Chapter Text
See the man that stands upon the hill
He dreams of all the battles won
But fate had left its scars upon his face
With all the damage they had done.
Severus
The first time he awakens, he keeps his eyes closed.
The pain is unlike anything he’s ever experienced, and Severus isn’t sure he wants to be conscious for most of the healing. Even high out of his mind with pain relief potions and healing salves, he remembers. He remembers the shock of flesh tearing, the pungent scent of venom, the creak of the filthy floorboards as he bled to death. He remembers his desperation to complete his one last duty, the green eyes full of conflicted emotion, the relief in finally, finally dying.
He remembers dying, and now he isn’t sure what he’s doing here. So Severus buries himself inside his own mind until sleep claims him once more.
🝮
The second time he awakens, he keeps his eyes closed.
The pain isn’t as debilitating. He breathes a little better, as though an invisible weight has been lifted from his chest. And perhaps it has: Severus knows, deep inside his soul, that the Dark Lord is dead. It’s in the way his magic feels like a coursing river, without a dam to hold any of it back beneath the surface of his skin. It’s in the way his left arm feels different, the near-permanent burn now gone.
The Dark Lord is gone. The Dark Lord is gone and Severus is alive and he doesn’t understand how or why. He’d wished for death, for release from his two masters. And like so many of his desperate pleas — the universe has ignored him.
So Severus buries himself inside his own mind, but sleep doesn’t claim him all that easily this time.
🝮
The third time he awakens, he opens his eyes at last.
The scar tissue in his neck is sensitive and makes swallowing difficult. The room is dark, but the scent around him is unmistakable. He would recognise it anywhere, yet he’s unsure why he hasn’t taken stock of his surroundings before now. Severus inhales deeply, slowly; he revels in the lightness in his body. The absence of the Dark Mark, that taint he’s carried for two decades, makes itself known with every beat of his heart. He needs to see his unblemished arm for himself, needs to prove to his cynical mind that the Mark is gone.
He lifts his left arm and pulls back the starchy white sleeve of his infirmary pyjamas. His fingers shake, tremble with the weight of what he’s about to acknowledge. Two decades, and he’s finally free. He’s alive and free and—
There, on his forearm, there’s a mark that hadn’t been there before.
Shapeless, colourless, painless. Like a drop of watered down ink on a scrap of parchment. His breath stutters and he can’t help it — he traces the outline of it.
A soulmate mark.
Severus stares at it until his hand is numb and cold from his arm being held upright. Dread fills his stomach and anxiety pools like bile in the back of his throat. He stares at it until the inky black sky outside the windows turns indigo, then a timid sort of grey that promises sunshine midday. Until he can breathe without the threat of unfamiliar emotions wrecking his composure.
When he finally lowers his arm back and stares at the ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary instead, he can’t help wondering which poor bastard Fate has decided should be bound to him. Death would have been a kinder mercy.
🝮
The fourth time he awakens, there’s someone sitting next to his bed.
Harry Potter no longer looks like a copy of his blasted father. Gone are the soft edges of youth, instead the young man appears to be carved out of sharp angles and stony lines. There’s a hard set to his jaw that wasn’t there before, and the light in his eyes has dimmed considerably. No longer are they like Lily’s eyes, and it aches something terrible deep inside Severus’s chest.
Potter blinks and looks up at him. His lips part in surprise. “You’re awake!” he whispers. “Madam Promfrey said it could take weeks!”
Severus hums, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge it causes in his new scar. How long has he been here? Perhaps sensing his confusion, Potter leans a little closer and looks around the room before speaking again.
“It’s mid-June. The 17th.” His eyes rake over Severus’s face. “Are you thirsty?”
Severus manages a weak nod. To his surprise, Potter grabs a goblet and leans forward with it.
“Sorry, sir, no straw. Madam Pomfrey said it could aggravate the torn muscles in your throat.”
Mortified but too thirsty to care, Severus parts his lips and accepts the assistance. It occurs to him after the first swallow that he has the use of his arms, but for some reason it is quite difficult to raise them. The cool water soothes his parched mouth, though, and Severus sighs in relief.
“What…” His voice comes out as a croak, unfamiliar and a far cry from his usual timbre. Severus gently clears his throat and tries again. Merlin, his throat hurts. “What are you doing here?”
