To Stay the Shadow
- Vain
03.01 – 04.27.2008

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Standard Disclaimer:
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the definitions preceding the chapters are taken from "The Devil's Dictionary," by Ambrose Bierce, originally published in newspapers in a serialized version between 1881 and 1906 as "The Cynic's Word Book," and then bound and republished in 1911 under its current name.

Summary: SS/HP slash. Once upon a time Severus Snape fell in love. And then everything went wrong.

Warnings: SS/HP slash, Book 6 & 7 S.P.O.I.L.E.R.S. Please note, this story is NOT Book 7 compliant; AU-ish; language; angst.

Rated: R

Length: roughly 25,400 words.

Notes: This fic was written for the 2008 Snarry Games for Team Phoenix.

Prompts: Reckoning & Ashes of Youth; Genre: Angst

Special Thanks once again to the mods for not killing me after email # 3, and especially to my invaluable betas Venivincere, Alisanne, & Ziasudra for beating me with Spelling, Grammar, and Diction Sticks (and to Bethbethbeth and Tsujton for the additional edits). They are now my personal heroes and made this story a thousand times better; all remaining errors are solely my own. Also, much love to the rest of Team Phoenix for all their help and support. This would never have been completed if not for you guys' feedback and encouragement.

Plagiarism is no one's friend.

Enjoy!

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Part Eight:
To Reap

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OUTCOME, n. A particular type of disappointment.
By the kind of intelligence that sees in an exception a proof of the rule, the wisdom of an act is judged by the outcome, the result.
This is immortal nonsense; the wisdom of an act is to be judged by the light that the doer had when he performed it.

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He watched the blood pool on the cutting board, transfixed by the sight as the small pool moved over towards the pile of almonds he'd been slicing and ruined them. It wasn't like him to let the knife slip, but then again, he wasn't quite himself these days. He had not tried to contact Potter since the disaster at Albus's memorial three months ago. He could say that it was because he was trying to honor Potter's wishes and give the other man space, but in truth, it was because he was ashamed.

The boy was being so stubborn—so intolerably stubborn—when he was trying to apologize . . . But he couldn't forget the pain in those cold, narrowed eyes, nor the bruise he'd left on the Auror's arm. Sometimes Severus forgot himself and it was usually when he was angry.

He stared down at the small cut on his finger. The blood flow was already beginning to slow. He pushed the wounded digit down on the cutting board slightly, disrupting the forming platelets and coaxing more blood from the cut for a moment. The red edge of the puddle oozed. Vaguely irritated with his thoughts, the Potions Master took out his wand and banished the whole mess, knife and all. It was all contaminated with human blood now—it would be easier to just replace the materials than to purify them.

He had been trying to work through the intricacies of Belby's theory for over a year now, but he seemed to have hit a wall over the past few months. And he obviously was not going to get any work done today either. A simple skin knitting spell healed his finger and the Potions Master sighed heavily as he turned and began cleaning up the lab. The source of his malaise was hardly unknown, though. It was Potter's fault.

And that, unfortunately, seemed to have become a common mantra over the past few months. He wasn't quite certain how to fix the situation in which he found himself currently mired, and he resented the boy for it. He did not want to pine like this, yet he wasn't sure how to stop. And it certainly did not help that Potter had apparently taken to dating, if the papers were to be believed.

He's moving on without you. And yet Severus could not let it go.

He desperately wished he could turn back the clock—undo that fateful day when Potter had found that damned Pensieve. Or better yet, he should have told Minerva he was ill and simply kept the brat in bed with him for the entire day, thus avoiding any awkwardness at all.

But that wasn't realistic; even Severus had to acknowledge that. Somehow, Potter would have eventually found out about it one way or another. Perhaps the true miracle was how long it had taken him to learn about Severus's past with Lily. And it wasn't that he had tried to hide it, so much as he merely had not mentioned it. It hadn't been pertinent. Severus and Lily had never had a relationship like he and Potter had. He had lost her before they had had the chance.

And now here he was, decades later, and alone again.

Maybe he just had bad luck with Evans blood.

The thought made him laugh, but there was no humor in it.

The walk from his lab to his quarters seemed longer these days and the shadows stretched ominously along the floor. It was past lights out and the charms on the dorms assured him that all the Slytherins were safely ensconced in their bed. Though he had been worried that after the war their numbers would dwindle, every year since Hogwarts had reopened the House of the Serpent had been as full as all the other Houses and the entire staff worked to keep House rivalries to a minimum. Even Severus was more evenhanded in his classes. With the war over, such concerns seemed . . . petty. Gryffindor arrogance, Hufflepuff intemperance, Ravenclaw haughtiness, Slytherin bigotry . . . none of them seemed to have a place in the word post-Voldemort and Minerva had made it her mission to stamp out such prejudices.

