without the right to even the slightest danger
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each
I do not think they will sing to me
- T.S. Eliot
He had not planned on living.
When Nagini had launched her fangs into his neck over and over again, it had felt like the natural conclusion to his life, the only possible path he would walk. Then Potter had appeared out of the gloom, and he had given him his memories – had given him the tools to end his life – he was satisfied. He had looked into those familiar eyes and knew he had reached the final destination, at long last. Relief had bubbled up inside of him, only slightly less potent than the venom charting a course to his heart. His death would at least be quick, that was all he could’ve asked for. The crooked, shabby walls of the Shrieking Shack had been a sort of comfort. He had nearly perished twice here before, both times because of Lupin, keening and howling and breaking apart. Throughout his life he had cheated death so many times, all to reach this point. He had done his duty. Wherever she was, Lily would not have forgiven him, not for sending her son to his death, or for any of his misdeeds, but maybe he could see her wherever he was going, and try to explain. He had done all he could to defeat the forces attacking Hogwarts.
Maybe those resisting the Dark Lord would fail; maybe they wouldn’t. No matter: sleep beckoned.
-
He is first conscious of being conscious, slowly realising he feels uncomfortable, and that his neck is wet. When he remembers the events of last night, realisation and fear strike him like twin lightning bolts. His eyes spring open. Still in the same place, then. But it is light and quiet outside. The battle must be over, one way or another. The reason for his continued existence presents itself in the beady eyes of Fawkes, peering curiously down at him. The phoenix is in the most beautiful stage of his life cycle, feathers a glorious arrangement of red, orange, and yellow, jumping out from the gloom of the shack. Severus gingerly touches his neck and throat; there is no evidence he has ever been bitten at all. Fawkes lets out his standard piercingly beautiful musical cry, and then vanishes. Fucking Dumbledore.
He contemplates what to do next. If the Dark Lord has proved victorious, despite his best efforts, he will kill him the moment he realises Severus is still alive.
The Mark –
He yanks down his sleeve, finding the barely visible outline of a scar, where there once was an oozing mass of black. When the Dark Lord was defeated before, it had not been nearly this faded, this final. He laughs, a horrible thing, cold and triumphant. Much like his once master.
This changes nothing for him, practically. He still needs to run as far as he can, as fast as he can. The only two people who could’ve vouched for his innocence are dead, one at his head, the other at his instructions. And the survivors of the war will be baying for blood.
But try as he might, he cannot bring himself to any more than to pull himself into a sitting position. Weeks, months, years of pent-up exhaustion are unfurling themselves throughout him all at once. His body refuses to obey the frantic signals his mind is sending it. His body is a little traitor and always has been.
He sits with his back hunched, hands clasped.
They will come for him soon.
-
Severus has been sitting in the same spot for a long time. It could’ve been hours. He might actually be dead, for all he knows, and doomed to sit here and wait for all eternity. Or maybe everyone else is dead, save him and the bird. There are certainly worse possible outcomes than that. No part of the castle or grounds will be left untouched in the search for any straggling survivors, who are not turncoats. He still has a chance to escape, if only he wasn’t so very tired. It occurs to him that the venom may be in his system, that Fawkes may have healed the wound, but might have been unable to cure him of all the effects.
There are suddenly very loud footsteps – he can’t be bothered to flinch at them – and in bounds Potter, who’s shocked expression is no doubt mirroring his own.
“What?” They say in unison.
“Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix.” He gets in quickly. “But you –”
He launches into an explanation, talking about horcruxes, a train station in his head, Narcissa Malfoy, and the elder wand.
Severus just about follows, slightly overwhelmed by the amount of information. “Are you certain he’s dead? My Mark has faded, but I could not be sure.”
“His body is in the Great Hall.”
Distantly, he is relieved at this confirmation. Even more distantly, buried right in the deepest pits of his soul, he is joyful: an unfamiliar feeling at the best of times. But drowning out those feelings is the sensation of his leaden bones and weary muscles.
“Are you okay?” The boy asks, with the tone of someone who has repeated the question three or four times.