He sounds like a stranger to his own ears and if Potter’s expression is anything to go by, it isn’t his imagination.
“I was, er,” Potter mumbles, his cheeks suddenly pink, “watching over you.”
Watching over him? Severus nearly frowns but catches himself at the last moment. Ah — of course. He may be free of the Dark Mark, but his actions in the war were still reprehensible. He nods in understanding.
“Indeed.” He presses his lips tightly together and inhales slowly. It isn’t unexpected, there is no reason for him to feel so… disappointed. “You may call them in.”
A soulmate mark is useless if he’s carted off to Azkaban, it is for the best for this poor fool bound to him.
“What?” Potter scowls in confusion. “Call who in?”
Severus exhales in annoyance. “The Aurors, of course.”
“The Aurors?” the boy repeats daftly.
Must Potter torment him so? Severus looks right into those green eyes, nothing like Lily’s eyes anymore.
“Yes, Potter, why else would you, of all people, be watching over me? Let’s get this over with.” Not like he has any more dignity to lose. His throat already feels raw from speaking so much, and to his horror — he’s out of breath.
“Oh.” Potter squirms on his chair and clumsily sets the goblet of water on the table next to Severus’s bed. “Er, well, you see sir,” he pauses to lick his lips, “you’ve been cleared. I told Kingsley everything. I mean, that you were only following Dumbledore’s orders. I showed him that memory.” His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Don’t worry, Professor, Hermione showed me how to, er, only show certain parts of memories.”
Severus stares at Potter. The word escapes before he can stop himself. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Because you’re a war hero, sir. I’d be dead without you.” He lowers his voice, the serious line of his brow creasing further. “I wouldn’t have been able to destroy them without you.”
Early morning birdsong fills the subsequent silence. The bird chirps and soon it is joined by another, a sweet melody that seems to sing deep inside his soul. Severus doesn’t know when he last took a moment to appreciate something as simple as the song of spring birds, but now it sounds like the most precious music in the world.
He’s free. He is a free man, all thanks to Potter. Yet there is no debt between them, there is no magic that binds them the way he felt bound to James Potter after their Fifth Year. Severus has never felt freer in his life, and he’s not sure what comes next.
Perhaps Potter senses his discombulation, because he clears his throat and shifts on his chair again. Severus notices the newspaper on his lap for the first time. Potter follows his gaze and shrugs sheepishly.
“Madam Pomfrey said it would help to read to you.”
“You’ve been reading to me?” Severus tries to keep the surprise out of his voice, but he doesn’t have much control over his tone.
“Well, yeah.” Potter shrugs again and flattens the Daily Prophet against his thighs. “I can continue if you’d like.”
Severus knows he should refuse and request to be left alone. He feels too vulnerable, too exposed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. Yet… if not Potter, then who else? Potter, who’s seen the best and the worst of him? Severus sighs and closes his eyes.
“If you must.”
He can almost hear Potter’s smile in his huff, but not a minute later he begins to read an article about the best seeds to plant during the summer solstice. Later, Severus will blame his rapid fall into slumber on exhaustion; it had absolutely nothing to do with this foreign feeling of security and contentment that filled his chest like warm tea.
🝮
The next few times he awakens, he’s tended to by the Medi-witch.
Poppy explains to him his new potion regimen, as though he weren’t a Potions Master with Healer certification. He lets her fret over him, lets Minerva apologise profusely, lets the other professors wish him a prompt recovery.
It’s the first week of July when he finally returns to his quarters. He never allowed himself to move into Albus’s rooms, but when he arrives in his dungeon quarters — something feels wrong. Severus can almost feel the misery in the very stone of each wall, and when he presses his hand against one of them… He knows his time here is over.
He is Headmaster of Hogwarts, and these rooms are no longer for him.
So he packs, he gets the house-elves to empty Albus’s rooms of all personal effects. He asks them to change the bed, the desks, the chairs. This is his second chance, and he intends to do things right. He refuses to live in the past. He’s free and alive.
Meanwhile, he continues to ignore the new mark on his left forearm. No one needs to know, and he’ll forget about its existence so long as he doesn’t have to stare at it. Soulmates are not for the likes of him.
