In This Space Where I Can Breathe

It's early in the morning, and you find yourself alone, a now-warm rag resting on your forehead from the night before. You see Snape passing your door, then doubling back after seeing you awake. You're a bit...confused would be putting it mildly. The events of last night are a complete blur.

"Very glad you could join the land of the living, Mr. Potter." He takes the rag from you and checks your forehead. His hand feels like ice against your warm skin. He grunts something, waves his wand, and walks out of the room.

He comes back in with a goblet full of something you wouldn't clean your floor with and tells you to drink.

"Um, sir?"

He raises an eyebrow in question.

"What happened last night?"

"You were having night tremors. You caught a fever that ran out of my control, so I had to call for some...reinforcements. Though you seem to be a bit better, your fever is still high. I'd stay in bed today, Potter, if I were you. Not that it would differ from your regular schedule of self pity. Now drink."

You do, and it tastes like mouldy sludge creeping down your throat. Typical Snape potion.

                        *                       *                       *

"Why are you still here?" you find yourself asking him one day. You didn't mean to make it sound like you were ungrateful for everything he's done, because you're not. But honestly, you're curious.

"Would you like me to leave?" he calmly asks. You can tell that he doesn't really expect a positive answer.

You shrug. "No, but you've been here half the summer. Surely you have other things to do. Potions to brew, children to maim..."

"Despite what you may think, Potter, I do have interests other than intimidating children and slaving over cauldrons all day long."

"Enlighten me, Professor."

"Oh, aren't you ever the apple-polisher? You’ve barely said two words to me since I've been here, and now suddenly you're interested in conversations. I might ask you what your motivations are, although it seems as of late that you've quite run out in that department."

Well. That didn't go at all how you planned.

"Dumbledore asked you to stay a week. It's been nearly five. I'm curious as to why you've decided to stay," you say, as cautiously as you can manage.

"And how do you know the Headmaster hasn't asked me to stay?"

"Um, well...I don't." And now you feel like a right arse.

"I'd be sure to gather your information, Potter, before you go jumping to conclusions."

Which has always been Snape's way of getting out of a question he's uncomfortable in answering. It's tiresome, really. You've been sheltered from information your whole life.

"Why doesn't Dumbledore send me to St. Mungo's if I'm such a burden. I mean, I'm obviously not fit to care for myself..."

"Is that what you want, Mr. Potter? You want a diagnosis, a label? Something concrete that you can use as an excuse for your behaviour? A couple of potions and a pat on the head? If you want that, then be my guest. The floo is right there, and I'll be sure to alert the Daily Prophet of the news."

You've never scowled at someone so hard in your life. Really, you don't even know why you try sometimes.

You get up and try to walk out of the room, mumbling, "You don't understand."

Suddenly, he grabs your arm, moving you and him face to face. You can feel his hot, spicy breath on your face.

"I understand more than you will ever know, Potter. Beat this."

It isn't a morale boost, it isn't a coddling consolation. It is a direct order.

He's the one that ends up storming out of the room, leaving you with something to think about for the rest of the night.

                        *                       *                       *

"You said you understand. I want to know what you meant by that?" You've decided you can’t sleep tonight and noticed the light on in the guest room, Snape’s room. It is a now or never sort of decision.

"I do not feel the need to divulge that information."

"I don't care what you 'feel the need' to do. I want to know," you demand.

"And whatever the Golden Boy wants, the Golden Boy gets, am I right?"

God, why does he always...

"Don't do that."

"Well?"

"Have you been keeping up all these years? If you knew half of what you claim you do about me, you'd bite your tongue, Professor. I slept in a cupboard for the first eleven years of my life. I've been tormented and kidnapped. Ridiculed and stalked. Written and speculated about. I've been captured by a Dark Lord numerous times. I've seen my godfather and loads of friends die. I've killed people, for Merlin’s sake. Yes, Professor. My life has been the epitome of good fortune," you rant, slowly becoming more and more hysterical with each passing breath.

He stares at you, as though you've suddenly transfigured into him. The silence is maddening, but suddenly, he speaks.

"Would you like a drink? Brandy or Firewhiskey?"

“You’re offering me a drink in my own house?”

Snape shrugged.