“I am uninjured now, Potter.” He forces out, looking him up and down properly for the first time since he entered. The insolent brat he has been forced to put up with across three subjects seems like an almost entirely different man. In front of him is a veteran, covered in blood and dirt, green eyes hardened. Still annoying though, most likely.
“I’ve told everyone the truth – that you were on our side the whole time and only doing what Dumbledore had asked of you.”
Of course the Chosen One himself was going to be sickeningly noble about all this.
“I assume I am being canonised as we speak.”
Potter grins at this. The expression catches him off guard, and for a moment he doesn’t see his father at all. He is overcome with the urge to shake the boy, to remind him of the fact that it was Severus, stupid and freshly 21-years-old, who had delivered the prophecy. To remind him that his parents’ death – that Lily’s death – is a sin for which a lifetime of duty will not atone for.
But the boy speaks first. “There was a mixed reaction.” He replies. “To put it mildly. Though seeing as I’ve just killed Voldemort –”
“Don’t –”
“Oh come off it, he’s dead! Anyway, seeing as I’ve just successfully defeated the most powerful dark wizard the world has ever seen, my word does count for something. I have, and will, vouch for you.”
And James Potter has returned. Severus rolls his eyes, much more comfortable in disdain. “You’re right, Potter. The ministry is notoriously fair and diligent; I’m sure I can explain the whole thing to them over a cup of tea.”
“There’s barely a ministry left, to be honest. We’ll figure it out.” The idea of them being a we is so foreign it makes his stomach churn. “You’re not going to Azkaban for crimes you didn’t actually commit, that’s not happening this time around.”
The memory of Black hangs in the air uncomfortably for a second. Severus considers making a jab, but pictures receiving a dementor’s kiss, and elects to instead bite down on his tongue so hard he tastes blood.
“Well, we’ll see.” He says, slightly awkwardly. “And I’m still sir to you, Potter.”
“Okay, sir. ” Potter replies sharply, but then adds in softer tones. “Are you sure you’re alright? You sound exhausted. I have my cloak, I can sneak you into the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey look at you.” He holds out his hand for Severus to take.
Too tired to argue (but not tired enough to take the extended hand), he forces himself to rise on aching limbs, making his way into the great unknown.
-
Poppy, who had been told by Potter that he was dead, takes his resurrection rather well. She has seen more of his body than any living person, and he thinks she knows it, too. Every September he, unwashed and bruised and malnourished, had been ferried off to her by a concerned but absent Horace. Throughout the school years, he would end up in the hospital wing time and time again, both as a victim of Potter and Black’s antics, and as a victim of his own failed experiments. He had not been an easy patient to treat, to say the least.
By adulthood, he was able to treat himself. He avoided her mostly: she was too painful a reminder of how he had grown up. But throughout the past year, he had snuck in and dropped off some of the Carrows’ victims to her, always leaving quickly before she or anyone else could realise he was there and what he was doing. On the couple of occasions she had caught him, he had threatened to fire her if she told anyone else, and for good measure implied he was the only thing stopping the Dark Lord from disposing of her.
Her face is impassive as Potter explains what happened. She checks him over, makes him drink Anti-Venom, and gives him more doses for the next week to take. While doing so, she mutters repeatedly under her breath about having dozens and dozens of patients who need her and that Severus is perfectly capable of rustling up antidotes himself. Despite this, he knows that she would finish the job Nagini started if he attempted to stop the treatment and leave.
“Thank you, Poppy.” He says, and means it. There is so much more to say, but he cannot bring himself to begin. Sorry for lying, sorry for killing Dumbledore, sorry for the Carrows, sorry for the traumatised children you had to treat over and over again, the ones brought in by their fellow students, or dumped unceremoniously on her doorstep by him, sorry for the battle, sorry for all the injuries he had yelled at her for treating. He wonders if she believes him at all, or if she is just indulging Potter. “If you need to me to make anything…”
“Yes, you owe us that much.” She glares at him, and he shrinks away, feeling all of 12-years-old, like he had just been caught trying to sneak out by her. He wants to murder Potter for witnessing this. “Stay here until I discharge you. If you die on me now, I will kill you.”
