Spring Blues - Aftermath by Henna Hypsch
Summary: A spring fic answering the challenge ”Post Traumatic Stress” by Dream Painter. A melancholy story set directly after the war, not without hope. Mostly from Harry’s PoV. OOC Snape.
Categories: Fic Fests > #21 Springfest 2016, Teacher Snape > Professor Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required)
Snape Flavour: Out of Character Snape
Genres: None
Media Type: None
Tags: None
Takes Place: 7th Year
Warnings: None
Prompts: Post Traumatic Stress
Challenges: Post Traumatic Stress
Series: Aftermath
Chapters: 6 Completed: Yes Word count: 14434 Read: 16297 Published: 25 Jun 2016 Updated: 28 Jun 2016
Chapter 6 by Henna Hypsch

Obeying the matron of the Hospital ward, Harry, in the afternoons, would seek out a suitably shadowy place in a clearing of the forest where to put up his easel with a canvas. 

 

This particular day, the temperature reached an all time high for the season and nature was exploding in greenery, in sprouting, in budding and flowering. Birds were chirping madly. 

 

Harry had only been working on his painting for a short while, but he was already getting distracted. He had always harboured ambiguous feelings about the spring season, but this year it was worse than before. All was well as long as he had his painting to focus on, but inevitably there would be moments where his hands went numb, or his arms weak and he would have to put his wand down to wait the symptoms out. 

 

Even when sitting in the shadow, Harry felt hot and sticky. He closed his eyes to the overwhelming burst of life that surrounded him. Even the sunlight filtered through the young, tender green leaves blazed his eyes, and the incessant chirping jarred on his ears. He made a grimace and almost wished that his senses would shut down and spare him the overload of impressions. He felt a sudden impulse to run inside, seek out the dungeons, their darkness and cool freshness and to go to sleep for an indefinite amount of time, preferably until nature stopped it’s racking exaggerations. 

 

Instead of taking action to escape the torture, however, Harry remained passively seated and, as on command, tears began flowing down his cheeks. He knew he could do nothing to stop them, so he stayed as he was, chin on his chest, eyes closed, hands helplessly limp in his lap, overwhelmed by a strangling sense of hopelessness that was only heightened by the contrast between what was going on inside him and the gushing optimism of nature. 

 

As much as he despised himself for the involuntarily leaking tears, he loathed himself for not being able to appreciate springtime to its value. What was wrong with him? Everyone but he felt rejuvenated and empowered by the season. His friends, after only a short time of mourning and rest, were on their feet, making plans for the summer, organising parties that Harry declined to attend to, over and over again, to the general disappointment of his peers. Harry was so angry at himself for not being able to snap out of his oppressive mood and get rid of his strange symptoms. Well, he thought bitterly, at least he could blame his passiveness and unsocial behaviour on the blasted illness. But deep inside he was not sure that his conscience would let him get away even with that cast-iron alibi.

 

Harry opened his eyes and blinked some tears away impatiently while flexing his fingers tentatively. He might be able to do a bit of paint layering again. He was doing a landscape with a lake as the central part of the motive and he wanted to get the mysterious reflections from the still surface to be just right.

 

He had only just squeezed out a blob of paint and lifted his wand, when someone strode into the clearing from behind a set of bushes and stopped neat only twenty feet away. Harry felt a thrill of dread run through his body at the sight of the black wizard robes which he instantly recognised who they belonged to. As he had just got started on the smoothing spell, however, and did not want to ruin the layer of paint, he somehow managed to complete the task before him. And by the time he was finished, the worst part of the initial faintness of knowing himself in the presence of Professor Snape had passed. Not taking any risks, he kept his gaze steadily fastened on the canvas in front of him, however. 

 

In the corner of the eyes, Harry noticed the wizard make a gesture of surprise at stumbling upon Harry Potter in the middle of the forest, tramp around as if he hesitated to move on, then probably thinking better of it, turn and advance a few steps towards Harry instead. Although he was seated, Harry felt the ground totter under him at the proximity to the resurrected Professor. To counteract the all too familiar feeling of drifting away, he picked up his paint tube with trembling fingers and started applying another layer.

 

”Good afternoon, Mr Potter,” said the Professor. 

 

Harry shuddered.That voice, that silky voice… In the dungeons, always in the dungeons, during all those years at school. And at the Shrieking Shack… That voice… ”Look at me…” 

”Harry,” the Professor stated calmly. ”May I call you Harry, Mr Potter?” 

