Work Text:
Nights were always the most difficult. Nights were filled with shadows and sounds: the wind rattling against the windows, branches scraping against the roof of the cottage, the tick of the mantel clock abnormally loud in the midnight hush. Nights brought dreams, and with the dreams came old memories, old terrors, and old hurts. The days had gotten easier, but the night terrors still gripped both of them sometimes until they woke sweaty and tangled in knotted sheets, throats hoarse from screaming.
Nights were difficult. War was difficult - but they were healing. That was what was important.
Mornings - mornings were better. The wounds left by war were less daunting to face in the light of day, the rosy rays of dawn helping to dispel the night terrors. It was easier to remember that the war was over when the sun crept over the horizon and chased away the dark, painting the sky in warm colors.
Most of the warm colors had faded to a clear blue when Neville woke. He yawned and stretched lazily, wincing as vertabrae popped, but a practiced twist and rotation of his head and shoulders left him feeling nimble enough to sit up. His bed was more than large enough to accomodate both him and his lover, but he almost always slept alone in it.
While it could be helpful to wake from a nightmare with a lover nearby to calm them, they both had reflexes honed in a time of war. Waking from the midst of a night terror often had them blindly casting curses against phantom assailants before they were fully awake. Nor was it pleasant to be kicked or struck in the face by a flailing partner; uneasy dreams and fragments of painful memories made their sleep restless. Neither of them slept too much, and sleeping potions were dangerous to rely on for long. Peaceful nights were rare enough without being woken by the other's nightmares; neither of them grudged the other a peaceful night's rest when and where it could be found, even if it meant they could not share each other's bed. They each had not only their own bedroom in the spacious cabin, but an ensuite as well; everything seemed easier to manage after a night of untroubled sleep.
The blue sky was cloudless, heralding a beautiful day for late spring; Neville flung his window open to let in some fresh air as he dressed. He didn't bother with robes anymore, opting for comfortable and practical instead. In the far-flung privacy of their countryside home he usually dressed in denims washed so often they were soft and faded. The once-black tee-shirt he pulled on had faded to a sort of blue-grey, and he found he liked the soft color better than the solid black, although the black had hidden stains better. The shirt was so old that it resisted stain-removal charms; there was a purplish splotch over the left shoulder from the sap of a particularly ill-tempered Lady’s Slipper. Glass Lady's Slipper, an exotic new offshoot he was cultivating as a side project; the blooms were waxy and almost as translucent as glass, and chimed when brushed against.
He smiled as he thought of that, and his other herbology experiments, as he tidied himself for the day. When his face was washed and his hair combed, he moved across the hall to rap on the door to his lover's room, frowning when it was silent. That was never a positive sign; on a good day he would hear him moving around, muttering and cursing, and a rap on the door would earn him a sarcastic greeting.
He rapped on the door again. “Severus? Are you awake? I’m coming in. I’ll leave my wand out here.” There was a small hall table outside Snape’s door just for that reason, and Neville set his wand on it before gently easing the door open. If it was one of Severus' bad days, the sight of a wand - raised or not - would send him into a panic.
The room stank of sweat and fear, even though a house-elf cleaned the rooms every morning. The bed itself was empty; the bedding was a tangled mess, twisted and wadded and half off the mattress. One pillow was lying against the far wall; the other had been kicked under the bed. A wrinkled grey nightshirt lay discarded on the floor, and a few feet away, a plain pair of underpants.
Neville glanced around the room, and finally located his lover huddled in a corner, and Neville sighed. It had been a very bad night, then.
He held his hands up to show he was unarmed and spoke in a soothing tone as he slowly approached, but Severus still trembled, whining when he dropped gingerly to his knees. Snape's arms and legs were folded underneath him in a position Neville had grown familiar with seeing; the pose was a distinctly canine one, and the way he held his hands curled like paws only built on the illusion. His hair was tangled from sleep and damp with sweat, sticking to his face and neck. His skin was always pale, but he had an almost waxy sheen to his skin after a night spent alternating between sweating and chills.
“Shhh,” Neville said, softly, heart wrenching at the painfully familiar way Severus stared blankly at the floor, unable to look up. He’d come so far, but particularly bad nights made him regress to the state he’d been in when Aurors had found him during a raid on Riddle Manor. No one knew how long he'd been there, exactly, and the memories were all muddled in Snape's head. It was sometime after he'd fled Hogwarts after Albus Dumbledore's death, but how long it had been between then and his discovery as a spy was at best a guess.
What they did know was what Severus had been able to tell them, and his memories of that time were broken and fragmented. He'd been tortured for weeks until he'd broken - and after that, he'd been kept as the Death Eater's pet for the greater part of a year, if not longer. He'd been incapable of standing or speaking when they'd found him - a cowering, beaten shadow of his former self. The physical injuries alone had been horrifying, but the psychological damage had been even more daunting. Potions and spells could heal most of the physical, but no spell could erase the trauma.
