A/N: I'm very sorry to say that this last part has not yet been beta read. My beta fell ill, and I really, really wanted to stick by her so I gave her as much time as she needed. I haven't seen her online in nearly a week, so I'm hoping that she's alright and well on the way to recovery. So, I apologize for the many mistakes you may encounter in this chapter. This part starts out with Snape's POV, so it is him speaking in the first person. The rest of it is the way it should be.
It's been a great run. I daresay there might be a few shorts coming from the In This Space universe, though I'm not making promises for a sequel, since I don't do sequels well. I really appreciate all of the wonderful reviews. Thank you all for not making me sorry to post here. -Kelly
Snape's POV –
You're lying there on that bed, safe and sound. Your bandages are seeping crimson through the top, and Madam Pomfrey bustles around you, whispering words of encouragement and optimism that you can't even hear. No one should have gone through what you have; no one should have seen what you've seen at your young age. It truly is a sad thing.
Even in sleep, you look distraught. Though that hasn't changed since I've been sent to stay with you. You always look distraught in your sleep. You always look like you're fighting a losing battle in your dreams. And perhaps you are.
I was making a potion for you last night. Before you threw the stewed boomslang skin across your guest room and my makeshift bedroom. Trust me when I say that I hate to say it, but it's become almost like home.
I saw the flicker fear in your eyes when you thought I was leaving you for good that day. It made my heart hurt for a brief moment. You're terrified of being alone. And I'm terrified of just the opposite.
You've always had your friends trailing after you, your fan club not far behind. I'd thought that it was always like that for you. I thought that your life was pampered and pristine, like I thought my life to be at one point. But the rumours started drifting in and out, and I knew. I knew I was wrong, and I possibly hated you even more for that. I hated how alike we were.
But now you're lying on this bed, after waking up and screaming about letting you go. Gods…I haven't heard fear like that in a long time. Not even in the presence of the Dark Lord. I had to step away. I may have panicked a bit as well.
You wake up later that night, and I can see the regret and sorrow masked on your face. I imagine I had the same look on my face the first time I woke up in the hospital wing when it went too far, when life got to be too much.
I can't help but feel sorry for you. Even though you are still the attention-seeking brat I've come to know and…
You meant to die that night. The cuts were too deep to have been anything else.
I spoke to Albus later that night, after our "session." I cannot do this for you the way it should be done. I cannot speak these lies and say that everything will be all right and that you will be okay and sleep soundly at night. It is not right and it is not fair to you. Besides, I have a feeling you know the truth anyway.
They have several counsellors at St. Mungo's that I've come to be acquainted with. Not through experience with them myself, but for the simple fact that you aren't the first of my students to drag a blade across his skin.
I told Albus that night, after the Dark Lord's fall, that you needed professional help before grief overcame you. "Give it time, my dear boy," he told me. "He needs not professional gibberish right now. He needs time to heal himself first. He needs you, Severus." I knew then that you were right. That Albus has been concerning himself with what he thinks you need in life for far too long. I convinced him to let you go when you walked out of the hospital wing a week later. And in convincing him, we struck a deal. That I would watch over you until you could stand on your own two feet again. It was not happenstance that led you to move in next door to me, into a house that hadn't existed two weeks prior.
What began as mere watching became meddling. When I was asked by Albus to move in, I was angry with you, for being so selfish and dramatic, and for myself, for looking forward to it.
The first kiss was an accident on your part, I'm sure. We were quite intoxicated and I left my defences down.
The second kiss, just as shocking as the first, left me a bit scared, I have to admit. It wasn't just a drunken groping as before. Coming out of whatever dream plagued your mind, you looked so hungry and scared, like you needed nothing else at the moment.
This last one, though… I do not know when I turned from greasy potions master to Harry Potter's love interest. I cannot be this for you. I will not be some secret crush to be spoken about behind my back.
Our story ends here, Harry Potter. I cannot allow it to go any further. For your sake and my own. You may never be okay, Harry. And for that, I am truly sorry.
Snape leaves you that night feeling a bit scared. Counsellor? From St. Mungo's? You really ARE going to be institutionalised. And not just for trying to hack your arm off, but for thinking that Snape had some sort of feelings for you in his black hearted chest.
