Elsewhere, there was rejoicing.  Witches and wizards drank and danced, sang and wept to see the victory that had been too long in coming.  Voldemort was dead, truly dead, and his empire destroyed with him.  The shadow had lifted, the danger gone.  Momentary freedom, so sweet that it was easy to forget that nothing lasted forever and everything had a price.

Here it was known.  Too well, in fact.

They had been all too happy to grant Snape his sabbatical.  His presence was disturbing, a dark spot on the new dawn at Hogwarts, a reminder that evil had been there and that evil was likely to come again.  They gave him a medal, one of the many that been handed out like candy to anyone who had even breathed the same air as one Harry Potter, and a house on the edge of the world, and left him alone from there.

So now he counted the dead, flinching from every spare noise and moving shadow, with his nightmares and his potions and the wind for company.

Reduced.  Crippled.  He resented the idea, and the damaged man who stared back at him from the mirror, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave this place even on the good days.  The cold-blooded arrogant man who had strode Hogwart’s pristine hallways and been the nightmare of many a child was gone.  The limp was permanent, and there were much better nightmares out there in the dark.

He had settled for taking the mirrors down, one at a time.   In the beginning it had been trouble enough to breathe.  His energy was trickling back, but taking its own damned time about it.  At the moment a simple spell to light the fire was enough to leave him curled up for days, exhausted and in agony.  Pitiful.  Small wonder that Voldemort had almost-

Yes, Severus, do tell.  What did he almost do?

The tea cup clattered against the tray as he reached for it.  He closed his eyes, breathed, made himself stop.  It was merely a matter of control.  He had survived; he refused to live out his days as a broken cripple hiding in the dark, terrified of a memory.

So what was this?  A vacation, perhaps?  That implied that any day now he intended to go back to the school and help them start again.  To stand in the hallways where they’d found
Dumbledore’s body, to taste magic and remember-

He had to return eventually.  There was talk of dissolving Slytherin, endless discussions of precaution versus balance.  If those fools had their way, the only ones in Hogwarts would be white-washed Gryffandors who had never had a dark thought in their lives, and then all they’d fought and died for would be easy pickings for the first boogie-man who came their way.  Yes, he would go back.

No, it would not be now.

The tea was sweet and bland, with a faint spicy aftertaste.  Someone had been sending unmarked packages of food, apparating them on to his kitchen table.  He ignored the food, for the most part, and lived on tea and potions texts and will alone.  It wasn’t a bad way to live, even if he kept re-reading the same line of text over and over again as his mind raced at every stray noise.

Such as that one, the faint sound that was almost reminiscent of a footstep on the front porch.

He set the tea down and sat up straight, his senses straining after the noise.  Perhaps just an animal or his overactive imagination.  Whatever it was, it was most definitely not what his mind was feverishly telling him that it had to be.

What few Deatheaters had survived the final battle were now in Azkaban, minds wiped clean by the Dementors who guarded them now.  They were most certainly not at his front door en masse, curses ready on their lips.

Perhaps if he kept telling himself that, it would eventually sink in.  Most likely not.

And there came the sound again, closer this time.  Then again, and again, until it had drawn to his front door.  He knew that his fears were false, had to be, but he moved the potions text off his lap and reached for his wand anyway.

Voldemort had been a charismatic, terrifying man.  All the trials in the world couldn’t wipe away all of his followers.  And none of them took betrayal kindly.

He pushed himself to his feet, only to unbalance as the useless leg came alive with pain  and nearly buckled under his weight.  He hissed between his teeth, mostly in annoyance, and grabbed the thrice-damned cane that he’d been doing his best to ignore.

And suddenly there came a tapping, rapping at his cottage door.  If only it was the wind and nothing more.  Though a polite knock boded well for his surviving the night, it was hardly a promise.

It was a slow, painful walk to the door.  He kept his eyes on the door, waiting for that split-second flash of light that would come before the door blew in, walking just to the left of it to avoid the potential shrapnel if it did.  When nothing happened, he made his way to the wall and set the cane against it.  Damned if he would set his wand down.

He braced himself, a curse on his lips even as he knew it would probably cost him his own life to say it, and pulled open the door.

And there, looking slightly startled and very drenched, was Remus Lupin.

“Ah,” Snape said, disgusted, and set the wand down.  Straightening as best he could with only the wall as a support, he gave the other man his best daunting stare and waited for an explanation.

