Absolution
Yes, I wrote Harry/Snape. No, I don't know why.
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to non-con, torture
Summary: There are no easy ways to heal.
Disclaimer: Jo’s boys, not mine
Absolution
February, 1999
That night, I paced in my lab, afraid that if any of the others saw me, they would recognize my concern.
When the screaming started, I didn’t know what to do. It was outside, coming down the hallway. I was afraid of what I would find.
I could feel the magic crackling, even through the door. I waited until it passed by before opening the door.
And there he was, Harry Potter, wrapped in a too-large black robe, with his back to me, standing over Lucius Malfoy.
He turned, and I could see that he was holding Voldemort’s wand in his left hand. “I think he’s dead.”
I looked behind him, and indeed, Lucius was dead.
My gaze lifted back up to him, this boy who had been quite powerful in his own right, and who now also held the power of the darkest and greatest wizard to have ever lived. He had lowered his wand. I could see the cuts and bruises, on his face, his neck on collarbone, the restraint marks on his wrists and ankles.
He held up his right hand and looked at it. “I think he broke my fingers,” he whispered.
I began casting healing charms while fumbling around in my pockets for a Restoration Potion.
“I don’t think I know that one,” he murmured as he began healing himself.
It worked. I tell myself that every day. It worked. He defeated Voldemort. It was worth it. I almost believe that.
But I have to believe, because if I don’t, that means I did something terrible in giving him that potion, in sending him there.
I didn’t know Bellatrix was going to get her hands on him. But I should have guessed. I should have caught him myself and delivered him straight to the Dark Lord, but I was afraid of casting suspicion on myself.
Sometime I want to blame Albus. He put us all into this situation. He was the one who realized what the bond between Harry and Voldemort could mean. He was the one who convinced Binns to translate those ancient texts. He was the one who walked into my quarters that night and handed me the instructions for brewing the potion.
“It will take a year to complete.”
I stared at the description of the ritual. “You can’t seriously expect the boy to-”
“He will. When the time comes, he will.”
A meeting of the minds, he called it. A bridge across which power can travel.
And an ancient potion of the darkest kind, to bind the powers of one wizard, so that he may receive the powers of another.
That is what I brewed for Albus Dumbledore that night. And that is what I gave to Harry Potter before sending him out, powerless, physically weakened, and alone.
March, 1999
He expended so much power that it exhausted him and he didn’t wake up for three weeks.
When he did, I was waiting, testing the levels of his newly acquired power.
“You’ll have to practice it in order to control it.”
I told him that. I made him try, right there in the hospital room.
Every piece of equipment in that room floated for fifteen seconds before they came crashing down.
I don’t know why he started coming to me. I don’t know why he chose me, of all the people he hated, to confide in. I tell myself it is because I already know, not because he values my company, or, God forbid, he thinks I value his.
June, 1999
It was two in the morning.
Harry Potter stood at my doorstep, hair matted, the storming rain falling around him in swirls that splattered the foyer.
I took in the sight. “I take it this is your doing?”
He shivered. “I can’t stop it.”
I knew I was being a fool. I should have dragged him to St. Mungo’s, or the Ministry, or anywhere but here. Instead, I took a step back. “Then you better come in.”
September, 1999
The next time it happened, it was hail.
I gave him brandy and let him rambled about Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley until he calmed down. He fell asleep on the couch.
I didn’t move him because I didn’t want to upset him again.
December, 1999
He didn’t come to me this time. He didn’t need to. He blew up his whole house. At least the wards held. The damn Muggle neighbors didn’t even know it was there, so there was no one to explain to why it was suddenly gone.
I shoved a bottle of Calming Draught down his throat before Apparating us away.
When he woke up, he wouldn’t say anything, just sat there and stared at the fire.
I got the story three days later from, of all people, Mr. Longbottom.
Potter hadn’t told anyone what had happened that last week, or how he killed Voldemort. Such matters are private, but I would have expected him to at least confide in his closest friends. Or at least the girl he was going to marry. The girl who loved him, who expected him to love her, and to want to do all the things that young lovers do.
She accused him of cheating and he blew up the house.
April, 2000
It was the Granger girl who suspected it first. She told him in no uncertain terms that if he wasn’t going to talk to her, he damn well was going to talk to someone.
