Safeguard by MagnificentAndStrange
Past Featured StorySummary: Sometimes surviving means more than withstanding what is fated to occur. Sometimes it means finding a safe place to hide, or facing death to protect another’s life.

Sometimes it means letting go,

Sometimes it means holding on.
Categories: Fic Fests > Winter fest 2021 Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required)
Snape Flavour: Canon Snape, Snape Comforts
Genres: General
Media Type: None
Tags: Injured!Snape
Takes Place: 7th Year
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 7222 Read: 2569 Published: 04 Dec 2021 Updated: 04 Dec 2021
Story Notes:
Happy Holidays for all those celebrating winter holidays! I absolutely love the idea of Snape and Harry being on the run and having to work together and scrape a living from an unforgiving world, so I couldn’t resist this fic fest. I hope you enjoy!
Safeguard by MagnificentAndStrange
“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.” – Seneca the Younger


The coughing jarred Harry awake, his muscles tensing at each ragged exhale on the other side of the tent. He rolled over wearily from where he lie on the ground. The warming charms he’d cast earlier didn’t quite heat the floor of the tent and his feet stung with cold as he crossed the canvas toward the figure wakening on the cot.

It still seemed a sort of dream, to be here now, wand in hand but not pointed at the man who slowly pulled himself upright, face drawn with illness even as his dark eyes remained fixed on Harry with characteristic intensity, the trailing hem of his black robes pooling on the floor.

“Time?” Snape asked hoarsely, not looking away as he leaned heavily against the tent support pole, long pale fingers steadying himself before slowly edging toward the center of the room, another cough escaping him.

Harry shrugged tiredly, “late morning, I guess.”

It felt strange to no longer call the man before him ‘professor’, stranger still to no longer hate him or want to kill him for Dumbledore’s death. His eyes went to Snape’s sleeve where the cloth had been partially burned away weeks ago, a curse that could have done significant damage if the man hadn’t blocked sooner. The shiny burn on the forearm didn’t do anything to obscure the dark mark pulsing on the wizard’s skin.

Snape noticed him looking and the corner of his mouth moved in a motion that was more of a grimace than anything else, “Stop blaming yourself,” he instructed harshly and Harry glanced away, busying himself with summoning the kettle and charming it to fill with hot water.

It was easier said than done. Guilt was such a familiar creature to Harry, he’d blamed himself for leaving the Burrow with little more than a note, blamed himself for leaving behind Ron and Hermione when he knew that they had wanted to come with him. He could console himself with knowing that they were safer without him but there wasn’t much consolation in the damage he’d done to Snape. Harry could have killed him without knowing the truth.

Black eyes assessed him, Snape coughing before tilting his head in that proud motion Harry remembered from countless potions classes, looking down his large hooked nose in silent study, measuring Harry and finding him lacking. The effect wasn’t the same as it once was, perhaps because they weren’t blinded by hatred for one another anymore or more likely they were both too exhausted and caught up in survival to remotely resemble their former selves.

Snape reached for the worn table in the center of the room, steadying himself once more, hand going to the empty jar that lay on its side atop the dark wood. His hands trembled, chest heaving in ragged breaths but still fire slipped from his shaking fingers, filling the jar with blue flame and a strange heat in the room. Harry crossed bony arms over his chest, uncomfortable with the wandless magic that Snape could do without effort now. It was part of this illness, part of whatever Voldemort had done to the man before he could escape, maybe whatever spells Harry had cast at him as well.

“You should rest,” he insisted softly. Snape turned away in silent negation, long hair spilling down his back, blue-black in the cast light of the fire. He sat though at the table and Harry slowly approached, sitting across from him.

“He’s hurting you through the mark, isn’t he?” he asked and Snape’s mouth thinned, hands trembling. He jerked his head in a nod but said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say.

Harry had felt the few protective enchantments around the tent fall weeks ago, he’d gone out into the night, sure that he had only minutes to orchestrate an escape. He hadn’t expected it to be Snape, staggering into the clearing, injured and wandless. Harry had no memory of what spells he had cast, he had been so consumed with anger seeing Dumbledore’s killer after months of starvation and near misses with Death Eaters. It was, in hindsight, a good thing that his former professor had fast reflexes and apparently a strong will to survive. Snape had shocked them both with his new strange magic that had melted the snow in the clearing and set the woods nearly ablaze. He’d almost died then and it was only Harry’s stupid intention to see the man’s death through that had brought him close enough for Snape to use legilimency. From there, everything had made sense, or at least enough that holding on to years of animosity wasn’t worth it.

