Current mood:	ecstatic
Current music:	guns n' roses - knocking on heaven's door

We Have Fic Sign!
お待たせしました。 See! I wasn't lying; I really did write an extremely long HP fic. Thanks go out to the ever wonderful fragilistikal and metal_dog5 for betas, suggestions, pokings and proddings, and most importantly four months of putting up with my whining. clares_flaw iced the cake by providing a Britpick that left me in ecstacies.

Rated PG. Spoilers for all books. No summary because this is my lj, and besides, that would be telling.



The Liar and the Auror
by Trismegistus

Part I

“You’re what?” Snape said, and his face turned white.

“I have no doubt that you heard me correctly the first time, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “I am placing you on probation.”

“Headmaster,” Snape began, fighting to maintain his composure. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh yes, I can be serious,” Dumbledore replied, steepling his fingers atop the burnished wood of his desk. “And I daresay you will find that I am being serious. Quite serious.”

“On what grounds can you do this?” he whispered.

Dumbledore sighed. “There has been some question as to the appropriateness of your behaviour toward your students,” he replied.

The true meaning behind this statement was all too clear to Snape - too many Slytherins and their parents had fallen in the Dark Lord's final battle, and now Snape had no remaining advocates on the school's board of governors. Never mind that his position as Ministry spy amongst those Slytherin families with traditional leanings toward the Dark had essentially prohibited him from courting favour with parents in the other three houses.

If Dumbledore would not mention it, neither would he; he did have some remaining dignity.

“My behaviour is appropriate to the subject I teach.” Which was true. One had to be firm with students when a single careless slip could result in explosions, mutations, deaths, or worse fates yet. Sinistra, Flitwick, Vector - those teachers could afford to be kind and forgiving toward their students. To what did a careless mistake in astronomy ever lead? Mistaking Neptune for Uranus?

“Nevertheless,” Dumbledore answered, “that is the conclusion of the Board of Governors. And,” he added, “I would have to agree with them. Your classroom demeanour is at times overbearing. Previous potions masters taught the subject admirably without employing your…tactics.”

By which Dumbledore meant that now that the war was over, he had outlived his usefulness, both as a spy and a professor. A hundred questions flitted through his head - Was I so obviously a pawn? Do you have so little gratitude? Did no one come to my defence? How could you? If there is no place for me at Hogwarts, what am I to do? - but he could not ask a single one.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore gently, “you needn’t look so sour. You are not being permanently removed. Only… given some time to… reflect. A sabbatical, if you will. It isn‘t unheard of amongst Hogwarts professors.”

“Reflect.” Meaning, of course, that he had the whole duration of this ‘sabbatical’ in which to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t licked the feet of the correct people during the long years spent playing double agent.

“Would it hurt you so terribly to show a gentler face to your students?” Dumbledore asked, his piercing blue eyes pinning Snape where he sat.

“I was under the impression that in order to allay suspicions in certain families, I was only to show a 'gentle face' to specific students.” As you told me to do. The time for diplomatic vagaries had passed. And there was no way that Dumbledore could deny Snape's unspoken accusation. Snape had been told as a condition of hire that while he was not to pass or fail given students without justification, there were indeed certain students he was to favour over others.

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily and rose from his chair, atrocious paisley robes swirling in his wake. Snape sniffed; the effect would have been much better, he felt, had Dumbledore been wearing Snape’s usual black.

“I appreciate that making the switch from spy playing professor to that of dedicated professor is not one that can be made in a moment’s time,” Dumbledore said. “That is why I believe the Board's solution is both appropriate and timely.”

Dedicated professor. As if he had not been dedicated to his teaching during the past two decades while he had also played the spy.

“I see.” The words were tight, clipped.

“Severus,” Dumbledore began again, this time letting a small (and no doubt calculated, Snape thought to himself) measure of concern and pity creep into his voice. “You needn’t treat this as a punishment. You have been one of our most hardworking agents during the war. If anyone is deserving of a period of rest, it is you. You may find that a brief spell away from Hogwarts will change your outlook entirely.”

“I daresay it will,” he said softly. If Dumbledore noticed either the venom or the threat in the words, he gave no sign of it.

“As to the exact terms of your sabbatical, the council has requested that you absent yourself for the first two terms of the upcoming year. A substitute has been found to take your lessons, so you needn’t worry in that regard.”

And that was that. His fate had been decided before he even knew that there was any question as to its direction. He stood, and stiffly bid the Headmaster goodbye.

That had been more than twenty years ago. He had not returned to Hogwarts since.