Severus couldn't find it within him to care either way. With the war over, it seemed as though an age had ended and more and more these days he felt like nothing more than a throwback to another time. He sometimes wondered if Minerva felt the same way, but if she did, she gave no sign of it. More and more it seemed like Albus, great though he was, had taken the old way of doing things with him and this new age was hers.

Hers and Potter's and the Weasleys' . . .

But not Severus's. Any claim he may have had on this future had walked out of his life months ago.

And that was just a depressing thought.

He quickened his pace to his quarters. It wasn't like him to wallow in misery like this, but it seemed harder and harder to pull himself out of it these days. Albus was no longer there to give him a good sharp prod when needed and, with the world at relative peace, there was little call for the cloak and dagger spy business that had sustained him for so many years. It was strange, but as much as he hated it at the time, it gave him a purpose. And now he was cut off and adrift.

At times he had to wonder if Albus had foreseen this before he died. Probably, but then he probably also did not believe that Severus would survive the war. It was pure happenstance that he did, and he often found himself cursing Draco's timely good intentions that day on the Quidditch field. Draco should have lived. That was why he had worked so hard after all, but nothing had gone right.

Draco had died and Potter's Ginny had died and he had lived, ill equipped and uninterested in the wreckage of life that was left before him because all that he wanted was in the past.

As he entered his quarters, he stepped on something and stumbled, cursing faintly as he sidestepped the object. With a scowl, he raised his wand and ignited the candelabras to see what it was that blocked his path. Sitting atop the relatively harmless-looking bundle of scrolls was a small note from Minerva. The letters were a touch more jagged than usual, belying her currently irritable state of mind regarding his increasingly hermit-like behavior, but it was still legible.

Severus,

Your mail from this morning.

- M.M.

He snorted and walked past the scrolls without picking them up. She had no doubt held onto them all day, hoping he would appear in the Great Hall for a meal, and it amused him in some small way to needle her, however unintentional it may have been. He had not appeared in the Great Hall in a month and he had no interest in starting to do so now. At this rate, people were going to start talking, if they weren't already, but he was quite beyond caring. He had had a lifetime of people gossiping about him behind his back. He doubted they could say anything more terrible or more interesting than what had already been said.

He left the sheaves there out of spite as he requested a modest dinner from the House Elves and started to work on grading the latest round of Potions exams. This batch was a group of Sixth Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. They were his favorite group, as the Ravenclaw / Hufflepuff groups were much less stressful than the Slytherin / Gryffindor groups, and Sixth Year was when students with a true proclivity towards Potions as an art form really began to shine. He already had three Hufflepuffs who showed tremendous promise and had his eye on a shy Ravenclaw as well.

It was not until the Elf reappeared with his dinner and helpfully placed the scrolls on his desk that he remembered them. The overly-helpful creature vanished with a blinding smile and a puff of House Elf magic as she thrust them in front of his face, forcing him to jerk back away from the exam he was reading. Her squeaky voice wished him a good night and a pleasant meal as the smoke faded.

Irritated by the interruption, he sat back and poked at his fish dinner as he began to inspect the scrolls. The first was from the Ministry. It was a finalization of the documents that would secure him the rights to the new Wolfsbane Potion if he were ever to complete it. Having expected them for several weeks now, he set them aside to inspect later. The next scroll was from Potions Monthly regarding his subscription renewal and the next was from a botanist in Egypt with whom he was arranging the purchase of some Midnight-Blooming Fireflowers. Longbottom would be pleased if the project went through.

The last letter, though, made his breath catch in his throat. Though he had not seen it in months, he'd know Potter's handwriting anywhere. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter, unsure what he would find there.

It was short and simple, no salutations or flowery speech to add ambiguity to it. It was written with air of a man who was discharging a duty and Severus could not help but feel his trepidation increase as he read the short note.

Severus,

Please meet me at Albus's tomb on Sunday at 5 PM.

- H.P.

Hands now still, he let them rest against the ink-stained surface of his desk for a moment and stared into the fireplace. The invitation was simple and straightforward, but he could not help but think that Potter had some ulterior motive for inviting him out there. Albus's tomb was not a pleasant place for either of them to visit; the site held too many memories for them both. Not to mention their prior meeting's the lack of success.