It had been over a month and a half since then and Snape wasn’t recovering so much as he was changing, his body failing as his magic grew stronger, needing to be used but hurting the man when he did. Harry desperately wished that Hermione were there to reassure him that such things had happened before in the wizarding world, but she wasn’t and Snape refused to speak about it.

“The barriers will have weakened by now,” Snape stated abruptly, the flickering blue fire catching the shadows beneath his eyes and his prominent cheekbones. His sharp glare at Harry made it clear the younger man probably wasn’t looking much better. Harry sighed, running a hand through his longish untidy hair, too exhausted to imagine moving but there wasn’t any bloody way he would let Snape wander around in the freezing cold to reset wards that needed to be strengthened often now to keep Voldemort from tracing them.

“I’ll set them,” he muttered, frowning in Snape’s direction, “don’t forget to eat.”

Snape sneered, eyes flashing mutinously in the cold light. Food had been scarce enough before but since Harry had apparated to northern Scotland to avoid a group of snatchers who had nearly caught him at his last makeshift campsite, it was near impossible. Harry had intended to move on from the frigid climate but Snape had shown up and there wasn’t any way they could travel now until the man started to recover or his magic stabilized better. They hadn’t discussed it much, Harry doing what he could to make sure the man wasn’t going to die, but Snape obviously knew the seriousness of the situation. Since then, they’d both avoided eating when they thought the other wouldn’t find out.

“I’ll do another supply run, under the cloak,” Harry announced quietly, summoning the kettle and pouring them both a mug of hot water, dropping the last tea bag into Snape’s.

He shot the man a look when Snape seemed like he might protest Harry’s risk-taking again. Even under the cloak, it was dangerous to venture where other people were, but they didn’t have much choice. Their food was almost gone and they weren’t going to find anything to forage in the cold now. Harry could feel the lethargy settling over him along with the inability to ever be warm that came after the pains of sharp hunger, but he’d felt it before at the Dursleys and he’d lived through that. He was more worried about Snape starving than himself. The man was already in bad shape from Voldemort and his new, unstable, magic.

“We’re too damn alike,” Snape had told him grimly once he’d awoken after Harry had dragged the injured man into the tent and set about trying to atone for what he’d done, still unsure how to wrap his mind around Snape not hating him anymore.

They were alike, Harry thought as he flinched at the intense cold on his first step outside the tent. Both of them were too damaged and stubborn to not keep trying to scrape a living out of the wilderness while simultaneously trying to find the next horcrux that had to be destroyed. He tilted his head back, snow wet against his skin as it fell silently from a steel gray sky.

He would be the last one to go. Snape hadn’t been able to hide that from him in that desperate exchange of memories, anymore than he could hide his refusal to even consider the possibility that Harry would have to die in order for Voldemort to be completely defeated. It was strange to know his future was planned out in such a way, each step closer to killing Voldemort another step closer to his own death. Yet, Harry felt only numbness as he walked from the tent, familiar enough with his casting to distinguish the perimeter of spells keeping them safe. Hadn’t he known as a child that he had been marked for death? He had merely been lucky all this time and luck always ran out.

Snow had fallen for most of the night, coating the rocky ground so that Harry moved carefully, recasting the wards at weakened points. Voldemort was looking for Snape, enraged at the man’s betrayal, if the enchantments fell apart…well, Harry had spent a lot of sleepless nights considering the very real possibility that he might die from a snatcher or Death Eater long before Voldemort had the chance to finish him off. It wasn’t exactly comforting but it was realistic at least.

His stomach clenched in hollow pain, his lungs hurting from the sharp frigid air as he shivered, the cold sinking instantly through the few layers of clothing he wore. He longed to see Hermione and Ron, to let them know he was still alive and reassure himself that they were as well. There were times when Ron’s humor would have been a welcome relief from the hunger and loneliness, and he could certainly use Hermione’s cleverness now, he mused, grimacing as he had to try multiple times before an enchantment held.

At least he had Snape. Harry almost laughed at that statement, unable to imagine a world where he would have believed that before, but well, traveling alone for months on end had been harder than he’d thought possible. Snape had done a lot over the years to keep him alive. The man hadn’t been very talkative or approachable over the last few weeks, but he was there.