He had not intended to abandon Hogwarts for good that afternoon - far from it. The wizarding world was the only world he knew. And more to the point, no pureblooded wizard in his right mind - the insane head of the Weasley brood aside - would ever consider mixing with Muggles. Not that he’d had any real experience with the creatures himself, but it was common knowledge that they were uneducated, unsophisticated, rustic, and led a generally miserable existence.

He’d spent the first few weeks of his forced exile in the small flat he let overlooking Knockturn Alley, reading and fine tuning the more experimental potions he dared not work on in his quarters within Hogwarts, emerging on rare occasions to purchase reagents or more infrequently, food.

It was during one of these forays that he first began to notice the whispers, the quickly averted gazes, the shopkeep at Goad & Co. (Purveyors of Fine Dry Goods since 74 AD) glancing askance at him when he thought Snape was not looking. The combined effect was to make him shorter and sharper with everyone he happened to encounter during his trips beyond his threshold. He was as much a war hero as Dumbledore, the Weasley brood, the werewolf, or even that disgusting brat Potter. Especially Potter, who had done nothing of use for a decade during which Snape had risked his life daily.

And ultimately, he had Potter to thank for the whispers, the glances, the glares. He had no doubt that it was Potter's slavish admirers and advocates who had called for his removal in the first place, and all because he did not fall on bended knee at the boy's feet. He was sure his removal was the source of the whispers and strange looks, and that it provided hours of amusement for his detractors whenever they saw him out and about in Diagon Alley.

And the few encounters with those did not engage in such activities - Grubbly Plank, who was doing freelance veterinary work, or Pomfrey, who was required by wizarding law to pick up the more volatile medicinal reagents personally - only served to remind him that he would not be returning to Hogwarts for the start of the school year.

He tried to leave his flat as infrequently as possible.

It was by sheer chance that he came to realise that news of his 'sabbatical' was only one of the causes of the whispers. The other reason was so glaringly obvious that he should have realised it immediately; that he had not was a testament to how years of living under Dumbledore's thumb had dulled his wits.

The majority of Diagon Alley's wizards thought he had returned to the Dark.

A conversation overheard in Et. Al. Chymista Ltd, a small, out of the way shop specialising in unusual reagents and bases, had finally appraised him of this fact. He had been deep in perusal of a grimy shelf filled with an assortment of distilled werewyrm essences when the shop door slammed open. Moving to the head of the aisle to glare at whomever had been responsible for the disturbance, he was startled to hear one of the customers mention his name. He slipped back into the shadows cast by the tall shelves and covertly observed the customers: two middle aged witches immersed in conversation about him, his ties to the Death Eaters, to Voldemort, to the Malfoys.

"Once an apple goes bad, there isn't a spell that can set it right," one said.

"He asked for that ‘sabbatical’ this summer and then secluded himself in that den of his, brewing potions day and night, and it would turn your toes to hear what Monger at Goad's tells me he's been putting in them," said the other. "And the neighbourhood he lets his flat in! You do know he keeps a flat here in town?"

The first witch made a small noise of negation.

"Really?" crowed the second eagerly. "Well let me tell you - it's on Wair Alley, and you'll know where that is... No? Oh dear. Well, I wouldn't expect you to, truth be told, no decent sort knows it. It runs right onto Knockturn Alley--"

"No!" gasped the first witch.

"Indeed it does," said the second. "And I'm a Crumple-Horned Snorkack if he hasn't gone back to the Dark, and right under Dumbledore's very nose."

"Dumbledore was always a trusting sort. Too forgiving for his own good--"

"Or anyone's..."

The first witch gave a sage nod. "I only hope the Board of Governors comes to its senses; that man should not be permitted near children. The sooner he's removed for good, the better."

The second witch made noises of agreement. "I wonder," she continued, conspiratorially lowering her voice, "what he's brewing in that flat of his."

"You may ask me personally, if you like," he'd said, emerging into the aisle with his most menacing billow of cloak. The two witches stared at him for one shocked moment, during which he recognised the younger of the two as the mother of one of his students, before shrieking and fleeing the shop. He allowed himself a moment of satisfied triumph, then grabbed the nearest bottle of werewyrm essence, slammed some Galleons onto the counter, and left the shop before the startled shopkeep could hand him his change.

His triumph that afternoon was short-lived. Word quickly spread through Diagon Alley that he had threatened two innocent witches, no, thrown hexes at them, and that it wouldn't be long before he openly declared himself for the Dark. A week later, the rumours truly began to circulate - he was trying to resurrect the Dark Lord; he was trying to become the next Dark Lord; he was trying to lure Hogwarts students into his flat; he already had lured a few in and no one had seen them since.