It would have been a lot easier if Snape had simply shooed you out, like he's always done. It would have made your future and the things that were to come a hell of a lot simpler if you had refused and walked quietly to your room, and left him to sit and think about the things that you'd just said. But being a Potter and a Gryffindor to boot, it made refusing a peace offering a lot harder than you anticipated.

So you find yourself sitting in your guest's room, sipping brandy from a dirty glass, and listening to your extremely intoxicated ex-Professor speak openly on the dynamics of frivel shig...er...shrivelfig roots, and their catalytic properties in the Draught of Living Death. If it were anything else, you'd have been concerned. You're not ready to believe that Professor Snape is anything but two-thirds malevolence, and one-third potions expert.

                                                                                                             

You listen very carefully for three good hours before you both notice that the sun is now rising.

"What did you do for the Light, Professor? Aside from collecting information about Voldemort?"

You don't mean the question in an accusatory way. It was just something you've always wondered. He understands.

Snape has had this air of mystery since you've known him. He's kept himself appropriately veiled from most human contact, with the exception of Dumbledore, of course.

“I used the knowledge I have of potions against the Dark Lord. I was able to lead most of the children through the tunnel under the lake that leads to the shelter. Then I joined the fight. I was able to capture McNair and Malfoy, along with a fair few of my former comrades.”

You nod. Through your drunken haze, you somehow recognise that he’s done more for the cause than you could ever hope to accomplish. It, along with everything else recently, depresses you slightly.

“What did I do for the Light, Professor? Aside from killing Voldemort?”

He looks at you, drunken intent in his beady black eyes. But the haze of the new morning and this new understanding between the two of you has softened his eyes, and rounded his once sharp features.

“I cannot answer that, Mr. Potter. Since you will not speak of that day.”

Touché.

It’s been over a month since that day. It feels like just yesterday you were dodging curses, and casting the Unforgivable that killed Voldemort.

“What if I told you everything right now?”

He nurses his drink for a moment, then brings his hands together and, very un-Snape-like, tucks them under his chin.

“Then I’d listen.”

You couldn’t have hoped to get that response from him if he weren’t drunk.

“With an open mind?” you inquire.

Without missing a beat, he looks you square in the eye and says, “with as open a mind as I can possibly muster, Potter.”

He speaks with a committal tone, which finalises the direction that this drunken conversation is going, and you suddenly want to run from it.

“I...I don’t know if I’m ready, yet. I don’t know if I can.”

“Then I will be waiting until you are.”

“Will you? You won’t leave until I’m ready for you to leave?”

You’re blaming this sudden vulnerability on the booze you’ve been imbibing all night, and now, all morning. You’re not sure what you’re asking him, really. Not sure if he’ll be complacent about it, or hex you into next week. You’re really very confused at the things you’re asking him right now. If only you had Hermione’s time-turner...

“I will be here, until the new school term starts.”

“Can...can I tell you a secret? It’s a fear of mine, actually.”

He leans in, the stench of alcohol very strong in the room. You waver a bit, even though you’re sitting down.

You lean in close, whisper with hot breath into his ear, “I’m afraid that I have nothing to give in this life.”

He leans back, no emotion showing in his face.

“That, Mr. Potter,” he says, taking a sip of whatever he’s been pouring himself for the last three hours, “is not a secret.”

You lean back as well, slightly embarrassed that you’ve let him in and he is not taking you seriously.

“No? Why not?” you say, with a pout. “I think it’s a very good secret. I’ve been keeping it for a very long time.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “It is not a secret because you wear your blood red Gryffindor heart on your scarlet and gold sleeve. Not to mention that your fears are completely,” he takes another sip, “irrational.”

You shoot him a wounded look, and scoff open-mouthed at the insinuations that your ex-Professor is presently making.

“I do not!” you shout indignantly. Well, you never...

“I’m afraid you very much do, Mr. Potter.”

You mull it over in your head for a while. Snape is usually right about everything. You take a moment to reflect on that.

“It’s cold in here,” you complain, as an involuntary shudder runs up your spine.

“Hm. The fire has gone out.”

He lights the fireplace with his wand, but the chill is still prominent in the air. It might not have been the fire after all.

It’s strange, because in retrospect you never heard him command you to sit next to him, and you don’t ever remember obliging so quickly. So now you’re sitting practically on the lap of the man who has hated you for the last eight years of your life.

