Severus scowled at the sound of the door leading from his kitchen to the backyard opening and closing. That sound was followed by footsteps in his kitchen. They weren't unexpected, just unwelcome.

He knew the sounds of various things in this house by heart now.

He'd gotten very good at knowing when his father left. Or, sometimes more importantly, when he returned home. Today, it could only mean that Healer Hermione Granger was here for another day of torture disguised as therapy.

Ministry ordered convalescent care. As if the healers at St. Mungo's had the first clue as to how to care for someone like him.

He hated thinking of himself as being someone that needed such a thing, and he would never have requested it if the choice was his. Of course, that was likely exactly why the Minister ordered it. It was probably even at Albus Dumbledore's insistence. It would be just like the man, too, to pester him post-war, even post-death, when his commitment was done. It wasn't enough he'd been made to kill the man, really his only friend.

He'd think she enjoyed it entirely too much, punishing her git of a potions professor. The man who'd made fun of her more than once during her time as his student. However, as a healer that seemed to go against their purpose, so he suspected that wasn't true and just his imagination running wild. (He had plenty of time to allow it to do just that.)

Ultimately, he knew that she was just doing her job. The task she trained for post-war.

Not that he'd hired her, or any of her predecessors, of course. They didn't even let him choose , they just sent any ol' chit they had on hand. Likely, one who had done something that her supervisors believed they deserved the punishment of getting him as their patient.

She'd been sent. Drew the short straw, no doubt.

The Ministry was ensuring that his rehabilitation didn't fall through the cracks. They all had egg on their face for not believing Albus' statements of trusting Severus. How many times did he have to say he trusted Severus? That was in addition to so many not being under the Imperius unwilling to believe that the Dark Lord was back before it was too late. So, no one was going to fail him in his recovery.

As if he wanted to recover!

No one even fucking asked him!

So, every time one healer was let go (more like fled the premises) another one quickly replaced the one dismissed. The longest he'd gone between healers was two full days.

The man they'd dismissed and disparaged for years had fooled them all, and now they were here trying not to look as foolish as he thought them to be. They were all fools.

Well, okay.

She wasn't a fool.

He knew this.

For all his insults and jibes, he was aware the witch was not dumb.

If only it all mattered.

Nothing mattered.

"Good morning, Sir," she called from the kitchen.

She evidently had a sixth sense or something, because she always seemed to know when he was already downstairs when she arrived. The days he wasn't, she was always … quiet, as if genuinely going out of her way not to wake or disturb him. Until she had to, but even then she was not pushy.

Did she have to sound so fucking chipper all of the time? He had yet to hear her come in and be anything but.

Didn't she ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Have her morning rub-off interrupted? Or spill her coffee?

Then maybe she was on the way to wedded bliss to where doing her own rubbing off wasn't necessary. He had no idea, as he presently had nothing to do with the magical world and its gossip currently.

Except for the healers they thrust on him against his will.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but my cat got out. You remember Crookshanks?"

It clearly wasn't an actual question so he remained quiet. (Up for debate was whether he would have even if she meant for him to.)

"I got him my third year, and he was with me at school. Well, anyway," she kept going when he made no effort to respond in the affirmative or negative. Little had changed in that, it seemed. He did not engage her attempts at idle small talk. That was not what she was here for, and certainly wasn't what the Ministry was paying her to do.

Of course he remembered her half kneazle. The blasted creature had found its way into his quarters many times over the years. He had no idea how her familiar had gotten through his wards either.

At first it was a bit baffling. No other familiars made it into his quarters. Not that he knew of, if any others tried. That wasn't the point. His quarters were not overrun with creatures: familiars or otherwise. So, he presumed it was limited to hers.

Then it had turned into a battle of wills between the two, with Severus attempting to keep the witch's familiar out.

And failing.

The creature in question always managed to get through, which made Severus feel incompetent more than once. This was not something he was accustomed to being made to feel! He, of course, had no idea how many attempts it took the cat to get through with any given change in his wards.

To be outsmarted by a feline!

Wouldn't Minerva have a roll in the old catnip at his expense, if she ever found out. Fortunately, she never did. He certainly wasn't going to tell her. As there were no witnesses (he hadn't even told Albus), she'd never know.

Eventually, he stopped trying to thwart the four-legged visitor's attempts to get in. If he wanted in that badly. Well, then he could just come in and enjoy the patheticness that was Severus Snape's abode and life.

He'd never admit it to a living soul, but the beast had aided him in ways better than any potion ever did or could some nights. A body by his side, offering warmth and comfort when he was healing or emotionally overwhelmed had been … nice.