It was too much. Word of this had to have reached Hogwarts, Dumbledore, the members of the Order, but as far as he could see, not a single one of them was attempting to allay people's suspicions. And as much as it disgusted him, he needed someone else to do it. It would have been useless for him to attempt it himself - how could he set things straight when people crossed the street when they saw him, when shopkeepers would no longer speak a word to him - a few even going so far as to close up when they saw him approach. How could he possibly defend himself against such prejudice?

It was obvious that he could not defend himself, and that nothing he could say would sway anyone's opinion. People wanted to fear him. Now that the relief of the Dark Lord's defeat had dulled, they no longer had anything to truly fear, any source of gossip, and he was filling a vacuum. And those in the Order, who should have known better, who did know better, were doing nothing to help him.

Then the quill that broke the Ridgeback's back came right before the start of autumn term: an owl from Dumbledore appraising him of the material his replacement planned to cover during the first two terms of the school year, so that he might adjust his own curriculum accordingly.

The sheer gall of it sickened him. Dumbledore expected him to go back? Just like that, with most of the wizards on the island convinced that he wished to be the next Dark Lord? It would have been unbearably amusing, had it only been happening to someone else.

As the weeks wore on and the rumours grew and grew - because rumours have to grow in order to remain entertaining - his anger was slowly refined into a tight, chilling ball of fear in the pit of his stomach. Worse yet was the fact that he was powerless to resist this transformation, no matter how much he hated himself for succumbing to it. How could he possibly face them when he returned for summer term?

People had suspected him of aligning with the Dark from the time he had first set foot in Hogwarts. So when the Dark Lord's agents had approached him, offering power and revenge for the years of abuse (and wasn't it deliciously ironic that he would finally fulfil everyone's expectations in the course of the bargain?), he hadn't waited to be asked twice.

He'd known the Dark Lord's favours came with a price, but at the time it had seemed a small sacrifice compared to the recognition - long overdue - he would gain in the trade. Of course, the price was higher than he could possibly have conceived, and it wasn't long before he'd returned to the Light, willing to endure any danger just to escape his former master.

The Light did not accept his return without payment in the process, but he had expected that. It only made sense that they would want something in return. If people's continued mistrust and suspicion was necessary to insure the success of his work, so be it. They would understand his true role when the war was over, and then they would see him for the brave, self-sacrificing wizard that he was. Once he was finally free of his old master, he could tell the truth about the part he'd played and people would no longer treat him like a polyp of bubotuber puss beneath their shoes. And finally, finally, finally, he would receive the recognition he deserved.

Now, he had come to realise that that would never happen. He had outlived his usefulness and been cast aside.

And that was how, as the time for his return approached one day at a time, he slowly came to the resolution that he would not return to Hogwarts until they came to him. Let Dumbledore come to fetch him himself. He vowed that he would not leave his flat otherwise.

But as he lay thinking about it during one of his long nights alone (without the distraction of unruly students prowling the halls at all hours of the night or masses of poorly executed essays to mark, he was usually abed by nine), Snape came to realise that this would make him out to be nothing so much as a petulant child, sulking in a corner, and it would quite suit Dumbledore's purposes for him to appear so.

So he was faced with two choices - either return to Hogwarts with bowed head and endure the humiliation of cravenly accepting his position back, or remain in London and endure the humiliation of Dumbledore's admonitions when he did not return.

Awareness of the third option crept upon him so gradually he was barely aware it existed. And yet, when he did allow himself to openly consider it, it seemed as if it were the only possible solution. He need never return. It was so simple. He was an adult wizard, the war was over and he need no longer fear the Dark Master’s wrath. Why need he remain at Hogwarts? Nothing bound him there. He could just...

Leave.

Yet it was not such a simple matter, once he began to seriously entertain the idea. Simply strolling out of the Leaky Cauldron, never to return, was out of the question, especially with all of wizarding Britain watching his every move for any hint of suspicious behaviour. If it appeared that he was trying to flee, it would not matter where he went; word of his whereabouts would pass from wizard to wizard every time he was sighted, and with those words all possibility of true anonymity would evaporate.

Escape was still possible, but if he was to disappear, he would have to do it through Muggle channels. A distasteful solution, yes, but altogether feasible. And it need not be permanent.

It was common knowledge that the Muggle world was confusing, illogical, and highly frustrating for wizards to deal with. But Snape was an adult wizard, one who had both served the Dark Lord and then helped to overthrow him... How could spending a few brief weeks as a Muggle be any sort of challenge, compared to that?

Of course, his perspective had been rather altered after twenty years of living as one. It struck him as ironic sometimes, that all the benefits he'd believed he possessed as a wizard had in fact been hindrances. His family name, his pureblood heritage, the patronage of the Malfoy family and later Dumbledore, his position teaching at the most highly regarded school of wizardry in the world; these things had been the very chains which made him miserable.