You ask Pomfrey for some parchment and a quill, needing to write a few long overdue letters to your best friends. You won't tell them everything…oh no. You'll tell them just enough so that when they get back from Switzerland, they won't be shocked. You didn't want to burden their much-needed vacation with your petty little problems.
After your letters are sent off with Hedwig, a man in a terribly tacky jumper enters behind Dumbledore and you just cannot resist rolling your eyes at the horribly stereotypical counsellor.
"Harry, this is Healer Robert Colven," Dumbledore says quietly.
Colven sticks his hand out, and you politely shake it, not saying anything. Maybe if you don't cooperate, they'll bring back Snape. Maybe if you throw a fit, they'll…
Pomfrey and Dumbledore silently slip out of the room, leaving you alone with Tacky Jumper.
"Harry, I'd like to begin with a simple physical. Is that all right with you?"
You raise an eyebrow, astounded that he is asking you rather than telling you. You almost want to say 'no' just to see what he'd do next, but you simply shrug and he starts to work on unwrapping your bandages.
Ah, now you know. He just wants to see how much you meant it, how much you really wanted to die.
He notes, not looking up at you but carefully examining the cuts, "These are fairly deep."
"Well, I was fairly distraught."
He looks up at you over his glasses and comments, "Albus informed me that this is not the first time you've done this. Is that true?"
You look away, because gods above you don't want to do this. "I…it…"
"I cannot help you, Harry, if you do not tell me the truth."
You glare at him and softly say, "I don't need help. I'm fine."
"Mm hm," Colven says, leaning back in his chair. "This started after the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, yes?"
You shrug.
"And you lost someone close to you in the battle, yes?"
You just look at him, completely unable to form a coherent thought, confused on how he knows this.
"I may be jumping to conclusions here, but this friend you lost…you were close in a way that surpasses friendship."
You nod, a bit suspicious of how he knows all this.
"Have you ever heard of the muggle term 'empath'? An empath is someone who feels what other people are feeling. To say that I am one would be an understatement. In the wizarding world, empathics are a bit more powerful. We do not need legilimency to see into your minds, but nor do we see complete memories. It is mostly generalized feelings and events that have taken place. The more recent the incident or feeling, the stronger I can feel it."
"So what do you feel now?"
"From you? Despair. Anxiety. Loneliness. This…what you are experiencing right now…it will not last forever. It will probably not last the year, if you are lucky. It is survivor's guilt, Harry. You are a war hero, a saviour, and I think that you've always had a hero complex, no thanks to Albus, I'm sure. But you cannot save everyone, Harry. People pass on. It is simply a part of existence. And a war was fought. If you thought that everyone on the side of good would prevail from it, than I'd think you a fool. But I know that you know better than that. You are a smart young man, with a full life ahead of you. And what you make of it is of your own choosing. You have a thousand options to choose from. Do not get lost in prophecies and fate. Your fate is yours and yours alone to decide."
No one has ever told you this before. You'd listened for too long to Dumbledore preach about fulfilling your destiny and accepting fate. But no one has ever told you that you hold your own future.
You really want to believe it.
Healer Colven tells you not to take the antidepressant potion any longer, since the whole thing is rubbish and not for you. He advises you to perhaps stay with a friend or two, instead of your big lonely house, now that Snape is gone. You don't think you could impose on Ron and Hermione, though. But you might just give it a try. And that when you feel the need to cut again, transfer some of that energy into something you like to do, like flying (not dangerously, though, of course).
It's what he says while walking out of the Hospital Wing that really makes you think, though.
"I can feel it, Harry - the happiness that is threatening to surface. Run with it."
And if you weren't still feeling like complete shit, you'd say he wasn't at all what you were expecting. Nice, even.
But you're still thinking about Snape, and Lestrange, and everything else that's weighing heavily on your shoulders. You fall into a restless slumber.
You know he comes to visit you when Colven leaves that night, as you hang limply between consciousness and the dream world. You feel his presence, though not overwhelmingly so. He doesn't say anything to you, but you know he realises you're nearly awake.
Who will break first? you think. Without your glasses, there isn't much detail you can make out as you open your eyes slightly to see him bustling about, filling the potions cabinet next to your bed.
"I do not know what you wish me to say to you, Mr. Potter," he says, without turning around.
