Chapter Text
Severus had not given them much thought until Harry mentioned them offhandedly one afternoon. The Dursleys. The name had slipped from Harry’s mouth with the same casual detachment he used for the weather, as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience.
By then, Severus had been teaching the boy for several months. After the war ended, Harry had refused to return to Hogwarts, unwilling to face the curious stares, the whispered gratitude, the weight of being a symbol when all he wanted was to breathe. Severus, for his part, had little interest in placing himself back under the Ministry’s eye. He was still hunted by remnants on both sides of the war. There were those who despised him for the spy he had been, and those who hated him for betraying them. He could not fault either group. He still woke some nights clawing his way out of nightmares where the things he had done in the name of the greater good were turned back on him, mirrored and multiplied.
And somehow, in the midst of all that, he found himself living in the increasingly peculiar sprawl of Peverell Manor.
He taught underage war heroes advanced theory in the mornings, consulted on Neville’s botanical inventions in the afternoons, and spent his evenings pretending he did not find the entire arrangement absurd. Harry seemed convinced that Severus’s proximity to Death—or Ferren, as Severus began calling the being after his conversations with Ignotus—meant Severus was unlikely to be going anywhere for a very long time.
Severus would never admit it aloud, but there were worse places to be anchored.
He enjoyed being near his godson, and near Ferren, both of whom resided comfortably within the manor’s wards. Harry had even persuaded the house itself to expand Severus’s rooms, coaxing stone and magic into forming a conjoined potions laboratory that was far better equipped than anything Severus had possessed at Hogwarts. Neville Longbottom, it turned out, could grow nearly anything he set his mind to, which meant Severus was never lacking in rare or temperamental ingredients. For the first time in his life, access was not something he had to beg, steal, or bargain for.
It was comfortable at Peverell Manor. Quiet. Predictable in a way Severus had not known he needed after decades of living as though balancing on the edge of a blade. And yet, comfort had never made Severus a forgiving man.
Which was why, when Harry complained one afternoon to Severus and Ted—after a sparring session that had left him flushed and loose-limbed—that his right collarbone still ached from where his uncle had broken it as a child, Severus found himself unable to remain still.
The words struck with a delayed violence. Broken. As a child.
In the months since moving into Peverell Manor, Severus had begun to understand just how brutal Harry’s upbringing under Petunia Dursley and her husband had been. Ted Tonks, professional and ethical to a fault, never disclosed the details of what Harry revealed during treatments. He did not need to. The potions and restorative balms Severus were tasked with brewing told their own story. Reinforcement draughts. Long-term nutrient solutions. Salves designed not for healing fresh injuries, but for repairing damage that had been allowed to set, to fester, to become part of the body itself.
Harry had told him on that first night in the manor that he had lived in a cupboard. Starved. Beaten. Severus had believed him, of course. But belief was an abstract thing, distant enough to survive.
The fact that Harry still required specialised nutrient potions months later was not.
That was when it truly settled in, heavy and sickening, that the abuse had been far worse than Severus had allowed himself to imagine.
Now that the war was over, and his mind was no longer consumed with the singular task of keeping children alive while orchestrating the slow destruction of a Dark Lord, Severus discovered just how easily his focus could drift. The silence that followed victory had left space for other thoughts. Dangerous ones.
It began quietly.
One evening, as though it were nothing more than idle curiosity, Severus had asked Harry whether he ever intended to face the Dursleys again. He had kept his tone deliberately mild, supportive rather than probing, careful not to push where the boy might retreat. Harry, stretched out on the rug with a book half-forgotten beside him, had snorted softly and said that if he never saw them again, it would still be far too soon.
There had been a pause then, thoughtful rather than bitter. Harry had admitted that Dudley, at least, had seemed to change toward the end. He had stopped tormenting Harry outright. Once, he had even taken the blame for something to stop Vernon from hitting him. It had not been kindness, exactly, but it had been something like the beginning of a conscience.
Severus had filed that away carefully. Important information. Perhaps the cousin was not beyond saving.
Petunia Dursley and her husband, however, were another matter entirely.
Eventually, Severus stood at the edge of his bed, drawing on the robes he kept for only one purpose. They were cut in sharp, unforgiving lines, dark and severe, woven with old magic meant to intimidate before a single spell was cast. He fastened them with methodical care, his expression unreadable, his intent anything but.
“What are you plotting, my dear Severus?” Ferren asked mildly from the bed.
Severus did not turn. “Don’t play coy,” he replied, already reaching for his boots. “Are you coming or not.”