He hadn’t realised it until he’d thrown them off and emerged on American soil, anonymous and completely unremarkable. When he considered it (which wasn’t often), he had to admit that he was far more satisfied with his "Muggle" life than he had been with his life as a wizard. There was a certain amount of twisted charm to the way Muggles compensated for their magically handicapped existences, and he occasionally found this amusing. Still, life as a Muggle was not without its irksome qualities, and Snape was nothing if not adept at identifying and cataloguing the various annoyances life saw fit to visit upon him.

Today's annoyance was the confusion of the American Muggle calendar.

By all rights, today should have been a weekday like any other, which meant that he could have left his house, briefly stopped at a few local shops and purchased his desired articles in relative peace. However, it appeared that this Monday happened to be some sort of Muggle holiday, so he was forced to contend with crowds of shoppers and their whining, spoiled children as well as the shoe-soaking slush and occasional icy rain that January always brought to this city.

Muggle children where always whining and carrying on whenever they appeared in public, and on this day the prominent displays of Valentine's Day candy gave them extra incentive. Snape longed for the days when a single, imperious glare would have silenced the lot of them. But the anonymity he'd sought in the Muggle world was a double-edged sword, and he knew that even his most cutting sneer was next to meaningless in a place where few people knew his name.

At least, he thought with a slight, habitual arch of an eyebrow, the decorations did not sing and carry on as did those at Hogwarts. Snape detested Valentine's Day as much - if not more - than Christmas. The festive gaiety surrounding both holidays grated equally on his nerves, but it he had always found the pink hearts and frills of the former to be more insipid than any expression of Christmas ‘cheer.’

Stalking into a nearby grocer's, he quickly selected his purchases and made his way through the throng of shoppers to the shortest available queue. The bored adolescent at the till swiped the items across the scanner - a peculiar sort of wand that Muggles used in all their places of commerce - and sent them down the conveyor where a second clerk waited to drop them into a bag. Snape repressed another brief upsurge of annoyance at the clerk's obvious indifference to his purchases - did the child have no idea what he planned to do with those items? - before remembering how woefully inadequate Muggle education was concerning even the most basic tenets of alchemy.

The first clerk read the total in a bored, flat voice, and Snape's fingers automatically collected the correct sum from his wallet; funny how even the strange ins and outs of overly-complicated American Muggle currency had become second nature to him. He handed the money to the adolescent with an equally bored and flat murmur of thanks, then collected his bags from the second clerk and quickly left the overheated supermarket, eager to be on his way back home.

He did not trust his ability to play Muggle well enough to attempt acquiring an automobile (although they were utterly inferior replacements for magical travel, one would never know it, the way Muggles doted on the things). Instead, he had settled on buying a small house near enough to all the shops he frequented that walking was not a terrible inconvenience. He especially enjoyed such excursions during winter, when the long wool coats he wore were comfortably reminiscent of a wizard's robes, if not half so practical.

At least, he thought, they kept out the wind with equal utility. He certainly needed the protection today. An especially blistering gust tore its way down the street, stinging his eyes and whipping his hair about his face, and he lowered his head and hunched his parcels toward his chest.

A play of time and circumstance - if the wind hadn’t whipped his hair into his eyes at exactly that moment, if he had been carrying fewer parcels and had had a free hand to clear the offending locks from his eyes, his life as an anonymous Muggle would never have come to a close in quite such a hideously dramatic fashion.

Unlike its magical counterparts, Muggle transportation was limited by physical and temporal restraints so that a discrete location in space and time could not be simultaneously occupied by two separate entities.

Snape never saw the car coming, nor could he remember the impact after he awoke, hours later, in the hospital.

The disorienting terror of finding himself alone in a vast, clinical whiteness was something he doubted he would ever forget. He was conscious for a good quarter hour before the nurse found him, awake, trembling, staring wide-eyed and unblinkingly at the ceiling above him.

It had all been a dream. The Dark Lord had not lost. And he had finally captured Snape.

This was the Albus.

Those fifteen minutes had spiraled on endlessly. Snape was so sure of his own damnation that when the nurse did arrive, he didn't believe that she was real. She was obviously a phantasm sent to raise his hopes of escape before shattering them utterly. Snape had watched the Dark Lord torment his captives with similar ploys far too many times to be deceived now that his turn had arrived.

It wasn’t until she called his name down the hallway that he began to doubt. It couldn't be. Potter... Potter was the Dark Master's personal torment; it would not occur to him to inflict the child on others.

