Mist and Vapors

That same morning, Peter Pettigrew, heavily cloaked and hooded, was pouring over the Daily Prophet in the back corner of a dingy restaurant in Knockturn Alley, quietly stewing, as he had for the last hour.

The testimony was there, word for word, as he had told her. Saeran Snape had quite obviously performed to perfection - there was no hint that she had not stuck to the story they had prepared.

So what had happened? He was trying to read between the lines of the text, and still came up short.

Nothing in the paper told him what had gone wrong, exactly. And something most definitely had.

He looked around the room, almost empty at this time of day. At a round table near the front entrance, two witches were starting the day with warm butterbeer. They sat hunched together, cackling and jabbering over the open copy of the Prophet in front of them. He walked up to the counter for another cup of coffee and then surreptitiously sat down at a table not too far from them. He might find out something of interest. Or so he hoped.

At first, there was nothing of note - disappointing chatter about the comparative attractiveness of the captains of the Caerphilly Catapults and the Holyhead Harpies, and about bargains to be had at the going-out-of-business sale at Siren Song Witchwear.

Peter was just about to roll his eyes and leave in disgust when the topic finally turned to what he was interested in. He pricked up his ears as the witch closest to him tapped a crimson-nailed finger on the page of the paper in front of her.

"Did ya see that? Ya gotta hand it to Snape, shady bloke though he is. Always good for a surprise. Did ya hear 'bout the Squib? Meg's old man watched Snape's trial yesterday. Came home and told us what happened. Snape's mum told this story, he says. Same one what's in the paper. And then Hannigan's daughter stands up. 'I was there,' she says. And I'm a Squib. Couldn't 'a done it if I wanted to.' Could've knocked him over with a feather, he says. Hannigan was none to pleased."

"Couldn't have done what?" The other witch looked confused.

"Well, hex Snape's father, of course, when he got hisself knocked off. Nay, old Frank be none too pleased, fer sure. Sent everyone out after that. Wouldn't 'a wanted that in print, would he, now? That they let Snape go 'cause of his own daughter?"

"A Squib?" The other witch grinned widely, revealing a missing front tooth. "How 'bout that? So, you think Snape really didn't do it?"

"Nah - just because she didn't do it doesn't mean he didn't do it, now, does it?"

At that point, Peter sidled out of his seat and left the eatery. He had heard enough. Out in the alley, he leaned against the grimy stone wall and closed his eyes, hands balled into fists in frustration. A Squib. And Hannigan's daughter. So that was who Snape's 'friend' had been. And with the story he had concocted, he had handed them exactly what they needed to get Snape off again, hadn't he? He quietly cussed under his breath for a few minutes. The worst luck he was having lately...

He smirked bitterly - at least he had only failed once at getting Snape. This marked Hannigan's third attempt. And his daughter had dealt the death blow. How very ironic.

Hannigan. No, the man would not be too happy right now. Every bit as unhappy as Peter himself, he would wager.

How did that saying go again? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Peter absentmindedly picked a piece of loose mortar from a crack between the bricks and crushed it to a fine powder between the fingers of his silver hand. Yes indeed, he might be on to something there...

.-.-.-.

In the early afternoon, Severus stepped out of the public Floo at St. Mungo's and made his way up to the closed ward where Dumbledore had told him his mother was being kept out of the public eye.

The young Healer who admitted him to the ward was icily polite as she led him to the room at the back of the corridor. "In here," she said curtly as she pointed to a door with the number 17 on it in ornate silver letters. "I was not directly involved in her treatment, but I am told that the quite extensive spell damage has been repaired as much as possible. There are some memories she may never regain, but we have done all we can. The rest may or may not return with time. She is free to go on her own recognizance whenever she is ready. Please make sure to have her sign out at the front desk when she leaves." With a terse nod, the Healer left.

Severus hesitantly opened the door to the room. "Mother?"

Saeran Snape was standing by the window, looking out over the courtyard. She was wearing the same clothes she had been wearing to court - a simple, dark blue dress with blue stockings, and practical shoes. Her thin gray hair, usually pinned up in a knot at the back of her head, hung loosely down her back. When she turned her head to glance at her visitor, there was a lost look on her face.

He closed the door behind himself and slowly and carefully approached her. "It's Severus. Do you remember who I am?"

"They say that I killed him," she whispered, her eyes large in her fine-boned face. "Is that true?"

"You don't remember?" he asked gently.

She shook her head. "No. Did I?"

"You were not yourself. It wasn't your fault."

"They kept telling me that."

"They are right. There was nothing you could have done, and they are not accusing you of any crime. The Healer informs me you are free to go."

At that, her face crumpled and she walked over to him. He took her in his arms, and she leaned against him, her shoulders shaking as she quietly cried. It was several minutes before she straightened up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

"Where am I supposed to go? I can't go back to that...to that place." She shivered. "Do you know that I always hated that house? It is so dark, and it always seemed angry at me..."

