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Many things are overlooked in the aftermath of a battle. True, there was no body, but there were a hundred witnesses to hear Voldemort announce he had killed Snape, and even in non-magical battles there are not always tidy remains to return to the family or bury with dignity.
And nobody was looking all that hard anyway.
There were two main 'Snape' camps. The first held that he had been evil all along, and had their stories of cruelties and injustice, while the second claimed he had been the most courageous of double agents, and apologised away his undeniable actions. Both were secretly relieved that no decision had to be made about whether he should be buried next to Dumbledore or tossed into a pit.
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The secrets to disappearing are the same as those for drawing caricatures. Identify the most recognisable features, and then either emphasise or eliminate them. The hair had to go first, replaced with a neatly shaven head. The nose was second, done in a Muggle hospital by a Muggle surgeon and paid for entirely by Muggle money.
The personality was more difficult. He refused to go as far as genial or merry, but abandoned most of his trademark sarcasm in exchange for a cool politeness. That was sufficient for the few personal exchanges he had in his new life; he had a house, a plot of land, and set up a new life as a supplier to herbal shops and businesses.
He'd always had an affinity for the raw materials that went into potions, and found it easier than expected to spend his time with rows of lavender and asphodel, St. John's wort and rosemary and ginger. His habits of meticulous precision and attention to detail were still applicable, keeping his deliverable quantities small but of the highest quality. He used no magic, but was too old and too wary to give up carrying a wand, so kept it in a pocket inside the sleeve of his shirt.
Each year the likelihood of his being discovered receded. He developed muscles from the continual exercise and lost his pallor during days spent in the open light. The longer he stayed put, the more solid his new identity grew, until he was simply another resident of the district. Only a few locals still considered him a new arrival, but that wouldn't change even if he stayed for fifty years instead of five.
It was inevitable that, in time, an order would come in from a company that was located in Diagon Alley. The return address was unfamiliar - a post office box in suburban London - but more than one magical company had arrangements that allowed them to operate in both worlds. He felt an odd reluctance to enter into even such a slight magical contact, hesitating over it for a long time. In the end he was forced to conclude that his only safe course of action was to treat them exactly the same as his other customers. After all, no Muggle farmer would have any reason to refuse their order.
That night he couldn't sleep, besieged by memories of another world, the one he had grown up in and lost. Finally he gave up trying, and sat in the kitchen with a pot of tea. He smiled wryly when the sight of the leaves in his cup reminded him of Trelawney, wandering the halls with her wild fancies and bottles of sherry. That thought led to Dumbledore with his grand causes; McGonagall, one of the few he respected; Pomfrey, who had relied upon his abilities to supply her infirmary; Flitwick and Binns and Sprout and all the others.
He hadn't expected to be lonely, but he had learned to accept it. Most of the time.
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"Blood hell, Harry! Where did you get all this stuff?" The words were followed by a violent sneeze, as Ron shook dust down on himself from the boxes he was lifting down from the top of the wardrobe.
"It's no more than you've got," Hermione pointed out, still the voice of reason. They'd stayed friends despite, or perhaps because of, the lack of the expected marriages between them. And among the tasks of friends is helping one another move offices, even when that involves some years' worth of accumulation.
"Ratty textbooks, quills, - hey! an old Sneak-o-Scope! - Ministry forms." Ron shook his head sadly. "Junk. Although this isn't bad."
'This' was a small flask, tightly stoppered, with a graceful shape. Hermione took it from Ron, and then frowned. "Harry? Do you recall where you got this?" She turned it in her hands. "I'd swear it's one of mine."
Harry's head appeared from around the frame of the bedroom door. "What?" He saw the flask and came into the room. He hefted it in his palm to judge the weight, then held it up to the light. "It's got something in it, but there doesn't seem to be any mass..." His voice trailed off.
"What is it?" Ron persisted, seeing recognition dawn on Harry's face. "Go on, tell us."
"It's Snape's memory," Harry said in a tight voice. "From when he was dying. Do you remember? He shoved this at me, and Hermione made a flask for it."
"And you never looked at it?" Hermione asked incredulously. "It could be really important!"
"As if I didn't have a few other things on my minds at the time!" Harry retorted. "Like a pitched battle, and Voldemort, and my friends dying all around me! I put it away, and then, just, never got around to looking at it." His voice fell off to a mutter. "Not sure I want to, anyway. It's probably one final insult or something."
"Harry, Snape bothered to give you this while he was dying. I think you should at least see what was so important to him."
"Yeah!" Ron cut in. "Maybe he's got a vault at Gringott's, and no family. Maybe he's left you a pile of Galleons, just sitting there waiting."