-
Poppy departs and soon afterwards, Kingsley Shacklebolt arrives, flanked by Millicent Bagnold and the rather less impressive Amos Diggery. Word must have gotten out that he is alive.
Severus had always respected Kingsley, as the only other competent member of the Order, but he scowls at them nonetheless. Sick rises in his stomach at the thought of Azkaban. He is slightly flattered that they seem to think they need three wizards to contain him, but he is too tired to fight.
“I presume you have come to arrest me.” He says, as though each word is not a monumental effort.
“Yes, I’m afraid I have.”
“Hoping that locking me up will give a little boost to your campaign to be Minister?”
Kingsley, predictably, doesn’t rise to the dig. “Harry Potter, like Dumbledore, has made it clear he believes you, and I am inclined to believe him.”
“Yeah, Dumbledore trusted him, and looked at what happened there.” Amos points out.
Cedric Diggory’s unseeing eyes flash in Severus’s mind, and he forces himself not to say something cruel.
“Nonetheless,” Kingsley says, cutting off Amos before he can continue. “You understand we cannot just let you go free without a trial on one man’s word, even if he did kill Voldemort.”
Severus flinches at the name, but before he can answer back, Potter bursts in, looking slightly out of breath. “Don’t take him to Azkaban, he’ll –”
“This does not concern you, Potter.”
“It does, because I’m the only one who can vouch for you!” He’s not wrong, but the fact makes Severus furious. “Would you like to go to Azkaban?”
“If you carry on speaking to me like this, I’ll…” He trails off. He had been about to take points off of Gryffindor. He has never needed sleep more.
Kingsley lets out a small chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“We did wonder if your personality was part of the act.”
The idea of people discussing him makes him feel murderous. Worn out as he currently is, he settles for simply imagine clawing everyone’s eyes out.
“Anyway, he can’t go to Azkaban, it’s full of Death Eaters who will try to kill him on sight, without Dementors to stop them. Everyone knows he’s a spy now.” He turns to Kingsley. “And you said yourself it’s too crowded to confine everyone to their own cells.”
“There are enough cells for some to be kept solitarily,” Millicent Bagnold speaks for the first time. Merlin, the pre-Death Eater ministry must have been wiped out if they’ve had to bring her out of retirement.
“But they are reserved for the most dangerous and violent of those who survived.” Kingsley points out.
Severus wants to ask who exactly that is, but thinks that might condemn him too much.
Kingsley strokes his chin. “I will cast tracing charms on you, and we can put up specific wards on Hogwarts that prevent you from leaving. There will be a trial.”
“I’m sure that will be very fair.”
“You should be grateful we didn’t chuck you straight in there!”
“Amos.” Kingsley reprimands, turning to Severus. “It’s not going to be like the First War. I’m not Barty Crouch.” He says, with a note of finality.
They cast the tracking charms on Severus, as he stares straight ahead. The three depart, but the boy remains, hovering by his bed like a particularly irritating fruit fly.
“Sir – I was just wondering – you knew my mother…”
The air has been sucked out the room. The moans of those injured and the chatter of their loved ones has suddenly stopped. He closes his eyes, tries to keep breathing. He had forgotten how much Potter knew, in the shock of survival. He knows he owes Potter, will owe him forever for the death of his mother. A debt he will keep repaying till he finally dies.
A silence stretches out between them. He opens his eyes. Terrifyingly enough, feels as though he might cry. An apology lies unsaid, tucked beneath his tongue.
“Another time.” He finally croaks out. Just about managing to meet Potter’s gaze, he asks. “Where is the Dark Lord’s body?”
He grimaces. “Is that a good idea?”
“If you don’t show me, I will simply find it myself.”
Potter sighs.
Poppy is going to disembowel him for this.
-
Hogwarts is a scene of utter destruction. No brick has been left untouched by the fighting, no spot unblemished. Only now does he truly register just how disconcerting it is to see the castle battered and bruised. His home, his only home.
