Chapter Text
Snape wrinkled his nose at the musty scent emanating from the worn leather cover of his potions book. It was supposed to be a tome of exotic concoctions, a glimpse into the fantastical fringes of potion-making. But even the promise of bizarre ingredients – Dragon Bloodbeard, Flobberworm Mucus, perhaps even a shredded Phoenix tail feather – couldn't hold his attention. He'd devoured this book several times over, the information as clear as treacle tart to a first-year. Well, unless that first-year was a drooling nincompoop, naturally. A bitter snort escaped his lips, a sound that could curdle milk faster than Doxycide.
With a sigh that could rattle the windows in their frames, Snape slammed the book shut and tossed it with practised disdain onto the scarred oak table beside his well-worn armchair. Two years. Two long, echoing years since the Battle of Hogwarts had turned his world upside down. He could still feel the phantom sting of Nagini's fangs sinking into his neck, the searing venom coursing through him, leaving behind a mangled mess that felt more like a grotesque caricature than his own body.
But somehow, against all odds, he'd woken up. One minute he was staring into the abyss, the next he was blinking at the sterile walls of a St. Mungo's ward, his room overflowing with a cacophony of colour – vibrant bouquets from unknown admirers, students, colleagues, brightly wrapped gifts, and a mountain of well-wishing cards. Each parchment held a variation of the same sentiment: praise, gratitude, even a grudging respect for Severus Snape, the dreaded Potions Master, the unlikely war hero.
He didn't return to Hogwarts after his recovery. Minerva McGonnagal, bless her stern soul, hadn't been thrilled, but she'd understood the turmoil brewing beneath his stoic facade. Now, here he was, a forty-year-old hermit ensconced in his own personal purgatory – Spinner's End. He mostly confined himself to a single, dimly lit room, the only company the hiss and gurgle of bubbling cauldrons. He brewed potions, not out of any lingering passion, but out of a dull necessity. They offered a meagre income, enough to keep a roof over his head and a meagre supply of food in his belly.
The thought of socialising, of venturing back into the wizarding world, made him scoff. Every owl that hooted outside his dusty window, every letter that thudded through his cracked mailbox, was met with the same disdainful dismissal. These were missives from his newfound "admirers" – those with a severe case of hero-worship and a complete lack of discernment, in his acerbic opinion. Even Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had tried to reach out. But Snape craved solitude with the intensity of a drowning man grasping for air. He yearned, or perhaps the more apt word was endured, living – or rather, existing – the rest of his days in this self-imposed exile.
Surviving Nagini's attack had become his greatest, most ironic, nightmare. He didn't want to live, not truly. Yet, a shameful secret he harboured – a secret he couldn't confess to anyone, not even the shadows that danced on his lonely walls – was his lack of courage to end it all. Some invisible force, some cruel twist of fate, kept pulling him back from the precipice. He'd made a few, pathetic attempts, each one dissolving as quickly as a poorly stirred Dreamless Sleep potion. It was as if the universe itself scoffed at his desire for an escape, forcing him to confront the bitter dregs of his life.
So he remained, a solitary island in a sea of human connection, waiting for the inevitable, for it all to just… end. But a tiny, flickering ember deep within him refused to be extinguished. Perhaps it was a sliver of the love he'd spent a lifetime searching for, a love as potent as any potion he'd ever brewed. Or maybe it was a sliver of something else entirely – a sliver of hope, a sliver of redemption, a sliver of something he couldn't quite grasp but clung to nonetheless. It was a sliver so faint, so fragile, that even Snape himself wasn't sure if it was real or just another cruel illusion conjured by a life steeped in shadows.
–
Thunder roared outside his small house, each heavy raindrop drumming on the window panes like a relentless, melancholic symphony mirroring the storm within Snape. He rose from his worn armchair, a cold, slender hand instinctively reaching for his throat. His thumb grazed the raised scar tissue, a constant reminder of how close he'd brushed with death two years ago. A reminder, too, of his pathetic failure to even end it properly.