Snowflakes clung to his long black hair and his jumper that had fit a good deal better last year. Now the fabric hung on his skeletal body, doing little to warm him. Harry paused at the copse of trees that Snape had first staggered through, hand tightening on his wand as he worked on strengthening another ward, still expecting to see the man’s blood bright against the white snow.

It was late morning when he was finally done stabilizing the wards, his limbs numb and fingers blue with cold when he ducked back into the tent. Snape looked up at him from where he still sat at the table, rolls of parchment spread out before him. A line appeared between the man’s brows, “Steal a coat the next time you leave for supplies,” he ordered, gesturing sharply to Harry who stumbled toward the table, holding out hands to the flickering blue flame that gave off such a powerful heat he wondered why the glass hadn’t melted from it.

“I haven’t left yet, the enchantments took longer than I thought they would,” he got out between chattering teeth, wincing as the melting snow in his hair begin to run down his collar.

Snape exhaled in irritation, the noise rough from coughing, “Then you must practice to do better. It’s crucial that you strengthen your nonverbal spellwork, it was appalling in my class last year. I will aid you in casting next time.”

Oddly, the criticism didn’t bother Harry, the mention of last year filling him with a sharp yearning for Hogwarts. He’d thought the war was bad in sixth year, but he hadn’t had a clue how much worse it would get. A part of him still believed that he could walk into Hogwarts and see fellow students milling around the Charms corridor, Dumbledore seated at the staff table of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall teaching transfiguration. He hadn’t had to witness the school being run by the Carrows, hadn’t had to see Voldemort tighten his grip there until it became unrecognizable.

“My nonverbal casting isn’t so bad anymore” Harry protested half-heartedly, flexing fingers painfully as he felt himself start to thaw a little, “you can’t –you need time to heal.”

“We don’t have time, Potter,” Snape snarled, trembling hands shoving the last Daily Prophet that Harry had managed to snatch two weeks ago toward him, “it’s been seven and half weeks since I left the Dark Lord’s circle, he will have already turned Hogwarts into a fortress by now.”

Harry looked down at the paper, seeing the flickering images of Death Eaters from the wrinkled front page being showered with random accolades as the Daily Prophet fought to remain in the winning side’s favor. It still felt like he’d been hit with a stunning spell having to consider Voldemort the victor. For now, he reminded himself firmly, glaring at the picture of Bellatrix and the Malfoys jeering up at him from the Hogwarts courtyard. Voldemort didn’t know that Harry was hunting horcruxes, and he hadn’t been able to find Snape. Even turning Hogwarts into his new headquarters didn’t change the fact that Snape was the reason the castle was empty of anyone left to torment.

The blue flames in the glass sputtered, magic falling over Harry, the warmth soothing compared to the freezing temperature outside even if the sensation of Snape’s unstable magic was a little unnerving. He stared at the paper, suddenly realizing the date printed in the upper corner and calculating the time since his last supply run, “it’s Christmas Eve,” he blurted out, face reddening at the raised eyebrow Snape gave him, “sorry, I just noticed –“

The man shook his head, silently cutting him off, “not quite how you’re used to celebrating?” he guessed bitterly.

Harry shrugged tiredly, pushing his black hair back from where it fell into his eyes, and adjusting his glasses from where they had slipped down the bridge of his nose when reading, “I never did much for it anyway, not until Hogwarts at any rate.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed at that and Harry couldn’t quite look at him. He knew Snape had seen as much in his mind as the man had thrown at him during that last impromptu legilimency. The man had even tried to bring the Dursleys up a few times but Harry wasn’t going to talk about it, especially not with someone he still was figuring out how to live with. He shoved the paper aside, ignoring Snape’s stare.

“We should review his defenses. He’ll find out eventually that we’re hunting horcruxes, we need to get rid of whatever we can before then.”

Snape nodded than hunched over, coughing, the noise harsh and continuous. Harry half-stood, wondering if he should get water but the man waved the floating kettle aside, his breathing unsteady once it passed, his eyes sunken as he gestured to their research efforts before him.

“Dumbledore was never forthright about the matter, as you well know. He destroyed the Gaunt ring, you destroyed Riddle’s diary, and I killed Nagini before my subsequent exodus but we have no information on where the others may be.”