Potter insists on accompanying him. A part of him is relieved, a larger part of him thinks it may have been better to die than to live with the boy as his shadow. Severus knows he will owe him if his testimony means he escapes Azkaban, which means he will have to talk about Lily with him at some point. He then wonders what James would think if he could see his son on bodyguard duty to Severus, and the wave of smugness that produces manages to pierce through his exhaustion.
Neither of them speak as they trudge to their destination, though it is apparent from the side looks being shot Severus’s way that Potter is desperate to bombard him with questions.
And if the devastation is stark in the corridors, it is as though death himself has descended onto the Great Hall. Death in the bloodstains on the floor, death in the scorch marks on the walls, death poking out from under the covers draped over bodies, deaths in the grief of those sat around them. The senses are assaulted with it.
No time to dwell on that, however, because a ripple of murmurs are making their way around the hall, heads whipping towards the newly arrived pair. For a moment, he hesitates. On one hand, it does him no good to be visibly visiting his old master’s body. On the other hand, he wants desperately to see it before it gets destroyed. He forces a scowl through the uncertainty.
“Here.” Potter says, indicating that he should go through the door on the left, just behind where the professors take their meals. He’s done what Severus has asked of him with minimal protest, possibly a first in their relationship.
He’s sure this will be mentioned at his trial. Maybe he’ll replay it over and over again in his cell in Azkaban, as the point of no return. But he needs to know it is truly finished.
Lord Voldemort is splayed out on the floor, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles, clearly having been chucked here with little regard. This is the most human Severus has ever since him. His hands have begun to shake, memories of being 17 and eager to please, looking into those red eyes.
He thinks of the tortured Muggle-borns and Muggles, the torture inflicted on him , how scared Lily must’ve been. He spits on the corpse. Potter doesn’t react.
As he stands over the body, a peculiar emptiness descends onto him. It truly is over. He curses Fawkes, curses Dumbledore. What is he meant to do now?
-
They make their way out, still side-by-side. Even though on some level, he understands why, it is frustrating that Potter is acting as though they have not despised each other since that first potions lesson, that the hatred hasn’t stretched across two generations. He can’t force out any words of gratitude for the protection Potter’s presence brings, so he turns without another word to leave, only to be confronted with another problem.
Minerva is striding towards him. He braces himself for a series of scathing insults. As she draws closer, however, he realises his eyes are brimming with tears.
“Severus, I cannot apologise enough.” She begins. “I don’t know how I didn’t realise – all this time –”
“That was rather the point.” He aims for a casual, silky drawl, the one he had trained himself to adopt, but finds it comes out flat upon leaving his mouth.
“You’ve been so brave – I’m so relieved – I would’ve never forgiven myself if –” She carries on, voice thick with emotion, but he tunes her out. After a year of desperately longing for some kind of realisation or recognition from any of the staff he had been taught by and taught alongside, he finds himself wishing for hatred again. It had been much easier to manage than these uncomfortable displays.
All of a sudden, to his great surprise, she embraces him. It burns. No one has held him with kindness in years and years, not this kindly. Not since –
His body has gone stock-still; Minerva may as well have cast Petrificus Totalus because he cannot move to push her off, can barely think. Her words buzz in his ears, but he is unable to make a single one out. All he can hear is his own breath, quick and ragged and law. He feels brittle, feels like he may collapse or erupt if this goes on a moment longer. Mercifully, she releases him, and he takes the opportunity to escape without so much as a glance in her direction.
-
He finds himself back in the dungeons, which have been left largely unaffected by the battle. Even though this is technically Horace’s domain now, he has kept a room for himself down here. He did not enjoy trying to sleep in the Headmaster’s chambers. As the store cupboard for potions has been partially destroyed, he has gone into his old classroom to see if there were any supplies with which to make healing potions, after he has finally rested.
Just as he starts to relax, there is a noise at the door. He assumes the ministry have changed their minds, and grips onto his wand.
But it is only Remus Lupin at the entrance, smiling oddly. “I heard you saved my life.”