Entry tags:

2009, fic, severus/neville

Gift for leni_jess: Released, Part 1 (Severus/Neville)
Title: Released
Author: florahart
Recipient: leni_jess
Rating: marginally NC17
Words: 11,275
Warnings: none
Summary: Severus is good with being out of the way and alone after the war; however, after a visit from an old friend and an odd encounter with a former student, he finds maybe it's not the only possible way he wants to live.
Disclaimers: HP is not mine.



The statue was, at least, a faithful reproduction.

Or it had been, when it had been commissioned. The Granger chit had made her case with all the passion she'd previously used to horrify House Elves, and with Potter backing her up, an artist had been commissioned and forced to take the job seriously.

Potter had put up half the money and shamed those in the Ministry who were not Shacklebolt into paying for the rest. That part had been quite worth reading about in the papers as he waited for the wounds to his throat to finally, finally close up and scar.

The big names behind the project hadn't, of course, prevented the general populace from expressing their opinions after the fact, with everything from Muggle paint that sprayed from a can to acrylics, plant dyes and destructive spellwork. A few had gone so far as to acquire and use the fecal matter of a rather impressive variety of magical species; it turned out the shockingly green excrement of the Korean Mandrake stained marble terribly.

Granger had cried, which had actually been rather touching, in a sickening sort of way, and made a terrible but heart-felt public speech right there outside the sodding Shrieking Shack, then repaired the small broken bits and set up protective charms around the statue just like those that kept off the less political shit from overflying birds.

A few weeks later, a professional had been by to paint the thing, incorporating the green spatters and streaks into a rather… abstract interpretation of Slytherin colors; it looked somewhat like he imagined might result if Salazar Slytherin himself had described his vision to Jackson Pollock, only to have him write of it in a letter to Matisse, who used interpretive dance to pass the concept to Dali, who drew a scale model to be copied by a small child and liberally smeared with creamed spinach.

Severus stared up for a while longer at his garish likeness, the flesh of his face stretched into a near-grin as he chuckled. Some things never changed, though he supposed some did; it had taken him some time to become comfortable--or at least, less uncomfortable--with having the statue here in the town nearest his home. He never went to London any more, and rarely mingled with Muggles, instead remaining in Scotland well outside of town, coming in for supplies and to send out the occasional post and else remaining to himself.

He turned away from the statue and went across and up the street and into the Three Broomsticks for a drink.

The place was quiet during the school term when it wasn't a Hogsmeade week-end, with only the locals and a handful of tourists now that the Christmas season was past and spring hadn't yet come. No one wanted to see the near-death monument to the probable traitor (and fast talker) Snape whilst tramping through the snow in a frozen Scottish village where the rest of the attractions consisted primarily of a sweet shop and a place to buy magical jokes.

This, on the whole, was just the way Severus liked it. No one to harass him, no one to sit at his favorite table in the back, and no one to ask him if he'd heard the news, seen the papers, or been in touch with Potter.

He stopped at the front long enough to shake off the snowflakes on his collar and hang up his coat here near the door, then headed for the table, sliding behind it and facing out because even now, four years on from the last time he'd had specific enemies, he didn't think he could have sat facing away if he'd tried. It was another thing that never changed.

He found his adherence to custom both grating and comforting, and had stopped trying to resolve this paradox.

"*"

The scarred skin of his throat was irritated by the cold of the unseasonable late February frigidity, but because the wound had taken so very long to close, the scar was no ordinary scar. It was thick and knotted, insensitive, like a thoroughly tangled rope that had been frayed when it was set into his skin. The tendrils--residual effects of the magical poison that had fought off the efforts of the staff at St. Mungo's harder than a rational man would have believed possible--formed a twisted spray across the ridge of his jawbone and another past the midpoint under his chin. One stray thread bisected the very point of his chin, altering the shape of his face subtly and leading more than one person to pause and frown in the midst of conversation, as though trying to understand something critical. And these were not the worst parts of the damage. Nagini's poison had been viscous, such that in the moment of the bite and the seconds that followed it had literally been pulled downward by gravity itself inside his very body against the upward flow of brain-bound blood. This fact was the only reason his careful prophylactic self-dosing had worked well enough to keep him alive; the notion of what would have happened had he somehow suffered the same bite upside down was one he avoided considering, because the path of the stuff, spreading and searing down into larger blood vessels nearer his heart, was written on his skin all the way down onto his ribcage in ugly twisting ridges.

