welcome to snapetober 2022!

There’s a chill in the November air, the early morning sunlight not quite strong enough to provide any warmth - or maybe that’s just him; maybe he’s just devoid of warmth now - that causes Severus to tighten his traveling cloak over his shoulders as he slips through the broken gate.

It’s been many years since he was last here, but he follows the overgrown path easily enough, paying little mind to the faded names he passes. There’s a distinct tinge to the air, an unpleasant sort of oiliness that permeates all of Spinner’s End. It mingles with the earthiness of damp soil and the floral sweetness coming off the planted geraniums. 

The smell is familiar, but Severus isn’t sure if he means that in a good way or not. 

There’s no one else around yet, but that’s a good thing. He isn’t very good company to keep these days - never has been - but the quiet brokenness inside him is desperate enough to finally reach out, to come to a place he isn’t even sure he’s welcome at. But, there’s a macabre sort of comfort to meeting someone at a cemetery. The main reason, being, that they can’t leave you a second time. 

“It’s been a while.”

His voice sounds hoarse, when he finally finds who he’s searching for. He pulls his lips back into a semblance of a smile, but it feels wrong. He feels wrong. Like he’s wearing someone else’s skin and going through the motions of being alive. 

“I need help.” Severus admits in a tiny whisper.

Unsurprisingly, the headstone at his feet remains silent.

It looks rather good, despite the time and the obvious lack of maintenance to the grounds. The edges of the stone are smooth, eroded down slightly from falling rain, and the letters carefully carved in front are legible. There’s a bit of moss clinging to a crack along the side that wasn’t there before, but it’s mostly hidden behind the tall grass and wild thyme. 

Eileen Snape. 

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his muggle coat and frowns, teeth worrying over chapped lips as he wonders how to explain. It’s been five - six? - years, since he was last here and perhaps he should feel guilty for that, but the truth is, he hates her.

He hates Eileen like he now hates Lily. 

There’s something sharp lodged in his throat he can’t swallow down and it tears at him from the inside, makes it hard to breathe as he glares at the slightly wonky lettering until it blurs and he can’t make out the E from the L. He blinks and ignores the water droplet that falls down his face, refuses to even acknowledge it. 

“I’m only here because there’s no one else.”

Part of him wonders if he makes her mad enough, if she’ll appear behind him just to tell him off. He isn’t sure that’s what he wants, but he can’t seem to stop the venom that seeps into his tone as he mutters to the dust filled box buried underneath his feet, “I’m a professor now, you know. Not that it’s of any interest to you. If you cared about my future, you wouldn’t be here.”

There’s a noticeable lack of flowers around her grave and he can’t help the bitter satisfaction that flashes through him at the realization. He doesn’t care if it makes him a monster. She doesn’t deserve flowers. 

“This isn’t a social call.” Severus kicks a stray pebble with the toe of his boot. “Do you remember Lily?” the name gets caught in his throat and the edges of the word feel like razorblades. “She’s dead too. But you probably already knew that.”

He doesn’t know if he believes that. 

He’s never really considered the afterlife, has never really cared to theorize. He hopes there’s nothing. He wants - needs - it to be nothing. The thought of his miserable existence continuing in some other form fills him with nothing short of abject horror. 

Minutes pass. 

“I have nowhere else to go.” 

The silence he’s met with is comforting; consistent and - if he lets himself lose his inhibitions enough - empathetic. The silhouette of the mill is visible just over the tree line, but other than that, it’s almost as if the cemetery exists in a liminal space far outside of Cokeworth. For now, no one knows where he is. For now, he doesn’t have to pretend to be anybody else. For now, he doesn’t have to exist.

“I didn’t lie, when I said I was a professor.” Severus began, finally sitting down. The grass is softer than he expected, and only slightly damp. “I haven’t exactly taught a class yet, but I will soon. I don’t think I’m cut out for it.” He digs his fingers into the ground. “Dumbledore said I could ask Slughorn for help with lesson plans, but I don’t believe that’s a good idea. It’s positively foolish, if you ask me. Everything that’s happening and he wants me to ask about lesson plans?”

There’s a small pile of grass he’s uprooted in his hand. He closes his fist around it gently and lets his magic dance between his fingertips; wordless, wandless. 

“Lily really is dead too.” Severus’ voice is even smaller. “She died a few weeks ago. Two weeks ago, really.” He shudders a breath. “I left out the part where I killed her.” 