Unfortunately, the stare had never worked on Lupin.  His startled look eased into a small smile.  The years hadn’t been kind; he had new lines at the corner of his mouth and eyes, and the streaks of gray had as much as taken over his hair.  And yet he managed to look genuinely pleased as he murmured,  “Hello, Severus.”

The sound of his first name was an unwelcome intrusion.  Eyes narrowing, he said as sharply as he could manage in a voice worn with disuse, “Lupin.  As even someone  with your decidedly challenged intellect can gather, I am hardly in the mood for visits or Sunday afternoon tea, especially with you.  What do you want?”

Lupin’s smile turned slightly bemused.  There was rain on his eyelashes, dripping off the ends of his hair and the ragged hems of his sleeves.  “I’m very sorry to trouble you.  However, I was wondering if I could convince you to make that potion for me again…?”

If it had been anyone else, Snape would have snarled for them to be less vague or tossed them out with an order to find another potions-master to bother with their petty concerns.  Lupin had only ever asked him for one potion, and it wasn’t the sort of thing the average potions-master knew how to create.

Grabbing the cane and stepping away without a backwards glance, Snape made his way towards the kitchen.  He could almost feel Lupin’s eyes like a pressure on his back, taking in the awkward steps and the occasional near-stumble.  Resentment and something else, something that he hadn’t bothered to feel since he had been a stupid fifth-year boy who hadn’t yet learned to ignore the whispers and sneers, burned in his throat.

He would not be made to feel inferior.  It was Lupin who needed him here.  With one word, Snape could turn him back out into the storm and leave him at the mercy of the full moon.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he informed Lupin without turning, “Are you going to follow or stand there staring like a fool?”

Not his best cutting remark ever, perhaps, but he heard the door shut and Lupin’s footsteps quiet behind him.  The other man seemed to make it a point not to outstrip him, staying carefully a few steps behind until they reached the kitchen.

His potions stood in a line above the sink.  He picked up the necessary components and headed for the cauldron.  Lupin’s eyes were still tracing his progress from where he stood at the kitchen table.  He was a still, silent presence that somehow managed to be deeply aggravating.  Snape ignored him and began to mix the potion.

As always, it took concentration.  All potions, and especially this one, walked a thin line between prescription and poison.  A dash too much of belladonna, a too-heavy tip of the hand while applying the wolfsbane, and…

He knew this well, too well.  It had been easier to do this when his intentions were to kill.  A complete idiot with enough of any chemical or herb could make a poison.  True enough that he had always made the complicated poisons, the kind that created a unique hell for whoever’s throat it would be poured down, but the most complex poison was still an easier creation than its antidote would be.

It would be easy to make a mistake.  An extra few grains of wolfsbane, and it would go from helpful to lethal.  Lupin would never know, because he was not the type to suspect such treachery.  Others would suspect enough for him.

Better quiet hatred than this pity.  At least hatred implied some sort of power still lingered in Snape, trapped though it was in a wretched broken form.

His hand lingered a moment too long pouring the wolfsbane.  A tap of his finger and more of it would spill from bottle to cup.  As simple as that.  No real artistry.

The power would be in the wolfsbane, not in him.

The bottle clinked softly as Snape set it down again, without adding more.  He was stronger than temptation, the petty wants of an angry young man he had buried just as he buried the boy who still knew shame.

The pity of others didn’t matter, just as their scorn never had.  All the mattered was this, the way the world narrowed to the scent of the herbs and the confident flow of his hands.  All that mattered was that for the moment, he felt nothing.

Wolfsbane and mugwort and lavender.  Sage and myrrh and, entertainingly enough, catnip.  Dragon’s blood and a single drop of phoenix tears.  Other things, darker things, from cloudy unmarked bottles.  The last ingredient slid soundlessly beneath the surface, and the potion went from cloudy yellow to a dark reddish brown.

Blood in the dirt.  Mud blood-

/screamed Draco, terribly young in the middle of a war, hand white knuckled around his wand, blood and worse smeared on his face.  Standing bloody and defiant over his father’s body, too fucking stupid to know that he should run.  Holding his wand out at the Granger girl and snarling that she was a bitch, a fucking mudblood bitch, and fire swam between them-/

The goblet seared against his palm.  He hissed and jerked his hand back.  Smoke poured over the rim of the cup, a poisonous shade of yellow.  He rubbed his thumb against the small hurt absently, watching as the smoke thinned and faded.  The scent of sulfur lingered as he picked up the cup by the stem and turned.

