipping his tea, he flicks through the pages at random until they fall open to rest at the words his eyes most often drift to, spellbound as ever by the mind of W. B. Yeats.

I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
Above a sinking fire, a tale that she
Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
That changed some childish day to tragedy—
Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
Or else, to alter Plato's parable,
Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

Who else could he think of but Lily? That sphere of youthful sympathy shattered when teenage empathy could no longer contain it. What would his life have been without her there? What will it be, now, when he acknowledges the immature heart that burned so many bridges and consumed his brighter dreams in the conflagration?

Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

Comfortable, he thinks, has a lot going for it. But what of joy, or happiness, or love? Are second chances possible? Or even first chances? He puts his empty mug aside and holds the book between lithe fingers. He recites the final stanza, compelled as ever by the beauty of the words that implore to be spoken aloud. There are more renowned verses, there are weightier sentiments, yet Severus feels that there is a gentle hope in these words, and he clings to it.

Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul,
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

The birds outside have been singing for a while now. A new day has dawned while he has been spinning in his thoughts. Something has got to give, but, for once, he feels he might sleep. Leaving his book and his mug on the table, he switches off the lamp and pads back upstairs.

Walking past his bedroom with its tangled sheets and stale air, he enters the next doorway along the landing and is greeted by his spare room's clean cream walls and comfortable bed. He leaves the curtains open, early morning sun already dripping over his windowsill and onto the wooden floor, and climbs in under the fresh lavender-scented covers. He burrows into the pillows, and as the world wakes around him, he drifts into a deep soothing sleep.

He sleeps, uninterrupted, for six hours. When he awakens, he calls the doctor's clinic to make an appointment. It is time to find a way forward.

Chapter Text

July 1999 (cont.)

Sitting at his kitchen table, gazing out the window at the trees moving in the breeze and cradling a hot mug of tea, Severus sets his mind to finding a creative solution to his problem. He has made an appointment to see his local doctor tomorrow, and he has to explain the issues he is experiencing...but he must do so while staying strictly within the bounds of Muggle knowledge.

Severus does not want to lie, but nor does he wish to be referred to a psychiatrist by a doctor considering him delusional. So what can he find that is within the public domain that will account for the horrors he has seen that wake him every night? He wonders if he might find answers in the local library. It does not need to be perfect, but it must stand up to fundamental questioning just in case. He makes a quick sandwich to be eaten in between gathering necessary items for his research. He finds a notebook, some pens, and his rucksack, fills a water bottle, and chooses a few snacks in case it takes longer than anticipated. Then he washes his crockery before packing his bag and setting off.

Golcar's library is not pretty. Not for this little town the genteel Carnegie libraries with their Arts and Crafts architecture. Still, looks aren't evening as Severus would be the first to argue. He starts with the daily newspapers and, after half an hour, thinks he may have what he needs. Finding a piece in the Guardian about an ongoing United Nations investigation into atrocities in Srebrenica, he thinks this might be a decent line to take. The more he reads, the more he feels there are similarities that he can work with. He searches out several new books. It all seems alarmingly familiar, this Muggle carnage and viciousness. Scribbling dates and notes, he reads on.

After an hour or so, he is brought back to the present by a hand on his shoulder. He spins in his chair, arm outstretched, ready to hex the interloper into next week only to discover Denise, one of his book club ladies, looking at him in concern.

"Sev, are you alright?"

He's panting. Why is he panting? He feels as if he's run for miles, his heart's racing, and...what? Why's his face wet? He shakes his head, trying to slow his breathing, but struggles to find the calm he needs.

"Severus," Denise says, looking at him more closely now, "Are you okay, dear? Can you hear me?"

He nods, humiliated and furious to be caught out like this. He attempts to school his features a little better and raises a hand, asking silently for a moment. Denise nods, sitting down at the table to wait, mercifully leaving some space between them. Rummaging in his pockets, he produces a large clean handkerchief and mops his face with it. Fetching out the water bottle from his rucksack and closing his eyes, he sips slowly as his breath evens out over several minutes. He can do nothing about the shaking, apparently.

Readers ruffle pages in the stacks, and the librarian on duty is discussing Thomas Hardy with a girl in her late teens; they talk in whispers, and the girl gesticulates wildly. A car horn sounds from the street outside; it makes him jump. He counts his breaths for a moment more.

