Blood Stones (Snarry)

Staggered footsteps

Harry took a shuttering breath as he passed through the courtyard and around the bends of the once familiar grounds. The walls had long since been fixed but there were just some things that spells, and plasters couldn't fix. Such as the fact that, even when awake these days, Harry would blink and see the battle behind his eyes.

The dreams had been coming for some time, since Cedric Diggory if he were honest, but with each new fallen friend, foe, or classmate they had grown. Recently old aches had been coming back. Then with the recent deaths of some of his fellow Aurors... Well, the man deemed himself ready for a change of pace. He needed closure, and perhaps a change in profession.

The daylight dimmed as he raised his wand and entered the tunnel at the base of the Womping Willow. He'd felt truly himself when training the other students in secret all those years ago and had honestly been contemplating returning to Hogwarts for a few years. When he finally made it to the Shrieking Shack, sliding down with a wince from his old knee ache as he did, the young man of 33 breathed a heavy sigh.

His clothes were rumpled, hair a nest befitting a rat mightier than Wormtail and eyes hollowed and bagged. The flask in his pocket clanged a bit on the hard ground, the shack mere remnants of what it once was.

"Well hello professor." he sighed speaking to himself.

"I just may have had a taste of that fish oil that made you so bitter." He suddenly was reminded of his late potions master.

Severus wondered aimlessly around the room.

It had been a long and lonely fifteen years with nothing to do but explore the dead property. The wallpaper was graying further with age, the wood floors were dry and cracked, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. An irritant that could have been fixed with the simplest of magic that he could no longer use.

Every day he wondered the grounds, exploring every room of the Shrieking Shack. He knew every piece of furniture, every crack in the walls, he knew how many stairs there were, every grave on the property. What he didn't know was the last time someone had been to visit the place. He relived nearly daily the way in which he died, he knew Voldemort would kill him, and if he hadn't drunk that potion before the battle, his soul would have been lost, doomed to the life of a painting forever asleep.

Though Potter had seen him through what he assumed was his final breath, he was able to muster one last bit of magic to apparate to the Shrieking Shack, somewhere secluded but close by, where he was able to attach his soul to a stone with the potion he had consumed hours earlier. What he didn't anticipate was only being able to travel within the property in which the object was. As much as Severus had fronted his hatred for everyone in his life, he was alone, he craved interaction, he missed his potions, his fellow teachers, he even thought for a moment that he might miss the heathens that were his students.

He was sure after fifteen long years he would have been forgotten by now. Who would care to remember their greasy Potions Master? He continued to wonder around, laying in the bed, though he couldn't feel it, or really lay in it, but only float near it. He heard just then the scraping of dirt on the ground floor, and the voice of a man. He waited there silently, hiding himself.

Harry leaned more heavily against the wall, exhaustion tugging his eyes shut temptingly only to snap open once more. His breath came in pants as he forced himself up off the dirt floor. His glasses skittered off with the jolt, forcing a groan. He leaned even more so against the wall, his hand rubbing his trick knee. He'd acquired it long ago- another skele-grow incident with far less success. The potion had been faulty and left him with an aching knee to nurse as well as a drained ego.

"That's bloody brilliant" he chuckled, stifling a groan.

"Now my knee and my eyes are determined to age me." His voice was chuckling, but it held no humor.