Harry was still reluctant. "As soon as we're done moving me upstairs," he finally conceded.
"No." Hermione folded her arms. "You'll put it away somewhere, and 'never quite get around to' looking at it, again. Ron and I can take these ones up; come and join us in the kitchen for some tea when you're done."
Harry sat on the bed with a sigh. He was already depressed; not just with the effort of moving, although it was going to be nice to have the larger quarters previously used by Professor Thwaitewhistle, along with the retiring wizard's position as Professor of Muggle Studies. He'd even still get to keep refereeing the House Quidditch matches.
It just seemed all so anti-climactic at times. After risking his life, watching death strike around him, and defeating the greatest evil wizard of his time, Harry spent his days dodging badly hit Bludgers and convincing students that the British Postal Service was not run by elves hiding inside the post boxes. It was a job, it was a useful job, and it paid, but it wasn't enough to make up a satisfactory life.
Maybe what he missed was simply normal friendship. Too many people still treated him with a certain hesitant awe, instead of straight-out chaffing and insults. Even McGonagall tended to ask him to do things, instead of crisply giving orders as was her right. It was all right when Hermione and Ron came to visit from their respective jobs, but otherwise he felt as if he was still stuck on his bloody pedestal.
Sometimes he felt like letting a Quaffle 'accidentally' slip past him and break a window, just to see if anyone would insult him or make complaints for a change. He snorted quietly to himself. Potter, the only Hogwarts graduate who misses being given detentions.
Well, self-pity wasn't going to improve anything. Harry shook himself, then picked up the flask again. He didn't have a proper Pensieve, but caught up the silvery-blue strands with the end of his wand, pressing it against his temple.
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"Snape?" The voice hissed in an urgent whisper. "Snape?"
"What is it?" Snape's form whirled around, his robes brushing against the dusty floor of what Harry recognised as the Shrieking Shack. The memory-Snape peered into the shadows. "Lupin?"
"Yes." Louder now, and Harry knew the voice as Remus Lupin's. "I've come to settle your account with the Marauders."
"You. Are. Kidding. Me." Snape's sneer was entirely unforced. "We're in the middle of a battle to the death, and you want to play schoolboy games? I suppose you're about to announce you're going to kill me for all the evil I've committed."
"Not exactly."
Snape glanced aside at the sound of footsteps in the next room, and Harry realised that Voldemort must still be next door, directing his forces.
Lupin took advantage of the momentary break in Snape's concentration to fire a non-verbal spell, Stunning him and leaping forward to catch him before he could fall to the floor. The black eyes glared up at him furiously, but the rigid form was silent.
"I said I was here to settle our account. I didn't mean you had a debt to us; this is to repay our debt to you." Lupin plucked a hair from Snape's head, and dropped it into a flask. Drinking the result, he shuddered and twisted, changing into Snape's exact duplicate. His plain robe was already a good enough match. At the last, he plucked the wand from the unresisting hand and left his own in exchange.
And only just in time. A thin, unpleasant voice called out from the other room. "Snape! Attend me!" Lupin winked at Snape, and walked away. Harry saw Voldemort, glaring out of the window, and Nagini in her floating protective sphere. He hardly registered Voldemort's words; his head was spinning with sudden confusion. Why was his point of view moving with Lupin?
The memory cut off a moment later. Harry had seen the results of what must have happened next. He'd knelt next to the dying man on the floor and taken this very memory from him. But the dying man had been Remus Lupin, not Severus Snape.
Lupin must have known about Snape's true role, and 'paid back' the debt for all the abuse Snape had suffered unjustly. Once the effects of the Polyjuice potion and the stunning spell had worn off, Snape must have moved Lupin's body to the grounds where it was found, and then vanished.
Snape had survived the battle. The question now was, what was Harry going to do about it?
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Snape had long ago given up tensing every time he saw an owl. The birds were common enough in open farmland, keeping the rodent population down in the farmer's favour. He rather liked owls, really, birds of the night, hunters both patient and silent. Some evenings he'd sit outside and watch for them, or the less common bats that came to hunt insects drawn by the flowering plants.
He didn't see the particular owl that flew into a tree on the edge of his property. The owl saw him, however, and ruffled its feathers in what could only be called a smug manner. The dark wings opened, and it swooped without a sound across the small field. It called out, a low, mournful sound, and as Snape turned his head the owl dropped a white envelope into a rosebush and continued on its way.
Snape's heart stuttered in his chest, and he would have sworn Lupin's wand twitched against his arm. Six years he'd been left alone here, and now his old world had intruded on him. His old world, the one he'd chopped off along with every person he'd ever known. In six years here he'd only made nodding acquaintances, and the best conversation he'd had had been with his neighbour who grew artichokes, a five-minute exchange of generic agreements about the decent rain they'd had during April.