Actually, the theory behind why his heart itself hadn't been stiffened to a stop was muddy beyond belief and likely impossible under current understanding of medical Arithmancy (and was a subject he one day would return to for some deeper study); however, the basic reason for his survival once the potions had begun to neutralize the toxicity was: it hadn't.

In any case, the scar responded poorly to the cold, but because he couldn't feel that flesh itself to know when there was a gap between his collar and the thin muffler that was all the weight he was able to tolerate there, it was only when he came inside and the tissue thawed that he hissed in echoed pain all along the edges where normal flesh met gnarled. Given the total area of damage, the edge, measured like the distance along a coastline riddled with inlets and coves, was probably twice as long as he was tall.

He sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and waited for the shock of pain to fade, waited until he could spare the energy to focus his eyes again, waited for his fists to unclench.

Rosmerta had seen it before, and when the scorch had turned to a buzz, then a tingle, she was there waiting. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you a thicker muffler would help," she said.

"I'm sure you recall we've discussed this before." He knew she was right; he could bundle up tight and sometimes it prevented the problem. However, because the scar itself didn't feel, all too often chilled air got in anyway without him being aware, and mufflers, by and large, itched.

She chuckled and set down a tall bottle of Muggle ale, still capped. "I'll be back with your supper," she said.

He popped off the lid with a flip of his thumb and swallowed a third of the bottle's contents with a single pull. It wasn't very good ale, but then, that wasn't what recommended it; he liked it for its familiarity and because it was cheap, and despite that now, after everything, he did in fact have an income that allowed for indulgence without balancing sacrifice, as long as he didn't go entirely overboard, the habits of his youth held comfort he never would have credited.

His sausage, when it arrived, was charred on one side, his Brussels sprouts cooked to anonymity just as his mum had always done. He glanced up at Rosmerta, who apologized and pretended to look abashed at her 'failure' in the kitchen then left him to it, as she always did.

He snorted and watched her go. Somehow she always knew--without a hint of Legilimency about her--what he wanted and when he was in the mood for a little nostalgia, which was, he supposed, why she was so successful.

"*"

"Still haunting the area, eh?"

Severus had seen Kingsley coming, of course; he'd come in the door and as much as Severus was enjoying his fry-up and double portion of bacon, he certainly looked up every time it opened. He finished the bite he was taking and cleared his throat. "I can't imagine this is news," he said gruffly. "As I recall, the Ministry takes some unofficial interest in maintaining a record of my residence."

"It was a more interesting way to start the conversation than 'hello,'" Kingsley said, pulling out the opposing chair then glancing over his shoulder and moving it aside before sitting down. The action moved him out of Severus's line of sight to the door, which, though they'd never discussed the issue, didn't surprise Severus. Much. The man had been an Auror for many years, after all, and with the possible exceptions of Potter and Weasley, Auror trainees and all-around heroes, most in that office were tolerably observant.

"Not by much," he said after a moment. "What brings you?"

"You."

Severus shook his head firmly, but answered quietly. "Not interested."

"Without so much as the courtesy to hear the question? Why, Severus! A man might think you'd forgotten everything you ever knew about social interactions." Kingsley winked and leaned back, long legs sprawled in a way that led Severus to believe that he must be glamoured and merely letting Severus see him. No Minister was ever so informal, not even this one.

Severus didn't bother to answer the implied question. The wink was only slightly less annoying than Albus's twinkle, and that was because Minister or not, Kingsley didn't actually have the same kind of hold over Severus that Albus always had; Severus didn't give even one very small shit as to the Ministry's good opinion of him, in any official capacity, and outside of that, he and Kingsley were more or less equals. "I do well enough for myself," he said, a basic statement of fact unrelated to the issue of whether he was, or had ever been, courteous.

"Oh, it wasn't a bribe, Severus. More an opportunity. You might hate it, but you're the best man for the job, and assuming you aren't interested is no less obnoxious than assuming you are, to my way of thinking."