Remus
The first time he sleeps with his son in his arms, his dreams are plagued with visions of his wife.
She pleads for him to join her, to not leave her alone in this lonesome afterlife. Their son would be better off with her mother, she says, and his place is with her. She nearly convinces him, and Remus is tempted more than once to join her.
He’s lost so much. His young wife, so vibrant with life, should be alive. Tonks should be the one here to care for Teddy. Her spirit is pure and Light, while he is old and tainted with the Dark.
But just as he goes to reach for her hand, his wolf soars through and devours the mirage. Tonks disappears into mist and Remus awakens from the sobs wracking his body.
He should be dead. But the full moon is close, and his wolf lurks just beneath the surface. It snaps its jaws at him, growling, angry and terrified of death. Remus wipes his cheeks roughly and turns on his side with his tiny baby against his chest, towards the empty side of his bed.
It hurts.
🝮
The second time he sleeps with his son in his arms, Teddy keeps him awake for hours.
His son is a warm and reassuring presence. A reminder that no matter how dark and miserable his heart is, there is someone here that needs him. His son, who was very nearly orphaned. His son, who has Tonks’s nose and gentle smile. His son, the whole reason they fought this war with renewed vigour.
He doesn’t dream. The full moon is close, and the presence of his son against this gaping hole in his chest soothes his wolf. He doesn’t think this pain will ever disappear, just as the absence of Padfoot and Prongs is still felt keenly. But it will heal, and it will be easier.
It will be easier, and he is not alone. It continues to hurt, but he is not alone.
🝮
The third time he sleeps with his son against his chest, it’s after the string of funerals.
The full moon came and went, and funerals followed. There were many, too many. Tonks’s was today. Remus feels unmoored, floating between the next moonbeams and his duties as a father. He no longer wishes for death, but sometimes in the darkest corners of his heart… Tonks continues to call for him, a siren song he struggles to ignore.
But he must; he must ignore the call of the void. Teddy rests against his chest, their hearts beating like war drums. Remus would never abandon his child, his cub. His initial regrets for conceiving this child are a thing of the past. Never again.
Never again.
So Remus holds his son a little tighter, kisses his brow, and fights against the demons in his heart so he may live another day.
🝮
The fourth time he sleeps with his son next to him, he sees it for the first time.
His body is a battlefield of scars, silvery ghosts against his tanned skin. They take so much space that he’s never thought to look between them, to see if there was a mark there that might not be a ghost of his transformation. Remus isn’t sure if it’s simply because he’s never noticed it before, or if it’s new. Surely, if he’d had a soulmate mark before, Tonks would have mentioned it.
Surely, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone who wasn’t his soulmate. Right?
Remus stares at it on his left forearm. It’s shapeless, colourless, painless. Like a drop of watered down ink on weathered parchment. He traces it, unable to help himself. This body he’s always hated, never quite managed to explore every inch of the way his past lovers have — it now bears the proof that there’s still someone out there for him.
But it’s all just a fairytale. Right?
Besides, who would want to be with someone like him? Sirius was a man born to love monsters, and Tonks was too young to know any better. He’s allowed himself to give away his heart twice, and twice he’s been left alone.
No… Not alone. He has Teddy now. He doesn’t need anyone else. His heart is tired and sore, chipped and blackened in some spots. Remus doesn’t think he can do all of this again. He’s too old, too broken, too monstrous. No… He’ll ignore the soulmate mark. Who in their right mind would ever want to be chained to him, anyway?
🝮
The next few times he sleeps with Teddy next to him, he’s moved to Hogwarts.
Mid-July, he received an offer of employment signed by Severus Snape. Remus isn’t surprised the wizard is still headmaster — it’s a job that oddly suits him. Of course, he wrote back to say he had a son to look after. Teddy is only three months old.
Severus insisted, though, and Remus — well. Unmoored as he is, perhaps a bit of normalcy will help chase away these demons that continue to plague him. Quieten that siren song haunting his dreams. Andromeda encouraged him and promised to visit for the nights of the full moon. So Remus moves to Hogwarts with his son.