By the time he sat to lace them, Ferren was no longer reclining. The god knelt before him without ceremony, slender fingers taking the laces from Severus’s hands and tying them with deliberate care. The intimacy of the gesture was unhurried, unrepentant.
“Of course I am coming,” Ferren said, looking up at him. Their eyes gleamed, ancient and delighted, and the smile that curved their lips was just a touch too feral to belong on such a beautiful face. “I had to miss your glory in battle last time. I will not make that mistake again.”
Severus rolled his eyes as he stood and offered Ferren a hand, hauling them easily to their feet. He would never admit it aloud, but there was something profoundly unsettling and profoundly affirming in being so thoroughly seen. Ferren knew every sharp edge of him. Every dark impulse. And still, they chose to stand at his side.
The manor was quiet as they moved through it, deep in the sort of sleep that only came when wards were strong and danger felt far away. Everything was proceeding precisely as Severus had planned.
Which was, as usual, the moment it all went wrong.
A soft shuffle echoed from the staircase. Severus froze just as Harry appeared at the top step, hair mussed, glasses slightly askew, eyes heavy with sleep but far too sharp to miss the sight before him.
Severus, fully dressed for violence. Ferren, radiant and far too pleased with themselves.
“Where the hell are you going,” Harry asked, blinking slowly, “looking like that at three in the morning?”
Ferren stood just behind Severus. He did not need to see their face to know they would never lie to Harry. Not for convenience. Not for strategy. Not for him. Nor would they tolerate Severus doing so outright.
Which meant Severus had exactly one option.
“I am going to see an… old acquaintance,” he said smoothly, skirting the edge of truth with practiced ease.
Harry squinted at him. “Now?”
Severus raised a brow, schooling his expression into calm disdain. “Not everyone keeps regular hours, Harry. Do I need to report my movements to you now?”
Harry’s unimpressed stare matched his own. “You? No,” he said flatly. “But when you start leaving the house with a god of death who is more mischievous than the Weasley twins combined, I think anyone would call that a red flag.”
Severus opened his mouth to reply, already assembling something suitably scathing, but Harry shook his head before he could speak.
“You know what,” Harry said tiredly, waving a hand. “I don’t want to know. Plausible deniability and all that. Hermione’s been telling me for years that I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, and tonight I am very intentionally unsticking my nose.”
He turned without waiting for a response and padded back down the corridor, disappearing toward his rooms and, presumably, his bed.
Severus watched him go, something tight and complicated twisting in his chest.
When he looked back, Ferren was smoothing their robes as though nothing of note had just occurred, utterly unbothered by the fact that they had nearly been caught in the act of heading out to exact revenge on the people who had shaped Harry’s childhood with cruelty and neglect.
Severus sighed, shaking his head once as he reached for the door. Some things, it seemed, never changed.
Together, they stepped out into the night and began the walk toward the edge of the wards.
When they landed, it took Severus a moment to find his bearings. The air was wrong. Flat. Devoid of magic in a way that made his skin prickle unpleasantly. Every house in the neat, soulless neighbourhood looked identical, lined up in obedient rows like soldiers awaiting inspection. He turned once, then again, scowling as he nearly took the wrong path twice before the numbers finally resolved themselves into something recognizable.
Number four, Privet Drive.
Severus took only a few steps toward the front door before he stopped dead, every instinct screaming in protest at a sound he had not expected to hear here of all places.
A very familiar amphibian croaked softly.
“Shh,” Ferren murmured, glancing down into the pocket of their robes. “You promised to be quiet so he wouldn’t notice.”
Severus turned slowly, dread curdling into outrage. “You did not bring that blasted toad with you.”
He scarcely had time to finish the sentence before Trevor’s head popped out of the pocket, eyes bright and smug, letting out a small but distinctly proud croak.
Ferrens lips twitched. “He wanted to come.”
“For the love of—” Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to hex something immediately. “This is not some educational outing. You do not take your familiar on a revenge mission.”
Ferren looked genuinely affronted, one hand lifting protectively toward the pocket, though Severus could tell the expression was exaggerated. Their eyes were far too amused for true offense. “Trevor is not a mere familiar,” they said solemnly. “He is a friend. And friends go on adventures together.”
Severus stared at them for a long moment, then turned back toward the house with a slow shake of his head. “I have completely lost the plot,” he muttered. “That is the only possible explanation.”