"Tell me why you gave up on me, for a start."
"Do not be so melodramatic. You have a problem that no amount of potions or mollycoddling can hinder."
"Oh, please. The day you mollycoddle me will be a cold day in Hell with Voldemort."
"Touché."
"You could have just said, 'Harry, I don't want a relationship with some attention-seeking brat with a hero complex.' I would have understood."
He turns around and raises an eyebrow.
"It doesn't matter, though, does it?" you ask.
"Hardly," he says softly. He turns around and continues working.
"Madam Pomfrey says I'm free to go this afternoon."
He grunts in response.
"You won't be there, will you?" you ask, a shimmer of sadness creeping into your voice.
"I have duties to attend to," he says with disdain.
"Why are you still teaching if you hate it so much? The war is over, Professor. I daresay we're safe to do as we please."
"Do not assume to know the reason behind my career choices, Potter."
"Do you?"
"Do I what, Potter!" he says, infuriatingly.
"Like teaching," you say, calmly.
He sighs deeply. "It has its…gratifications."
It is your turn to raise an eyebrow.
"Such as…" you prod.
"Watching you brats leave after putting up with you for seven agonizing years."
"I'm leaving," you say after a long pause.
"So you've said."
"No, I mean I'm leaving. I'm going after Lestrange."
"You…" he bites out, looking at you like you've just joined Voldemort's ranks. "You are a fool."
"So you've told me countless times before."
"You willingly seek out a murderer whom is no doubt out for your blood?"
"I HAVE to. She has to pay…"
"An eye for an eye is no way to live your life."
"So what will you have me do then? Sit around my house thinking of other ways to off myself?"
"Go out and get a job. Get a girl. MOVE ON."
"Says the man who stays at a job he hates because he has nowhere else to go."
"You've no right to speak of things you know not of."
"You know, these words of parting aren't exactly what I had in mind."
Snape is suddenly dangerously close to your face. "What did you have in mind, Potter? This?"
His hands weave intricately woven patterns in your hair behind your neck; his breath warms your cheeks while his lips hover over yours. He's yours, you think. You're too stunned to do anything other than wait for the inevitable contact of his lips and then it happens.
His tongue forces entry between your lips, you teeth. It snakes out, slithers around yours in a passionate embrace, like they've searched for each other for all eternity and finally found one another.
You feel…safe. Whole. Like nothing else matters.
His lips break contact from yours, his forehead still touching yours as he looks at you, studying your face. It looks as though he's trying to memorize it.
"Why…why are you doing this to me?" he asks.
It doesn't matter that he said it though, since you are thinking the exact same thing.
"Because I don't know what else to do," you say as you close your eyes and wait for the inevitable lack of contact.
But it doesn't come. He sits there, his hands behind your neck, taking your features in.
"I…I can't do this on my own," you say, barely audible.
He closes his eyes and nods against you.
"You can come with me."
He nods again, but it contradicts the words coming out of his mouth. "I can't."
He looks up at you, his hands still behind your neck and takes a long deep look into your eyes.
"Right. Term," you say, like you've forgotten it, even though it's been the foremost thing on your mind.
"You know that's not the reason, Potter." His hands are gone, leaving you cold where once warm touch existed.
"You can't tell me that you don't want this. I know you do," you say, forcing that last sentence out like it was your last breath.
"I can't want this. It's not feasible. It's not…" he says, stopping mid thought.
"It's not what, Snape? It's not practical? It's not convenient enough for you?"
"It's not in your best interest."
"Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I must have forgotten. I'm still eleven and can't make my own decisions."
"Don't."
"No, you 'don't'. No one is allowed to tell me what is and isn't in my best interest anymore. I'm not a child anymore, you know."
"No, Harry," he says, sighing in defeat. "You certainly are not. One would argue that you never were."
You look down at your arm, where the bandage is wrapped tightly around your marred skin and wonder if you ever noticed a shift from childhood to adulthood. That maybe it was something that you just missed because you were too busy defeating Dark Lords year after year. You've never wept for your lost or nonexistent childhood. You can't imagine doing so now, either.
But it's no matter, because he gets off your bed and starts walking away.
"Why do you always walk away?" you ask.
"Because, Mr. Potter. I, unlike yourself, know when to walk away. I doubt we'll be seeing each other again. Goodbye."