She wanted him to go to a Muggle doctor.
He came by to tell me that and I actually laughed.
He laughed too, but it wasn’t that funny.
June, 2000
A lot of Muggles are gullible. A lot of Healers lack common sense. So you would think a combination would be both. Unfortunately, Potter didn’t get one of those.
After three sessions, the man began to suspect that perhaps a man who claimed to be twenty-five and looked eighteen was too young to have seen major combat, and too British to have been a prisoner of war.
Potter had to Obliviate him when the good Doctor diagnosed him as a paranoid schizophrenic.
January, 2001
He came in without bothering with a greeting. “You got any food around?”
“Potter,” I said as I followed him into my kitchen, “what the hell are you doing here?”
He poked at the stew I had cooking. “Looks good.” He turned to me. “You can call me Harry, you know.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
And then he Summoned a bowl and a spoon from my cupboard and began to serve himself.
“Well, Harry,” I snarled, “if you’re going to eat my food, manners behoove you offer some to me as well.”
He looked up at me, one spoonful already in his mouth. He Summoned another bowl and spoon without bothering to reach for his wand. The stew rose up from the pot and arched into the bowl.
It hovered in front of me for a full minute before I remembered take it.
February, 2001
He started coming by every week. He said it was because he liked my stew.
I started making stew every week. Why the hell did I do that?
April, 2001
Sometimes he talked about things. Things I never thought he would talk about.
“I remember you killing her,” he whispered one day. “I remember seeing you come through that door. I was so relieved.”
I said nothing. I always say nothing.
July, 2001
“I thought you would save me. Even when the other Death Eaters came, I thought you would save me. When you grabbed me and said you were taking me to Voldemort, I wanted to die. More than that, I wanted to kill you.” He didn’t look up from his food as he said these things.
“Do you still feel that way?” I asked.
He looked up and almost smiled. “No, of course not.”
September, 2001
Harry has a Muggle television. He didn’t watch it much, still doesn’t, but that September we sat in front of its flickering light and watched and watched as Muggles ran and cried while the WWN played in the background reports from the American Ministry of how many didn’t Apparate out of their office in time.
“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Harry commented, “how there’s no such thing as security.”
December, 2001
That Christmas, we both went to the Burrow. I even got a green sweater.
Potter cast a wandless Body-Bind and pulled the damned thing over me. I glared at him and called him Potter for two straight hours before he apologized.
I knew he wasn’t really sorry but I forgave him anyway.
January, 2002
Usually, after dinner, we sat by the fire and read.
He had odd tastes, everything from Agatha Christie to The Lord of the Rings.
I didn’t think he’d like that last one, Dark Lords and Chosen Ones hitting a little close to home, but he found it comforting.
“It’s nice to know you’re not the only one who’s defeated a Dark Lord.”
I laughed.
Then he made me go to the cinema with him to watch the movie.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he was here every day. Sometimes, when we’re reading, I look up and the light catches the curve of his neck, and I wonder what that curve would taste like. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him against the counter and kiss him and let the stew run over.
I try not to wonder too often.
March, 2002
“Hermione and Ron are getting married.”
So he hadn’t been reading after all.
I put down my Potions journal. “Forgive me for not keeping up with your friends’ antics, but isn’t that supposed to be good news?”
He glanced over. “It is.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound particularly pleased.”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking, about Ginny.” He chewed his lip. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d gotten married.”
“You’d be divorced.”
He sent me a dirty look. “That’s not fair.”
I looked back at him evenly. “You can’t have a marriage without being truthful with one another. You still wouldn’t be able tell her, even now.”
He flinched, and the glass of scotch next to him shattered. “It’s not something you just talk about.”
I repaired the glass. “I know.”
May, 2002
“So. I should talk about it.”
I looked up at this. Sophocles could wait. “About what?”
He waved a hand absently. “You know. The thing. That I couldn’t talk to Ginny about.”
Oh.
“I’m listening.”
“Every time I-” He shuddered. “The potion. It made me want it. It made me want to be touched, even by her.”
“The potion only lasted twenty-four hours.”
“I know.” He picked at the lint balls of his shirt. “But that’s the part I remember most.”