Severus had to admit, he had a point. He rather liked being ignored, most of the time, but he didn't like being dismissed, and if he were, in fact, the best man for a particular job--he was withholding judgment on that matter for the moment--then being passed over would be dismissive. He grimaced and took another bite of bacon. "Fine. For what, pray, am I the obvious choice?"

"Not obvious, just best. The opposite of obvious." Kingsley grinned, damn him, leading Severus to contemplate whether he was good enough at unmaking charms to yank the glamour out from under the man. Probably not. Bugger. He grimaced again.

"I see you intend to woo me with unceasing praise," he said.

"Not really. I don't get many opportunities to go out and punch the buttons of someone I've known a long time, is all. So." Kingsley sat up, all business, and leaned forward on his elbows on the table. "I haven't pulled any strings for anyone, you know."

"Until now, I assume."

"Until now, and honestly, I know damn well you don't leave your strings where I can get them."

"Just my buttons."

"Something like that."

"And that's not the same thing."

"No. Look, all fun aside, I do actually have to get back--I'd bitch about the hours of this fucking job, but you and I both know who had a worse one, so I don't see the point. The situation is, one of the kids has need of a… mentor for lack of a more precise term. You come to mind for a unique combination of skills and experience."

"Kids?" The term didn't need defining, but it still felt odd. "I fail to see what I might do. Potter and Weasley are both--"

"Not them."

Severus thought for a minute, forking more food into his mouth. "Hm. Miss Weasley is, per the newspapers, doing well for herself as a junior Chaser. Miss Granger is, as I've reason to know, deeply involved in political action. This leaves, who, Longbottom?"

"In a word, yes."

"No."

"Right. Well, I told Potter I'd ask."

"Potter?"

"Well Neville certainly didn't sashay into my office and suggest I intercede for him. Can you imagine?"

"What's Potter's interest?"

"Stupid question, Severus. You have met the Potter boy, if memory serves? Friend in need. It's his worst trait, as an Auror. He's not soft--never was--but if he loves you, he'll set aside his own needs. And yes, I do keep a finger in the pot over there, hours of the job be damned."

"Obviously." Severus rolled his eyes. He doubted anyone who knew Kingsley very well thought otherwise. "And, what, he loves Longbottom?"

"It's not that absurd. They were housemates and friends."

"And now they're more."

"What? Oh. No, not in love with him. Unless Ginny Weasley is one hell of a lot more open-minded than I give her credit for. Not that I've spent a great deal of time with her, but she doesn't strike me as likely to share him. Either way, Longbottom isn't currently in a place where any kind of relationship is likely."

Severus pursed his lips. "In any case, I'm no mentor figure, and certainly not to Neville Longbottom. Not to mention, while he did well enough, that year, I expect he's the direct opposite of keen to spend any time with me."

Kingsley rose from his chair and nodded. "Maybe, maybe not; I'm not sure anyone's asked. But I'd said I'd see you and invite your aid, and I have. I doubt your answer will come as a surprise to anyone." He buttoned his coat. "Oh, and I left a package on your front steps when I went by there first. You'll want to fetch it in, if you Apparate inside directly." He tossed the end of his muffler over his shoulder and pulled out a stocking cap to put on his head and went back out into the chilly spring air.

"*"

Severus contemplated the burbling of the metal coffee percolator, shuddering on the stove with every forced splash through the grounds.

He hadn't usually drunk coffee often enough to purchase something more modern, but lately, he'd found himself wanting a cup, sometimes two, in the mornings, black and strong.

It was Kingsley's fault.

He waited a few more minutes, then levitated the pot off the heat and pulled down a chipped ceramic mug, filling it to the brim and sipping straight away despite that this burnt his tongue a bit. He liked the scorching sensation better than thinking about the other thing that was currently occupying his mind more than he wanted.

Taking the coffee into his office--not that the tiny room under the eaves was quite grand enough for the title, but it sounded better than 'attic'--was out of the question; despite that he didn't see visitors, he liked to maintain a certain sense of formality in his work space, and bringing coffee to his desk wasn't a part of that.

He drank the rest of the cup swiftly, letting it burn his throat and heat the way down into his belly, then set his cup in the sink with a scowl and went up to open on the 'package' Kingsley had left once again.