Albus comes in to comfort you, or at least that's what you assume he's here for, since he hasn't done much but stare at you in that uneven way he always does. Since Snape has left you somewhat distraught, Pomfrey is hesitant to let you leave today. You do your best to reassure her that you're okay, though, and you gather up your things.
"I'm going after Lestrange," you say to Albus, as you throw your clothes into the bag that Snape brought you from your house. "I need you to tell me where she is."
"I will not, Harry. I understand that you have a need for redemption, but seeking out a madwoman who is out for your blood as well is not the way to go about this."
"I don't care, and you don't understand," you say, trying your best to remain calm despite the itching desire to scream at him. "Tell me where she is."
"No."
"What do I have to do to get you to tell me?"
"Promise me that you won't go looking for her."
"Then what would the point of me knowing be if I can't do anything about it?"
Albus' eyes twinkle in that most annoying way and you force yourself to wait for his reply before launching into a screaming fit.
"There would be no point, so I don't see how telling you would do any good."
"Why don't you want me to go after her? Are you afraid I'm going to die? You have the audacity to think that I'm just going to let her take me down after I defeated Voldemort and half of his army, including Lucius Fucking Malfoy? What can she possibly do to me?"
"She knows you, Harry. She knows things about you that she will use against you. And you are not well enough yet go through a meeting with her and come out unscathed."
You stare at him for a good while, absorbing everything he's saying, and shake your head condescendingly.
"Look, this was a mistake, alright?" you say, lifting up your sleeve as if he had any doubt what you were talking about. "I realise that now. And I know that in my head it's not all daisies and sunshine yet, and it probably won't ever be, but I need this. If only for my own personal, selfish reasons, I need to do this. I'm sure that the Ministry will not care that I have done what its own Aurors could not. Why are you so doubtful that I can do this? The prophecy is over, Albus. There's nothing left for me to do but clean up."
"After Bellatrix, there will be more, Harry. After she's gone, you'll want another name. It won't stop with her. You must understand why I cannot…"
"You're right. It won't stop with her. I'll hunt every one of them down myself if I have to. And no, I don't understand. What are you protecting them from?"
"Merlin, Harry. I'm not…"
"No? It certainly seems so to me," you raise an eyebrow, much like Snape. You curse yourself for even thinking of him. It will just resurface the hurt that you're trying very hard to bury.
He looks hard at the floor and you can tell that he's thinking, weighing the pros and cons of this decision, as if it were a deciding vote in a locked jury. Finally, he looks up at you with defeat in his eyes.
"Thailand. In a small village outside Bangkok. We have Ministry officials trailing her every move."
You stare at him, disbelieving that they've had an opportunity to do away with her and haven't done it yet. Your anger is blinding for a moment, but then it passes, and your head clears enough to remember the task at hand.
"Will you…"
"I'll have a portkey ready tomorrow."
"Don't tell Snape."
"I won't."
You nod, and floo back to your house without saying so much as another word.
You pack that night, shrinking a few important belongings into your knapsack. You write a fairly lengthy note to Andrea next door, apologising for scaring her and thanking her for her help. You ask her to look after your house while your gone, though cross it out before sealing it in an envelope, noting that you don't care much either way about the house that was never a home. It came close though.
Dumbledore firecalls you in the morning to tell you that the portkey is ready and will be activated at noon, and that the time in Thailand will be seven in the evening. The officials, who include Shacklebolt, much to your pleasant surprise, will be expecting you then.
When noon comes around, you sling your knapsack over one shoulder, and take one more look behind you. Another house to leave behind, another sad sorry face to say goodbye to. You won't tell him where you're going specifically, or that you have no intentions of coming back, but he knows. He knows. If anything has come out of the time you two have, sometimes unwillingly, spent together, it's that he knows you a little better than before. And perhaps you can say the same about him.
You're going to look, with the Ministry's blessing, for the people on your list who have made you who you are. Lestrange is number one, and you can only hope that, with every one of them dead, the piece they took form you will somehow become resolved. You've seen more death in your short life than most adults will ever know. But you know, at least, that you have a long, long road ahead of you yet.
The title comes from a lyric in Sarah McLachlan's "Elsewhere." It really is a gorgeous song, I suggest you all check it out. :-)