Chapter Text
The wind had changed. He felt it in that moment as he crossed the last hill above the sea. The air, once so thick with storm and secrecy, now carried only the smell of salt water and distance. The battle was over — turned to stone and scar, ash and grave — but the man's body had not stopped trembling. His hands still wanted to grip his wand, even though the danger was past. His steps were still quiet, stealthy, as if he wanted to go unnoticed, even though no one was paying attention to him anymore.
The sun was trying to break through the veil of clouds that hung low over the shoreline. It was early evening — the kind of light that made the world at once dreamlike and cruel. Gold poured into the gray. It was too beautiful for the world the Sun's sparse light cast.
The sea was loud today. Not violent, but it roared constantly. It played a steady, indifferent rhythm. The waves lapped the shore as they always had before, centuries before magic existed and before war had swallowed every horizon. The thought calmed him, though he didn't want to admit it to himself. He wasn't sure he knew how to recognize calm anymore.
He stopped just before the boundary. A series of invisible protective spells stretched along the edge of the estate, like threads sewn into the air. He had woven them himself months ago — precise, ancient defenses, a blend of runes and the more subtle manipulations of blood magic. They were intact and would have been able to protect the estate intact for many years to come, he made sure. Even if he hadn't returned. Even if he had died.
His fingers hovered by the boundary. He hadn't crossed it. Not yet. The muscles in his arms trembled, like those of recently healed people. He wasn't used to the tremors — it made him angry. His body wasn't his anymore, not quite. The poison had been coursing through his veins for several minutes before Potter and Granger's quick reflexes saved him.
Now the wind was tearing at his coat as it felt like his soul was being torn.
"Come on," he whispered to himself. "Go."
But something deep inside him resisted. Not fear. Not quite. Not afraid of what he would find. Afraid of what he might not find.
His gaze wandered to the house. It was still there. Leaning slightly to the right, as always, stubborn and small, with chipped white walls and salt-peppered shutters. The teal door still hung askew on its hinges, its brass knob glinting softly in the light. No smoke rose from the chimney, but the bulwarks hummed with quiet activity. It filled him with hope.
He took a deep breath. Then another. And finally he crossed the line.
The magic recognized him immediately. The air around him softened like silk falling into water. The tightness in his chest eased. His bulwarks had not rejected him. They still knew him. They still held the things he had fed them — his blood, his purpose, his despair.
He walked slowly. The path to the house was dotted with pebbles and patches of dune grass that reached out like tiny hands. There were no footprints in the sand, though the little secret he had hidden here couldn't have gone far. Not anymore. Not in the condition he had last seen her in.
"No, don't think about that," he shook his head.
The last time he had been here, it had been snowing. She was wrapped in that damned brown blanket she refused to let go of, shivering with a fever that no potion could banish. Her breathing was ragged — low, rhythmic — and her magic, though it was little more than a faint pulse, floated around the room like candlelight. It faded. It flickered.
And he had left her here. It was the only option. The only thing he could do that seemed like mercy. He had hidden her. He had sealed the place, made her invisible. He had made her a ghost to the world, even to himself. It was safer for her. Safer than if the Dark Lord had begun to suspect that Severus Snape had a weak spot. But now the war was over. The Dark Lord was dead, the boy had survived. And Severus – against all reason, against all the rules he ironically believed in – stood on the sand of the beach, his heart still pounding hard behind his ribs.
But then he reached the door.
There was no sound from inside. The shutters on the right-hand window were drawn, but a faint, warm streak of light filtered through the gap between the curtain and the frame. He focused. No movements. Not a footsteps. Not a breath.
But the magic was there. Yes. It was faint, but constant. Familiar. Delicate, like sugar ground too finely.
He didn't knock.
He slowly grabbed the handle, as if afraid to enter, but finally he opened the door.
The smell hit him first. There was no smell of dust or rot. Instead, the scent of sage and lavender settled on everything. A hint of honey hung in the air, as if someone had recently mixed tea and forgotten to finish it. The room inside was simple. Books lined every surface like uneven towers. A knitted blanket lay on the sofa. A long scarf hung from the arm of a wooden chair, as if it had been thrown there in a hurry. And a kettle — still hot — was sitting on the stove.
His throat tightened. He went in and closed the door behind him. He stood there for a moment — not daring to go any further. Then a soft sound came from the back room. A movement. A sigh. Without thinking, he turned in that direction. Towards the sound, towards the warmth, towards her.