It was bloody blackmail, was what; Severus remembered Kingsley as a young Ravenclaw, but he'd long suspected this was because he'd been aimed at a career in the Auror office from the start, and he'd told the sodding hat to keep him out of Slytherin at all cost. He certainly displayed plenty of guile.

The package had contained three things: a Pensieve, a box of memory vials, and a written statement regarding permission to distribute, whatever the devil that meant.

No labels. No sense of what they might be, or whose they might be, or what their topic was. But on top of the box, there had been a note, which merely said, Relevant to your current interests. --KS.

And Severus, of course, after ignoring them for a full three curious days because unlabeled memories were never good, had finally opened the damned thing and poured one memory into the bowl, then set a minder to tug him free in thirty seconds, just in case, and plunged in.

The thirty long seconds had, it was true, been relevant to his interests. Which Kingsley had no right to know, so that was irritating, and which also meant he was definitely going to be seeking out Longbottom, which was appalling.

First, he needed to watch the rest. It was probably unethical, but the memories were fascinating even though a part of him balked. They were personal, and they were also upsetting.

Bah.

He selected one he hadn't seen yet, holding it up to the light and pulling up his glasses onto his nose to check the label, then set it down and crossed to the desk to bring back parchment and quill. If he was going to make use of this in his work, he needed to make a few notes as soon as he emerged. He returned to the rough work table and popped open the vial, then let his glasses fall to the bottom of their chain and poured it into the basin, leaning in.

"*"

From a distance, the Longbottom estate looked… blurred. Severus frowned and wondered if he needed to see about glasses for distance now, too, but when he shifted his gaze toward the horizon, other things seemed clear. Odd.

As he neared, it wasn't hard to see what had caused the difficulty; the house was covered in vines which moved, not writhing so much as vibrating, wound around every surface and banister, digging their way into and along the spaces between the bricks.

Severus frowned again and considered simply not doing this, but he'd come this far, and he was curious. Very curious.

He spent a long moment considering the greenery--not all green, actually; some of it was pale, like new growth showing sharply against dark fir boughs in the spring all around him, and some of it was bluish or red or gray, purple, even rusty brown or dark mossy earth tones. The stems and tendrils intertwined in patterns, combining and covering the house chameleonlike so that it seemed the structure itself--eaves and trim and windowsills--was made of vine.

Severus wondered for a moment whether a good burst of sunlight would wither it like the Devil's Snare, but didn't test the notion. He climbed up the front steps, ignoring the inquisitive twist of new leaves around his ankles, and stood before the door, considering whether it might be a poor choice to offer his hand to the white-and-gold area before him. The plant didn't appear to be carnivorous, for all that it had evidently eaten a house, but again, testing the notion seemed wrong.

He paused a moment too long, and blinked when the door swung open, away from him.

The floor inside was solid: polished hardwood that gleamed in old mellow tones, golden or dark depending on where feet had walked over the years.

"Professor."

Longbottom was behind the door; Severus hadn't noticed him at first as he looked into a house he'd been in a number of times but which was strange now. He pressed his lips together, irritated with himself, and pretended not to have been surprised. "Longbottom."

"Just Neville," the boy said. "It's just too confusing to try to keep us straight, otherwise." He seemed about to say something else, but then frowned and glanced around; a moment later, he turned and walked into the house, away from the open door until Severus concluded it would be best to follow.

The floorboards creaked slightly under his feet.

He went into the sitting room on the left and heard the door whisper closed behind him. He didn't turn to look at it, though the notion of being closed in with what appeared to be a madman was one he didn't relish.

Longbottom reappeared at his side and held out a cup of tea, which Severus took automatically. "Uh, what brings you?"

"Shacklebolt." Severus didn't elaborate, and Longbottom tilted his head.

"He brought you here?"

"Not directly. He brought me a set of memories, which turned out to be of this house. Before it was made of plants."

"Ah. I remember he said something about the memories. Had he mentioned the plant trouble, or did he just leave you to it?"

"No, no mention."

"I thought not. It's a bit hard to explain. Though I've started to think he's a bit of a sadist, with the way he lets people just waltz in uninformed."

Severus pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Well, it doesn't matter," he said. "About the plants or the fact you've chosen to live in a living work of embroidery. I merely came to return the memories, since surely you should be their custodian."