He shuffled out of the book-lined room, the shelves groaning under the weight of countless dusty tomes. His gaze snagged on a lone, incongruous object: a small, stuffed demiguise nestled amongst the leather-bound volumes. Luna Lovegood's peculiar gift from the hospital. For some inexplicable reason, the threadbare toy held a strange allure, defying the purge of all sentimental trinkets.
Snape found himself in the dingy kitchen, the rhythmic pattern of rain a constant counterpoint to his brewing thoughts. He prepared his usual solace – black tea, no sugar, a splash of milk. Standing stiffly by the window, he stared out into the inky black night. His vision saw nothing, yet his eyes remained fixed on the relentless downpour, the fat drops striking the glass like a thousand tiny fists. A flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the room, bathing his tall, gaunt figure in an ethereal white light before plunging him back into the familiar darkness.
The fleeting illumination offered a glimpse of a face etched with a lifetime of resentment, a flicker of something else momentarily breaking through the stoic mask. Perhaps it was a sliver of regret, a yearning for something he'd long since buried. But as quickly as the light came, it vanished, leaving Snape alone with his storm-tossed thoughts, the demiguise a silent witness to the turmoil brewing within him.
Then, a sound pierced the relentless rhythm of the storm – a faint rapping on his front door. Unexpected. Unwelcome. He'd made his distaste for visitors abundantly clear, his solitude a fortress he'd meticulously constructed. And yet, here they were, defying his carefully crafted isolation even amidst the raging tempest outside. The audacity!
Snape only hoped he wouldn't be forced to play host, offering his spare room – a haven untouched by his own misery – to this unwelcome traveller. With a scowl that could sour cream quicker than a lightning bolt, he placed his chipped cup on the counter and stalked towards the door.
He stopped just before reaching it, the doorknob chilling his clammy palm. With a jerk, he flung the door open, the wind whipping in like a banshee, sending his greasy black hair into a chaotic dance. "I do not seek any form of the pathetic activity called socialisation," his voice dripped with a coldness and venom he hoped would be enough to scare the intruder back into the storm.
Minerva McGonagall, however, didn't even flinch. In fact, a wry smile played on her lips as she addressed her old colleague, her fist still hovering between them where she'd been about to knock again. "Severus!" she boomed, her voice a beacon of cheer cutting through the gloom. Before he could react, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace.
This time, it was Snape who was caught off guard. Yet, despite the jolt of surprise, he only managed a half-hearted attempt to pull away, a beat too late. Minerva's damp coat had already transferred its moisture to his clothing. "Headmistress," he managed, his tone a firm, clipped greeting that was the closest he'd ever come to a welcoming gesture.
"Minerva, please," the older woman countered, her smile unwavering as she stepped past the threshold. Relief flickered in her eyes as he grudgingly moved aside. "Or Minnie, we talked about that, Severus," she reminded him, her voice firm yet laced with a familiar warmth as she hung her dripping coat on the nearest hook.
A curt nod was Snape's only response as he flicked his wand, a silent incantation banishing the dampness from his clothes with a subtle whoosh. "How are you doing, Severus?" Minerva asked, her gaze holding a concern that pierced his carefully constructed facade. Maybe, a traitorous part of him conceded, maybe he was just that – a lost child adrift in a sea of regret.
"I'm well," he lied, the word blunt and unconvincing, his voice a steady mask that concealed the storm raging within. It was a performance honed over years, a shield against unwanted vulnerability. He gestured vaguely for her to enter further, then with a muttered "Accio chair," summoned a spare wooden seat for himself. His dark eyes, for a fleeting moment, flickered with surprise at his own hospitality. Minerva, after all, was an exception. Potter, however, was another story entirely.
"Tea?" he inquired, his voice gruff yet strangely hesitant.
A grateful smile spread across Minerva's face. "Yes, please," she replied, settling into the offered armchair. Her sharp eyes, ever observant, scanned the room, lingering on the towering shelves crammed with books. A small smile played on her lips as she spotted the stuffed demiguise nestled amongst the leather-bound volumes. It was an unexpected glimpse into the man shrouded in shadows, a hint of a life beyond potions and bitter pronouncements.