The house loomed before them, lights dark, curtains drawn tight. Ordinary. Unremarkable. It was almost insulting that something so mundane could have held so much cruelty within its walls.
Just before reaching the door, Severus paused and turned back to face them both, eyes sharp and uncompromising. “Not a sound,” he warned. “From either of you.”
Trevor sank back into the pocket, chastened but still clearly pleased with himself.
Ferren merely smiled, serene and terrible.
Severus squared his shoulders, raised his hand, and unlocked the door.
Surrey Couple Reported Missing After Overnight Disappearance
Police Appeal for Information as Son Left Alone at Family Home
Surrey, England — Police are appealing to the public for information following the unexplained disappearance of a married couple from their home in Little Whinging, Surrey, in the early hours of Tuesday morning.
Petunia Dursley, 45, and her husband Vernon Dursley, 47, were reported missing after failing to attend work and leaving their teenage son alone at the family residence on Privet Drive. The disappearance is being treated as a missing persons case, though authorities say the circumstances are unusual.
According to Surrey Police, officers were alerted after a concerned work acquaintance attempted to contact the Dursleys repeatedly throughout the morning with no response. When the acquaintance arrived at the property later that afternoon, they found the couple’s son at home alone, confused and unaware of his parents’ whereabouts.
“There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle,” a police spokesperson said. “Personal belongings including wallets, handbags, mobile phones, and the family car were left behind. This suggests the couple did not intend to be gone for an extended period of time.”
Neighbours on Privet Drive reported nothing out of the ordinary during the night. Several described the area as “quiet as usual,” with no unusual noises, vehicles, or disturbances noted between midnight and dawn.
“I walk my dog every morning at about half past five,” said neighbour Margaret Collins, who lives two houses down from the Dursleys. “Everything looked completely normal. Lights were off, curtains drawn. If something happened, it was very quiet.”
Police have confirmed that CCTV from nearby streets is currently being reviewed. So far, no footage has surfaced showing Petunia or Vernon Dursley leaving the area on foot or by vehicle.
The couple’s son, whose name is being withheld due to his age, is currently staying with relatives while the investigation continues. Authorities emphasized that he is safe and being supported.
Petunia Dursley is described as a white British woman, approximately 5’6”, with light brown hair usually worn short. Vernon Dursley is described as a white British man, approximately 5’10”, with dark hair and a stocky build. (See photos on page 4) Both were last seen at their home on the evening prior to their disappearance.
Friends and colleagues expressed shock at the news, describing the Dursleys as routine-oriented and predictable.
“Vernons the sort of man who never misses work,” said a co-worker of Vernon Dursley, who asked not to be named. “Vernon was very particular about schedules. For him not to call in or show up is completely out of character.”
Police are asking anyone who may have seen the couple during the night or early morning hours, or who may have noticed unfamiliar vehicles or individuals in the area, to come forward.
“We are particularly interested in any sightings between midnight and 4 a.m.,” the police spokesperson said. “Even information that may seem insignificant could prove vital.”
At this time, authorities are not ruling out any possibilities, though they stress there is no immediate evidence of foul play. The investigation remains ongoing.
Anyone with information is urged to contact Surrey Police on 101, quoting reference LPD/4721/25, or to provide information anonymously via Crimestoppers.
As Privet Drive returns to its usual stillness, the unanswered questions surrounding the Dursleys’ disappearance continue to trouble residents, leaving a quiet suburban street at the center of an unsettling mystery.
“Do I want to know what the two of you got up to last night?” Harry asked, eyeing Death across the table.
Death sat opposite him, perfectly at ease, Trevor settled contentedly in their lap like he belonged there. One long, pale hand rested absently against the toad’s back, fingers moving in slow, soothing strokes.
“No,” Death replied simply.
Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. That tracked. He was fairly certain Snape and Death had gotten into some variety of trouble after he’d caught them sneaking out in the middle of the night, both dressed far too deliberately for anything innocent. But experience had taught him that when Death said you did not want to know something, you truly did not. There were some truths better left unexamined, particularly where Severus and divine beings with a fondness for chaos were concerned.
He let the subject drop and looked down at the stone resting in his palm.
The Resurrection Stone was the only Hallow he did not use with any regularity. The Invisibility Cloak came out often enough, whether for practical errands or the occasional, harmless prank. The Elder Wand had become his primary wand after they discovered Harry’s holly wand had chosen Neville so thoroughly after every other wand in Ollivander’s shop had refused to work for Neville at all. Apparently, the wand decided Harry didn’t need it anymore and Neville was its new favourite.
