Chapter Text
“Ah, bugger. Shit. Fuck,” Neville Longbottom says, looking down balefully at the floor where the broken vase and scattered flowers now lay.
There's an admonishment at the tip of Severus’s tongue. He's not too far removed from being a professor, after all. But he bites it back, too puzzled by Longbottom's presence to speak.
Longbottom waves his wand in a graceful arch, and the vase repairs itself. The puddle of water is spelled back in its container, and the flowers float up to rearrange themselves, once again looking fresh and immaculate. It's a nice bit of charm work, Severus has to admit. Any child can manage a simple reparo, but on its own, the spell would only mend the vase. It's possible that Longbottom invented the spell himself. He was always fond of plants. Always clumsy as well. He's probably constantly fumbling about, dropping things, and fixing them.
“I see you are as eloquent as ever,” Severus says after watching Longbottom silently for far too long.
Longbottom huffs out a breathy laugh. “I didn't know you were awake,” Longbottom says, “Erm, how are you feeling?”
“Well enough,” Severus says blandly.
Yes, well enough for someone who can barely limp three steps across the floor without needing to be caught by a nearby healer. Severus is just peachy, as Lily used to say in her delightfully sarcastic manner.
“I'm glad,” Longbottom says, still looking utterly lost in the doorway. Why is he here? Why does he have flowers?
He just said that he didn't know Severus would be awake. So, he came when he thought Severus was still in a magical coma?
Severus looks from the vase in Longbottom's hands to the one on his side table. The pieces of the puzzle click together one by one. He remembers Potter looking towards the daffodils as he told Severus that Longbottom had slayed Nagini. Then there was that conversation Severus overheard.
“He comes by every week. Such a dear little lamb.”
“No need to linger in the doorway,” Severus tells the aforementioned dear little lamb.
“Ah, yeah, alright then,” Longbottom says, sounding unsure but following the directive anyway. Looking at everything in the room besides Severus, he approaches the side table, vanishes the old bouquet, and replaces it with the fresh one.
Longbottom looks down at the bouquet with a soft smile, seemingly pleased. He has a dimple when he smiles. Severus has never noticed it. Though, he supposes, he never did anything to make Longbottom smile. Actively discouraged it, even.
Severus remembers that he was once Longbottom’s boggart. Severus had not even examined the implications at the time. He was too busy being furious that Lupin had taken advantage of the situation in order to humiliate him. Perhaps Severus ought to have been furious with himself instead.
“Oh!’ Longbottom turns towards Severus and flushes slightly. “I have this. I dunno if you're interested. I'm sure you're very busy resting and healing and such. And this might seem too work adjacent? I just thought you might like it?” He pulls a thin volume out of the leather satchel he's wearing.
Severus could say something about Longbottom's stammering speech and offer a comment on his startling verbosity. Severus is a frightfully bitter man, but even he knows better than to insult someone who brings him flowers. For some reason, those insipid daffodils have felt like a lifeline since Severus woke up.
Perhaps Longbottom brings flowers to all the long-term patients at St. Mungo's. It seems like some do-gooder nonsense he would get up to.
Longbottom holds out the book, an issue of The Practical Potioneer.
Another puzzle piece clicks into place. The warm voice Severus sometimes heard in his state of non-being.
“You read this?” Severus asks, raising an eyebrow. Longbottom was always abysmal at Potions. Severus doubts that he picked up an affinity for the subject in the past ten years.
“It's, er, for you, sir,” Longbottom says.
Severus accepts the journal. “I suppose I shall need to catch up with the last ten years of Potions innovations.”
“I have more,” Longbottom says with a shaky smile, “Loads more. I can bring them if you'd like.”
Had Severus really never seen Longbottom smiling in all the years he had him as a student? Never even noticed the dimple?
“If it's not too much trouble,” Severus says.
“Not at all, Professor.”
Severus almost tells Longbottom not to call him Professor, as he has no plans to resume his post. But he doesn't know what to ask to be called instead.
Longbottom does not visit Severus again while he’s hospitalized, but one day an orderly delivers a magically expanded box filled with Potions periodicals from the last ten years. They are Severus’s main source of entertainment when he’s not being forced through painful and humiliating physical therapy. Lying around for ten years is not kind on the body. Severus’s muscles are atrophied. His joints scream. His knees buckle beneath him as he attempts to cross the room. He has not even attempted to use magic yet, but the healers inform him that it may have been adversely affected. Perhaps it will be weaker or less controlled. They are afraid to examine while still focusing on Severus’s physical state.
Longbottom doesn’t return. Not that it matters. Severus would rather be alone.