That final year, he had no idea how he got to Hogwarts (Ginevra Weasley perhaps?) because he knew Miss Granger had taken him with her when she left Hogwarts as a student for the last time. The feline had stayed by his side more often than not. A balm. A port in the storm that was the chaos of that year leading up to the war's end. Always somehow escaping from the view of the Carrows, or more importantly any student who'd recognize him.

As if he'd known he should not be seen.

He'd never had a pet or a familiar in his life personally. His parents hadn't been able to afford one. He recalled the first time he'd asked for one. His father had laughed at the ridiculousness of a boy wanting a pet. Hell, he would have taken an owl if it was such an unmanly thing to want a feline. His mother had looked at him with regret in her eyes. He could identify that emotion now. He hadn't as a child, and didn't realize she really had cared that he couldn't have something as simple as a pet.

He'd thought of getting one on his own, but he wouldn't have been able to bring it home in the summer.

Most familiars at Hogwarts avoided him like the plague, echoing their person's preference. The half kneazle had not. To this day, Severus had no idea how the animal got into his quarters.

Repeatedly.

One or two times he could dismiss as an accident: he hadn't shut his door completely or set his wards. Repeatedly, though? And the headmaster's quarters and office? Kneazles were magical he knew, but hers was not full kneazle. He sure seemed more intelligent than any he'd encountered until now.

He had no idea what she'd just said about her familiar, but the crux of it seemed to be that she had not found him. She left a window open for him at her flat, hoping he would use it if he returned while she was here.

As if he cared.

(Okay, he might have come to care for the beast.)

Here was his home on Spinner's End.

She came seven days a week to torture him.

Figuratively, of course.

Though it may as well be literally.

She had trained to be a healer since the war's end. He hadn't asked to see her credentials nor had she presented them. He could only assume by her being here that she had completed, and passed, the requirements to hold the position.

If he had given Hermione Granger any thought since regaining consciousness, he would have been surprised by this choice in career paths. However, coming to age as a witch during a war when so many had been gravely injured and died. He supposed it made a good bit of sense.

Being Hermione Granger, she had completed her training in record time evidently. How did he know that? She was the most recent in a chain of healers thrust upon him the past two months since he'd finally been cleared to go home. They wouldn't have sent her to him if she was still a trainee.

To this point, she was the only one who had lasted a full week.

She was also the only one who hadn't left his house in tears.

Either he was losing his touch, or she had thicker skin than he had given her credit for.

Additionally, she was the only one to this point he hadn't wanted to throttle. (Oh, the irony there, as she had driven him mad when he was her professor.)

Not that it mattered.

He had finally come up with a plan. It was somewhere during the rotating healers, realizing the Ministry was not going to let him live in peace. He realized they were going to be even worse than Albus' conniving, meddling ways. They would never stop checking up on him, even when he had recuperated to the point of not requiring a healer. They would keep prying. Keep ensuring he was all right. Keep wanting him to do things.

With that in mind.

Well, there was a sure fire way to get them to stop coming. To rid them of their obligation. And he wasn't a fool, that was all he was. They didn't truly care whether he lived or died, or had a better life post-war.

They just needed to look as if they cared, to put in the work so that no one could say their spy had been abandoned.

It would take him a while to put it into action but then, well, nothing would matter anymore.

Healers wouldn't have to come check on their former potions professor anymore.

Because he had taught all of them.

They could all finally go back to insulting and making fun of him behind his back, as they'd always done.

He'd finally be free. That in itself was what he looked most forward to.

Freedom.

Something he'd really never had in his life. Even making this decision was freeing.

He would have freedom in death, though.

He couldn't believe it had taken him this long to come up with the idea.

Nagini's venom was an easy scapegoat. He knew there were other things in play. The stigma of taking one's own life being cowardly.

He was no coward.

He heard activity in his kitchen indicative of tea and breakfast being seen to. From the sounds, she was doing them as she usually did. The muggle way. He wasn't sure why she made him breakfast, the other healers hadn't, and it certainly wasn't a normal task a healer would do.

He kind of liked that she did it the muggle way. None of the other healers had made tea that way. They'd all used magic. The first time he'd reacted rather violently. That healer hadn't lasted the morning. How dare she come into his muggle home and just assume magic could be done here!

There was such a thing as manners!

Magic had not been permitted here for so long it almost seemed wrong to go against that unspoken rule. Even if he had used it here over the years since he'd taken over the house as the ultimate fuck you to his father.