"But you've looked at them."

"The forms were in order."

"It wasn't an objection; I was just curious. But I doubt they care."

"Who, your parents? I should think that would be a given, now that they're gone."

Longbottom shook his head. "Well, no, before they wouldn't have known. Now, they wouldn't care." He pointed up, leading Severus's gaze toward the ceiling.

Where Alice and Frank, young as they'd been when Severus originally knew them… frolicked. Transparently. And vigorously. Wearing nothing but the vines creeping across the ceiling. Oh. Severus glanced back down, feeling his face heat. "I… have nothing whatsoever to say."

"Right. We should go into the solarium. They'll likely be busy for a few minutes, but I should warn you, they tend to follow me eventually. Though they do mostly stay down here, so if you plan to stay for some time, I suppose we could go upstairs."

Severus started walking with him, glancing back at the preoccupied couple as a chill passed through him. Something about their behavior was not exactly familiar, but felt wrong--evil, maybe--in a way that was distinct from the issue of whether ordinary people roamed their child's house fucking, even though they didn't look unhappy, precisely. He wasn't sure how to explain, and wasn't sure it wasn't his imagination, so he left the thought and answered, "They follow you, individually? That's odd. They're ghosts, then? Or, obviously, they are, but I wasn't aware they'd remained, when they died."

"I think Harry threatened some people to keep the story buried in the back of the papers. Which I didn't mind; one round of war hero was more than plenty for me, you know?"

"Not really. I never experienced a particularly convincing one, myself."

"Really? Huh. Loads of people know. That you were one, I mean. But a lot of people were, and it doesn't exactly mean anything, for me, other than really bad luck to still be at the school that year."

"I am familiar with that sentiment, though I can't honestly say the situation wasn't in part of my own making."

"Well, yes. I suppose you could argue mine was, as well. I could have kept my head down. Doesn't matter, I suppose. Anyway, yeah, they're ghosts, which was why the memories that were still partly present in them at the end--inaccessible to them, but there--were open to viewing. But with as much damage as they both suffered, they, um. They're very focused on me, but what they're doing now is about all they do, which was disconcerting for quite a while."

"How disconcerting. That they would center on their son, but spend all their time engaged in coitus."

"Just a bit. But one can grow accustomed to very odd circumstances. As we've only just been talking about."

Severus snorted and sat down in one of the chairs in the sunny corner of the room, watching the window frames writhe. "None of this explains the house."

"Oh, they do that, too. No one knows why. I mean, Hermione pretty much read the entire section at the library in Oxford without finding any real answer. But it's definitely them. When I go out, they follow me, and then the house slows down. Trouble is, if I'm gone too long, things collapse as a result."

"Perhaps an exorcism…"

"Eventually, I'll have to. Not yet." Longbottom shrugged. "I didn't have them for a long time. Now, I've had them for a short one, and I'm not ready to put a stop to it yet. Anyway, before they return and distract us again, why did Kingsley send you to me?"

"He said--and believe me, I know this Minister, like any other, may have unstated motives--that you were in need of a friend."

"Which is why he gave you my parents' memories? That makes no sense."

"Well, no. He gave me those, and told me you needed a mentor, on the same day. I gather he expected my response--which was a clear no, by the way--and intended to leave the notion in my mind."

"Oh. Well, what did you need with the memories? I assume there was some reason he gave them to you."

Severus shook his head. "Nothing. I don't know what he'd in mind, but… nothing."

"I see. Well, then, thanks for bringing them back?"

"It wasn't out of my way." Severus stood stiffly, thoroughly flustered by the strange environment, Longbottom's apparent equanimity about it, the cavorting ghosts just now following them into this room, and the sense of his skin crawling from the weird movement of the walls. He waited a beat, then pulled the vials of memory out of his pocket and set them on the table beside the chair. "I'll see myself out."

Longbottom lifted a brow. "Sorry for the house. You'd get used to it, if you were around it much."

"Yes, well, as that seems unlikely, I think I'll feel fortunate not to be accustomed," Severus said, beating a retreat that was probably hasty enough to be seriously undignified and closing the door behind him.