Slowly, barely allowing himself to hope, he attempted to struggle into a sitting position before a sharp, stabbing pain near his elbow arrested the movement. He looked down in horror to find a needle and tube connected to his arm. He was in a Muggle hospital, and the woman had said Potter's name.

It wasn't the Dark Lord who had caught him. It was Potter.

He cast around frantically for some means of escape. Twenty years ago the boy had been making noises about becoming an Auror. And what did Aurors do if not hunt Dark wizards? Never mind that Snape was not a Dark wizard; his past and the circumstances of his ... departure would be damning evidence to anyone who cared to question his motives. Moreover, whatever curse had struck him had struck him hard; Potter was not playing games.

There was only one door in the room. The window. Could he make it out the window? Steady, measured footfalls echoed down the corridor outside, each one as loud as a thundercrack to Snape's ears. The nurse moved out of the doorway, making room for...

At first he thought there’d been some sort of horrible mistake; it was a man, not Potter, who emerged through the doorway. It took a moment for Snape’s frantic brain to understand.

It was Potter. Potter as he appeared now, twenty years after Snape had seen him last. There were the same delicate features, only hardened into manhood. The same unruly hair, longer and more unkempt than ever. The same fey green eyes behind the same thick glasses, only the power of their glare was stronger. He’d finally put on height, Snape noted bemusedly. And his shoulders were broader.

He had the air of a man who was to be reckoned with.

A wave of animal fear moved through the pit of Snape's stomach. He was vaguely aware that the nurse was talking.

“...cousin is a very lucky man.”

She turned her attention from Potter to him, flashing a light in his eyes, peppering him all the while with a string of absurd, disjointed questions until a doctor shouldered her aside and took over.

Snape had never been more helpless than he was at that moment, lying prone in a hospital bed, completely at Potter's mercy.

And yet, Potter made no overt threats, though he kept shooting dark glances at Snape whenever he could. But for the most part he appeared to be listening intently to the nurse.

Snape's head was pounding and he was beginning to suspect some sort of narcotic had been administered to him, but he forced himself to concentrate through the haze. The physician was still poking at him, and Snape did his best to listen to the low, ongoing conversation occurring between Potter and the nurse.

"...extremely lucky," she repeated. "Accidents like this often prove fatal, or at least severely debilitating. I don't want to speak too soon, but it looks as though your cousin got off extremely easily."

Cousin?

"I see," Potter murmured, green eyes darting once more toward Snape's direction. "But he is OK?" Potter's voice was a perfect imitation of a concerned relative's.

"The prognosis is good, especially for an injury of this magnitude," said the nurse. "I've never seen someone come out of a point blank hit-and-run this unscathed. It's almost like he started regenerating after the impact."

That's because I did, you idiotic cow, he wanted to scream. The physician was gently fingering the back of his skull; it was excruciatingly painful.

"...warn you that he isn't in the clear yet," the nurse continued. "It can take several days before the effects of a severe concussion fully manifest. That's why we recommended that Mr Snape remain in the hospital for further observation."

Potter nodded slowly. "Certainly," he said.

The physician finished his prodding and made a few notations on his chart before straightening. "Well, I must say, Mr Snape, you are an incredibly lucky individual."

Snape desired nothing so much as to fell the next person who referred to him as 'lucky' with the Killing Curse.

The doctor was still talking; Snape had best give him his full attention.

"I've never seen someone escape from such an apparently severe accident with so few dents." The doctor was trying for a reassuring tone, but Snape would not be reassured until Potter revealed what he was playing at.

"We're going to keep you here for the night. Nurses will be in to check on you periodically, but if the need arises, there's a button beside the bed--" the doctor motioned, and Snape's eyes followed automatically, "--do not hesitate to press it if you feel ill, or need any help at all. Any questions? Concerns?"

Snape gave a brief shake of his head.

"Well then," said the physician, with a strained smile he must have assumed to be reassuring. "Visiting hours end at nine, so I'll turn you over to your cousin before my staff removes him." And with this he shot an even more ingratiating smile to the nurse before the two of them left the room, closing the door behind them.

It was a few moments before he could meet Potter's eyes, but when he did, he was able to hold them.

"What are you doing here, Snape?" Potter hissed.

"I might ask the same of you." The effort needed to keep his voice from trembling was exhausting.

"Don't play games with me," Potter snapped, though he kept his voice down. This gave Snape a brief burst of hope - wherever he was, the boy was worried about alerting others to his hostility. So these people were not Potter's allies. They didn't know who Snape was.

Then he noticed that Potter's right hand was clenched around something hidden in the inside pocket of the jacket he wore. All sense of advantage disappeared Of course he'll have his wand, you bloody fucking idiot. Snape could only hope that Potter was not recently arrived in the country.