 

Harry blinked. That was new. His former professor would never have asked such a question. It was spoken with respect and caution. He had a feeling that the wizard observed him closely for adverse reactions. Harry swallowed and kept his eyes on the pool of silvery paint that he made spread by magic over the already applied black and dark green layers.

 

”Of course, Professor. You’re welcome to call me Harry,” he answered, his voice only wavering the least little bit. Snape, if that was really him - Harry had a hard time getting realities together since the man behaved so uncharacteristically and since he was supposed to be dead anyway. Dead and resurrected, what did that really make you? wondered Harry - the very same Severus Snape, anyhow, seemed encouraged by Harry’s answer, and approached a little further.

 

”Mme Pomfrey told me about your progress in the Magical Arts,” he said. ”Please tell me about it. I’ve always enjoyed art, but know nothing about the technique of making it.” 

 

The question was sincere and yet commonplace enough for Harry to relax a little. He suddenly found himself explaining to Professor Snape about colour layering, about magical shaping and ways to have a painting spring to life. 

 

”But, I’m not very good at the last part yet,” conceded Harry. ”Until now, I’ve only made landscapes and interiors where very little transpires. Helena says that I have no contact with my inner motives.” 

 

Snape listened and hummed in answer for a considerable stretch of time while Harry continued to prepare his painting and was careful never to let his head turn toward the Professor. 

 

”There,” said Harry. ”It’s ready for magical transformation.” For some reason he hesitated to lift his wand.

 

”Go ahead,” his former teacher encouraged him. 

 

Without really considering what he was visualising, but with a sudden gush of emotion, Harry threw the complicated spell at the painting. At first he thought he had only succeeded, yet another time, in making a stagnant picture of a lake with a black and silvery surface, but as they stared at the scene, small ripples of waves started to run across it, that grew to wild heaves, and suddenly Harry recognised the scene perfectly, and a surge of nausea almost overpowered him as he knew what was about to happen next. And sure enough, from the depths of the underground lake that Harry had drawn, slightly fluorescent, pale figures started to rise and climb the shore in the foreground. They were soulless Inferi - dead, yet in flesh and moving, terrifying dead bodies. 

 

A small gasp was let out near Harry’s left ear where Professor Snape was positioned, observing the painting over Harry’s shoulder. Harry could not determine if it was a sound of horror, dismay or disgust. On his own part, Harry stared transfixed at the scene. He could not decide whether he was proud of having succeeded - and probably surpassed - his goal of Magical animation, or if he was appalled by what had sprung from his unconscious mind. 

 

Nothing more happened in the painting. The Inferi disappeared and the surface stilled, until the scene started to play again. Thrice did Harry watch the Inferi rise from the lake, before he was overcome with exhaustion and shut his eyes.

 

”A… memory of yours, I take it?” asked Snape.

 

”The first horcrux hunt,” Harry said hoarsely. ”Together with D… with D…”

 

”I’m sorry. You would have a bunch of that sort of memories, wouldn’t you?” Snape said in a low voice full of regret, but suddenly his tone sharpened. ”What on earth do you think you are doing, Mr Potter! Harry?”

 

”I… I’m a bit tired,” Harry murmured. He found that he had just let himself slip to the ground on all fours. ”Just have to rest for a while.” 

 

”You’re not seriously considering lying down in the moss, are you?” Snape replied and Harry felt a faint flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, because he actually had considered just that. 

 

”I’m sorry to say,” continued Snape in a stern, but not unkind tone of voice, ”that you need to start taking responsibility for your condition, Harry. You know how dangerous it would be for you to slip into a state of unconsciousness that you’re not sure to be able to reverse on your own, here in the forest, far from all means of resuscitating you. You were doing fine until now. You need to continue fighting. Now, stand up, please.”

 

Harry’s head was swimming with weariness, but he raised himself obediently on his knees and fumbled in his pocket.

 

”You’re right, Professor, I need to get back to the ward,” he murmured. ”I have the Portkey that Mme Pomfrey gave to me. It’s right here.”

 

”You shouldn’t rely on Mme Pomfrey’s artificial support,” snapped Snape. ”You can do better than that, Mr Potter. Come on, stand up! You’re able to make it back to the castle with my assistance. Fight for it, like you’ve been doing so many times. You can make it, Harry.”