There’s a breeze blowing in his direction now and it ruffles his hair the slightest bit.

He tries not to lean into it. 

“I’m trying to make up for what I did.” 

Minutes pass again.

“I just don’t think it’s enough.”

He opens his hand up and stares at the newly formed blossom. Transfiguration was never his best subject, not the way potions and defense and arithmancy was, but he’s fairly sure the flower isn’t supposed to be already dead. The petals are wilted, stained with an awful shade of goldenrod; withered and falling apart. 

“Dumbledore took pity on me. I must have looked exceptionally pathetic.” He crushes the poor flower between his fingers, scowling at the honey sweet fragrance that spills into the air from the exposed nectar. “I don’t know how I ended up here. I should be dead. He should have killed me the second he saw me. I. . . made some really stupid decisions. I’d show you, but I don’t think you’d understand.”

He lets the damaged petals fall to the ground and brings his right hand to his left sleeve, tracing a curved line against his covered forearm. This is after her time. There’s no point subjecting his temporary haven to something no one here will comprehend. 

“There’s no one to blame here but me.” Severus continues. “I knew what I was doing. There’s no unfortunate sob story, no tricky spellcasting or manipulation. I did what I did and I became what I became with no remorse. I wanted to see the world burn.”

The breeze returns and Severus shakes his head when it messes up his hair again.

“I don’t think I can be forgiven.”

“Better yet.” he takes a shaky breath, embarrassment coloring his cheeks at how soft his voice is, how shattered. “I don’t think I deserve to be.”

He smiles grimly and he wonders if his eyes are as empty as he feels. “Part of me thinks I should die for this, but another part believes I have to suffer.” There’s an awful, broken sound that disrupts the early morning peace and it takes him a second to realize it’s coming from his own chest. Severus isn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a sob, isn’t sure he cares enough to figure it out. “I really don’t have anywhere else to go. The others. . . they’re far worse than me only because they still believe in what they’re doing; have always believed in it. They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve turned traitor and Dumbledore tells me I’m more useless dead. I think it’s the only reason he let me live."

“I don’t know how teaching is going to go.” Severus picks up the withered petals one by one. “I don’t think anyone knows what I am. I think Professor McGonagall does, if the way she looks at me is any indication. I don’t know how much longer that will last. I’m playing the part of a double agent at twenty-one because I have nowhere else to go.

No one else to trust. 

“You don’t really get a say in the matter.” He laughs wetly and stares at the contents of his palm. “You’re my mother.” he finally acknowledges, adding fresh blades of grass to his decrepit pile. “This is, quite literally, your job.”

Eileen remains silent, as expected, but the lack of breeze makes something in his stomach twist. Perhaps he had deluded himself for a minute there. 

Foolish.

The only thing he could trust was himself and his sincerity. 

“I don’t really know why I’m here.” 

Tendrils of magic shimmer down his fingers again and he stares at them in concentration. This time, when he opens his hand, there’s a fresh cut flower waiting for him. It’s a pink carnation, of all things, and he stares at it in wonder. He sets it down gently against the headstone and watches as the tips of the petal fade into a satiny white. 

Unconditionally. 

He refuses to indulge the delusion. 

“I think I just wanted someone to listen.” Severus stands up, brushing the extra grass clippings off his lap and adjusting his cloak. He’s dressed fairly normally today, in trousers and a buttoned up brown jacket, but the cloak is a small comfort he can’t deny himself. “I think I had also planned to. . . stay.”

He puts his hands back in his pockets, a mirror image to how he looked when he first arrived.

“I still don’t think what I’m doing is enough, but maybe. . . maybe it’ll change something. Save someone else. Maybe none of this is really worth it. But I don’t think it’s about me anymore.” He looks away, back towards the gate. “I don’t think I’ll come back.” 

A gentle breeze touches his cheek.

---

a/n: okay i actually really love this one 🥺

He understood how some people could be wary of the coming darkness; hurrying home before they were caught out in it, like it was some sort of impending rain. There were monsters hidden in the shadows and those shadows weren’t visible in the dark - not until it was too late and they devoured you whole. Not that it mattered to Severus. 

He had long become one of those shadows. 

Now, nightfall held a different comfort outside of being able to put his quill down and leaving ungraded essays aside for another time. Now it was a cover; a safety blanket. Darkness fell over everything like his favorite woolen cloak, draping over his shoulders and hiding him away from prying eyes. 

Most of them anyway. 

“Will you stop brooding?”