Potter advanced on the bed, shadow falling over Snape like a shroud. "What are you doing here," he repeated.

Snape's rational mind was screaming at him not to incite the man, but he'd be damned if he let Potter intimidate him.

"What does it look like I'm doing, you idiot boy? I have apparently suffered some sort of traumatic injury--"

"A car ran you over," Potter said emotionlessly.

"--and awoken to find myself strapped to a hospital bed."

Potter loomed another step closer. At this distance, Snape could see that he was clearly incensed: nostrils flared, eyes dilated, an angry flush splashed across his cheeks. They locked gazes again and held them interminably until the nurse returned, knocking briefly at the door to announce her presence before entering. She smiled kindly, but firmly.

"Time to say goodnight, Mr Potter," she said. "It's already fifteen past. You really need to be heading home. We'll keep Mr Snape safe until tomorrow."

"All right," said Potter. "Just--" Two decades later and the brat was still sickeningly adept at playing the puppy-eyed boy. "‘S just... I'm worried about him," he said, almost apologetically. "Just five more minutes?"

The nurse sighed, but she was a kind woman at heart. "All right," she said finally. "But you'd better be gone by the time I get back from my rounds."

"Thank you," Potter said earnestly.

The tension returned full-force as soon as she shut the door behind her.

"Well," Potter said finally. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow. Try anything before then and I'll kill you." He'd learnt to inject quite a bit of threat into his tone since Snape had last spoken to him.

"We may as well end this farce now, Potter," he spat. "We both know that I am not going to remain in this hospital, and that knowing that, you are going to wait outside for me to emerge. So why don't we both exit together, like the ‘cousins’ we supposedly are."

"You're to stay here for observa--"

"Have you forgotten that I am a wizard, Mr Potter? As the nurse has already noted, I will be completely recovered well before any Muggle could ever heal. The only thing of danger to me now is the drugs they are so clumsily administering through this tube." And you.

Potter's jaw tightened. "Let's go," he said.

Snape was not as steady on his feet as he would have liked, but he managed to handle himself through sheer force of will. He was acutely aware of the razor's edge he was walking, and any weakness shown to Potter would no doubt be used against him tenfold.

Snape had been comatose upon his arrival and had no idea of the hospital's layout, which forced him to rely on Potter as a guide. Potter knew it as well, and did his best to outpace Snape, forcing him to trail several paces behind.

Still, Potter appeared to know where he was going as he led Snape unerringly down a myriad of anonymous, brightly-lit corridors to the reception desk. There, Snape arranged for his discharge and the return of his effects, managing the protesting receptionist with a chilly glare.

And then he was out on the street, with Potter his only company.

They stood for several moments, surrounded by the rumble of freeway traffic and the whine of the freezing night wind.

"Start moving, Snape," Potter said when it became apparent that Snape was in no hurry to go anywhere. Years as an Auror had added a frightening amount of authority to his voice.

"To where?"

"Your house. And don't think about trying to escape from me," he added before Snape was able to form a protestation. "Of the two of us, I'm the only one with a wand."

Snape started to demand how Potter knew that for a fact before he realised; of course Potter would know - they had taken all Snape's possessions from him when he'd been admitted to the hospital, and Potter, having cursed him, would had been present to watch them do so.

Snape, of course, had stopped carrying his own wand years ago. It made little sense to do so in this country, although if Potter was still too newly-arrived...

"No tricks," Potter continued in that same steely tone. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Became-An-Auror was fully as intimidating as any of the Aurors who had interrogated Snape during his defection to the Light. He despised the boy for it.

"No, Potter. No tricks," he said, as ironically as possible. So Potter was not bent on vigilante justice, at least not yet. Perhaps he really did intend to bring Snape back to Britain to face... Merlin knew what. Or perhaps he merely meant to kill Snape in his own house, far from any Muggle witnesses.

Snape wheeled about and stalked off into the night, wishing he was wearing his old cloak for effect. He did not look behind to see if Potter was following. No doubt he was. The wind was a cold as ever, but not as cold as the burning rage that had settled in Snape's stomach.

Who did Potter think he was? Two decades. Potter had been on his trail for two decades. Had it occurred to no one that if Snape had truly been working for the Dark he would have made his move before now? The Dark Lord himself had only waited eight years before reemerging after his first defeat.

He wanted nothing to do with the Dark! He had given up everything he had, time and again, to prove that. When Snape first set foot on the Hogwarts Express half a century ago, the senior Potter and his sycophants had branded him a Dark wizard, and the rest of wizarding Britain had been more than happy to follow blindly in their wake. And now, the son had come to finish what the father had started.