He isn’t left alone though. Besides the healers coming in, assaulting Severus’s senses with their glaring lime green robes day after day, he is frequently visited by the Potters. Plural. Harry Potter’s visits are professional in nature. He is always dressed in his auror robes, his professionalism only betrayed by his untamed mess of hair. He comes by for small stretches of time, just long enough to ask short questions. Tying up loose ends, he says.
Does Severus know where Rodolphus Lestrange might be hiding? Any Death Eater safe houses to check? Does Severus recognize anyone from the vast list of people who are still missing ten years after the war? They’re all presumed dead at this point, but Severus is able to confirm at least a dozen of them. More than one of them died by his own hand. A mercy, really. Potter doesn't seem to judge Severus for it.
Severus suspects that Potter is dragging out these loose ends as an excuse to check up on him. Potter does not say anything too personal after their first meeting, which Severus is glad for. But occasionally Potter gets a soft look in his eyes that makes Severus believe he’s holding back some sort of outburst of emotion.
Draco Potter is a different story. The last time Severus had seen Draco, the boy was pale and drawn, bogged down by the horrors of the war and in way too deep. Severus had privately agonized over Draco, fearful that he was too sensitive to survive.
Against the odds, Draco had survived. And now he has regained the expressiveness of his youth. He strides into Severus’s room with an air of confidence, dressed for a hospital visit the way others would dress for the Parisian high street, a white silk shirt tucked into powder blue trousers and a flowing cloak the same color as the trousers, clasped with with a golden moth broach. Upon his feet are white buckled boots that reach up to Draco’s knees, with a curl at the tip and a thin heel that causes Draco to tower over nearly everyone.
“Morgana above, this room is unsightly. Are there not better accomodations available?” Draco drawls as he enters the room, wrinkling his nose.
“Mister Malfoy,” Severus greets.
“It's Potter now,” Draco corrects with a self-satisfied smile, “Though you already knew this. Hullo, Uncle Sev. You're looking well.”
Severus grimaces and pills his blanket closer. “I look horrid and you know it.”
“Better than when I saw you last,” Draco amends. He grimaces as he takes in the barren and ugly room.
“It's a hospital room, Draco,” Severus says, “It doesn't need to be luxurious.”
“With the amount being withdrawn from my vault each month, there ought to be a crystal chandelier,” Draco says haughtily.
Severus purses his lips. He knows that ten years of treatment has its cost. He's been expecting a hefty bill at the end of all of this, truthfully.
“You've been funding my care?” Severus asks.
Draco snorts. “Hardly. The Malfoy fortune is all dried up these days, I’m afraid. Your bill is covered by the illustrious Saint Potter fund. Harry was rather insistent that you get the best care available. Which, for me, means the longer you languish away here, the longer I must wait for my seaside vacation home in the south of France.”
Severus can't help but smile. He thought that for Draco to ever be married to someone like Harry Potter, he would need to have changed fundamentally. But in many ways, Draco is the same spoiled brat he always has been. And same as always, Severus is extraordinarily fond of him.
Draco is pulling Severus out of bed, babbling on about getting Severus healthy enough to be discharged so Draco can summer in France, when a scandalized Healer Jones bursts in.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“We’re just going for a walk in the garden,” Draco says innocently.
“Mister Snape is not strong enough,” she protests.
Though he is loathe to agree, Severus is aware that he can barely take more than a few steps at a time presently. He had told Draco that himself but his words were steadfastly ignored.
Draco sneers at Healer Jones as he pulls a green stocking cap over Severus’s head. “Don't you have wheelychairs like the muggles do? So I can roll him about?”
“We don't have anything like that, sir.”
“What sort of establishment is this?” Draco says, petulant, “I told Harry he ought to send you to the hospital in Switzerland. They would have had you awake in three years, spry enough to become a professional Quidditch player if you so desired. But Harry’s always been so fond of the motherland.”
Draco holds Severus close to him, steadily. Severus feels like a child and wants to wriggle away. Draco points his wand towards one of the drab visitor’s chairs and transfigures it into a handsome high-backed green arm chair with a set of four wheels at the bottom and two handles at the top. He then maneuvers Severus into the chair and begins pushing him out the door.
“I really must advise…” Healer Jones protests, but Draco cuts her off.
“I don't think my husband, Harry Potter, would be too pleased to hear about this,” Draco drawls.
Healer Jones rolls her eyes and steps aside.
Draco cackles like a child as he pushes Severus down the corridor, moving so fast that Severus has to hold onto the arms of the chair in a death grip.
Draco finally slows down when they reach the garden, a small space filled with glorious greenery and a circular walking path. Severus sighs in contentment as fresh air brushes his skin for the first time in ten years.
Finally Severus says, “Your husband, Harry Potter, wouldn’t be too pleased to hear about this?”