“I’m not brooding.”

Yaxley snorted, raising an eyebrow at him. “You are most definitely brooding, Severus.”

“Why are you even looking at me.” he scowled at the other Death Eater and turned his own attention to their surroundings. They were both airborne, nondescript brooms holding them up somewhere to the south of Little Whinging. It was hard to see anything happening in the dimly-lit streets below them, but it was clear they remained empty. 

As they had been for the past three hours.

“Nothing is happening.” Yaxley complained, stating the obvious. 

If he were to ever write a book that detailed his life as a Death Eater spy, Severus would be sure to include how executing an ambush wasn’t as exciting as the fiction books made it out to be.

Of course, he hadn’t been expecting excitement. 

He wasn’t that horrible.

If anything, the stomach-twisting anxiety he was feeling revealed his true feelings behind the current situation. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want any of them to be here - but this was, quite literally, war, and the inane desire to pretend none of this was real was nothing more than a pipe dream he’s sure every sane member of the Wizarding World desired. 

Still, he hadn’t expected so much waiting around - a dangerous breeding ground for his wandering thoughts. Night had long since arrived, and with it, their orders to strategically place themselves around Privet Drive, waiting for the moment the Order would leave the safety of the blood wards that protected the Potter boy’s house and reveal themselves. 

Their last Death Eater meeting had made it seem simpler; quicker. The Dark Lord had been almost giddy with anticipation for tonight. He considered their ambush an easy win and that confidence was doing a number at Severus’ ability to remain calm.

“You’re still brooding.”

Resisting the urge to send a hex his way, Severus pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and refused to look at the other man. He was right, in a way - he was getting lost in his own head instead of paying attention.

“Right, because that’s any better.” Yaxley muttered. 

“Keep speaking and you’ll find yourself coming home without a tongue.” 

Nothing further was said as the pair caught sight of hazy golden sparks in the distance. The signal was wholly unnecessary because even in the dark, it was hard to miss the group of fourteen that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. 

It doesn’t take long to catch up with the fleeing Order members - seconds, at most, thanks to a bit of cheeky spellcasting that allowed their brooms to supersede their legal limit - and when they did, chaos had ensued. 

They had converged on the Order members like ghosts in the snow, the very shadows that hid in the night, and the group were clearly panic-stricken as they realized their predicament despite the hard determination still deepset on all their faces. There were at least twice as many Death Eaters, easily falling into formation as they all flew across the rolling hills of Surrey. Despite the other Death Eater’s palpable confusion at seeing seven Potters to their expected one, they changed tactics easily and wordlessly, to focus on individual targets. 

“Don’t let any get away!”

Spells were being thrown left and right, harmless stunning spells and juvenile curses intermingling with harsh and forbidden hexes. Their corner of the sky was a light show as colored sparks were cast hurriedly and without mercy. Briefly, as a well-aimed Stunning Spell hit one of his - he shuddered - compatriots in the chest, causing his limbs to seize up and his grip on the broom handle to drop, he wondered if the caster had really considered the consequences of their chosen spell.

On one hand, a stunning spell was harmless enough in the right context - no wounds, no permanent damage, no guilt - but right here. . . surely a fall from this height would kill someone.

There was shouting all around him, terrified yelps and stern instructions, code words he didn’t quite understand getting tossed around and lost in the bracing wind. Severus kept a secure grip on his broom as he focused on the spells the Death Eaters closest to him were throwing, Albus’ words ringing in his head now.

If the Dark Lord makes you participate, make it believable. 

No matter how much he wanted, he couldn’t deflect any of the spells, couldn’t protect the group of - thankfully - Polyjuiced Order members flying ahead of them. He pulled his hood down a little more, willing himself to disappear behind the black fabric and, consequently, into the night sky itself. The rest of his cloak flared behind him. 

For a second, he wondered if he looked a bit like a Dementor, his robes obscuring most of his broom. He shook his head, felt his hood slip the tiniest bit, and refocused on the chase happening in front of him. Not even the safety of the darkened sky would be enough to protect him from the Dark Lord’s watchful eye. 

He cast wordless spells that did nothing but shoot colored sparks in the right direction. He was flying a few feet behind Yaxley now, and they were quickly closing in on Remus Lupin and one of the many Harry Potter’s present. 

The Dark Lord had immediately gone after Alastor Moody, likely assuming Potter would be paired with the ex-Auror above anyone else. He doubted the logic, simply because it was too logical. He sincerely hoped the Order of the Phoenix was smarter than that.