He stalked down the streets with Potter trailing after him like some hellish Eurydice, and tried not to think of what awaited him - interrogation, Veritaserum, Azkaban. Never mind that he deserved none of it. He had already been damned by the wizarding world. How disgusting that they had sent Potter as their executioner.

Or perhaps Potter had come on his own? Was the bastard truly capable of letting a baseless vendetta survive for so long?

Turning down a final side street, Snape brought them to a halt before his doorstep and turned to Potter, hoping his glare was as cold and remote as the Auror's.

Potter made an impatient gesture with his wandless hand. "Move, Snape." He made Snape's name sound like a curse.

"By all means," he hissed, so low he could barely hear his own voice. "Guests first."

Confusion flitted across Potter's features. "You live here?" he said in disbelief.

Feverish rage burned through Snape's mind. Not content with tracking Snape across the span of two decades to attack him in his new existence, Potter would stoop so low as to insult his house? He'd no doubt Potter's house, spoiled as the brat was, was a castle by comparison.

"You were expecting a manorial estate?" He tried to make his voice remote and scornful, but realised too late that it was heated and angry.

Potter noticed as well.

"I expected something to match your bloated opinion of yourself, yes."

Snape bared his teeth and whirled to stalk up the steps and unlock the door.

"After you," he snarled.

One would have thought the boy had never set foot inside a Muggle residence, the way he gawked and peered about him at the living-room with its low ceiling and sparse furniture.

"Make yourself at home," he hissed, and stalked into the kitchen.

Predictably, Potter trailed after him.

"What are you doing, Snape?"

Potter's meaning was obvious, but Snape saw no reason to grant the bastard any concessions. He removed a canister of teabags from an upper cabinet and set the kettle on the stove. "That should be painfully obvious, Potter, even to someone of your limited mental faculties."

Potter closed the distance between them until they were standing mere inches apart. "I'm warning you, Snape."

He whirled to face Potter, almost nose-to-nose with the man. "Oh, indeed? Of what?"

Potter's lips drew back across his teeth, unnaturally white in the murky kitchen light. "Fuck you, Snape," he whispered.

Potter's sudden burst of temper emboldened him. It seemed the brat wasn't as in control of the situation as he'd first appeared. "Not. Bloody. Likely. Now be a good boy and summon the lights." He motioned to the light switch by the kitchen door.

He knew in an instant that he'd gone too far. Potter's eyes hardened. "My pleasure," he said, and withdrew his wand from his coat. Snape shut his eyes, steeling himself for the coming curse. So it had come to this; he was to die at Potter's hand on his kitchen floor.

"Oparo!" Potter shouted.

Snape flinched as the kitchen filled with the blinding light of the curse.

He opened his eyes, panting and clammy with sweat, to find Potter, a superior expression on his face, with his wand pointed at the light switch.

"And you wanted to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts?" he sneered.

Black, scathing rage filled Snape until he could barely breathe. Just like the father, his mind whispered. Just like the father. You were always too slow for him too.

"Brew two cups, while you're at it," Potter said as he seated himself at the kitchen table.

Snape turned wordlessly, automatically, back to the stove. He felt Potter's eyes on his back as palpably as a physical touch. Don't think about it, he told himself. You are older. More intelligent. A better wizard, even if no one save you ever realised it. You are on your own soil and the Potter has nothing on you. Now act like it.

The thoughts chased each other through Snape's mind as he set about brewing the tea, hating the way his hands shook, hating how movements practised through twenty long years had become as awkward and faulty as they'd been when he'd first tried preparing tea in the Muggle fashion.

Damn Potter for coming here. Damn him for doing this to him.

Why don't you just have done with me? his mind raged.

At long last the tea was brewed, and he set the cups and pot on the table without spilling any, although the telling clatter of china gave him away.

He took a seat across from Potter, raised his cup to his lips, and forced some tea down past the thickness in his throat.

Potter didn't touch his cup.

"What are you doing here, Snape?" he demanded again.

Snape shut his eyes. Potter's voice had lost the open animosity it had carried when he'd tricked Snape into thinking he'd cursed him, but that meant very little. Potter had spent decades tracing him when Snape had thought he was untraceable; he wasn't going to give up. Not now, not ever.

"I should think that was obvious. I live here." He told the truth, but only because stalling or lying would ultimately make no difference. Potter was as convinced of his guilt as any other wizard was sure to be, and he would give the truth as little credence as he would any excuse Snape might offer.

"Here?" Potter asked incredulously.

Snape arched his eyebrows. "Yes, here, Potter. Or do you honestly believe some shocked Muggle will return shortly to find us occupying his kitchen?"