Harry slumped back into his seat, reaching for the scribbled notes he’d jotted over the last few months, “right, yeah, let me just look over things again,” he mumbled, squinting at the red ink scattered across his writing.

He wasn’t against Snape adding information to his research but it felt a tad excessive for the man to cross out misspelled words and write acerbic comments along the edge of the parchment. Seriously, did Snape always carry red ink with him in case he was confronted with imperfect grammar? He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge that under his irritation the sight of his notes covered in Snape’s red ink made him even more homesick for Hogwarts and the easy familiarity of homework assignments and vindictive potions masters.

“How would you have celebrated?” Snape spoke suddenly into the silence and Harry looked up, uncertain at the intent stare the man was giving him again.

“What?” he asked, confused and Snape flexed trembling fingers, not looking away even as the glowing fire sparked in the jar, raw magic held and contained by more raw magic that Harry couldn’t begin to understand and wasn’t sure if Snape did either.

“Were we not in the middle of a war with an extremely powerful dark wizard looking for you, how would you have celebrated Christmas?” his former professor elaborated slowly, his black eyes not quite the remote iciness that Harry was used to seeing.

“I don’t know,” Harry frowned, shrugging and flipping the parchment over to read the notes on the back, “have a tree I guess, spend time with friends, give gifts, that sort of thing.”

Snape didn’t say anything else for a long while, the man’s calculating gaze returning to the parchment before him, his concentration now focused on keeping his hands steady as he scratched quill over paper, his ragged breathing on the edge of another cough.

“You are certain one of the horcruxes is at Hogwarts?” the man asked abruptly and Harry glanced over at him, watching as Snape added another thin line of spiky writing to his exhaustive notes. The letters were less shaky then before and Harry felt a burst of hope that maybe things were getting better. Snape seemed to have more control today at least, even with the muscles in his forearm twitching constantly from the pain of the dark mark. He tampered down any visible optimism though, knowing that Snape wouldn’t appreciate being congratulated for having better joined up writing than the day previous.

“I think so, I mean, Voldemort considered it his home for awhile,” Harry muttered, swallowing at the reminder of another glaring similarity he shared with the wizard who had murdered his parents. Snape tilted his head, watching him closely for a minute, those black eyes powerful and unreadable.

“Go. Get supplies, I will continue researching,” the man ordered, tone strangely gentle.

* * *


Potter left at mid-day, hands disappearing in and out of thin air as he shook out his invisibility cloak, fiddling with the fabric, “You’re sure that you’ll be okay?” he asked suddenly and Severus drew his own cloak tighter to himself, irritated at how to respond to the boy’s concern. He sent a glare in Potter’s direction but even that was half-hearted. He had grown to know Potter well enough to know that the boy’s worry over his wellbeing was genuine, if misplaced.

The boy had no self-preservation skills whatsoever, he was a fool to not prioritize his own health when the Dark Lord wanted him dead. He looked as if he’d collapse in a pile of bones if he went without food any longer and that was the only reason Severus insisted he leave. Outside the wards, anything could happen and he was still not well enough to travel or to adequately protect the boy if trouble occurred, which always seemed to around Potter.

Potter sighed, before unexpectedly offering a small half-smile, dropping the cloak over himself and vanishing. Severus remained still, the raw magic inside him aware of molecules displaced differently in the air, sensing the boy moving outside before disapparating.

He stared at the parchment before him without seeing it. It was bad enough that living with Potter made Severus all too aware of how much of the boy was Lily, most notably her compassion, and her fiery temper. It was that much harder to acknowledge that the boy had her expressions as well. There had been little to smile over during their time in hiding, even for Potter who didn’t fully know how dangerous the magical world’s predicament was right now. Yet, Severus remembered seeing that smile directed at him years ago, barely there that first day in potions class, right before he’d done his best to eviscerate any positive emotion Potter could have ever had in his presence.

Pain sparked though his arm, the fire in the jar whirling as the dark mark twisted on his skin and Severus exhaled between his teeth. There was much to atone for, if this pain was to be his punishment, it was still not enough to right the wrongs he’d committed. Clumsily he stood, coughing and steadying himself. The blue fire in the jar snapped brighter and he reached out, long pale fingers collecting the flame that seared not with heat but power, stuttering Severus’ breath before it calmed, slowly reabsorbing into his flesh.