Lupin was watching him, with that steady serious expression that hadn’t changed much since they were both children.  If they were ever truly children.  Smiling his sad, rueful smile, Lupin reached out and wrapped his fingers around the cup.  His fingers did not brush Snape’s as he took the goblet with a murmured, “Thank you.”

Snape ignored that and turned his attention back to putting away the ingredients for the potion.  Damned if he would be disorganized, even here.

“You look terrible.”  Lupin’s voice broke into his concentration, unexpectedly blunt.  If Snape hadn’t heard that too many times from too many people, he might have paid attention.  After months of this, it had become something of an intellectual pursuit.  Which category would they fall into, pitying honesty or false brightness?  He had rather figured Lupin for the later.  Perhaps too much time around Black had alienated him from the ways of tact.

Not looking up, Snape told him, “Drink the potion before it sours.”

A moment’s pause.  Then, with a sort of horrified disbelief, “It sours?”

That didn’t merit a response, so Snape didn’t give it one.  Instead, he put the last bottle on its shelf and moved to go back into the living room.  There was nothing in the kitchen he needed to protect, and Lupin knew better than to expect courtesy.  Which was the only reason why he stopped when Lupin’s thin fingers curled around his arm in passing.

Even through the thick fabric of his robe, he could feel that Lupin’s fingers were still cool and damp from the rain.  It might have been soothing if his touch, any touch, hadn’t made Snape’s skin crawl.

He jerked his arm away, too quickly for any sort of dignity, and Lupin showed uncommon wisdom by letting go and stepping back.  In another time it’d have been amusing, to have the werewolf holding out one hand, palm out, like he was coaxing a wounded beast.  It wasn’t quite as entertaining to be the wounded beast at hand.

Snape drew back a step, resisted the urge to clap a hand over his arm.  The skin was still crawling from the faint, fevered memory of old punishments at much different hands.  He took in a deep breath, forced the feeling away, and raised his eyes to meet Lupin’s.  The words came out a snarl, weaker than he’d intended.  “Never do that again.”

“All right.”  Soft.  Always damnably soft, even if it couldn’t be real.  Lupin wouldn’t have survived if that softness, that genuine concern, had been real.  “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”  Bold lies often made things simpler.  Gripping the staff in one hand, Snape made his awkward way back into the living room.  The good leg was threatening to buckle now.  Still weak, weaker than he liked.

And Lupin was following half a step behind, a warm steady pressure against his back.  A month ago, before, Snape would have turned and snapped, cut with words and a simple look.  Now it was enough effort to set his jaw and stumble towards the chair.  Lupin said nothing, just followed, as if he expected Snape to drop at any moment.  It would have been annoying even if that wasn’t a distinct possibility.

Easing down into the chair, Snape put the cane down with an expression of utter disdain and turned back to the potions text.  Perhaps ignoring Lupin would make him leave.

Or perhaps that would fail just as utterly as it had when he was a beleaguered third year trying to study while Black and Lupin and Potter were a table away, shouldering each other and whispering fiercely back and forth.

Five minutes passed, ten, each marked by the steady tick of the clock above the mantle.  Snape glanced up and found Lupin still watching him, the cup empty in his hand.  Marking the spot he’d left off with his thumb, Snape asked,  “Surely you don’t expect to be shown out.”

Lupin sighed.  “Severus, are you sure you don’t want food?  A new fire?  It’s freezing in here-“

“Your concern is duly noted, but perhaps you should pick another supposed unfortunate to torment to prove your true heroism.  I don’t believe they’re giving out medals for rescuing Slytherins these days, especially those whom don’t need the help.”

Lupin’s expression, maddeningly, didn’t change.  “Very good.  You’ve fulfilled your quota of cutting sarcasm for the day.  Now, will you please let me help?”

“Why should I soothe your conscience for you-“

“There is a difference between guilt and gratitude.”

“A narrow one  at best.”

“Spoken like a true Slytherin.”  The words were more exasperation than accusation.  Rubbing at his shoulder, Lupin sighed again.  “We owe you much, Severus.  Sirius and I more than most.  If you could only-“

Snape’s laugh spilled out, brittle and jagged.  “Spoken like a true Gryffandor, with all the arrogance to assume that I did it for you or Black.”