With a flick of his wand so practised it was almost invisible, he conjured his own steaming cup, along with an empty one – in far better condition than the chipped mug he usually used – and a teapot brimming with the warm liquid. A bottle of milk followed the teapot with balletic grace, landing beside it on the small table next to Minerva. Aided by another silent incantation, her cup filled with steaming black tea, a splash of milk swirling in just the right amount.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar aroma of the beverage. "You remembered, no sugar." A hint of warmth flickered in her usually stern gaze. Snape offered a curt nod in response.
A veil of silence descended upon the room, the only sound the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window panes. Snape wrestled with his thoughts. Should he inquire about Hogwarts, about how she was managing in his absence? The question died on his tongue. He didn't truly want to know. Instead, he settled on a more direct approach. "What brings you here, Minerva?" His voice, though devoid of warmth, wasn't quite as biting as he'd intended.
Minerva lowered her cup, her wrinkled hands cradling it gently in her lap. "Severus," she began, her voice firm yet laced with a hint of apology, "I didn't come simply for a chat. There's a reason for my visit, something... very important that I need to discuss with you."
He saw the resolute glint in her eyes, a mirror of his own stubbornness. "I'm not returning to Hogwarts," he declared, crossing his arms defensively.
The Headmistress merely nodded, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "I know, Severus," she said reassuringly, "and this isn't about Hogwarts."
Snape's brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing. What on earth could she possibly want from him? The vagueness of her request was starting to grate on his nerves. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the armrest of his chair. "Then... what is it?" he demanded, a touch of annoyance creeping into his voice.
With a gentle sigh, Minerva conjured a memory, her voice softening, "There are these dear friends of mine, the Trevors. A lovely, well-to-do family, kindhearted to a fault." A flicker of apprehension crossed her features. "Their daughter, Helen..." Her voice hitched ever so slightly, "she was cursed when she was just thirteen." The older witch reached for her teacup, taking a calming sip to steady her trembling hand. "Poor thing, it happened during her third year at Hogwarts. Such a bright young soul, a Hufflepuff, always so considerate of others." A single tear escaped Minerva's eye, tracing a glistening path down her cheek.
"How dreadful," Snape murmured, his posture rigid, his face an unreadable mask. He wasn't one for displays of emotion, but a flicker of empathy danced in his dark eyes. "Do tell, Minerva, how does this pertain to me?"
Her gaze met his, sharp and laced with a hint of desperation, though it softened quickly. "Helen, you see, is my goddaughter," she declared firmly, then paused, gauging his reaction.
Silence stretched for several heartbeats before Snape offered a curt nod. "I see," he said, his voice a mask, revealing nothing of his internal musings. He'd never pried into her personal life, and it wasn't a topic that had ever come up in their years of… acquaintance.
"The curse," Minerva continued, her voice regaining its composure, "it's odd, unlike anything we've encountered before. And sadly, it's terminal." She stole a glance at him, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "Helen depends on a blend of potions, a veritable arsenal she must consume daily, simply to live."
"How unfortunate," Snape replied, a hint of intrigue flickering in his dark eyes. The situation piqued his curiosity, but he remained impassive, waiting for her to reveal the reason for her visit. "Though, I fail to grasp the connection to myself."
A tight smile played on Minerva's lips. "There was a very skilled healer, Mr. Price," she began, her voice filled with respect. "He was remarkably adept at potion-making, and for many years, fifteen, he ensured Helen's well-being." Her gaze locked with his, unwavering. "Unfortunately, he recently resigned."
Snape's brow furrowed slightly. "If his potions were keeping her alive, why would he leave his post?" he inquired, his voice laced with cool curiosity.
Minerva's smile turned wistful. "Helen insisted upon it," she revealed.
Severus quirked an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise evident on his face.