And yet . . . he'd gotten very much into the habit of giving into Potter. Too much so, it would seem.

Cursing himself for a fool, he penned back a curt response, acquiescing to the meeting.

He may not gain anything of value from the meeting, but at least he would get to see him one last time. And, for reasons Severus did not really want to identify, he was sure that this really would be the last time.

His mind made up, a murmured spell sent the scroll to the Owlery for one of the school's owls to take to London. It would be several hours before Severus stirred from his desk, but despite all that, not a single exam would be graded by the time the night ended.

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Sunday was an obnoxiously nice day. The sun was shining and the birds were singing and it was unseasonably warm out. Even in the long light of the afternoon, Severus looked starkly out of place in his long black robes as he approached the White Tomb. Though he had not been able to go to the funeral for obvious reasons, Severus had come out here alone many times, usually at night. Albus's paintings pained him—simple acrylic and oils never able to capture the greater warmth and wisdom for which the dead wizard had been renowned.

It was only here, at the man's tomb, that Severus felt a measure of peace with the memory of his mentor, but even that was fleeting. Especially when Harry Potter was standing before the carved stone, blocking the view.

The boy was dressed in Muggle clothes: boots, faded jeans, and a blue tee-shirt, with a simple white button-down shirt worn unnecessarily over it. Severus stopped by his side without looking directly at the boy and looked at the inscription on the gleaming white stone. He wondered if Albus was watching over them at this moment from somewhere within. But the thought brought with it a visual image of the man's rotting corpse which pained him almost as much as the idea of the former Headmaster's inevitable disappointment.

He exhaled heavily and unintentionally caught a breath of the cologne worn by the man at his side. It was the scent Severus had gotten him for Christmas two years ago.

For a time, there was an uncomfortable silence between. They were only two feet apart and yet that distance might as well have been the breadth of the universe.

Unable to stand it any longer, Severus broke the silence first, unseeing eyes fixed on the tomb in from of them. It would be easier if he didn't have to look the other man in the eyes. "You're wearing your glasses."

Potter did not turn to look at him. "Just for today."

He grunted, recognizing the slight for what it was, but unwilling to rise to the bait.

The wind blew, whispering through the trees, and after it died down, Potter turned, fixing those painfully green eyes on him. He did not turn to look at them.

For a minute Potter merely stared, then he turned back to the tomb. "Minerva contacted me. She's worried about you. She asked me to talk to you."

Arms still crossed over his chest, Severus clenched his left hand into a fist. " . . . How kind of her." He turned to look at the boy, curious as to his expression. It was a familiar expression, but different somehow. Pitying this time, not compassionate. He looked away again quickly, bile rising his throat. "Have you come to gloat then?"

Harry turned again, eyes dark with anger though he held his temper. "No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "I came to try and help you. You're a good man, Severus—"

The Potions Master scoffed and turned to go. He had had enough of this. He had left Potter to his life and the boy should be content to leave him alone to his.

He barely made it a step before Potter's voice drew him back.

"I asked you once before when I left, but I want you to look at me now and rethink your answer."

Severus paused and turned to look at the other man. Harry was still standing in the same position and the wind blew through his hair, mussing it and giving him a strangely familiar untamed look. It made him look so much like James Potter that Severus felt his stomach turn.

The young man turned before Severus could think to resume his retreat and pinned him with a glance. The glasses made Potter's face look younger—more tired. But they also magnified his eyes. The boy cocked his head, as though sensing his thoughts. "Severus . . . Did you ever love me? Even for an instant? Or did you only see her or some obligation to Dumbledore?"

Severus was silent for a moment as he looked at the other man in something like appraisal. Then he pursed his lips and sighed very quietly. "I look at you and I see my life's mistakes, Potter. … Harry."

Was that love? Probably not.

Harry looked at him closely, his expression unreadable behind his spectacles. "You were there for me when no one else was, you know. You kicked my arse in gear when all I wanted to do was quit. Ginny was gone. Sirius. Remus. Albus. All of them were gone."

Severus closed his eyes and turned his head away, but he could still hear the echo of Albus's voice in his ears. "He will be alone in the world. Does he not deserve some measure of peace in his life?"

He forced himself to meet Harry's gaze. "I only—" was doing my duty "wanted to bring you a measure of peace."

"You were bringing yourself a measure of peace." The younger man looked to his former lover and Severus couldn't help but avert his eyes from the familiar green fire he saw in that gaze.

"I would have been a better man if I could have." The words slipped out before he could stop them. They hung in the air between them, thick with bitterness.