Neville reached out and gently placed a hand on Severus’ head. He didn’t let any of his grief show when Severus flinched violently and whined low in his throat. He kept his hand there until Severus relaxed slightly, some of his fear easing when pain did not immediately follow.
“Good, Severus, very good,” he praised gently. “Good boy, I’m not going to hurt you, see?” He curled his fingers into Snape’s tangled hair and slowly combed through the dark strands, prematurely shot with silver. He kept up the gentle caress until more tension melted from his lover’s body and Severus finally leaned, ever so slightly, into his palm. “That’s it, Severus,” he murmured. Severus couldn’t understand most of what he said when he was caught in a flashback, but he'd said he still understood tone and body language.
So no matter how grieved or angry he felt, Neville was careful to use a light and reassuring tone. With effort, he kept his posture relaxed and non-threatening - the ones he wanted to threaten were well out of his reach. Most of them were dead now, and good riddance, he thought. “Ready to go out, now? Outside, Severus! It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining and you can smell the flowers.”
‘Outside’ was one of the words Severus could understand in his flashbacks - along with words like good dog, bad dog, sit, stay, roll over, fetch, and a handful of others.
Severus whined, but lifted his head, daring to look at him warily, and Neville smiled slightly. “Outside, Severus. Feel the sun on your skin - you like that, don’t you,” he encouraged, moving to his feet slowly. This time Snape barely flinched when Neville bent to card his fingers through his hair. It was slow, but Severus was finding it easier to trust him, even when he was afraid and
“Come on, up, Severus, on your feet,” he coaxed. He was relieved when Severus pushed himself to his hands and knees without protest; some mornings he was so shaken by his nightmares and flashbacks that he trusted no one, not even Neville, for hours or even days afterwards.
“That’s it, Severus, good boy,” he praised quietly, moving back a step. Severus hesitated, then followed, hands and knees shuffling across the floor. Step by slow step Neville led Severus out of his room and through the open living area of their cottage, and finally out the back door and into the sunshine. Severus followed him more eagerly once they were outside, and Neville led him away from the house. He stopped only when they were well clear of the path and surrounded by grass and flowers. The nearby brook burbled quietly in the background.
He took a moment to find a comfortable hollow in the long grass and settled himself on the ground, ignoring the way his denims immediately soaked up the dew. Severus hovered near him anxiously, still on all fours, while Neville ran his hands over the grass near him, tossing away any offending rocks. That done, he patted the grass next to him. “Come, Severus,” he said quietly. “Come lay down, here.”
Obediently, Severus padded silently over to the indicated spot, though he circled around it warily before sitting down on the sun-warmed grass. Neville suspected that if he had a tail, it might be wagging ever so slightly from the feel of grass beneath his hands and sun on his skin. Neville patted his hand against his thigh in invitation, but Severus whined and curled up on his side next to him with a scant inch separating them. Neville didn't press him; when he felt safe enough, he would move closer.
Neville gave him a moment to get comfortable, then gently placed a hand on Snape's side, pleased when he only flinched slightly. Even after all these months with regular meals and all the extra sweets that Molly Weasley sent, he could still line his fingers up in the hollows between Snape’s ribs. He could still feel the ropey lines of scars that littered Severus' torso; his skin was almost a blinding white against the verdant green of the grass. Repeated use of potions and salves had helped his scars fade from an angry red to white, but they shone silver under the sun and Severus shivered as Neville smoothed his calloused fingers over the scarred skin. He drew them lightly from shoulder to hip and back again, petting him soothingly, like he would a frightened and skittish dog.
Because, in his flashbacks, Severus was a dog; a man broken and tortured and treated like a dog until his mind believed it. He had been so dehumanised that he retreated into the belief of being a dog for his sanity. A dog, after all, wasn’t ashamed to be naked; wasn’t humiliated to be called dog, or forced to eat from a bowl on the floor. Doctors from St. Mungo's called him insane, but Neville knew better - people did things, believed things, even horrible things, to survive. And Severus Snape was nothing if not a survivor.
Neville kept up the light caress until his arm grew tired and the sun rose overhead, and the thick scent of meadowsweet and clover filled the air. There was a peacefulness in the repetitive motion for him, too; it made him happy to care for Severus, to lavish soothing physical contact on him. He'd worked enough with plants and animals and people alike to know how important touch was; it could heal - and it could hurt. They had never touched him gently. Cursed him, beat him, made him suffer terrible things - but never touched him kindly, gently.