It was instinctual to use occlumency to distance his mind from the feel of magic rushing through his veins, the sensation frightening in a way he could not admit aloud, certainly not to Potter who operated purely on recklessness when confronted with hereto unknown forms of magic. His lungs expanded, fought for breath, his bones sharp with bright pain at the surge of power and Severus staggered, the shields concealing his mind flickering. They held, but barely. He trembled, struggling to stay on his feet as the magic settled reluctantly inside him.

It helped to pull it out of him as fire, but it made him weaker and it was unwise to be completely defenseless when he did not have a wand nor was physically strong enough to escape if a Death Eater happened upon where Potter and him were hiding. Severus coughed again, grimacing at his own vulnerability. He turned on his heel, pulling aside the tent flap shakily and stepping outside.

The cold struck him, his lungs seizing, the outside bright and strange after weeks of being mostly inside the tent. It was a relief to be free of staring at the same canvas walls for hours on end and Severus moved slowly, eyeing his surroundings. The snow covered ground and strand of pine trees looked very similar to a postcard Lily had once sent him at Hogwarts when she had gone abroad with her family for Christmas holiday and he had remained in the castle.

The clearing had half a foot of snow along the rocky ground. He didn’t know exactly where in the Highlands they were, but the terrain was mountainous enough that it was likely that Potter had chosen a place closer to Hogwarts than Severus was comfortable with. His hands shook at the thought of the school, his only true home, now as nothing more than a fortress where Voldemort could ready his expanding ranks of dark creatures and Death Eaters to unleash upon the world. If a horcrux was in the castle it would be impossible for Potter and him to find it. His betrayal of the Dark Lord had made Voldemort particularly intent on killing both of them, and Severus hissed as his dark mark seared with constant pain now.

It had burned briefly like this when he and the Carrows had stood before the Dark Lord and listened to his new plan, one Voldemort had expected Severus to be eager to be part of. Snatchers were already holding children hostage, the Dark Lord saw no reason not to gain political power with similar tactics.

“Those of inferior blood will be slaughtered tonight,” the Dark Lord had murmured, long white fingers stroking Nagini’s head as she coiled around the back of his chair at Malfoy Manor, “the youngest will be held to ensure their parents’ bidding and disposed of when they are no longer useful. Students above fourth year will be welcome in my ranks, provided they prove their worth.”

It should not have been surprising to know that the Dark Lord was planning to kill or recruit most of Britain’s magical children, but Severus had not thought the wizard would move so quickly to secure command of the war. Voldemort had become obsessed with finding Potter and had been content to leave the school to Snape and the Carrows until then. Severus had said nothing other than murmured acquiesce though, putting forward in his mind what the Dark Lord wished to see whilst behind his occlumency shields he had planned quickly.

He had had only twenty-one minutes to empty the school and had acted accordingly, disposing of the Carrows the moment they flooed back to the Headmaster’s office with him and summoning Minerva. She hadn’t wanted to listen, had nearly drawn her wand on him before he and Dumbledore’s portrait could explain anything and even then the only thing that had truly convinced her was the urgency of the moment and his open determination to get every child he could out of the castle before Voldemort arrived.

It had been the finest hour of his fellow staff as personal differences and mistrust had been put aside for the sake of the school. Filius had disabled the floo network from tracking the dozens of Hogwarts floos that frightened children stumbled through. There had been brief letters signed by Minerva and Severus, and duplicated hundreds of times, that attested to the dangers and encouraged families to flee at once. Each child had received one before being flooed to safety, regardless if their parents were Death Eaters. It had been too late anyway to conceal his hand and so Severus had matched Minerva in boldness, joining Pomona and Horace in setting wards against the Dark Lord, knowing they wouldn’t hold but hoping to buy more time. It had been much harder to convince the staff to leave, he’d had to stun Minerva and command a house elf to transport her to an Order safehouse. And than, the Dark Lord had arrived and Severus had walked toward the gates, believing he had been walking toward his own death.

It should have been that way when the Dark Lord realized that Severus had not only betrayed him but had been actively working against him for years and Hogwarts castle stood completely empty of victims. Severus had expected torture and a gruesome death for himself. It was no less than he deserved for his past, but Voldemort had made the mistake in believing Severus would not dare to raise a wand against him. Curse after curse had broken through Severus’ defenses even as he had pulled magic from every part of himself and dueled the dark wizard with a ferocity and skill he had not known he had.