By the time he Apparated back to Scotland and let himself into his cottage, he'd concluded he needed a bath and a good helping of scotch. The entire visit had been disturbing, and it seemed as though he itched from the memory of it alone.

Shacklebolt was going to get a piece of his mind.

After a bath.

He went and ran scalding water in his tub and dropped his clothes in a pile in the bedroom, wondering what the devil the point of this exercise had been.

"*"

"Professor?"

Severus didn't look up, assuming that at this point, in public, the word was unlikely to be directed at him. He hadn't taught in years now, and nearly all of the students he'd tutored had either come to call him by name, or to avoid him entirely.

Except for those who hadn't survived, but then, they didn't call him anything, either.

A moment later, the word was repeated, and Severus realized quickly that it was coming from the man standing beside him as he contemplated inks.

He glanced to the side. "Ah. Mr Longbottom. The Addleby brand runs badly; I'd advise against."

"Not why I'm here."

"Oh? You've come to a stationer's in order not to buy ink?"

"No, I've come to see you."

"Leaving the estate unattended?"

"Briefly. If we find we've much to discuss, we can schedule a time, or you can come back with me."

"I've no idea what you think we do have to discuss in the first place." Severus ignored the surge of curiosity as to what they might talk about, and continued contemplating whether he really needed a higher-quality dye this time. It would be costlier, but he supposed he might find himself required to dispose of pages less often.

"Your most recent book," the boy said.

Severus thought he was quick enough, surprised enough, in turning, but in his head it felt as though time paused for a moment before he managed to speak. "My what?"

"Your book. No one else has had access, and despite that you had permission to look--from the Minister himself--I very much would have preferred to know their lives were to serve as a backdrop for a bloody mystery novel."

"I'm certain there are no mystery novels published under my name, and even were there, I wasn't aware you were interested in literature."

"It's not literature. Decent quality genre fiction, certainly, but my literariness or lack thereof is hardly the issue, and neither is your nom de plume. I'm here because I just want to tell you that I know, and that I think it was rude. I'm sure I've no legal leg to stand on, but I was perfectly cordial to you, when you brought the damned things back, and it would have been decent to simply state your purpose when I asked."

Severus sighed. "Might we continue this conversation elsewhere?" Longbottom was speaking quietly enough, but eventually others would start listening in; they always did, when he was one of those conversing.

"You've ink to purchase," Longbottom pointed out.

"I can return later." Severus swept out of the stationer's with empty hands, and started up the street toward the Three Broomsticks, entering quickly and moving to his usual table without another word.

Rosmerta started toward him, then blinked when Longbottom followed him in. Her surprise was short-lived, and a moment later she brought his ale and an equally tall bottle of fizzy ginger beer, then went away without comment.

Apparently Longbottom patronized the place regularly, too.

Severus cleared his throat. "No one knows," he began. "Had I realized you would be likely to read the damned thing, I'd have told you; however, telling you was going to require telling you about the pseudonym, and as I say, that isn't widely shared. Shacklebolt knows, and Fleur Weasley, because she acts as my agent and has said she wouldn’t tell even her spouse. Else, it's just the publisher, and I'd like to keep it that way; my income would likely drop precipitously, should the general public be given a reason to cease supporting my work. Such as knowing it's mine."

Longbottom shrugged. "Fair enough, but still rude."

"I've been called worse."

"You've been worse."

"Point."

Severus sat, refraining from shifting uncomfortably in his seat and separately refraining from tugging at the high collar he wore to cover the worst of the scar even this late in the spring, until Rosmerta returned with roast chicken and mash for both of them, then shrugged and took a bite. She was rarely wrong about what he'd like to eat, and today was no exception.

Longbottom watched him eat for a few minutes, then started on his plate, as well.

It was a remarkably awkward silent meal during which each of them considered the other several times but neither said much, but by the time they were finished, Severus concluded he'd been forgiven.

Again.

He wondered if there would ever be a period in his life during which he didn't require forgiveness.

He also wondered whether he was now doomed to associate Neville Bloody Longbottom with sex forevermore, and whether the boy realized he'd essentially been sitting here eating a meal with him and considering fornication.

Probably not. For one thing, he'd no reason to associate the topic with Severus, as he lived with the problem all the time.

Bugger.


Continued in Part Two