June, 2002
Harry stared at his hands, tapping his fingers together randomly. “Do you know how I did it?”
I did not look away from the fire. “How?”
“It was so hard to focus. One second he’d be touching me, and the next it would be his wand instead of his finger. I couldn’t tell if he was cursing me or whipping me.”
I continued to stare at the flames.
“It wasn’t until he was inside me that I had long enough…” Harry’s voice trailed off.
I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to imagine…
“It hurt so bad. I didn’t think I could-” Harry stopped. “But I did. I did.”
August, 2002
“Professor McGonagall asked me if I wanted to teach today,” Harry said casually as he peeled carrots by looking sideways at them.
I stared at him.
“You could go back too, you know.” He finished with the carrots and started on the potatoes. “Slughorn’s always dying to retire.”
“I hate teaching.”
He laughed. “No, you don’t. You just hate the students.”
I didn’t see how it mattered.
He cocked his head, examining me in a way that was disturbingly similar to how he had regarded the carrots. “I think I’m going to take it.”
I crossed my arms. “You do that.”
Harry smiled. “I’ll still come by, you know. Every week.”
I had to remember I didn’t care.
November, 2002
Two days ago, he thought something.
Harry was always a terrible Occlumens.
He had fallen asleep on the couch again, but I hadn’t noticed. I went right on reading until it was nearly midnight, and then I looked over, and there he was, curled up, with his legs tucked under him, fast asleep.
I went to wake him so he could go back to Hogwarts, but my hand stopped just above his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like he belonged.
And then he shifted, turning slightly, his eyes opening and squinting up at me.
I wanted to kiss him.
I want to kiss him.
And then I realized that thought wasn’t from me.
Now I’m in the castle, standing at the doors to his quarters, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been to his new home. I don’t even know what the inside looks like.
He opens the door and blinks at me. It’s late and he’s in his pajamas.
He just stands there, staring at me, not saying a word.
So I lean forward and I take his hand in mine and I kiss him, very lightly, on his upper lip. After a moment, I pull back and look at him, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
He doesn’t say anything, but he steps back and holds open the door to let me in.
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to non-con, torture
Summary: There are no easy ways to heal.
Disclaimer: Jo’s boys, not mine
Absolution
February, 1999
That night, I paced in my lab, afraid that if any of the others saw me, they would recognize my concern.
When the screaming started, I didn’t know what to do. It was outside, coming down the hallway. I was afraid of what I would find.
I could feel the magic crackling, even through the door. I waited until it passed by before opening the door.
And there he was, Harry Potter, wrapped in a too-large black robe, with his back to me, standing over Lucius Malfoy.
He turned, and I could see that he was holding Voldemort’s wand in his left hand. “I think he’s dead.”
I looked behind him, and indeed, Lucius was dead.
My gaze lifted back up to him, this boy who had been quite powerful in his own right, and who now also held the power of the darkest and greatest wizard to have ever lived. He had lowered his wand. I could see the cuts and bruises, on his face, his neck on collarbone, the restraint marks on his wrists and ankles.
He held up his right hand and looked at it. “I think he broke my fingers,” he whispered.
I began casting healing charms while fumbling around in my pockets for a Restoration Potion.
“I don’t think I know that one,” he murmured as he began healing himself.
It worked. I tell myself that every day. It worked. He defeated Voldemort. It was worth it. I almost believe that.
But I have to believe, because if I don’t, that means I did something terrible in giving him that potion, in sending him there.
I didn’t know Bellatrix was going to get her hands on him. But I should have guessed. I should have caught him myself and delivered him straight to the Dark Lord, but I was afraid of casting suspicion on myself.
Sometime I want to blame Albus. He put us all into this situation. He was the one who realized what the bond between Harry and Voldemort could mean. He was the one who convinced Binns to translate those ancient texts. He was the one who walked into my quarters that night and handed me the instructions for brewing the potion.
“It will take a year to complete.”
I stared at the description of the ritual. “You can’t seriously expect the boy to-”
“He will. When the time comes, he will.”
A meeting of the minds, he called it. A bridge across which power can travel.
And an ancient potion of the darkest kind, to bind the powers of one wizard, so that he may receive the powers of another.