He helps with the rebuilding of the castle. It’s hard work, outside in the summer sun. Most of the time, Teddy sleeps in a floating basket next to him. Harry is there too, and often they work together in companionable silence. James’s son is a man now; there are no traces of innocent youth left in his face. He carries himself with purpose and without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
More than once, Remus wants to ask him what happened in the Forest. He’s heard things, terrible things, about Harry dying and coming back to life again, about him being struck by the Killing Curse a second time. For some reason, the thought of Harry dying distresses Remus nearly as much as the idea of Teddy being hurt. It’s a soul-deep pain, and it makes his wolf howl with restlessness. He’s always felt protective towards Harry, but this is different.
Remus ignores this feeling, though. He doesn’t want to think about what it might mean. His wolf isn’t happy about it, but Remus is in control of the beast inside himself. He’ll never be tamed, but he has become the master of himself and this — this peculiar surge of protectiveness towards Harry — it cannot see the light of day.
So Remus continues to help with the castle, and ignores the burning gazes of both black and green eyes.
Harry
The first time he walks the halls at midnight, he’s hidden under his cloak.
The castle groans and weeps, the stone walls covered in spellfire burn marks. Portraits hang, destroyed, and tapestries fall apart. Harry can very nearly feel the magic of Hogwarts begging for help. It fills his chest, fills his every limb until he’s down on all four and unable to breathe right.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be dead. He thinks of Colin, Fred, Tonks, Lavender. He thinks of those students whose bodies were too mangled to recognise, and had to be sent to St. Mungo’s for identification. He thinks of Snape and the gaping wound on his neck, of the viciousness in Nagini’s attack. Of the blood on his hands that he’ll never be able to scrub away.
When his knees are blue and sore, Harry pushes himself to his feet. He lets them carry him to the Astronomy tower. There’s an emptiness inside him that makes him wonder if he’ll be lucky, again. If he can jump down, ride the air currents like a flightless bird, and make it out alive. Why should he when so many died on these grounds?
But he doesn’t step onto the ridge. He thinks of Snape, still fighting to live. He thinks of Teddy, nearly orphaned. He thinks about this new world they’ll need to build. Because it all has to be for something. There must be something more to life than fighting dark wizards and thwarting nefarious plans.
There has to be something more to life than this.
🝮
The second time he roams the halls at midnight, he finds himself sitting next to Snape.
He’s never seen the Professor like this. Relaxed, serene, unguarded. Snape looks so much younger like this, and it dawns on Harry that Snape isn’t even forty. Maybe it’s a bit creepy to watch Snape sleep on like this, but Harry can’t help it.
It’s impossible for Harry to forget how Snape’s blood covered his hands. How warm it was, sticky, tangy. It had filled the air around him, and if not for Hermione’s quick thinking — Snape would be dead.
Too many people have died, and Harry — well, he’s a bit terrified about anyone else dying now. So he sits, an invisible and silent guardian, and watches over Snape till the sun rises.
🝮
The third time he stalks the halls at midnight, he visits the library.
It’s the beginning of June, he’s attended all the funerals, and gone back to Grimmauld Place with Kreacher. Except… except he can’t leave Snape behind. So he visits every night. Until today.
Today he’s there for the library, because before today Harry had no idea about soulmate marks.
Sure, he’s heard about them here and there. But he’d long resigned himself to never finding out about them for himself. He knew he’d die in the war, he knew he’d never be there to discover that there was indeed someone special just for him. It’s a thing of fairytales, after all.
True love — really, what a ridiculous concept.
Shouldn’t love be based on choices, on who you are, on who challenges you? Why should Fate get to decide who is best suited for him? Every moment of Harry’s life thus far has been dictated by someone other than him. Why can’t he choose his own soulmate?
But now… Harry has a soulmate mark, one he hasn’t chosen for himself. On his left forearm. Shapeless, colourless, painless. Like a drop of watered down ink on a scrunched up piece of parchment. It sits between some scars he’d rather forget, and he can’t help tracing it the first time he sees it.
So he reads about them, not wishing to ask Hermione or Ron about it.
He finds out that not everyone has one, less than half the magical population, apparently. They appear after a wix becomes of age, under a few conditions. Magic detects intent, even in things controlled — seemingly — by Fate. If a wix is already committed to another, if they are heavily tainted by Dark magic, and if their Fated One has already passed on — the mark will not appear.