He didn't speak. Observation was his natural and habitual way of doing things. He had spent years surveying his surroundings like a chessboard, reading people like a code. He let the silence take him in for a few more seconds, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, his body tensing with that certain caution he reserved for the most important moments. And then he saw her.
She was in the back room, standing near the half-open window, a blanket draped over her shoulders, a book in her hand. Her bare feet lay flat on the worn floorboards, as if they belonged there. Her hair was longer than he remembered. The sea air had made it a little wilder, the ends curled more. A breeze blew across her face, then she turned slightly, just enough to catch the light glinting on the soft curve of her chin and the line under her eyes. She was thinner. Not drastically, but just enough for Severus to notice.
And as he looked at her, something deep in his chest — that frozen something where his heart was — melted.
She didn't see the man first. She was looking out the window at the water, her expression unreadable, as it always was when she was thinking too much or couldn't handle her feelings. The ocean was her cathedral. Severus remembered that. When her body failed her, she had gone to the sea, as if it endured what she couldn't.
She glanced down at the book in her hand again and turned the pages. Before she could sink back into the pages, her body tensed. She didn't look at him. Not yet. But she could feel him — he was sure of that.
The hairs on her arms stood on end. A wave — silent and unmistakable — moved in the space between them. Her magic reached out to him like the tide, but it wasn't urgent or terrifying. It was just undeniably present. She turned slowly.
Her face changed, not much, but it was definitely different. She didn't gasp, or drop her book, or rush to throw herself into his arms, like the heroines in those terrible novels she'd read when she thought he wasn't watching. No. Her expression went unreadable at first — like a sheet crumpling in silence — and then life returned to her dark eyes.
"You're back," she said. Severus's throat went dry at the sound of her voice. Her voice hadn't faded from his memory, yet it was different to hear it now than it had been in his dreams or his memories.
"I promised," he croaked out.
He stared at her unblinkingly for a moment, as if blinking might make her disappear again, then with a small movement she set the book down on the windowsill and crossed the room.
She was limping slightly. It wasn't very noticeable — barely noticeable to someone who hadn't spent days watching her. But Severus saw it and began to analyze it immediately. Left hip. Stiff. Probably from last winter's inflammation. Her breathing was light, but not labored. She was pale, but not gray. Her hands were firm. She must have been nauseous, because there was something inexplicable about her face.
She stopped in front of him, her head tilted slightly to the side, as if trying to map out what the months had done to his face. He didn't move.
"You look awful," she said quietly, though her eyes were glittering. "But better than if you were dead."
A sound escaped him — half a breath, half a laugh. Something old and aching behind his ribs almost reminded him how to smile.
"You haven't changed," he muttered.
"That's not true. I've read twelve new books and stopped taking that awful cough syrup you left me here."
"You should have drunk the whole bottle," he toasted.
"It tasted of mold and regret."
He blew out his breath through his nose. She had always been able to disarm him without force or effort. She was incredibly intelligent and used her wits well. She was sharp enough to draw blood, and gentle enough not to hurt.
"Are you..." He trailed off, not knowing how to ask. How to admit that he needed to know how she felt, or he would die from it. "Are you okay?"
"Not really," she answered honestly with a bitter smile. "But I'm here. And I'm better than I was. Especially now that I see you..."
His gaze swept over her again. She wasn't lying. Her magic was stronger than ever, her body was weak but unharmed. The disease was still rooted in her skin, soft and silver. It had always glowed more than it sparkled. Her power whispered more than it screamed.
He didn't touch her. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to, or if he dared.
"I didn't know if you'd come back," she said, her voice quieter now.
"I couldn't come earlier."
"I know."
"I wanted to."
"I know."
They stood in silence, the sea roaring beyond the walls. After a moment, she turned and walked to the small kitchen table, where two mismatched mugs stood, one still steaming faintly. Her fingers ran over the even wood, then she straightened up and looked at the man.
"Tea?" she asked with an indifference that nearly broke Severus's heart. He couldn't decide whether he was bothered by it or not. She acted as if they hadn't spent a day apart, and yet they both knew that a lot of time had passed.
He nodded. He couldn't speak. The lump returned to his throat. She poured him tea without a word, her movements calm. There was no demand in her presence. No punishment. Just space. Space for him to be here. To exist. As if she had put that empty mug there because she knew he would return. She prepared it every day in the name of hope, though Severus couldn't know that.