He stood up, slowly walked down the two steps to the ground, and moved to retrieve the letter. There was no point ignoring it. Someone knew where he was. Owls might - rarely - be unable to find someone; but they never made a mistake in delivery.
He carried the letter into the house for the sake of the light, and ripped it open. At least it was short, only a single page.
Professor,
Don't worry, everybody still thinks you're dead. I only found out last week, when I saw a memory that Lupin left me of your last meeting in the Shrieking Shack.
I know how much you did for our side, and I'm sorry your reward for it is so small. Is being a herb farmer what you really want? The current Potions Master at Hogwarts is barely tolerable, or I'm willing to bet I could talk Headmistress McGonagall into giving you the Dark Arts post. It no longer seems to be jinxed, by the way.
If you want to come back, there'll be some people on your side at any rate. And the current first years are sadly lacking in discipline, so you could still stomp and snark and glower, if you prefer to restore your previous reputation.
I'll send Hedwig next week for your answer.
Cheers!
Harry Potter,
Professor of Muggle Studies.
Snape must have spluttered for several minutes after reading the missive. The damn cheek of it, from that boy! You could still stomp and snark and glower, indeed! McGonagall as Headmistress, that was no surprise, and would certainly be tolerable as a working situation... No! He wasn't thinking about it. There were too many people in that world who would still recoil the sight of him. Not that he cared for their opinions, of course...
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"And now we come to another pleasant part of the evening, where I will introduce the changes to our teaching staff for this year. Professor Potter has agreed to take on the position of Muggle Studies full-time, but will continue to assist Madame Hooch on the Quidditch field." A round of hearty applause at that announcement. "Professor Sprout is fully recovered, and will once again be our Herbology Professor." More applause. "And our vacant Potions position has been filled by a most qualified candidate, a long-term staff member, Professor Severus Snape."
Dead silence. Snape chose that moment to enter the Hall, having not wanted to spoil the surprise, and stalked slowly down between the House tables to the teachers' dais. It had only taken moments with his wand to restore the changes to his appearance that had taken weeks of pain and continuous attention to maintain. He noticed a few hard stares coming from the staff and senior students as if they refused to believe it was him. He'd fix that soon enough. He'd had to work to keep up the changes in his exterior, but his old personality had only been repressed, not eliminated.
He wasn't the only one whose identity was in doubt. It took him three tries to pick out Potter among the other faces at the staff table. He'd forgotten how much difference occurred in people between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. There'd be no mistaking him for a boy now, although Snape still had the years to make the term stick if he chose to use it. Potter seemed to be hiding a smirk in his goblet, but at least the cheeky sod wasn't taking the credit for his reappearance. Snape took his seat at the table, and McGonagall nodded her head to the room and sat down, the signal for general pandemonium to break out.
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Snape had wanted to corner Potter for a private word, but the mess left by the previous occupant of the Potions Master position had taken more time to set right than he had anticipated. He also had to establish his authority over several years' worth of students who knew him only by rumour, and settle his place in the staff hierarchy. Snape had finally resorted to sending Potter a message, asking him to come to his study after dinner.
Snape didn't believe in wasting time on empty pleasantries. "Why did you do it?"
"Do what, exactly?"
"Kindly don't play dumb with me. Hunt me down, send messages, speak to McGonagall about my coming back - what's in it for you?"
"I'm not sure, really. There's nothing 'in it' for me in terms of wanting favours from you - " Snape snorted at the very concept - "but it seemed right, somehow. You were a teacher here; that shouldn't be taken away from you because some people can't see the truth." Potter grinned at the thought, but Snape refused to respond in kind. "Besides, they're a bit of a stuffy lot here at the moment. They could use some stirring up."
"And your brilliant idea for 'stirring things up' is to bring back a professor that half the wizarding world still believes to be in the service of evil?"
"Yeah." Potter was almost laughing now. "I've been seriously lacking in challenges since we won the war. Rehabilitating your reputation should be just my kind of thing. Noble, heroic, totally Gryffindor."
"Trust a Gryffindor to try and sail an already sunken ship," Snape observed dryly. "Who said I wanted you to repair my reputation, Potter?"
"Who said I care what you want?"
"You did, when you arranged for me to be offered my old life back. Do not be mistaken, Potter. This does not make me wish to shower you with gratitude, nor am I willing to worship the ground you walk on."
"Oh, well that's all right then." Potter positively beamed at him, then nodded his head in a polite acknowledgement, equal-to-equal, and left.
The idiotic boy must have something wrong with his hearing.