Harry nodded, smiling slightly, though the expression had a rough edge to it. "You would have. But not for me."

For a moment Severus was quiet. He couldn't deny the veracity of the other wizard's words, but he also could not understand them. "What's the difference?"

"You don't love me!" the young man yelled suddenly, emotion finally overtaking him. Harry turned around, frustrated. His voice dropped back to a normal volume, albeit a strained one. "I am not my mother, Severus. Merlin, can you even understand how . . . how twisted that is?" He shook his head as though to chastise him for arguing the same point again and looked away. "I loved you," he whispered, "despite everything, and you never even saw me."

Severus pursed his lips. He had a strong urge to reach over and comfort the other man, but knew that his touch would be rejected. ". . . I saw you enough, didn't I?"

"No," Harry countered before he could continue. The wounded expression he wore was enough to stop whatever else Severus might have said anyway. "It's not a question of enough. I will not be a substitute for someone else—not for my father, not for my mother, and not for the person other people think I am. All my life, people have been throwing their expectations on me to see if they fit and I had thought that you maybe were different. I had thought that by the end of the war, something had changed. But nothing changed, did it? The only thing that was different was that instead of seeing James in me, you were seeing Lily, weren't you?"

Severus was silent for a moment, unable to argue against the accusation when even he could see that they held a grain of truth. His instinct was to lash out, to point out that the boy had made his own assumptions and that he was the one who started this whole relationship—and started of it out of pity, to boot. But he also knew that he was just as much at fault, if only for not disabusing the young man of his misapprehensions. . . . If only for taking advantage of the boy while he was vulnerable.

The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Still, he should have known that his happiness could never last. It never had, after all.

He looked at the young man with whom he had shared his life, if only for a brief period. ". . . I miss you."

Potter shook his head and closed his eyes as though pained. "Even now, saying such a horrible thing to me, you're thinking of her, aren't you?"

The Potions Master shook his head, unable to find the words he wanted to say. He wanted to grab the boy and shake him, assure him that it wasn't true. But he couldn't—not when he himself was unsure of the truth. "What do you want from me, Potter? Have I not given you enough space? Are you not satisfied with my contrition?"

"I don't want your damn contrition!" the boy spat, pulling away and increasing the distance. "I don't want to be your burden or your penitence or whatever excuse you used to absolve yourself the guilt of bedding me. I want you to take your own advice and stop torturing yourself and let her go. And let me go."

The two of them stared at one another for a moment, Harry all quiet desperation and Severus simply an empty silence.

Then Harry sighed quietly. "For God's sake, Severus, let her go."

And Severus shook his head, unable to respond. "I can't." Because she was mine. She was mine and—

And without that memory, he had nothing. Nothing, and no one. He was alone in the world and he had no one. The truth of that burnt him, though it was nothing that he hadn't known before. It had always been so obvious . . .

He turned away, his voice a rough whisper. "I have nothing." I had you . . "Nothing."

Silence settled between them with a painful finality.

Harry stared at him for a moment as the man's words sunk in. He couldn't move forward; he couldn't be with Severus the way the man needed. But he couldn't move backwards and fix the past either. Severus's wounds, he realized, were too deep for him to heal. Too deep for anyone. He closed his eyes and turned away, at a loss. Not forward, not back . . . He couldn't do anything. A sense of despair washed over him—despair and pity—because really, love was not enough. Not when it was for Severus. And not when it was the wrong love.

And so, he did the only thing he could: he turned and walked away. He did not say goodbye; the words would have been meaningless. And though he desperately wanted to cry, he didn't let tears fall. They weren't for him, or for the ache that had taken up residence in his chest; they were for Severus, and he knew from bitter experience that tears were wasted on that cause.

Behind him, Severus gripped his left forearm and his eyes burned.

The late evening light slipped away and faded into night. The rise of a waning moon found Severus still in front of Albus's tomb, unmoved since the Gryffindor's abandonment. He knew he should go back to Hogwarts—he had work to do. Exams to grade. He knew he should leave this place where he still imagined he could smell Harry's cologne on the wind.

He knew he should leave. There was nothing here for him. But there was nothing there either. Nothing but work and solitude and bed sheets where he sometimes thought Harry's scent lingered.

And so he sat when he grew too weary to stand, knees pulled up to his chest as he stared at the White Tomb. The past had left him and the future abandoned him. It had been inevitable, he supposed, but the taste of ashes still lingered on his tongue—the remnant of a past long gone.

The only refuge that remained to him was with the unfeeling dead.

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Fin

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