But the stone was different.
Harry turned it slowly between his fingers, the surface cool and familiar in a way that still made his chest tighten. He had learned early on that the stone could only summon those who had not yet moved on to the next life. When he discovered that, the knowledge had struck him with a complicated mix of grief and relief. His parents. Sirius. Remus. All of them had gone on. Truly gone. He missed them fiercely, but knowing they were at peace mattered more than his own longing.
There was a cruelty in holding onto ghosts.
Harry understood now why Cadmus Peverell had lost his sanity. There was a particular kind of pain in being faced with the echo of someone you loved, knowing they were neither fully here nor allowed to leave. Worse still was the knowledge that calling them back, again and again, tethered them to a world they no longer belonged to.
He exhaled slowly.
Things were different now, though. There was one soul he knew had not yet moved on. Death had explained it carefully, without judgment. A soul that had been split so violently, so repeatedly, needed time to knit itself back together. Healing came even after death, but it was not immediate.
Harry could summon Tom.
“If it is any assistance,” Death said gently, watching him with those unfathomable eyes, “I believe it would be good for you both. Your farewell was sudden and incomplete. He has expressed a desire to see you while he still has time.”
Harry looked up sharply. “You speak to him?”
“Sometimes,” Death replied. “I do not often take note of any one soul or life as closely as I have yours. But Tom, like you, is… singular. Soul magic is not new to this world. What he did was not unprecedented in theory. But never before has someone so thoroughly undone themselves. Never so completely. And never by their own hand.”
Harry’s grip tightened around the stone.
The thought of Tom, no longer Voldemort, no longer fractured into something monstrous, lingered at the edge of his mind. A boy who had been broken long before he ever chose to become cruel. A soul still healing, waiting.
Harry swallowed, heart heavy and uncertain, and closed his fingers around the stone.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer alone.
Tom stood a few feet in front of him, the edges of his form soft and luminous. He was not a ghost in the traditional sense. There was no pallor, no drifting translucence that spoke of something unfinished or trapped. Instead, his body was transparent with a faint wash of color beneath it. He looked no older than twenty-five, dark hair neatly cut, posture relaxed rather than coiled. His face held none of the sharp hunger Harry associated with Voldemort. What rested there instead was something gentler.
Peace.
Tom’s eyes met his, and his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “Hello, Harry.”
Harry felt his chest tighten, not with fear surprisingly, but with something tender and aching. “Hey, Tom.”
For a moment they simply stood there, looking at one another. Harry was acutely aware of how steady Tom seemed. Whole in a way Harry had never seen before, not even in the dreamscape.
“I’m glad I was able to speak with you again,” Tom said softly. “Now that I have… had time to understand you.”
Harry lifted his brows slightly. “Oh?”
Tom’s smile widened, just a fraction. “I could not see it before. Not clearly. But what you did for me, for that fragment of myself that lived within you, was nothing short of extraordinary.” His gaze flicked briefly to Harry’s scar, not with guilt, but with reverence. “You offered compassion where none was deserved. You chose mercy when hatred would have been easier.”
Harry swallowed, unsure what to say.
“It made me realize something,” Tom continued. “What you are is rare. Special. Even when I was broken, even when I was filled with rage and terror and hunger, Voldemort knew it. He felt it instinctively.” Tom’s expression sobered, though it did not darken. “It is why he wanted you so badly. Why he was obsessed. He mistook it for power he could take, instead of humanity he could never possess.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
“I am… saddened,” Tom said after a moment, voice quiet and sincere, “to know that I was a source of so much pain and suffering for you. For so many others.” He held Harry’s gaze, unflinching. “I cannot undo what was done. But I am grateful that I was given the chance to know you. Truly know you, even briefly.”
Harry felt his throat tighten. “I’m glad I met you too,” he said honestly. “The you from before… all of it.”
Tom nodded, understanding passing between them without the need for more words. “These memories,” he said gently, “the ones we shared in the dreamscape… they will fade. I will forget the details. That is the nature of healing, I think. Of moving on.
“But,” Tom added, placing a hand over his chest, “I believe the feeling will remain even in the next life. Even if I cannot name it. Some truths settle deeper than memory.”
He smiled again, softer this time, already beginning to blur at the edges.
Harry breathed out slowly, heart aching but steady. “I hope you find peace,” he said.
“I already have,” Tom replied.
And then he was gone, leaving the air warm and still, the stone cooling in Harry’s palm as the weight of it all settled quietly into his bones.