Draco just laughs. “Oh, he’d call me a little shit and tell me I need to apologize. Gloriana is just doing her job, darling, don't make it harder on her. Then he'd bake her muffins."
For all of Draco’s talk of pushing Severus to the limit, their time out in the garden is quite peaceful. Occasionally, Draco gets a wild look in his eye and pulls Severus to his feet and demands he take a few steps forward, but is quick to help Severus back in the chair as soon as he falters.
Mostly, Draco talks and Severus listens.
Draco talks a bit about his potions business (“Thriving, of course”), but mostly he talks about his life with Harry. Their house, their daughter, their rather nasty gnome infestation.
“You see, Harry thinks the gnomes are like house elves and wants to build them little houses, love on them, and kiss their ugly noses, but I keep telling him that they’re little more than pests that need to be viciously eradicated.”
There is something so tender in the way Draco says his husband’s name. So fond, even when Draco is being chiding.
Severus thinks that his own name has never fit in anyone’s mouth in that way.
“I must ask,” Severus says when there’s a lull in Draco’s chatter, “How did you and Potter come to be? I can scarcely imagine it.”
“Well, I doubt you're surprised that I’m gay, sir,” Draco says.
“Obviously,” Severus says with a shake of his head, “I’ve been quite sure of that since that one Yule party at Malfoy Manor where you insisted on entertaining us all with a medley of Celestina Warbeck tunes whilst wearing your great-grandmother’s dress robes.”
Draco throws his head back and laughs. “Oh Merlin, I had forgotten about that. I threw a right fit in the middle of it because Vince and Greg missed their cue to come onstage because they were in the kitchen stuffing their faces with canapes.”
“Where are my background singers?” Severus mocks in a posh falsetto.
After Draco’s giggles subside he says, “Well, you know I talked about Harry constantly in school. I was obsessed. I came to your office constantly just to rant at you about it.”
Well, that was certainly true, but to Severus it seemed like Draco was obsessed with seeing the other boy brought low. Perhaps he just hadn't been looking hard enough.
“Then, Harry saved my life in the battle. Vince set the Room of Hidden Things ablaze with fiendfyre. I was so sure I was going to die, but Harry just emerged out of the smoke on his damn broomstick and swept me away. I think that's when I knew, probably.”
Severus makes a slight gagging noise.
“You asked!” Draco shouts, swatting his shoulder. “Anyway, we both went back to Hogwarts the next year to finish up our NEWTs. They put all of us eighth-years in a dorm together. Harry was my roommate. My roommate who did calisthenics each morning in only his pants. A man can only be so strong, Severus.” Draco puts a hand to his heart and gazes upwards.
“Desist,” Severus grouses.
“As I said, you asked.”
Draco proudly shows Severus a photograph of a little girl with hair that is as untidy as Potter’s but the same white-blonde shade as Draco’s. She shares Draco’s pointed features, but has light brown skin and wide green eyes.
“Lily’s rather magically sensitive,” Draco explains, “We've been taking her to a specialist. Saint Mungo’s is a little too much for her, but she’s very eager to meet her Uncle Sev.”
Uncle Sev.
Severus has been slotted into their family so neatly and without his consent. But he cannot bring himself to protest too much.
Besides, Severus cares for Draco. Potter’s presence has not been unbearable.
Severus will probably never be a father but he supposes he can be Uncle Sev to another blonde terror.
“Will you have more children?” Severus asks.
“Oh, eventually,” Draco says, “Harry would happily give up his career to raise an entire Quidditch team, but I told him three is my absolute limit. It's the orphan in him, I swear.”
A cutting comment about Potter’s lack of parentage is something straight out of a younger Draco’s playbook and though the tone is teasing, the words are filled with an immeasurable amount of love. Something about it is almost too heavy for Severus to bear.
As Draco is wheeling Severus out of the garden, he sees it. The plaque reading: Frank and Alice Longbottom Memorial Garden.
“Frank and Alice are dead?”
Draco nods solemnly. “Yes, they passed around four years ago.”
They say nothing more on the way back to Severus’s room. He is back in his bed when he asks Draco “Why?”
He does not need to clarify. Draco understands him immediately.
“I suppose you would need to ask him yourself.”
“Surely you must have some idea,” Severus presses. Draco always has an opinion and tends to offer it even if it's inappropriate.
Draco pauses, frowning. “Neville is just a good person,” he finally says.
It's not a good enough reason, Severus wants to say. There are limits to kindness.
At thirteen years old, Severus had been the thing Neville Longbottom feared most. There was no coming back from that, surely.
Neville Longbottom does not return, but his flowers remain as fresh and vibrant as the day he brought them in.
Longbottom does not return, but Severus watches the doorway anyway. He tells himself it's just because he's waiting for the answer.