Evidently, word had gotten back to St. Mungo's regarding his tantrum because the others after that dunderheaded imbecile had asked for permission to use magic. He had granted it. It wasn't that he didn't want magic done here. It was that she hadn't even fucking asked! He knew many magical people wouldn't know how to make tea the muggle way. He still wasn't eating very much, but he did enjoy tea. If a biscuit accompanied the cup of tea, all the better.

The permission was to spite his father. Severus knew that letting witches perform magic in the house his mother - a witch - could not would likely cause his father to roll over in his grave and curse Severus' name.

Anything to piss off his old man, even to this day.

He could have, he supposed, eased Granger's mind and told her that her familiar had been here the previous night.

Again.

It seemed to be a regular occurrence, even before she'd become his healer. He, however, did not see it as his life's mission to ease this witch's mind. So, he let her fret, and believe that her half kneazle had run away.

How the familiar had gotten here any of the times he had, Severus had no idea. He just knew he'd looked down in his lab last night to see it at his feet. Again. He'd brushed against his legs much as he'd done at Hogwarts and gave a meow before stretching out. He had stayed until at least Severus took himself to bed. What time he left he had no idea. For all he knew, he might still be downstairs! He doubted it, and wondered upon her familiar's first appearance, if by some bizarre happenstance the witch didn't live nearby.

He scoffed to himself at that thought.

As if she would lower herself to live in Cokeworth. Even he didn't truly want to live here. He just hadn't had much of a choice. It was one of Albus' requirements of him, to drive home the point he loved Lily so much he didn't even want to get rid of his childhood home.

And now that he had a choice in the matter? Now that Albus wasn't alive to control even where he chose to call home?

Well, it wouldn't matter because in a few months he'd be able to implement his plan, and he wouldn't have to live anywhere ever again.

He was ready. Unfortunately, the potion he was preparing was not.

"Breakfast is ready, Sir," she called cheerfully from the kitchen.

He snorted at her choice in words, and the tone. She clearly had no idea what he was thinking, or she likely wouldn't be cheerful. Then maybe she would. Certainly, there had to be more receptive patients she could be tending to instead of him.

He'd been ready two years ago, but he hadn't been allowed to die as he assumed he would at the end of the war. However, whoever saved his sorry arse did him a favour in a roundabout way. This plan would give him what had evaded him for twenty years now: one last conversation with his true love.

He stood slowly from his chair with the help of his cane and walked to the kitchen. Meal preparation was not part of her job, but she'd taken it upon herself to do it, and he wasn't complaining. He'd likely starve to death if left to his own devices. She seemed to know that, too.

They ate in silence, which surprised him that she was able to accomplish. He hadn't thought she had it in her. He perused the London Times . She perused the Daily Prophet and Quibbler , both of which she brought with her.

They then set about their morning routine.

She checked his vitals, ran diagnostics, and checked his wounds. He supposed she did that to ensure anything he'd done the day before hadn't exacerbated them. Then she put him through the paces. Today was arm and upper body day.

It had taken him almost eighteen months to come out of the coma he'd been in. He was now to the point he could walk to some degree, with the assistance of a cane. Short distances. This was why he was at his home now and no longer inpatient like an invalid.

Her job was to get his body back into recognizing that it could function as it was supposed to. For some reason, his body didn't seem to want to acknowledge he'd woken from the coma. Evidently, his body was in agreement with his mind that he should have been left to die in that damned shack.

If only!

As usual there were other plans for him evidently.

Morning's torturing disguised as therapy done, she helped him upstairs even though she knew he could get up and down them himself. She wasn't here twenty-four hours a day, so clearly he got around without her. She helped him settle in for some rest and then she went to go do whatever it was she did while he was assigned a nap like a toddler. He had no idea what that entailed. For all he knew she took a nap herself. (He doubted that she would.)

The afternoon it would be more of the same: lunch, exercises, and she'd help him bathe if he needed the assistance before she saw to dinner. She always saw to dinner before leaving. She never stayed, but he knew she looked every morning to be sure he'd at least eaten some of what she'd left for him.

Dinner sometimes was leftovers from the night before, which he didn't begrudge her doing since cooking him any meals wasn't really part of her job description. The plate was always prepared for him, though, left under a stasis for when he was ready to eat it.

His eyes fell closed as he heard humming coming from the living room. She'd hummed before, too, but he'd been too focused on his own thoughts to give it any consideration.

Humming was a foreign occurrence in the Snape home. Anything that could be construed as pleasant as a general rule hadn't, and didn't, happen here.

What did she have to be so happy about as to hum anyway?

And what song was it? It was familiar, but the title was escaping him.

His eyes fluttered closed realizing that as much as he hated to admit it, the witch could carry a tune.

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com