"Snape," Potter warned, raising his wand.

Snape threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of placation.

"All right," said Potter finally. "You live here. Why?"

Why? Because he could not bear to live as a wizard. But as the likelihood of Potter accepting that explanation did not bear thinking about, he remained silent.

"Look, either you tell me now, or..." Potter let his voice trail into nothing, allowing Snape's imagination to fill in the alternative.

Which it did, in admirable detail.

So it was to be Azkaban, or worse. He had no delusions; he knew firsthand how the Ministry treated those it wanted put away, whether they were innocent or not. Funny that his fate should be the same as that bastard Black's.

His life here was finished, and he was fortunate that it had lasted as long as it had. But that did not mean he need make anything easier on the one who had come to end it. Let his executioner work for his keep.

"I do not desire a dress rehearsal before I face the Auror Court," he said at last.

A startled expression flitted across Potter's features. Had he really expected that Snape wouldn't understand what fate lay in store for him? Or perhaps his directness had offended Potter's Gryffindor sense of propriety. Snape smiled bitterly. How long had it been since he'd thought of anyone in terms of House allegiance?

Potter regarded him with a measuring look. "Have you done something to deserve facing the Auror Court?" he asked.

"NO!" he shouted, irritation momentarily overriding caution. He was completely innocent, but even if he were not, did Potter honestly think such a simple question, so innocently posed, would induce him to admit something he did not intend to?

He worked to catch his breath, not aware that he had lost it in the first place, and stared back at Potter, willing the telling flush to leave his cheeks. "Now," he attempted in a more rational tone, "Either place me under arrest or kindly," he emphasised the word, "leave my house."

Potter was still subjecting him to that appraising look. "I'm not to do either," he said finally.

"What?"

"I'm to put you under Aurorial Observation. By order of the Auror Court," he added, as if it were an afterthought.

"Potter," he said, placing both his hands on the table and half-rising from his chair. "You and I both know there is no such thing as 'Aurorial Observatio--'"

"Wrong, Snape." The commanding tone was back.

"Oh, please, Mr Potter. Kindly remember that I have had a great deal of experience with the Aurors and their procedures, and there is no such thing--"

"Was no such thing, Snape," he said. Like Snape himself, Potter had learnt how to command the attention of his audience through his voice alone. "In case you've forgotten, twenty years have passed since you had any great deal of contact with Aurors."

Snape stilled, half-crouching over the table. His first instinct was to distrust Potter's declaration; after all, the Aurors were one of the oldest institutions in a society that instinctively resisted any change. On the other hand, Potter seemed damned sure of himself. If nothing else, Snape had lost ground by inadvertently reminding Potter of his long exile from wizarding society.

Potter continued: "Voldemort's dead, Snape. The rules have changed."

"How. So." The words came grudgingly, haltingly, from his lips.

Potter leaned back in his seat, clearly relishing his role as educator. "Thanks to me, Voldemort's gone and he isn't coming back. But that doesn't mean that there aren't elements still working for the Dark. They just lack a focal point."

"Anyone suspected of leaning toward the Dark is placed under 'Observation' by one or more Aurors until his innocence is proven," Snape finished for him.

Potter arched a regal eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. "Exactly."

"Tell me, Potter, what if I don't fancy allowing an Auror... or you," he spoke as if the two were mutually exclusive, "to observe my personal behaviour?"

"Any attempt to flee or otherwise obstruct the business of a Ministry-appointed Auror will be construed as admission of guilt," Potter quoted. "You'll be sent to Azkaban faster than you can draw your wand."

Thanks to past experience, Snape had an intimate knowledge of just how arbitrary the Ministry could be while dispensing its idea of justice. The clause Potter had just quoted at him sounded entirely too plausible. "For how long will I have the pleasure of your company?" he gritted out.

Potter smiled grimly. "As long as is necessary."

They had both gone to bed not long after, but it was nearly dawn before Snape managed to fall asleep, tossing and turning in his bed. After the adrenaline had worn off, his empty stomach made its presence felt. Potter sent you to bed without your dinner, his mind taunted. As if you were an unruly child.

Yet there was nothing Snape could do about it. He fully believed Potter's proclamations about Aurorial Observation, as well as the dire consequences of violating them; he wasn't about to be caught in any situation where he might appear to be attempting an escape.

If Potter caught him sneaking into his own kitchen? Admitting the truth - that he was only after a belated dinner - would merely give Potter one more humiliation to add to his arsenal.

So it was with great relief that Snape awoke to find that it was ten in the morning, and he could go about fixing himself a meal without facing any potential ridicule.



これで以上です。