"For the past fifteen years," Minerva elaborated, her voice brimming with admiration, "Mr. Price has devoted himself to her care. He meticulously brewed her complex potions, kept her company, and offered support." She leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a lower register. "The man's getting on in years, and his health is failing. Helen, selflessly demanded he step down and focus on himself, on his remaining time with his family."
A sardonic chuckle escaped Snape's lips. "How very Hufflepuff of her," he remarked, his tone devoid of judgement. Helen's act, while noble, struck him as naive at best.
A flicker of something akin to pity flickered in Snape's obsidian depths as Minerva elaborated. "Indeed," she conceded. Snape couldn't deny the woman's desperation, the tremor in her voice a stark contrast to her usual composure. "Mr. Price," he began, then paused, letting the unspoken question hang heavy in the air.
Minerva's gaze sharpened. "Precisely," she confirmed. "He brewed a concoction for Helen, a daily regimen to keep the curse at bay. Until, of course, they find a suitable replacement. Someone skilled enough in potions to take Mr. Price's place." Her blue eyes fell on him.
Snape remained silent, a statue carved from obsidian. He understood now, the cogs of the situation finally clicking into place. But understanding did little to quell the simmering irritation within him.
Minerva reached to him, her hand landing on his wrist with surprising firmness. "Severus," she pleaded, her voice laced with urgency, "your potion skills are unparalleled, impeccable. The best, some might even say."
He jerked slightly at her touch, his irritation spiking. "So I am to be her glorified potion-brewing house elf?" The words tumbled out, laced with a bitter edge. He'd had enough of playing protector, Potter, a constant thorn in his side. The thought of babysitting a cursed woman held little appeal, “a nanny?”
"No, Severus, not a nanny!" Minerva interjected, shaking her head vehemently. "You would simply-"
But her explanation was cut short by his sardonic reply. "Right, because my manner is legendary. My presence would only exacerbate her suffering, wouldn't it?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, emphasising the word "suffering."
Minerva's shoulders slumped in defeat. "No, Severus," she countered, her voice softer now. "You wouldn't need to interact with her at all. Her parents are there, of course, and I visit regularly. She has pets for company as well."
He regarded her with a sceptical frown. "Minerva," he began, his voice firm, "I'm hardly the ideal candidate to care for a grown woman. Surely, St. Mungo's has capable healers who could brew these potions."
Minerva bristled, her frustration boiling over. "There is no one better!" she exclaimed, rising to her feet. "Severus, all you would need to do is brew the potions! That's all!"
Snape watched her outburst with a flicker of surprise. Hesitantly, he nodded, his brow furrowed in contemplation. "Who cursed her, Minerva?" he asked, his voice low.
Minerva sank back into her chair, the fight momentarily drained out of her. Her face was flushed, a mixture of anger and desperation. "Twenty-two years ago," she began, her voice strained. "Helen snuck out of her dormitory at night and ventured into the Forbidden Forest." A flicker of annoyance crossed Snape's face, mirrored by a raised eyebrow.
"Acromantulas," Minerva continued, anticipating his unspoken question. "She's always been rather… fond of them."
Snape scowled. Another reckless child, another life forever altered by their own foolishness. "A thirteen-year-old Hufflepuff wandered into the Forbidden Forest... to see acromantulas up close?" he drawled, his voice dripping with incredulity.
Minerva offered a hesitant nod. "Indeed," she admitted, "a rather disastrous decision."
"Disastrous is putting it mildly," Snape retorted, his voice laced with a scathing edge. "Did this goddaughter of yours even possess basic literacy? Did the concept of 'forbidden' hold any meaning to her?" He paused, his dark eyes flashing with frustration. "Apparently not."
A warning note crept into Minerva's voice. "Severus," she cautioned, "you're speaking of my family."
Silence stretched between them, thick with tension. It took Snape several agonising seconds to gather his composure. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "Did an acromantula curse her?"
Minerva shot him a fiery glare. "Severus, for Merlin's beard! She was a child!"