He grabs your arm. The sleeve to your jumper is clinging to your biceps from cold sweat, but he points his finger at it anyway.

“This...this is where you can find your heart, Mr. Potter, if you ever lose it again. It shouldn’t be hard to find it. This is always where it’s been.” There is a cruel smile playing on his lips, and you want nothing more than to do something drastic to it. Slap it, cut it, bite it off.

This firewhiskey makes you think strange thoughts. It’s impairing your inhibitions. It’s making you think unclear thoughts about Snape. It’s making you think that you clearly want to curl into Snape and...

“Potter, what are you doing?” His harsh whisper slices into your thoughts and brings you back to the present time. You’re mere centimetres away from his lips and all it would take is one swift movement and...

You brush your lips against his. Contact! your inebriated brain shouts.

You were never one for physical contact. From anyone. Mrs. Weasley’s hugs were always moments of tension and discomfort for you. You’ve shied away from it for the first 18 years of your life. Not because it reminded you of pain, or you were physically harmed at the Dursleys’, you’ve just never felt a physical connection with anyone. So it seems rather odd to you that you want nothing more right now than to be touched. By Snape of all people! Why couldn’t it have been someone normal, someone female? Then again, you’ve never done a normal thing in your life, so really, why start now?

And while all of these thoughts are running through your head, Snape is pushing you back. Far, far away from him, as he damn well should because you’re out of your bloody mind!

“Sorry...sorry,” you whisper, as if that would suddenly make it all okay. As if apologising would suddenly erase this memory from his mind.

You back up, far away, off the couch and against the wall.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that.”

“I...I gotta go.”

And with that, you leave. No destination in mind as you Apparate in the middle of muggle London.

                        *                       *                       *

A bar. That’s what you need right now. No...a club. With pounding music to drown out your thoughts and beautiful people to get one person out of your mind.

It’s five in the morning, and the all night club you come across is still thumping. Exactly what you’re looking for. If it were anymore perfect, it’d be the Room of Requirement. Which leads your thoughts to fifth year and Sirius’s death and...

No. No thinking. Just drinking. Imbibing as much alcohol as they’ll serve you.

The whole thing seems so surreal. Bodies swaying with the music. It seems to you that while the whole world is rushing around you, and you’re stuck in this hazy standstill. Everyone is saying different things to you that you can’t even comprehend.                  

It’s this blank haze. You can’t determine if you’re happy or sad. You just...are.

And while everyone else is bumping and moving, you see a streak of white blond rush past you.

No...it can’t be.

“Draco,” you breathe. “Draco Draco DracoDracoDraco...”

He’s heading towards the men’s toilets, and you follow him. Follow him, can’t lose him again.

You get there, and nearly break the door in trying to get through, but there’s no one.

You kick the wall in frustration, grab your hair and sink slowly down the wall. He was here! you think sullenly. God, he was...he was here.

You’re angry with yourself for believing that a dead man could walk into a club and beckon you into the lav. Moreover, you’re angry with yourself for believing you could have saved him. You couldn’t save the one bloody person that completely and wholly understood you.

You can’t think of anything left to do now but cry until you pass out against the dirty wall.

                        *                       *                       *

Some wizard must have recognised you (really, who doesn’t?) and flooed Dumbledore, who, in turn, flooed Snape, who is currently standing over you, looking extremely angry.

“Did you accomplish what you set out to do this early morning, or are you currently in the middle of some self preserving revelation?”

“I saw him,” you state.

“Saw whom, precisely?”

You blink. Did it really happen or was it another dream?

“Draco. I...I saw him.”

“No, Mr. Potter. You did not. We buried Mr. Malfoy right alongside the others who fell in battle.”

“No, he was....he was here. I’m...I swear...”

“Yes, and I am about to as well, if you do not kindly get off this disgusting muggle establishment’s floor.”

You glare fiercely in his direction. Last night...last night was a mistake. One you are likely not to make ever again. You wobble as you stand, extremely sorry that you even moved, because as soon as you’re upright, the floor comes out from underneath you, and you feel Snape’s arm around you as he catches you before you hit the ground. You’ve got a killer headache, and you’re pretty sure that Snape will have no pity for you, nor give you anything for it.

You don’t know what you were thinking when you thought you could change the unchangeable.