It explains why Harry’s soulmate mark has only shown itself now. No longer burdened by a horcrux, and freshly returned to life. Part of him burns with the desire to find out who his soulmate might be, but a bigger part wonders what the point is.
Does he deserve true love, when so many lives have been lost in the war, when he’s cheated his way back to life?
🝮
The fourth time he walks the halls at midnight, he makes it all the way outside.
Harry walks around the grounds, the perimeter of Hogwarts. He isn’t done by the time the sun comes up, but with his Invisibility Cloak and the Elder Wand tucked in a wand holster on his thigh, he’s not afraid. No one can see him, and he holds the most powerful wand in the world.
McGonagall, deputy headmistress in charge of offering Harry’s yearmates a chance to return to Hogwarts for an Eighth Year, corners him next to Dumbledore’s tombstone.
Thankfully, she doesn’t bring up his midnight routine of haunting the halls, and now the grounds.
“Have you thought about what you’ll be doing this coming September, Mr Potter?” she asks instead.
“I’ve thought about it, yeah.” Harry shrugs and tugs on a loose thread of his jumper. His Cloak is back in his pocket. “Not sure what’s the point, though.”
McGonagall sighs and stands next to him, her own eyes on the tomb before them.
“The point, Mr Potter, is a return to normalcy. An attempt, at least. Forgive me, but I do not believe you’ve had a chance to have a normal school year in all your time at Hogwarts.”
“Well—” He turns towards her, only to catch the hint of a smile on her face. “I guess you’re not wrong about that, professor.” He scuffs his trainer on the ground and shrugs. “Kingsley offered me a place in the Auror program, without my N.E.W.T.s.”
“I see.” McGonagall clucks and he can tell she isn’t pleased about that. “I imagine it has been your ambition to become an Auror since your Fifth Year.”
“It was, yeah.” Harry looks up at the bright blue sky. It’s cloudless today, which means it’ll be another hot day. “I don’t think it’s what I want to do anymore, though. I’m…”
How does one even begin to explain a soul-deep weariness that makes him wish he could sleep for the next three years?
“Perhaps, as I thought, you may well be in need of a bit of normalcy,” McGonagall says. She brushes her hand briefly against his shoulder. “I expect your answer by August first, Mr Potter.”
When she turns to leave, Harry is taken by the urgency to know something.
“Professor?”
“Yes, Mr Potter?” McGonagall turns to look at him over her spectacles.
“Will… will we be in an Eighth Year dormitory, or with our old House?”
She purses her lips, but she isn’t frowning. If Harry didn’t know better… he would think he’s surprised her. The rim of her hat shadows the upper half of her face, but the corner of Professor McGonagall’s lips tugged into a rare smile of pride.
“I’ll speak to Headmaster Snape about this. It’s… an excellent idea, Mr Potter.”
After he’s been sitting at the edge of the Black Lake for a few hours, Harry decides that perhaps going back to school for one last year might be an excellent idea, too.
🝮
The fifth time he haunts the halls at midnight, it’s already August 31st.
A month and a half went by without his noticing. After his conversation with Professor McGonagall, Harry returned home with a new purpose burning in his chest: graduate from Hogwarts, properly. It makes it easier to forget all about the soulmate mark on his arm. Cleaning out Grimmauld Place with Kreacher’s help also helps keep him distracted. Ron and Hermione go on holiday to Australia to retrieve Mr and Mrs Granger, and if their last owl is anything to go by — they’ll both be returning to school tomorrow.
Harry debated taking the train to school, but he ultimately did not want to be stared at like a circus attraction. So now he’s here, Kreacher’s here. Harry’s already settled into the Eighth Year dorms. A few other returning students have come early as well, so at least no one can accuse him of preferential treatment.
In less than twenty-four hours, the halls will be filled with students anew. Almost like a war never happened, like no one died, like everyone’s where they’re supposed to be. It’s… so normal. He should hate it, he should be outraged by it.
But Harry is so tired.
Yesterday, just before he came back to school for the year, he met with Ginny in Diagon Alley. They had ice cream at the new parlour, they bought new clothes and robes. They argued about Quidditch.