He rubbed her shoulder reassuringly. "You don't have to go back. I talked to your sister earlier today, and she would be more than happy for you to come and stay with her. Going back would not be at all safe for you."

"Anwyn? I can go to Anwyn's house?" Her face started to quiver again. "I haven't seen her in so long. - Severus, he is really dead, isn't he?"

Her son swallowed hard. "Yes. He is really dead."

"I can leave now. I can go where I want to?"

He nodded. "Yes."

A tremulous smile slowly crept across her face. "That will be nice." She looked up at him, and the smile slowly faded. "There are some things I remember. I remember this short wizard. Your father knew him. He hurt you, I think."

"He did. But I'm fine now."

Saeran looked up at him, tears spilling from the corner of her eyes unheeded, running quietly over her anguished face. "I remember what happened yesterday. I said terrible things about you. I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Mother."

"You could have gone to Azkaban, Severus; they could have killed you. It was good that the girl was there."

"Yes."

"What is her name again?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah...she was kind to me. She's a Squib, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"How sad for her..."

Severus' lips briefly pinched together, but he didn't say anything as he took her coat off a hook by the door. "I think we had better go."

"I need to sleep. They didn't let me sleep very much last night. I think I would feel better if I had some sleep. I'm so tired."

"Let's go then, Mother." He carefully placed the coat across her shoulders, and directed her out the door.

.-.-.-.

It was after nine o'clock in the evening when there finally was a knock on the door of Hannah's quarters.

She jumped up from the sofa, where she had been sitting reading a book, and went to open the door.

"You're back." She smiled her relief at Severus. "How are you? How is your mother?" She stepped back to let him come in from the dark corridor. "Come and sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea or something to eat? You look so tired..." A tight feeling lodged in her throat as she looked up at him - there was that grey, pinched quality to his face that let her know that he was exhausted.

"I am tired." He took off his cloak, folded it, and hung it across the back of a chair. "If you don't mind, I think I will take you up on that cup of tea, and then go to bed."

She busied herself at the stove while he sat down. "I have this almond herbal tea, would that be all right? It is getting late."

"That's fine. Even though, to tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind something stronger if you have it."

"I have a decent single-malt, will that do?"

"Admirably."

"Ice or water?"

"Nothing, thank you. Just plain."

A couple minutes later, she handed him a squat, clear glass tumbler with a finger's breadth of whisky and sat down next to him, cradling her teacup in her hands. "So how is your mother?"

"Shaken and distraught, and not quite herself yet, but she will be all right. She's at her sister's - it would have been folly to return her to the house after all that has happened there. It is fortunate that she cannot actually remember killing my father. She would not, I believe, be able to cope with the actual memories at the moment. "

"I'm glad for that, really. Those memories would be horrible to live with." She shuddered at her own remembrance of the events. "Simply knowing what she did must be hard enough. -Will she be able to stay there? At your aunt's, I mean?"

"As long as she wants, yes."

"That must be a relief."

He appreciatively sipped his whisky and nodded. Yes, it was a relief to have her safely settled. He did not think that Pettigrew would bother with her any more, now that she had outlived her usefulness. And she should be far enough out of the way - Anwyn's place, located in a remote valley in Wales, was not easy to find. She should be safe out there. As safe as she would be anywhere.

"Did everything go well here?" he asked Hannah.

She shrugged. "It went fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. I missed breakfast, of course, but I heard that the headmaster made a speech admonishing everyone not to give credence to everything they read in the paper. So even thought the rumor mill is grinding away quite nicely, the majority of students seems inclined to at least give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Did he mention your role in this at all?"

"No, I guess not." Her smile was a bit forced. "I almost wish he would have. Get it over with."

"You aren't the only Squib at Hogwarts..."

"Filch? He is universally despised by the entire student body, as well as by half the staff. If that was supposed to be encouraging, try again." She stood up and took her cup over to the sink. "So, did you get everything taken care of? With your father?"

He nodded again, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "The ceremony will be three days from now, on Sunday."

She sat back down close to him, her body turned to face him. "I haven't had the chance to tell you yet how sorry I am. To lose your father like that must be so completely horrible."

"No sympathy is necessary or required. To say that we were not particularly close would be an understatement."

Hannah was still for a moment. "You know I despise my father. But if I would have to see him die like that, it would still hurt. He is my father, after all. There are these memories I have, from when I was little, before he, well, knew - we would go on picnics at the park, all three of us. I remember he played battledores with me in the garden in the summer - the shuttlecock would scream bloody murder every time one of us got in a good whack. It was pretty funny." She smiled. "As long as my mother was around, there was a good memory for every bad one. Not like now."

Severus tossed back the last of his whisky, set down his glass, and stood up. He walked a few steps and stopped, his back to her.