Severus opens his eyes and looks at Denise. In her late fifties, she's a comfortable woman: concerned grey eyes, brown hair cut short, navy trousers and a sea-green blouse under a light knit navy cardigan. They have discussed books, films, and the town's history but have never strayed into personal conversations; he is frustrated to be caught out in this way.

She evidently sees that he is coming back to himself because she leans forward ever so slightly to speak quietly.

"I didn't mean to intrude, and we shall say no more about it unless you think you might like to talk, but I heard a tiny whimper when I was browsing the history shelves over there. I wanted to be sure that no one was hurt. You weren't loud, and your back was to the desk, so I don't really think anyone noticed anything. Will you be alright by yourself now, do you think?"

A vague memory flits through his head: someone mentioning that Denise had been a nurse before moving here several years before. It fits. She exudes a calm and capable air, but it does little to soothe his embarrassment. He nods, feeling abjectly miserable.

"Thank you," he manages. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Not at all, Severus; you have nothing to apologise for." She hesitates a moment. "Perhaps you need something to read that's a little less...provoking? Time may not always heal, but it may dull our memories slightly. I suspect - and it's only a suspicion, no more - those books might be too much too soon."

He finds he has no words and raises one eyebrow instead.

She shrugs. "Let those with eyes see, isn't that what it says? I know you've not been here long, but iron self-discipline is easy to spot when you've spent as many years around the military as I have. I don't think you were a soldier, but you've been to war somewhere along the line. Your reading material and the reaction it evoked only confirmed it. It's none of my business, and I won't ask questions, but if you ever need a friendly ear... Well, sometimes it's easier talking to people we don't know so well, isn't it?"

She stands up without getting too close, but Severus holds out a hand to her suddenly. She takes it and squeezes gently before he rises to his feet and bows. He's still a little shaky and cannot find sufficient words for the gratitude he feels, but he thinks she understands.

Denise leaves quietly to go and check out her books at the main desk, and he sits back down to assess the damage. As he looks at his notepad, he sees that he managed to take down the main details of the Srebrenica history before getting sucked into a maelstrom of terror. Unwilling to look further today, he packs up his few belongings, leaves the books on the table, and walks out into the fresh air. It's warm, but not sunny. He buys a large slice of Millionaire's Shortbread in the bakery to fortify himself for the walk home - sweet things work best for shock and Boggarts as any Hogwarts child could tell him - and finds comfort in the steadiness of his steps on the pavement.

Putting his things away at home, he finds himself incapable of gardening or housework. Instead, he puts on The Verve's Urban Hymns album, stretches out on the sofa, and drifts off to sleep. Although he dreams, it's not of the past, but of his home and garden glowing in autumnal sunshine and the sound of a woman laughing gently just behind his shoulder. Even in his sleep, he feels a wash of contentment. The dream stays with him for hours afterwards. Not wanting to lose the image, he writes it down in a notebook - he finds there is comfort in transferring his thoughts to paper via ink. It is this that prompts him to begin a journal. The more he considers it, the more he likes the idea of having a private place for his thoughts. He has lived his life in public for so long that to have a confessional that cannot spill his secrets feels liberating. He always liked the notion but could not take the chance of it being found in the past. Now he is a free man, this feels like a tiny step in the right direction. If he is free of two demented masters, each as twisted as the other in their own ways, then he no longer needs to guard his thoughts inside his own head. He can let them out and make some space for the new things in his life.

Before bed that night, Severus finds himself writing, "Although the incident with Denise was regrettable, I do not get the sense that she is someone to hold it over me in any way. In fact, I feel hopeful: that there are still people with tact, decency, and compassion fills me with hope. For once, although I acknowledge I need help with my issues around sleep and moving forward in general, I feel as if I am in the right place, as if I have come home. I have not had that feeling since my wondering eyes first beheld Hogwarts - had I known what was ahead, I might have fled. But in my innocence, as any child would be, I was enchanted and wanted desperately to always stay wrapped up safely in its walls. Although it lacks the grandeur of Hogwarts, I feel a tinge of similar wonder when I look around this small town. Its inhabitants have been so kind to me, so welcoming and open. I want to make a life here, to build something good and true, entirely of my own construction and unhindered by the past. I am ready for it. I will work for it. It must start, I think, with working on my mental issues. I hope the doctor can help tomorrow. I do not expect miracles, but I begin to believe that they are possible - even for magical folk. Merlin, what have I become?"