The smile that crossed Lupin’s face was taut, and looked out of place on him.  “All right, then.  Even without that debt, you made the potion for me.  I  owe you at least some small favor.”

“The least I could do for a fellow staff member.”  That could almost be mistaken for courtesy, if one ignored the undertones beneath it.

“I didn’t ask for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”  Lupin sounded as if he’d explained this many times before.

Of course not.  But what else could they have given him, the one who had been scattering Deatheaters left and right that night, the one who had charged in after a man who everyone else had been willing to leave for Voldemort to deal with?

A hero first, a monster second.  The sort of position Lupin had been struggling for all of his wretched life.  And all it took was for one Severus Snape to almost lose his life on the stones of some obscure moor, screaming.  Not a bad price for Lupin, considering.

Snape closed his eyes and brought the tea to his lips.  It was lukewarm, disgusting.  “I need nothing from you except, perhaps, your absence.”

Lupin didn’t sigh again.  Didn’t give him a resigned look or a tired smile.  The look that Lupin gave him instead was the closest Snape had ever seen to irritation on his face.  “I might have imagined that things had changed, but you’re the same man as always.  Clinging to an ancient grudge no matter how many times I offer to apologize or pay the debt-“

“Ah, so my life is worth a cup of tea and a fresh fire.  How nice.  At least Voldemort was willing to pay a decent amount for it.”

Lupin’s eyes flared, almost black in the darkness.  Yet his voice stayed level, controlled as he bit off each word.  “This isn’t about what happened at the Shrieking Shack.  That is between you and Sirius.”

“Then pray tell, Professor, what is this about?”

“I don’t know, because you won’t tell me.”

“Were you hired to be a confidante, then, as well as a professor?  Or am I simply the Dark Art you’re defending against?”

“No.  More like a stubborn Third Year with more pride than sense.  You look just as you did after the infirmary pieced you together a month ago.  You’re not healing-“

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Apparently not.”  Putting the goblet down on the mantle as he passed, Lupin drew his robes around his narrow shoulders.  “I had thought that perhaps you would realize, brilliant man that you are, that there is still a significant threat to our students out there.  None of us can afford to sulk in the dark.”

Before Snape could come up with a proper response, the door had opened and, with a touch of childishness, slammed shut.  The darkness outside swallowed Lupin whole.

The wind howled outside, in an ironic touch Snape really could have done without.  The clock counted the seconds, the minutes.  The room flickered, once, as the sky tore with lightning.

He climbed to his feet.  The cane tapped a halting rhythm on the floor as he dragged himself to the kitchen.  His limbs trembled from the unexpected exertion.  His hand shook on the counter as he leaned against it.  He was alone; he could allow himself that weakness.

The ceramic bowls, a dusty artifact of the muggle owners that had preceded him, clinked as he brought them down.  He reached into one of the many untouched paper bags that lined his kitchen, full of food from well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know him quite well enough to realize that he’d slit his wrists before touching any of it.

Or perhaps they knew him too well.

The packaging for Mrs. Berry’s Under-the-Weather Soup featured a pleasantly chubby witch in a chef’s hat and tattered robes, with a soup spoon in one hand.  She seemed to be clucking sympathetically at him, until the expression on his face quailed her to terrified stillness.  He opened the carton so that the picture faced away from him.  It was likely easier on both of them that way.

Rich, salty smelling steam spilled out into the dimness of the kitchen.  It made his stomach roll ominously, but he took up a spoon and sipped anyway.  Simply terrible, this ‘comfort food’, too rich and heavy for his tastes.  He made it only halfway into the small carton before the rolling in his stomach changed from ominous to outright warning.  Pushing the offending food away, he rose and made his way back to the chair.

Sleep, perhaps.  The nightmares would come, as they always came, but he would be one night closer to leaving this place.  Lupin had, damnably, made his point.  Slytherin needed him.  The new round of children, the ones who had never seen the walls of Hogwarts in flames, who had never seen the floor painted with blood, were coming.  Another threat would undoubtedly come with them, because that was the way of it.

He was a professor. He would protect the children until they had been taught enough to protect themselves.  Such was his place and his debt and his power.

He would have liked to forget that for a while.  Apparently not.

Yes, he would be back.

Yes, it would have to be now.