"Did you sleep?" she asked, sliding the cup towards him.
"No."
"Did you eat?"
"No."
"Then sit down. Let's pretend we're normal people who've survived a very stupid war."
And he sat down. Not because she told him to, but because he had to. His legs were shaking again, and his pride was already worn away. She joined him, and for a long time they were silent. There was only the clank of pottery and the sound of distant waves. The faint creak of the old wooden floor as he moved slightly, holding the cup in one hand and resting the other on the tabletop.
He studied her fingers. Her nails were short, a little uneven. A small ink stain was unkempt on the tip of her index finger.
"You wrote again," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"About me?"
"About you," she said unflinchingly. "About war. About the sea. About whether seagulls are secretly judging spirits, watching us."
"They are," he replied dryly, a hint of mockery in his voice. She smiled.
It was a small smile, but it served its purpose, and Severus could hold his gaze on her for a little longer. There was still something sharp about her. She wasn't fragile, more like glass meant for sunlight. Her illness hadn't changed her completely, it had only narrowed her days. It had made her move more carefully through the world. And that was what she chose: books, wind, and waves licking her feet. She chose life.
He had once asked her bitterly why she tried to love a world that was constantly causing her pain. She had replied, "Because I'm still in it."
Now, as he watched her sip her tea as if death had never breathed down their necks, he began to understand what she meant. She spoke first in the silence that had fallen.
"Did it end the way you thought?"
He didn't answer immediately. The sound of the sea came clearer from this room — the window behind her was open just enough for the breeze to waft through the room, her gaze never leaving his.
"No," he said finally.
"Better or worse?"
"Both."
She nodded slowly, as if she had expected it. Her hand tightened slightly on the cup before she carefully set it down, as if her fingers were starting to tire. They weren't shaking, they were just tired. Severus knew that tiredness all too well.
"Did it worth?" she asked next.
He hated this question. He hated it because the answer depended entirely on who survived and who asked the question. He didn't answer.
"Was it worth leaving me here?" she asked, barely louder than the sea.
He lifted his head. Her voice did not tremble. There was no theatrical expression on her face, only quiet curiosity and something very close to grief. The kind that asks gently, not because she wants comfort, but because she is ready to hear the truth — even if the truth is horrible.
"You were the only one who made it worth it," he said.
Her breath stopped once, barely perceptible. Then she looked away, just for a moment, toward the window. Towards the horizon he knew she loved, but she turned back quickly, and when her gaze met his again, tears welled up.
"I thought you were dead."
"I was close to it."
"I would have hated you if you hadn't come back."
"I know."
"I thought maybe you didn't care that I was here anymore. That it was all just in my head."
"It wasn't just in your head, and you know it," he said, his jaw clenched. He hated it when she did this.
"Then why didn't you..."
"Because if they had known about you, they would have used you." The words were harsher than he had intended. "They would have ripped you out of me. Or they would have used Polyjuice Potion. Or they would have cursed your name until I couldn't even say it without setting off something I couldn't stop. I had to get away from you to keep you alive. But we had discussed this a thousand times last year."
Severus knew he was harsh, but it was the truth, and it would have been a shame to embellish it.
"I would have died rather than never see you again," she said after a long silence.
"Don't say that," he looked at her.
"But it's true."
"Don't say it like it's a noble thing to do."
"Then how should I say it, so that you like it?" she snapped. It was the first time since his return that Severus had seen the girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago.
"Tell me you wanted to live," he yelled, and the silence of the cottage seemed to echo his words.
He stood up, unable to stay still, and walked to the window. The wind caught the edge of his coat and he grabbed the windowsill, his fingers turning white. The woman did not move.
"I wanted to live," she said quietly. "But not in a world where I would never see you again."
He closed his eyes.
"You think I didn't want to come back?" he asked quietly. "Wasn't I lying in that fucking bed at Spinner's End or at Hogwarts, half paralyzed, wondering if I had made the right decision? Wondering if you were safe after I left you alone? I could barely sleep, for Merlin sake!" he slapped the ledge and turned.
Now she was standing up too, and she didn't seem afraid of his anger. Of course she wasn't afraid, she knew him like the back of her hand. And Severus's heart ached because she looked at him as if she had waited too long for him.
"You were cruel," she said. "But you thought it was mercy. I know."
"I didn't know how to do both. To be there as a spy and not leave you alone."