He made sure Ginny accidentally touched his soulmate mark.
Nothing happened.
Harry would be a rotten liar if he said he wasn’t relieved. He loves Ginny, and he knows he loved her as more than a friend before. But not anymore. Maybe it’s the war, maybe it’s dying and coming back to life, maybe it’s the way his eyes stray to two other wizards without his consent. But Harry is relieved that he and Ginny are not meant to be. Because it means he doesn’t have to pretend to want to be with her romantically anymore, and that’s a relief he never realised he yearned for.
When he reaches one of the courtyards closest to the dungeons, there’s someone else outside.
Snape sits on a stone bench, a cigarette lit between his fingers. His back leans against a pillar, and if Harry wasn’t so used to looking for darker shapes hiding in the shadows, he might have missed the wizard entirely. But he sees him.
His headmaster looks relaxed, even when he brings the cigarette to pull sharply from it. There are no lines of tension in his shoulders, in his arms, in his general posture. It’s such an arresting sight, Harry finds himself utterly captivated and doesn’t realise he’s taken off his Cloak until he sits next to Snape.
A year ago, he would have expected a sneer and a comment about midnight wanderings. About being too arrogant to follow rules. This time, though, Snape looks at peace with Harry’s presence, and isn’t that fucking weird?
“Can I have one of those?” he asks instead of a proper greeting. Harry’s tried these sticks over the summer, and the wizarding herbal fags are a whole different thing from the Muggle sticks.
Snape huffs, a mix of amused annoyance and indulgence, and hands Harry a metal case. Harry takes out a fag and lights it with a snap of his fingers. It tastes like spearmint and lemon balm. Surely those flavours should taste awful, but they don’t. There’s something woodsy that smoothes out the taste.
“What brings you here tonight, Mr Potter?” Snape finally asks after Harry’s given him the metal case back.
“Nothing much,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Snape hums. “I should have figured out your insomnia years ago,” he says under his breath. “It’s no wonder you’ve roamed the halls past curfew.”
Harry wonders about that. “Well, it’s not like you would’ve believed me anyway, sir.” He pulls on his fag, letting the smoke coat his tongue before blowing it out. The air between them smells like incense. “Not that I blame you. It was necessary.”
“Indeed.” Snape glances at him and studies him for a moment before speaking again. “It has come to my realisation recently that I’ve never… thanked you. For your testimony.”
What? Harry blinks and turns to face Snape. Did he hear this right? “Er.”
“Quite.” Snape huffs again and flicks away the butt of his cigarette before wandlessly Vanishing it. “I only wished to acknowledge it. There is no debt left between us, Mr Potter.” Snape looks up at the stars, and for the first time — Harry thinks there’s something strangely beautiful about Snape’s sharp features. There may be galaxies hiding in those black eyes, and when Snape opens his mouth again, his voice draws Harry closer. “My expectations for my survival were nil. Yet we find ourselves back here.”
“Back where it started,” Harry whispers. He doesn’t mean to say those words aloud, but they escape him. “I’m glad you’re still here, sir.”
When Snape turns to stare at him, both in disbelief and in disdain, their eyes lock for long enough to leave Harry breathless. These galaxies in Snape’s eyes are bright and alive. They’re full of fire and a certain kind of yearning Harry himself feels deep in his chest. It’s so foreign yet so familiar, like a sense of déjà vu. As if they’d already lived this exact moment and were granted a repeat of it by the gods themselves.
“You should go back to your rooms, Mr Potter,” Snape finally says, voice low. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. It’s almost the same colour as the scar tissue on his neck. “It’s late.”
“Yes sir, of course.” Harry jumps to his feet. His body is electrified, for reasons unknown. There’s no way he’ll sleep now. He licks his dry lips and shuffles briefly before finding the courage to look right into Snape’s eyes again. The galaxies are gone and his headmaster’s gaze is shuttered. Occluded. “Thanks for the cig.”
“Don’t make a habit of it. Or buy your own.” Snape is on his own feet a moment later, robes billowing behind him as he hurries out of the courtyard.
Harry watches him and touches the hidden soulmate mark on his arm.
It had tingled, very briefly, with Snape so close. It’s the most terrifying discovery of the summer.