"That is all very well," he said sharply. "I, in contrast, have wished my father gone so many times over the years that I have lost count. So please spare me any further attempts at unnecessary commiseration."

"I beg your pardon. It will not happen again." There was a tinge of sharpness to her voice, too.

He didn't answer, and a few seconds later he heard her get up and walk up behind him. "Look, Severus, all I am trying to do is help. If I am clumsy, please forgive me. I just thought that maybe it would help you to talk about..."

"Talk about what? My father?" he interrupted her, spinning around to face her. "Why would I want to talk about him? You have seen my mother - she is fragile. They were Bound. He would not let her leave. I figured out when I was very young that the only way to protect her was to draw his anger away from her towards me. He was never a very patient man, nor a kind one. But that chapter is closed now. And no, I don't have the least desire to talk about it."

He turned away again angrily, staring at a spot on the wall.

I almost fire-called instead of coming here to let you know I was back, he thought. But I saw my dead father's body today, and it is too late for anything to ever be any different. I have almost the whole of the wizarding world looking at me with suspicion and hate. My mother doesn't remember how she killed him, but she knows enough to fall apart on me more than once today. Then my aunt kept asking me all these infernal questions, making me retell how he died, and about Pettigrew, and how I was chained to a chair in front of the crowd - and for my mother's sake, I had to be civil and answer. And I am still aching all over, and I am tired, and I am full of these damnable emotions that keep poking up their ugly heads every time I relax even a little. And for some strange, unfathomable reason you don't mind touching me, and that is why I am here. And I don't want to talk.

When he felt her hands on his back, starting to gently massage the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders, he closed his eyes, still half resentful, half welcoming the touch.

"It's been a long day for you," she offered in a quiet voice. "A hard day."

For a while, they stood silently, both stuck in the awkwardness of the moment. His eyes felt dry and hot behind his eyelids as her fingers kneaded for a few more minutes, finding the knots and working them out carefully. He winced slightly as she found a particularly tender one.

"I'm sorry." She eased the pressure of her fingers, working the area more gently.

He shook his head. "No. You did nothing wrong."

Her hands slid down and around his waist, and she leaned her head against his back. He wondered if she knew how effective a gesture that was - not having to look at her, and yet feeling her arms around him, warm and reassuring.

"Over time, I will learn," she said softly, "what will help and what will hurt. You will just have to be patient with me."

At that, he finally turned around in her arms and looked down at her. "I? Patient with you?"

When Hannah looked up at him, her breath hitched in her throat at his expression. There was a hollow, aching look to him that made her chest feel tight, his eyes dark with the pain of the last two days, with anguish, disbelief, and unmet need, as for once, he let her see, the impenetrable mask he wore so often gone for now.

Oh, Severus... To see that look, that awful look, and not try to do anything about it seemed an unsupportable thing.

Still looking into his eyes, she stretched up, balancing on the balls of her feet, at the same time reaching up with one hand and pulling him in towards her until their noses touched, his face so close to hers she couldn't focus her eyes on him any more. She nuzzled him gently, then rubbed her cheek against his, sandpapery and rough against her skin. Softly, lightly, she kissed first his temple, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Through all this, as she wordlessly tried to communicate comfort to him, to tell him that he was wanted, cared for, desired, he held still, eyes now closed, simply letting her.

It wasn't until she pressed her lips gently against his mouth that he responded, swiftly and suddenly, his arms wrapping around her tightly, too tightly, pulling her close against him.

When he kissed her back, it was with a hungry, almost desperate intensity that didn't ease up for several minutes, leaving her carried away on a wave of emotion, clinging to him breathlessly and half-crying as he finally took a deep, almost sobbing breath and buried his face against her neck.

.-.-.

When he Flooed back to his quarters later that evening, she curled back up on the sofa, smiling a lopsided, teary smile. For someone who didn't want to talk, he had talked quite a bit, his face against her neck and hair, the words coming in spurts as if he had wanted to hold them back and just couldn't. She hadn't done much other than hold him and listen, occasionally making appropriate noises, one hand rubbing circles against the small of his back.

How many times, she wondered, could her heart break for him?

She got up, quickly washed the glass and cup, and then retreated to her bedroom.

She didn't have the heart to be angry at the frail, older-than-her-years woman she had seen in court yesterday, but his short, abrupt, sketchy phrases had painted a picture that made tears come to her eyes, tears for a little boy forced into a parent's role, protecting his mother when she should have been protecting him. I had people who watched over me through the years, she thought. First my mother, then Filius. Was there ever anyone who had protected him? It sure didn't seem like it.

When she turned out the light, she settled down on the pillows and pulled the blanket up to her neck. Remembering last night made her arms ache for him. It just seemed so wrong to be sleeping alone tonight.

She threw her arm over her eyes and willed herself to relax. It just wouldn't be, in his words, 'proper'.

Still, sleep would be a long time coming tonight.