 

It was only at the last encouragement that Harry was able to take in what Snape was saying and decided to comply to the exhortation. It contrasted with the careful, understanding and yielding behaviour that Harry had met during his convalescence. Everyone, including his friends, Mme Pomfrey and the consulted Health Care professionals, were all a little scared by the strange things that had happened to Harry with the horcrux, and with him killing Voldemort. They were overwhelmed with awe at what he had endured, and with pity because of his condition. As a consequence they treated him with kid gloves, a behaviour that did nothing but undermining Harry’s strangely sprained self-confidence.

 

So when Professor Snape demanded of him to mobilise his courage and fighting mood, believing that Harry could, Harry found a sparkle in him to do so. He stood up, Snape caught his elbow and said soberly:

 

”Don’t look at me, and you’ll be fine. You just released a powerful memory, which will probably prove beneficiary to you in the end, because it’s not healthy to bottle those kind of experiences up. You need to face them and accept them. I probably remind you of other terrible events, though, so right now you need a distraction. Therefore, while we’re walking, tell me all you know about spring flowers and their possible magical properties. Just to keep your mind on something else.”

 

”I hate spring,” declared Harry, as he clenched his teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other on the path back to the castle.

 

”How come?” Snape asked neutrally.

 

”I find I cannot keep up with it,” Harry muttered. Snape seemed to catch his meaning immediately.

 

”Well, that’s fine. Just let it run ahead, you’ll catch up with it later,” he said calmly.

 

”Really?” said Harry, almost glancing at his Professor, but turning his head away in time.

 

”Yes, really. Don’t worry. You don’t need to get on board. Springtime is overwhelming, hysterical, a hyperbole of life. It’s self-limiting, though, so let Spring have its own course. Go easy on yourself. Now, properties of the different Avens plants, please?”

 

By the time they reached the castle, Harry felt almost calm and lucid again. Snape accompanied him all the way upstairs to the ward where he released Harry’s elbow which he had held in a firm grip until then. That small physical contact during the length of the walk, however, had strengthened Harry’s internalisation of the fact that Snape was indeed a person in flesh and blood, as if the gesture had anchored Snape not only to him, but to the earth and to the world of the living again.

 

Harry advanced on his own towards his corner of the ward. On the wall, at the side of the head of the bed, hung the pictures he had produced since meeting with Helena. Bland landscapes, not bad when it came to colouring, but insipid and lifeless. 

 

With a sharp inhalation, Harry straightened his back and lifted his wand. In a quick succession of Animating spells, one painting after the other sprang to life. He was surprised by how vividly and in what great detail he seemed to be able to render the different scenes. One atrocity after the other formed and were enacted in the paintings in front of him. There was a burning body and a white marble coffin emerging from the flames. An old lady walking into a cemetery who suddenly transformed into a snake. There was an ice-clad lake that opened up and swallowed a young man. A golden locket that opened with a shocking flash of light. A sliver dagger that pierced a House Elf’s body. A clearing in a forest - two figures within a circle of dark hooded shadows and a flash of green light.

 

Harry stopped.

 

”Merlin!” Snape choked behind him. ”It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? You don’t spare yourself.” 

 

But Harry stared at the last, not yet transformed, painting. It was an empty and dark interior, only shadows visible in the room. Harry closed his eyes briefly and opened them to cast the final vigorous spell. 

 

He gasped at the transformation. He knew already from the start that it would be the Shrieking Shack. Immobile, he watched as in minute detail the murder of the person standing beside him played out.

 

Taking a steadying breath, finding strength from the sheer knowledge that the scene in front of him was true, because he had lived it, witnessed it, Harry turned around and faced the man whose destiny was sealed in the picture. 

 

Finally able to look at his former Professor without collapsing, Harry took his time, without concealment nor shame, to scrutiny the stark-featured face. The bony, high-set cheekbones, the large, hooked nose, the thin lips, the high, intelligent forehead curtained by black hair and the obsidian, depthless black eyes - the face was so familiar, yet so different, because none of the usual scorn or bitter expressions impaired it. There was no hate, no dismay, no condemnation, no disgust, no signs of unhappiness or disharmony in those features. Harry inclined his head slightly to the side without detaching his eyes from his Professor’s face.

 

”Who are you?” he asked. ”You’re nothing like the Professor Snape I used to know.” There was a slight plea to his voice as if he wished desperately to be able to internalise what he intellectually knew to be true.

 

A flicker of understanding and of sadness passed the serene face in front of him.