The wind was blowing harder now. It was getting harder to make out the voices surrounding him, but he immediately recognized the pattern Yaxley was waving his wand in, could practically hear the Avada Kedavra being whispered on his tongue, his wand a straight shot to Lupin’s back. 

He didn’t hesitate.

A quick and angry Sectumsempra was fired at Yaxley’s hand, a half-hearted apology for his pitiful aim already being formulated. Severus held back a wince as the other Death Eater lowered his wand hand far lower than he expected him too and watched as the curse missed Yaxley altogether, whizzing just past Potter’s head. 

Merlin, he hoped it wasn’t the real Potter. 

He managed to be faster than Yaxley and as his spell hit and the blood started gushing, Lupin immediately swerved to the side and away from the unsuspecting Killing Curse, turning his head to take stock of the situation behind him. Severus could feel the wind lifting his hood off then, could feel the weight of his cloak slipping away entirely.

He couldn’t grab it - not with one hand on his broom handle and the other on his wand. His focus was on Lupin and the bleeding boy’s head; his ear had been sliced clean off and as he made eye contact with Remus Lupin for the briefest second, the other’s eyes widening with realization and disappointed horror,  something in his stomach twisted.

He didn’t dare look apologetic. 

--

The Dark Lord was furious. 

They had returned to Malfoy Manor when it was all over and had taken their seats at the long banquet table. The silence felt heavy with their failure, with their anticipation of what was to come. It was a far cry from the overconfidence of earlier, when wine goblets and dripping candelabras had decorated the white linen. 

Lucius Malfoy had stayed behind for this mission, was still in the Dark Lord’s ill graces for his repeated failures and shortcomings, and now he looked positively sick. He wondered if the Dark Lord would blame Lucius for the malfunctioning wand he had taken from him - and ultimately, broken - or if Ollivander would meet his untimely end tonight instead. 

Severus sat at his usual chair and tugged on his robes. 

His cloak was gone. 

It felt like a foolish thing to be upset over, all things considered, but tensions were high right now and the room was drowning in despair. He couldn’t help but feed off of it and all he wanted was to wrap his bloody cloak tighter around himself.

He preferred to think about his cloak rather than the bleeding boy’s ear. He couldn’t allow himself to feel guilt over that. He shouldn’t have intervened in the first place. He only hoped no one had noticed; Yaxley himself had scowled at him in the foyer, telling him off for nearly taking his hand off with that pitiful near-miss. 

He hoped visibly harming one of the Potter’s - no matter his intentions - would be enough to soothe some of the Dark Lord’s anger that would be surely directed at him.

Severus knew he would get blamed for this, at least a little bit.

He wished the wine goblets from earlier would make a return. Not that he would drink any; he couldn’t afford to imbibe on anything that would lower his defenses or the sharpness of his senses. He just needed something to distract himself with, something for his hands to hold. 

He wanted his cloak.

“Severus.” the Dark Lord spoke, as he returned from the holding cells downstairs, his voice low and strained. “Did you know the Order would be planning on Polyjuicing Harry Potter?”

“No, my Lord.” Severus tried to sound sincere, bowing his head down in feigned remorse.

The Dark Lord hummed and paced the length of the table; Severus kept his gaze down and waited, letting his pointless thoughts wash over him, a distraction from the heavy uneasiness that filled  the room. 

The cloak had been a gift from Minerva, some years back. He wondered if it was symbolic, then. He lost Minerva - her friendship, her trust, her respect - so ergo, he lost her cloak. More accurately, the opportunity to grab the cloak before it was lost forever was right there and, instead, he let it fall into the Thames while he prioritized something else. 

Perhaps there was a metaphor to this, some sort of literary prose to be found, in losing his cloak at just the right moment for Lupin to see him for who he really was. There used to be comfort in nightfall, in hiding amongst the shadows, but perhaps, perhaps there was no comfort at all. Perhaps he had always been exposed. 

The pacing had stopped. 

The Dark Lord had reached an end to his musings and Severus could only hope that whatever happened next wouldn’t be too gruesome to exclude from this chapter. 

He huffed the barest hint of a laugh; an exhale, really. Perhaps this was his new coping mechanism - viewing his actions through the lens of his autobiography. He wondered if anyone would read it. 

“Severus.”

He wondered if he would survive long enough to write it.

----- a/n: i don't remember how to write and i especially don't remember how to write severus-