Snape clamped his lips shut, the retort stinging his tongue. "Perhaps," he thought bitterly, "a touch of misfortune served as a fitting consequence for such idiocy." But the words remained unspoken. Minerva, her eyes blazing with unshed tears, looked more than capable of hexing him into a toadstool and then stepping on it. He didn't want to resort to using Epsikey on his broken nose. Despite maintaining silence, he remained convinced of his righteousness.
Taking a deep breath, Minerva reached into her purse, producing two enchanted photographs. She extended one towards him. "This is Helen, before the curse," she said softly. "Taken just two months prior."
Snape reluctantly accepted the photo, his gaze falling upon the moving image. A petite, slightly chubby girl with vibrant blue eyes and brown hair braided into pigtails stood proudly in her Hufflepuff uniform. A goofy grin spread across her face as she offered a thumbs-up to a docile Mooncalf. With a childlike sense of wonder, she reached out and gingerly stroked the creature's head, eliciting a sleepy blink from the beast. The scene looped seamlessly, a testament to Helen's youthful exuberance.
Snape studied the image for several moments, a frown etching itself onto his face. Careless, naive, perhaps a tad obsessed with magical creatures – a true Hufflepuff through and through, he mused. Yet, a flicker of something akin to sympathy stirred within him. Did she truly deserve it, as he had believed just a moment before?
"She fell into a hidden cave," Minerva explained, her voice thick with emotion. "Disoriented and afraid, she went inside... and found an object." She glanced at the other photograph, the one Snape hadn't seen yet. "She touched it, and the curse took hold. She described a bloodcurdling scream in her head. The moment she let go, the object vanished."
Snape absorbed her words in stony silence, a single curt nod his only response. "What was it?" he finally asked.
Minerva shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "She doesn't remember completely. It was round, like a ball, but formed from an unnatural material – like a solidified shadow. She was surprised she was actually able to touch it." Her voice hitched. "It drained her strength instantly. Somehow, she managed to crawl back to the castle, though she doesn't remember the journey."
A heavy silence descended upon them. Snape remained impassive, but a deep crease appeared between his brows as he listened to Minerva's heartbreaking account. "She nearly died," Minerva whispered, tears tracing glistening paths down her cheeks. "It took the healers ages to find the right potions to keep her alive."
Snape remained shrouded in silence, a statue sculpted from shadows.
"She is thirty-five years old now," Minerva murmured, her voice thick with despair. "And living in constant pain, a prisoner in her own weakening body. Disoriented, lost in moments of her past, then haunted by this… this other voice that rattles the very walls of her room." Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. "And no end in sight, no cure."
A flicker of curiosity ignited in the depths of Snape's dark eyes, momentarily pushing back the wave of indifference he usually wore as a shield. "You don't believe I can concoct a cure, do you, Minerva?" he inquired, his voice devoid of warmth, but absent of his usual scorn.
Minerva shook her head fervently. "No, Severus, no! Not at all. Just…" she hesitated, searching his face for a flicker of hope, "just keep her alive with the potions. Mr. Price's supply will be depleted in a month's time. Without them…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air.
"Why not her parents?" he countered, a hint of irritation lacing his tone. A part of him recoiled from being drawn into this situation, the responsibility a heavy burden. Yet, another, more obscure part, remained stubbornly engaged. "Surely, after all these years, they've learned the art of potion-making well enough to sustain their own daughter."
Minerva's shoulders slumped in defeat. "They tried, Severus, they truly did. But their skills simply aren't sufficient. The potions are intricate, a delicate balance of rare ingredients and precise timing. One misstep, and the consequences could be… disastrous."
His gaze met hers, a silent acknowledgment of the desperation that flickered in her eyes. The pleading in her stare was almost unbearable, a raw vulnerability that snagged at something deep within him.
With a sigh that ruffled the air between them, Snape reached out and accepted the second photograph.
The image that materialised before him wasn't quite the horrifying picture he'd conjured in his mind. The woman in the photo was undeniably thin, a stark contrast to the chubby Hufflepuff in the first. Her once bright brown hair, though duller now, flowed down her shoulders in a way that hinted at its former vibrancy. There were shadows under her eyes, a testament to the ordeal she'd endured, but they weren't hollow. They held a spark of defiance, a flicker of life that refused to be extinguished.