He used touch to bring him back, treasuring the measure of comfort and peace Snape found in being petted like this, long white limbs sprawled in the grass and head heavy against his thigh. He didn't care how some people would view the scene; it was something that helped Severus, and that was all he wanted. When his arm got heavy and began to ache, he distracted himself with chattering aimlessly - about the flowers he saw, the bird that kited overhead, what he’d make for dinner. He described his latest project - the Glass Lady's Slippers, and the challenges they presented - and his hopes for his current hybrid. When he ran out of words he hummed, tunelessly.
And finally sometime around noon, when Snape’s skin was beginning to take a pinkish tinge from too much sun, Severus shuddered. When Neville glanced at him, he saw only awareness in the dark eyes. His hand paused for a moment, then continued its meandering path: shoulder to hip, hip to shoulder. “Welcome back, Severus.”
Severus exhaled and stretched carefully, then twisted. He rolled onto his other side, wrapping his arms around Neville’s waist and burying his head against Neville’s stomach. “Was it very bad?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d screamed himself raw - but Neville knew he didn’t scream. Not anymore. Whined, or yelped, or whimpered, but never screamed.
“Nothing you haven’t done for me.” He hadn’t had as many episodes lately, and none as severe as his lover’s - but there were still days he woke from night terrors a shaking mess, unable to speak or move a muscle - literally paralysed with grief and fear. And Severus was there for him, in the bleak and painful mornings after, reminding him of life after war.
Severus made a sound, muffled against his stomach, but didn’t argue. Neville cheered, inwardly; another point for progress. He preferred to focus on the positives, or they might drown under the negatives. “You’re starting to turn pink.”
“Merlin forbid I turn such a garish, florid color,” Severus muttered, managing a half smile against Neville’s ribs. “How long was I out of it?”
Neville moved his hand from Snape’s side to comb the hair from Severus’ face, smiling when his lover scowled. He only scowled when he felt safe, when he felt like himself, and Neville treasured every sarcastic word and snide twist of lips. “Long enough that it’s time for luncheon. Too late to cook, but some sandwiches sound good,” he offered.
Severus turned his head to brush his thin lips across Neville’s palm, and smiled at the dazzling smile he got in return. “Is there enough of last night’s roast for sandwiches?”
“Assuming you didn’t have a midnight snack, there should be.” He huffed a laugh as Severus got up, only to change position and lay back down, pillowing his head on Neville’s leg. “Severus, I can’t make sandwiches from here!”
“We’ve time, Neville. It’ll still be there come supper, won’t it?”
“If you skip lunch now, you should have pudding with supper, too.”
“Toffee?”
Neville heaved a put-upon sigh; completely fake, as Severus smirked at him. “If you must. How did you know Molly sent some over?”
“Please - I can smell it all the way out here. I haven’t lost any of my sense of smell at least!” Severus scoffed, eyes darkening. "I may have lost everything else -"
Not all the scars from war were physical. Neville had a small potions laboratory in the cellar for making the simplest herbicides and growth potions for his gardens, but Severus had only ventured into it twice. Each time he'd stood rigid in the centre of the room, face twisted in an internal battle, hands working - clench, relax, clench - frozen in memory before he abandoned dignity and fled to his room. Each night after had been a bad night, a very bad night, and after the second attempt Severus avoided the potions lab entirely.
“You haven’t lost your other skills, Severus,” Neville said quietly, brushing fingers over Snape’s cheek when he closed his eyes. “You’ll find they’re all still right there, in your hands and in your mind, when you’re ready to remember and when you need them. I believe they're only locked away for a while, until you are healed and ready to brew again. Trust me, Severus - they didn’t take that from you.”
Snape’s lips tightened; but after a moment he chose to not argue - another point! Neville thought - and nodded once, in concession.
Neville smiled, crookedly. “You know, toffee pudding is best while it’s warm and melty still. It’s never the same if it’s reheated.”
Severus opened one eye and stared at him; then opened the other and stretched again, languidly. “It would be a terrible thing to reheat pudding. In fact, we should skip sandwiches and go straight to pudding, lest it go cold.”
“Ha! If it’ll get you up, I might agree - but you’ll still have to eat a sandwich afterwards. No filling up on pudding!” It pleased him to see Severus banter about such simple pleasures. And Molly Weasley’s toffee pudding was a marvel.
“Lunch it is, then.” He rolled to his knees, and let Neville stand and stomp the circulation back into his feet. Once Neville could walk normally he offered a hand to Severus. He readily accepted the hand up, wincing as he straightened and his joints creaked plaintively. The meadow seemed smaller now that he was standing, and he pressed his shoulder to Neville’s as they crossed the short distance to the cottage and toffee pudding.
It was moments like these - naked and sunburned in the grass, surrounded by flowers and the air smelling of clover and toffee, that gave them strength to meet each day a little stronger, a little more whole.