They were a breath away now from each other. Her hand twitched at her side. She didn't reach out, but they were close. He wanted to touch her. Desperately. To feel her warm and real, and that she is here — not some phantom his guilt had summoned to punish him, and not just a dream like the past few months.
She reached up slowly and brushed a strand of hair from his face. Her fingers were cool and soft. He didn't flinch. He studied her as if he wanted to commit every feature to memory, even though he had done so years ago.
"I still love you," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, an unchangeable truth.
He caught his breath and couldn't return the confession. Not because it wasn't true. Because the words hurt him too much. They pounded in his heart, echoed in his bones, and he felt like he had finally arrived. Instead, he leaned forward slowly, giving her a chance to pull away. But she remained still.
At first, only their foreheads touched. Her hand touched the edge of his coat, then she held on to it, as if that was how she could finally truly grasp that this was reality: he was back home to her. Severus's hand rose slowly, his calloused thumb brushing the hollow beneath her cheekbone.
"Elana," he whispered her name, and then finally kissed her. It wasn't perfect. It was hesitant, cautious, and a little desperate, like the kiss of two people just remembering how to breathe together. It was not the kiss of a new love, but of something that had survived things that should never have existed. A silent destruction answered by a softness that no spell could imitate.
Their lips met with a softness that almost hurt — as if his lips had touched something too fragile, numbed by time apart and war. His hands found her waist and squeezed, as if the touch wasn't enough for him to realize that she was really here in front of him. It was the intoxication of reunion laced with an apology. An answer to all the nights they'd spent wondering if the other had been worth the morning. There was a faint desperation in their mouths — a measured but intense, slow burn through years of silence. Elana's breath caught as Severus's lips moved over hers and their tongues intertwined, then his hand slid up her back, holding her close.
He hadn't kissed her in months. Not that a single kiss mattered. And yet, for Merlin's sake, how much it mattered!
Tea, salty air, and the stubborn taste of hope he didn't think he deserved sat in his mouth. And when he finally pulled away — just enough to catch their breath — he pressed his forehead to hers and felt her breath on his lips. Her eyes were half-closed, but her smile was genuine.
"I missed you," she whispered, and he swallowed hard.
"I know."
He kissed her again, more slowly this time, because now he could.
Her lips parted beneath his, and he accepted the invitation slowly, carefully — his tongue brushing hers with the same respect he had once reserved for ancient magic. Elana responded with a soft sigh that settled on his lips, and her fingers tightened around his coat, pulling him closer, as if closer meant safer. His hands slid up her back, then down her hips, taking in her body again, as if he didn't trust that time wouldn't steal her again.
The kiss deepened, no longer cautious — it was slow but overwhelming, like something rediscovered, not new. Her body was now completely against his, his hands sliding to the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her hair. He kissed her as if he had been waiting for her for years. Every movement of his revealed years, spent hungry for that soft sigh as he pulled her closer.
She deepend the kiss, as if she had loved him silently and survived the wait. Her mouth slid more and more intensely over his, not roughly, but desperately honest — as if it could tell him what she had never been able to express in words. And when they finally parted, panting, still intertwined, neither of them could speak. They just hugged each other in silence, leaning their foreheads against each other, as if the world had stopped just because of them.
Outside, the sea was turning grey. Clouds were gathering low over the water, not yet stormy, but they looked heavy, oppressive. The light was fading fast, the blue turning steel, the kind of sky that hid more than rain. The kind that understood grief. They stood in the middle of the room, still close together, still embracing each other, like a refuge after a long war. No fireworks. Just two people with too many scars and too little time.
"I should have written," Severus murmured.
"You couldn't," she replied simply and quietly, rubbing her nose softly against his.
The man nodded but didn't answer. They had both lived in the shadows for too long to pretend they had no reason to be silent.
"I'm not the same person you knew," the man said after a long silence.
"I know."
"So what now?"
"Do you want to be here?" she asked softly, pulling away so she could look him in the eye.
"You have no idea how much I want to be here," Severus sighed.
"So now you just come home and be with me. As it was before. As it always should have been."
The sentence didn't feel like victory, but it didn't feel like defeat either. They stayed like that until the outside world went completely dark around them. There were no spells, no candles burning. Only the natural darkness fell over the room like a blanket, and the sound of the waves softly lapping against the shore. The world had changed. They had both changed, and perhaps nothing could ever be truly right again.
But Severus was here. He had returned home to her. And that had to be enough. For now.