That is what I brewed for Albus Dumbledore that night. And that is what I gave to Harry Potter before sending him out, powerless, physically weakened, and alone.
March, 1999
He expended so much power that it exhausted him and he didn’t wake up for three weeks.
When he did, I was waiting, testing the levels of his newly acquired power.
“You’ll have to practice it in order to control it.”
I told him that. I made him try, right there in the hospital room.
Every piece of equipment in that room floated for fifteen seconds before they came crashing down.
I don’t know why he started coming to me. I don’t know why he chose me, of all the people he hated, to confide in. I tell myself it is because I already know, not because he values my company, or, God forbid, he thinks I value his.
June, 1999
It was two in the morning.
Harry Potter stood at my doorstep, hair matted, the storming rain falling around him in swirls that splattered the foyer.
I took in the sight. “I take it this is your doing?”
He shivered. “I can’t stop it.”
I knew I was being a fool. I should have dragged him to St. Mungo’s, or the Ministry, or anywhere but here. Instead, I took a step back. “Then you better come in.”
September, 1999
The next time it happened, it was hail.
I gave him brandy and let him rambled about Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley until he calmed down. He fell asleep on the couch.
I didn’t move him because I didn’t want to upset him again.
December, 1999
He didn’t come to me this time. He didn’t need to. He blew up his whole house. At least the wards held. The damn Muggle neighbors didn’t even know it was there, so there was no one to explain to why it was suddenly gone.
I shoved a bottle of Calming Draught down his throat before Apparating us away.
When he woke up, he wouldn’t say anything, just sat there and stared at the fire.
I got the story three days later from, of all people, Mr. Longbottom.
Potter hadn’t told anyone what had happened that last week, or how he killed Voldemort. Such matters are private, but I would have expected him to at least confide in his closest friends. Or at least the girl he was going to marry. The girl who loved him, who expected him to love her, and to want to do all the things that young lovers do.
She accused him of cheating and he blew up the house.
April, 2000
It was the Granger girl who suspected it first. She told him in no uncertain terms that if he wasn’t going to talk to her, he damn well was going to talk to someone.
She wanted him to go to a Muggle doctor.
He came by to tell me that and I actually laughed.
He laughed too, but it wasn’t that funny.
June, 2000
A lot of Muggles are gullible. A lot of Healers lack common sense. So you would think a combination would be both. Unfortunately, Potter didn’t get one of those.
After three sessions, the man began to suspect that perhaps a man who claimed to be twenty-five and looked eighteen was too young to have seen major combat, and too British to have been a prisoner of war.
Potter had to Obliviate him when the good Doctor diagnosed him as a paranoid schizophrenic.
January, 2001
He came in without bothering with a greeting. “You got any food around?”
“Potter,” I said as I followed him into my kitchen, “what the hell are you doing here?”
He poked at the stew I had cooking. “Looks good.” He turned to me. “You can call me Harry, you know.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
And then he Summoned a bowl and a spoon from my cupboard and began to serve himself.
“Well, Harry,” I snarled, “if you’re going to eat my food, manners behoove you offer some to me as well.”
He looked up at me, one spoonful already in his mouth. He Summoned another bowl and spoon without bothering to reach for his wand. The stew rose up from the pot and arched into the bowl.
It hovered in front of me for a full minute before I remembered take it.
February, 2001
He started coming by every week. He said it was because he liked my stew.
I started making stew every week. Why the hell did I do that?
April, 2001
Sometimes he talked about things. Things I never thought he would talk about.
“I remember you killing her,” he whispered one day. “I remember seeing you come through that door. I was so relieved.”
I said nothing. I always say nothing.
July, 2001
“I thought you would save me. Even when the other Death Eaters came, I thought you would save me. When you grabbed me and said you were taking me to Voldemort, I wanted to die. More than that, I wanted to kill you.” He didn’t look up from his food as he said these things.
“Do you still feel that way?” I asked.
He looked up and almost smiled. “No, of course not.”
September, 2001
Harry has a Muggle television. He didn’t watch it much, still doesn’t, but that September we sat in front of its flickering light and watched and watched as Muggles ran and cried while the WWN played in the background reports from the American Ministry of how many didn’t Apparate out of their office in time.