                        *                       *                       *.

Your life has become exceedingly monotonous. It is the same routine day in and day out. Today is no exception. Snape is preparing for the new school year, and you are sitting on a couch staring at him. You’re pretty sure he realises what you are doing, but so far hasn’t said anything to you. It’s been a good two hours. You can’t take the maddening silence any longer.

“You think I’ve lost my mind, don’t you? You think I’ve gone mad,” you state.

He doesn’t even look up from his papers. “No. If you want my assessment of your mental stability, then ask me.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“I want your assessment of my mental stability,” you say dryly, and mutter, “or lack thereof.”

“You are dealing with a traumatic event the best way you know how. I do not understand what more you are looking for. Might I add, that in the eight years I’ve known you, you’ve never been the poster boy for emotional stability, anyway.”

Ouch.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically.

He tosses the Daily Prophet at you, and you stare at the headline.

Boy Who Lived Becomes Recluse

Snape gets up and offers to make some tea. You follow him into the kitchen and calmly sit down to read the article while waiting. When you are finished, you toss the paper down, and pinching the bridge of your nose, you say in a whisper, “How did this happen?”

He looks at you sympathetically, which shocks you completely. It shouldn’t anymore. But a sudden realisation hits you. For once, you think, the Daily Prophet is right. You’ve become a hermit, a recluse. You’ve holed yourself up in your house and wallowed in self pity for nearly two months. It makes you feel a bit panicky, and suddenly you can’t seem to sit still anymore.

“I need to get out of this house. A...a job. I need a job.”

You could have sworn you’d just seen a grin from your former professor, but you brush it off and instead take back the newspaper that you’ve just thrown across the table and start perusing the job adverts.

                        *                       *                       *

You know that Snape has spoken to Dumbledore about your sudden revelation, because the next day a tawny owl drops a letter in your lap with an official Hogwarts seal on it. You remember a time in your life when letters like this used to bring a smile to your face and a twinge of excited anticipation of the forthcoming school year. You almost miss it.

“Three guesses as to what this is, and the first two don’t count,” you mutter. You glare his way, but his back is to you as he prepares breakfast.

You break open the seal and, surprise surprise, it’s an invite to teach this year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. You scribble a polite “No, thank you,” and send Dumbledore’s owl on its way.

“What else have you told him? Anything I should know about? I haven’t tried to slit my wrists in a while, maybe it’ll give you two something to chat about...”

“Do not joke about that, Mr. Potter. And while I am thrilled beyond words at the fact that you’ve turned down an opportunity to pester me on a daily basis for an entire school year, I do wish you would consider your options more carefully before turning them down.”

“You...you want me to...No! There is no option. I’m not going back there!”

“I’m not telling you to go back anywhere. I’m asking you to take in all the possibilities before making a decision. It is, after all, the way adults make decisions,” he informs you.

Suppressing a growl, you take out another piece of parchment and a quill, amending the letter you’ve just sent out.

I’m being made to “consider my options.” Please disregard my last letter until I’ve “taken in all possibilities”. -HP

You attach it to Hedwig’s leg and let her nip your finger as you quietly command her, “Take your time, girl. No rush.” She looks at you with a worried expression (well, as worried as an owl can look, anyway), hooting softly as she flies into the morning sky.

“There. I’m considering it.”

“Good. Though if you did not act like a child, I would not have to treat you as such.”

“Yes, we’ve been over this before,” you say tiredly.

“Then there won’t be a need for me to reiterate. Will there?”

Slinging the newspaper under your arm, you leave the room without answering him.

                        *                       *                       *

There are several places in Diagon Alley looking to hire on help, but with your...fame (you cringe even thinking of the word), you doubt you’d be able to get much work done at all. And even though you didn’t get nearly high enough marks on your NEWTS, you might be able to apply to a Ministry position. If you’d want Cornelius Fudge as your boss, and a bunch of ignorant prats telling you what to do all day.

There was that equipment manager position with the Tutshill Tornados.

You shake your head in disbelief, wondering what you’re even thinking. Anyone would be on their knees begging me to work for them, you think. It makes you sick to even think about it. You just want to be treated fairly, without bias. But that will never happen.

As much as it pains you to think about it, the only one who would take you on for your skills is Dumbledore. He could have offered you any position at the school, but DADA has always been your strength.