Something had gone wrong between one curse and another, he could not remember how, could only remember casting the killing curse at the Dark Lord and Nagini lunging for him, the spell hitting her instead and Voldemort’s scream at the death of the giant snake. The retaliating spell cast at him should have burned Severus alive but his magic caught and held it and burned within, blue fire escaping and Severus’ only memory left of the battle was of needing to get outside the apparition wards and go where safety could be found.

How that had meant Potter was another bizarre mystery but he presumed it was the nearness of Potter’s hidden location to Hogwarts. Severus couldn’t have traveled far with the condition he had been in. The toll of apparating and the shock of realizing the emaciated longhaired man sending curses at him was Potter, had nearly killed him.

He knew the boy still felt guilt over the matter. Severus’ brow furrowed, he couldn’t understand him. He’d been cruel to Potter for years and yet the boy had not hated him after seeing Severus’ memories. He had done what he could to try to help and had not feared living with his former tormenter when the man could have easily set the tent on fire the first few weeks of both of them trying to understand Severus’ new magic.

Severus walked carefully, watchful out of habit. Not even wildlife would be able to breach the protective enchantments. The subsequent silence was particularly loud without the boy nearby. He glanced up at the sky, glaring at the lack of direct sunlight to gauge the time. He disliked Potter’s supply runs, all it did was remind him that he was using more resources than what he could give and the thousands of dangers that he could not protect the boy from. The sting of raw magic stuttered through his veins and he clenched hands into fists, determined to remain in control.

“Wouldn’t it be better, to let the magic take over for awhile?” Potter had asked in the early days of living together and it had been all that Severus could do to not throw something at the wall in frustration. He could not abide something having power over him, not the Dark Lord and certainly not whatever raw magic was within him now. Worse, was knowing that Potter was probably right and it was his own fear stopping him from coming to terms with wielding magic wandlessly.

Severus swayed with fatigue, a cough breaking forth. He glared at the deserted clearing, hating the cold picturesque forest that he had nearly died in. Perhaps he should have let the magic win then and burned the woods to the ground. It was humming against his skin, ready to come forward as fire and Severus stilled, realizing that it wasn’t only his own magic he was sensing but the magic surrounding the clearing. He drew in a breath, aware that he could feel each individual ward and under that Potter’s steady, if untrained, magic holding everything in place.

He turned, taking in the clearing. He could sense the wards stronger than he had weeks before, stronger than yesterday. Potter’s magic was white light visible not to the eye but yet some part of him could see it. Magic, he had always believed was of the mind, but this was more than what could remain in his shields, it flooded through him, a current of power and Severus held out his hand. “Fire,” he whispered and it leapt into his fingers, the transfer painless, his lungs able to breathe normally for the first time in weeks.

He studied the flickering blue flame along his pale hand. Was this how Potter felt as a Parselmouth, untamed magic controlled not through strength of will but acceptance? The raw magic within did not exist to harm him, it was merely there, waiting for him to understand it and Severus curled fingers into a fist, silently extinguishing the flame. It didn’t hurt to pull it back into his skin anymore. He could breathe easier even as the dark mark burned with agonizing intensity.

It was a flaw of Voldemort’s, he reasoned with a small mirthless smile, to go to such lengths to harm that he would inadvertently hand his enemies weapons. The magic that should have burned Severus alive was beginning to respond to his commands, just as the horcruxes that should have guaranteed Voldemort immortality would bring about the Dark Lord’s downfall.

A cold wind stirred his long black hair and robes. Severus lifted his head, moving toward the forest far steadily than he had earlier. He remembered the flashes of images from Potter’s mind during that fateful encounter in the same woods. The explanation of the horcruxes as vivid as his own despair at realizing exactly what Dumbledore meant when he said that Harry would die.

There were other images that came to his mind often now. He thought he had known in the boy’s fifth year about Potter’s childhood. He had told Albus then that the boy should not be returned to the care of his muggle relatives, but he had not felt Potter’s pain firsthand until the boy had held him at wandpoint, unafraid of the blue fire burning the snow around them, flickering from the blood spilling out of Severus. He had refused to see it for years but now he had enough of Potter’s memories in his head to know the damage such abuse and neglect wrought: the way the boy’s relatives had spoken of him as if he were too disgusting to openly acknowledge, the forced labor, the emotional abuse and bullying, the starvation and locking up of a child who had tried so hard to be good, who was still trying even now.