 

”I am Severus Snape,” the man said solemnly. ”I am exactly the same wizard that you remember, but fate, and Albus Percival Dumbledore…” Snape enunciated the name with detached syllables and Harry shuddered, ”…Professor Dumbledore gave me a second chance. Which I’m embracing. There is no use in being given another life and to plough on in the old miserable way. I expect to change, I want to change and… Would you like to lie down, Harry?”

 

The extraneous spell-casting had finally taken its toll on Harry. He was barely holding up, and at the Professor’s gentle and concerned question, the exhaustion came over him with a pang and he staggered. 

 

”I think I had better,” he murmured. ”I’m sorry for this… melodramatic… outburst…” He gestured vaguely at the paintings.

 

”No, no, that’s fine,” reassured Snape. ”You’ve finally found a way of dealing with the unbearable memories from the war. You should continue painting - it’ll do you good. And you’ve got an exceptionally fine sense of colouring.”

 

Something indescribable, warm and painful at the same time, suddenly grasped Harry’s heart at the words which he realised formed the first compliment he had ever received from Professor Severus Snape.

 

The Professor led Harry to the bed where Harry sat down. Somehow he did not seem to be able to take his gaze off Snape, now that he finally was able to endure the sight of the wizard. 

 

Snape did look at least a couple of years younger than he should be, Harry thought, transfixed. Maybe Dumbled… D… Yes, him… had taken the worst years off the Professor’s… As compensation or something… Harry smiled shrewdly  He almost said the headmaster’s name, didn’t he? He was definitely making progress, but it made him so tired, so very tired… The thoughts were floating sluggishly in his mind. What was the Professor saying, again? Harry knitted his eyebrows together in an effort to focus.

 

”I was saying that you may call me Severus,” said Snape. ”It might help you overcome the paradox of seeing me alive. Look at me as a new acquaintance, if you wish. One who was once dear friends with your mother and who would like to get to know you. Would that be acceptable to you?”

 

”Severus,” said Harry, slurring slightly from exhaustion as he struggled to lift his legs up on the bed. He was desperate to put himself in a prone position quickly, because he was falling asleep any moment now, and his limbs moved so exasperatingly slow. He finally managed, sunk back on the bed and his eyes closed of their own volition.

 

”Here’s a blanket for you,” said Severus’ gentle dark voice. 

 

A pleasant voice, thought Harry, like velvet, very much like velvet. Weird. Is he taking care of me? Is he really doing that? He defended me to Aunt Petunia, too. And he wants to get to know me. Severus Snape. So unbelievably strange.

 

”I will sit with you for a short while, only to make sure that you fall into a normal sleep and not some perilous unconsciousness,” continued Severus. The man must have drawn up a chair beside the bed. Harry struggled to search his mind. There was something he was wondering just now. He didn’t want to turn in just yet. Ah, there it was - a very important question.

”What are your feelings about spring, Severus?” he managed to enunciate. A faint chuckle came in answer.

 

”My sentiments for the season throughout the years have to a large extent coincided with what you described to me, Harry,” Severus replied and Harry recognised some of Professor Snape’s habitual irony. ”And those feelings were rightfully combined with loathing and irritation,” Severus continued. ”When you can’t have happiness, you have a tendency to dismiss everything that reminds you of it. This year, however,” Severus’ voice was lowered to a whisper and Harry felt himself starting to drift off. ”This year, I was resuscitated. I was reborn and rejuvenated just as nature itself in springtime and I assure you that to fully take part of that process was… exhilarating… unreal…”

 

”Unreal,” echoed Harry in a faint voice.

 

”Very different, no doubt, from your own state of mind this past month, but nonetheless, not without complications… Who could possibly come out unaffected by such an experience? It was overwhelming, you have no idea… and with a feeling of not knowing what to do with my newborn self. I will tell you another time, perhaps. Moreover, such a gift obliges, you know, Harry, indeed it does.” Snape made a pause, but continued after a while. ”There are so many things I discovered that I wanted to do. I’ve only got started. Getting to know you is one of my principal and most ardent wishes in this new life. I’ll come back later and we’ll see if we can start working on that, now that you can endure my presence better. Please, rest well now.”

 

The words soothed Harry’s mind, and with some kind of hope floating through his veins for the first time since the war, Harry slumbered into a much-needed sleep.

The End.
End Notes:
So this story ends here. The new, resurrected Severus Snape caught my curiosity, however, and I am currently writing a sequel to this story, from Snape’s point of view, exploring what happens to a person when given a new chance of life. I hope you liked this spring fic. Please leave a review!


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