The most striking feature, however, was the smile gracing her lips. It wasn't the goofy grin of the first picture, but a genuine, albeit somewhat sad, smile. It wasn't perfect; a hint of asymmetry lingered at the corner of her mouth, a subtle reminder of the curse's touch. Yet, it was a smile nonetheless, a beacon of hope in a sea of worry.
"And her mind?" he asked, his voice low. "Did it remain fixed at the age of thirteen, or…"
Minerva offered a wan smile. "It's not always bad, Severus. Sometimes she's her old self, funny and quick-witted. Like the Helen I knew. But then," her voice hitched, "there are dark days. Days where she's lost, unresponsive, trapped in her own head. These come and go, unpredictable. One moment she might ask about Quidditch, the next she's… gone. Staring into space, muttering in a strange tongue." A shudder ran through her. "And sometimes, there's the voice. Deep, guttural, shaking the room."
"What makes you think I would be… willing to help?" Snape countered, his voice flat but laced with a sliver of curiosity. The woman's desperation was a palpable force, clinging to him like a Dementor's chill. He couldn't deny the pull of the challenge – a curse unlike any other, a concoction keeping death at bay. Yet, the responsibility of another life, especially one so… damaged, felt like a burden he wasn't eager to shoulder.
A tense silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of Minerva's desperation. Snape stared at the photo of Helen, her fragile smile a stark contrast to the woman Minerva described.
"There is no one better than you, Severus," Minerva squeezed both of his hands, her voice thick with unshed tears. “There's no one more skilled in potions."
Snape studied the photo again. Helen, once a carefree child, now a frail woman battling an unseen enemy. A flicker of something flickered in his dark eyes – pity, perhaps, or maybe a spark of… defiance?
“And because… You are my friend.”
"Friend?" he finally echoed, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. Perhaps, in a twisted way, their shared history at Hogwarts qualifies.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Snape's features at the blatant attempt at manipulation, quickly eclipsed by a glint of something else. The challenge, the puzzle of an unknown curse, piqued his interest.
"The Trevors are willing to offer a significant compensation," Minerva added hastily, sensing his hesitation.
Snape scoffed, a hint of offence flickering in his dark eyes. Money wasn't his primary concern, although the additional resources wouldn't hurt.
"Severus," Minerva pleaded, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "I'm begging you. There is simply no one else."
The weight of her plea hung heavy in the air. Snape hadn't anticipated such a request, a flicker of unease stirring within him.
"May I at least consider it?" he finally conceded, his voice gruff.
Relief flooded Minerva's face. "Yes! Of course!" she exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with hope.
The woman in the photo seemed to smile even wider, as if in response to his words.
Snape remained glued to the image, his mind racing. The prospect of caring for this woman held no appeal, but the possibility of a cure, a challenge unlike any he'd faced before, was undeniable.
Minutes ticked by in agonising silence. Finally, with a sigh that seemed to shake the room, Snape met Minerva's gaze. "Very well," he muttered, the words gruff but resolute.
Before he could voice any further reservations, Minerva erupted in a flurry of gratitude. She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace, even planting a hasty kiss on his forehead.
"Thank you, Severus! Thank you!" she gushed, tears streaming down her face.
Pulling away, Minerva grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong for an older woman. "Let's go! They'll be eager to answer your questions!" she declared, dragging him towards the coat rack.
"Now?" Snape stammered, caught off guard by her sudden urgency.
"Now!" Minerva affirmed, looping her arm through his with surprising strength. With a determined glint in her eyes, Minerva squeezed his arm once, a silent command.
One moment they were in the dimly lit living room, surrounded by the familiar scent of old books and brewing potions. The next, they were gone, leaving behind only the remnants of their tea, the watchful gaze of the demiguise, and an unsettling emptiness in the air.