It shouldn’t have angered Severus to learn that the boy hadn’t been allowed gifts or a damn tree during Yule until Hogwarts, yet it served as a reminder of everything that Potter had been deprived of.

It was colder in the forest and Severus stopped, grimacing as his dark mark continued to lance brutal agony into his bones. ‘Heal’ he directed his magic silently, sure it would do nothing only to feel the hum of it slip through him toward the pain. Nothing could remove the dark mark, nor stop the Dark Lord’s intent on torturing him from afar but it dulled the pain some and Severus exhaled roughly, surprised that his first thought was not of researching his new skill more but only, Potter will want to see this.

It was strange to want to share anything with someone, even knowledge, but stranger still to know it was Harry Potter that he was eager to relay his findings to. Severus shook his head at the ridiculous idea that had been circling his mind for hours, but he strode forward with determination nonetheless. The boy and him had no one else to rely on but each other. It would have to do.

* * *


It was near dusk when Harry entered the wards, shivering but definitely warmer with a coat over his clothing. He pulled off the invisibility cloak, shaking snow off it and stuffing it into his coat pocket, grimacing slightly. He didn’t really like stealing but he didn’t have any muggle money and they needed food. He shouldn’t have nicked the coat but no one had seen him under the invisibility cloak and it had been Snape’s idea in the first place.

It had snowed during his absence and his trainers slipped a bit as he trudged through the snow, breath visible in the darkness as he came through the trees and glimpsed the tent. It looked much smaller from the outside, the tent walls clearly visible in the night as blue light shone from within.

Harry paused for a moment, feeling a strange sort of longing. It was an odd loneliness, the sorrow so intense that he had to look away, up toward the sky where stars glittered coldly above him. For some reason all he could think of were his parents, wondering if this is how his family would have lived were they still alive and hiding out from Voldemort with him. Would he have grown up in hiding if the fidelius charm hadn’t been broken? Would his parents have trained him to fight? Or would they have tried to protect him from realizing his every step was haunted? He didn’t know and that hurt worse, the awareness that he would never know them well enough to say with certainty what they would have been like as a family.

His arms ached from the heavy bags of food he carried and Harry bit his lip, pushing aside the depressing thoughts and hurrying toward the tent. It was only because he’d seen families wandering the muggle village, people leaving pubs and homes and wishing one another ‘Happy Christmas’ that made the day worse than usual.

Harry shuddered, face and hands stinging from the cold as he shouldered his way through the tent opening, “sorry, it took longer at the shops than I –“

He stopped short, barely in the entrance, only the reflexive grip of a Quidditch seeker stopping him from dropping the bags he held. Snape was seated at the table, still scribbling notes on parchment, the jar of blue fire now hovering near the ceiling, filling the tent with comforting warmth. Snape glanced up, moving from the table with an ease Harry hadn’t seen in the weeks they had lived together. Flames flickered in the jar, providing maximum light upon the small pine tree standing upright in the center of the tent.

Slowly, Harry set down the bags of groceries, looking toward the potions master, unsure if this was an elaborate dream or a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of food. Snape crossed arms over his black robes, face deliberately blank, but his eyes displayed just enough discomfort to confirm that he had somehow managed to bring a tree into their tent for Christmas Eve for no other reason than that Harry had mentioned it earlier.

“How?“ Harry murmured, stepping closer to the tree, thin hand reaching to brush against the long needles. He could not stop staring at the pine, green eyes wide, a sensation in his chest akin to pain at how unexpectedly wonderful it was to have this moment of childlike happiness when the entire wizarding world was falling apart around them.

Snape said nothing, moving into the light slowly. Harry stilled, watching as the man flexed his fingers, blue fire trailing along his open hand, hovering above his palm with effortless grace. “You’ve done it, then?” Harry exclaimed, dropping his hand away from the tree to stare in elation at Snape, aware that the lines on the man’s angular face were no longer deep with pain, the other wizard’s hands steady, his breathing calm, “you’ve found a way to control it?”

“Not necessarily control,” Snape clarified pointedly, eyes narrowing in thought, “I believe I can use it though and that it will no longer harm me to do so.”

“It’s healing you though, isn’t it?” Harry asked, taking a few steps forward to closely examine the blue flames that flickered over his former professor’s hands, blurring into the skin only to merge once more along the fingers.