“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Harry commented, “how there’s no such thing as security.”
December, 2001
That Christmas, we both went to the Burrow. I even got a green sweater.
Potter cast a wandless Body-Bind and pulled the damned thing over me. I glared at him and called him Potter for two straight hours before he apologized.
I knew he wasn’t really sorry but I forgave him anyway.
January, 2002
Usually, after dinner, we sat by the fire and read.
He had odd tastes, everything from Agatha Christie to The Lord of the Rings.
I didn’t think he’d like that last one, Dark Lords and Chosen Ones hitting a little close to home, but he found it comforting.
“It’s nice to know you’re not the only one who’s defeated a Dark Lord.”
I laughed.
Then he made me go to the cinema with him to watch the movie.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he was here every day. Sometimes, when we’re reading, I look up and the light catches the curve of his neck, and I wonder what that curve would taste like. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, to hold him against the counter and kiss him and let the stew run over.
I try not to wonder too often.
March, 2002
“Hermione and Ron are getting married.”
So he hadn’t been reading after all.
I put down my Potions journal. “Forgive me for not keeping up with your friends’ antics, but isn’t that supposed to be good news?”
He glanced over. “It is.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound particularly pleased.”
He shrugged. “I was just thinking, about Ginny.” He chewed his lip. “I wonder what would have happened if we’d gotten married.”
“You’d be divorced.”
He sent me a dirty look. “That’s not fair.”
I looked back at him evenly. “You can’t have a marriage without being truthful with one another. You still wouldn’t be able tell her, even now.”
He flinched, and the glass of scotch next to him shattered. “It’s not something you just talk about.”
I repaired the glass. “I know.”
May, 2002
“So. I should talk about it.”
I looked up at this. Sophocles could wait. “About what?”
He waved a hand absently. “You know. The thing. That I couldn’t talk to Ginny about.”
Oh.
“I’m listening.”
“Every time I-” He shuddered. “The potion. It made me want it. It made me want to be touched, even by her.”
“The potion only lasted twenty-four hours.”
“I know.” He picked at the lint balls of his shirt. “But that’s the part I remember most.”
June, 2002
Harry stared at his hands, tapping his fingers together randomly. “Do you know how I did it?”
I did not look away from the fire. “How?”
“It was so hard to focus. One second he’d be touching me, and the next it would be his wand instead of his finger. I couldn’t tell if he was cursing me or whipping me.”
I continued to stare at the flames.
“It wasn’t until he was inside me that I had long enough…” Harry’s voice trailed off.
I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to imagine…
“It hurt so bad. I didn’t think I could-” Harry stopped. “But I did. I did.”
August, 2002
“Professor McGonagall asked me if I wanted to teach today,” Harry said casually as he peeled carrots by looking sideways at them.
I stared at him.
“You could go back too, you know.” He finished with the carrots and started on the potatoes. “Slughorn’s always dying to retire.”
“I hate teaching.”
He laughed. “No, you don’t. You just hate the students.”
I didn’t see how it mattered.
He cocked his head, examining me in a way that was disturbingly similar to how he had regarded the carrots. “I think I’m going to take it.”
I crossed my arms. “You do that.”
Harry smiled. “I’ll still come by, you know. Every week.”
I had to remember I didn’t care.
November, 2002
Two days ago, he thought something.
Harry was always a terrible Occlumens.
He had fallen asleep on the couch again, but I hadn’t noticed. I went right on reading until it was nearly midnight, and then I looked over, and there he was, curled up, with his legs tucked under him, fast asleep.
I went to wake him so he could go back to Hogwarts, but my hand stopped just above his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like he belonged.
And then he shifted, turning slightly, his eyes opening and squinting up at me.
I wanted to kiss him.
I want to kiss him.
And then I realized that thought wasn’t from me.
Now I’m in the castle, standing at the doors to his quarters, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been to his new home. I don’t even know what the inside looks like.
He opens the door and blinks at me. It’s late and he’s in his pajamas.
He just stands there, staring at me, not saying a word.
So I lean forward and I take his hand in mine and I kiss him, very lightly, on his upper lip. After a moment, I pull back and look at him, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
He doesn’t say anything, but he steps back and holds open the door to let me in.