It shouldn’t have to be this easy, you think. And the decision shouldn’t have to be so difficult.

You jump about ten feet in the air when your ward alarms go off.

Why are your ward alarms going off?

You find Snape in the kitchen, his wand extended, and pointing at the intruder. The long-haired, blonde intruder.

Lucius Malfoy. You should have guessed. You pull your wand out...you pull your....

Lovely. No wand.

Snape notices you searching for ‘the one thing a wizard never goes three feet without’, as he’ll scold you later, you’re sure.

“Get behind me, Potter.”

“No,” you say, quietly.

Snape eyes you. “Don’t be a fool, boy.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Malfoy? Cast the Killing Curse on me?” you say, scoffing at the very idea. Where the sudden vote of confidence came from, you have no idea.

“No, actually I think I’d much rather watch you writhe in pain for a bit first.”

“Get out of my house,” you command.

“Or what? You’ll sic your professor on me? Really, Severus, I’d rather thought you were above playing house-keeper to the Boy Who Just Wouldn’t Die.”

“And what are you now? Dark-Lord-in-training? Come to mark me as your equal?” you taunt. Really, you’ve never been able to hold your tongue in these situations. It’s going to get you killed one day. And really, today might just be that day.

“Hardly. I’ve come to finish what the Dark Lord started,” he states, disregarding Snape’s presence entirely.

Snape starts to mutter, “Expelliarmus,” but Malfoy is quicker and casts Silencio, then a binding curse, before Snape can finish.

 

Silencio.

Silencio.

“Silencio!” Lucius demands. It feels like a rough sock is being placed in your mouth, and you gag a bit, trying to speak despite yourself.

Draco is blindfolded, lying on naked on the ground. He’s out cold, and has been for a while. After the first two rounds of Cruciatus, he’d passed out.

You commend him for making it that far.

It doesn’t surprise you that Lucius is sacrificing his own son to the dark side. Once Draco had changed his mind and decided to help you in the end, it was too late. His father found out and stole him from you. Right out from under your nose, while you slept in the Common Room after the NEWT exams, and he was there, sleeping on the floor right beside you. You two had talked until nearly three in the morning, about what it would be like after leaving school, and Quidditch, and love.

It was then, after you’d watched him fall asleep, that Lucius swept in from the floo and snatched him up. It was Voldemort’s way of calling you out.

You could have listened to Ron when he told you that Draco wasn’t worth it, that he wasn’t worth dying over. But you don’t regret the decision you made. Draco would have died, regardless of what you did. You just have to keep telling yourself that.

But you’re watching Lucius drag his son’s unconscious body to his fate. It shouldn’t be this way. It should be you instead of him. But you’re bound and silent. And there’s nothing you can do but watch it all unfold.

“You,” you accuse. “You took him away from me.” Snape looks at you oddly, but you don’t even cast a glance at him. As far as you know, there’s no one in the room but you and Malfoy.

“No, Potter. I believe you have it wrong. It was you who stole him from me. Whatever nonsense you filled his head with was enough to turn him against me. I couldn’t have my own son as an adversary.”

“So you let Voldemort fuck him as me, and leave him to die?!”

“Don’t you dare say the Dark Lord’s name,” Lucius hisses. “You haven’t earned the right.”

“Let me inform you of something, Lucius. Voldemort is dead. And I am not above ridding the world of your existence either.”

“With what, Potter? Your mind?” he asks incredulously.

You’ve never been very good at casting curses wandlessly, but your blocking has always held up. You can only hope that it will this time as well, because before you can even blink, a Cruciatus is cast, and you’re on the floor, trying your best not to scream.

You can’t hold it in any longer, and you do scream. Lucius is standing over you, smirking.

When the wave of pain subsides, you’re up and ready.

“Get OUT,” you stress, and with your hand, wandlessly wave him across the room, landing him hard against the wall. He’s down for several seconds, which gives you enough time to run over to Snape, and use his wand to cast “Finite Incantatem.”

“We must hurry. Through the floo...” Snape says, taking your arm and dragging you over towards the fireplace.

“No. This ends now.”

Lucius is already up, his wand pointed directly at your heart.

No words are spoken, but the next you know, a brilliant green light streaks across your eyes, and your world has turned black.