Snape inclined his head, his expression calculating, “in a way,” he met Harry’s eyes, “your earlier assumption was correct, Potter. Allowing the magic to move freely has given me further insight on how to best utilize it. Keeping it tightly controlled was causing more harm than good.”

Harry grinned quickly, eyebrow raising in a subconscious imitation of Snape, “so I was right.”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Snape snapped, the flames melding back into his skin, surrounding his visible twisting dark mark with blue light momentarily as if warding off the burning pain there.

“And the tree?” Harry asked, flushing at how young and hesitant he suddenly sounded.

“You expressed an interest in having one for Christmas Eve, did you not?” Snape said in a tone that seemed deliberately removed. He waved a hand in a dismissive manner, stepping around Harry and picking up one of the shopping bags, “it’s not exactly the grandeur you’ve seen in the Great Hall.”

“It’s perfect, Sir,” Harry insisted, brow furrowing as he stared at the small tree, “I never expected…” his voice trailed off and he swallowed roughly, unable to finish his sentence. He could not picture Snape willingly doing something so sentimental while he was gone, nor had Harry thought that either one of them would have lived long enough to make it to Christmas Eve.

They made dinner together silently, Snape still looked like he hadn’t slept or ate in days but he was stronger than before, his hands no longer trembling as he stirred a pot of soup over the stove. Harry set aside a few slices of bread, using a dull knife to quarter a small apple up for them. It felt strange to have enough food to amount to a meal and to feel genuine happiness to be able to share it with Snape. It should have been one of the worst Christmases, considering everything, but it wasn’t. Harry couldn’t explain why, except that somehow sharing a tent with his once hated potions master meant more than any Christmas had at the Dursleys. His relatives had never given him anything without intending to hurt or humiliate him, but Snape had done something for him simply because he knew that deep down Harry had hoped for it.

It helped a lot, Harry thought, sitting cross-legged in front of the tree after the meal, just not being on his own to face what would come. Snape moved around the tent, rolling up parchment and summoning the kettle wandlessly, the other wizard’s presence something Harry could rely on during the difficult days ahead. He sighed heavily, looking at the tree, mouth quirking at the jar of fire above, blue flame glinting off glass to send bursts of color along the branches, the smell of pine lingering in the tent.

A soft weight landed on his shoulders and Harry glanced up, reaching awkwardly to adjust the wool blanket Snape had dropped partially on him. The older man unexpectedly extended a chipped mug of tea, muttering something about idiotic Gryffindors choosing to sit on cold floors, and Harry took the steaming cup carefully, sipping at it and relishing the additional warmth of the strong bitter tea that Snape preferred.

“Thank you,” he stated after a long silence, looking over at Snape who sat on the end of his cot, his own cup of tea in hand, “for everything.”

Snape shook his head, “it’s not exactly gift-giving and friendship as you requested,” he muttered dryly, blue light shining along the ink-black color of his hair and robes, his dark eyes fixed on Harry as if he were still trying to figure him out.

Harry tilted his head, unable to prevent a small wistful smile, “it kind of is, in a way,” he confessed, voice quiet in the small tent.

His green eyes trailed back to the tree, watching the jarred fire of Snape’s raw magic glint inside the glass, scattering blue reflections over the pine. The earlier sorrow hadn’t gone away nor had the knowledge that there were several horcruxes still left to find and destroy. Voldemort was getting stronger while Snape and him struggled just to survive, and yet tangled up in all that was the unexpected comfort of knowing that he wasn’t alone, that despite everything there was still joy to be found in life. Harry took another sip of the hot tea, feeling warm for the first time in ages.

“Happy Christmas, Sir,” he said softly.
The End.
End Notes:
This Deathly Hallows AU fic was entered for the Potions and Snitches 2021 Winter Fic Fest (also posted on ao3) and includes the prompts: Christmas on the run + Winter camping + Picking out the perfect tree + Snape noticing harry not being dressed for winter + Snape making harry tea + Pandemic, sickness, isolation + the number 21.

I don’t know where the idea of Snape having unknown powers/fire magic came from but my mind is a strange place and I couldn’t help myself, *sheepish shrug *. Thanks for reading!


This story archived at http://www.potionsandsnitches.org/fanfiction/viewstory.php?sid=3735