Disclaimer:Severus Snape and other Potter-characters mentioned belong to J. K. Rowling.

Summary: Can things lost ever be found?

Notes: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest: Second Wave Scenario #104: Someone gives Severus an unexpected gift.

Archiving: The Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest; Ink Stained Fingers after Fest concludes. Others, but please ask first; I just want to know where this is going.

Beta: with many thanks and much gratitude, the Lady Mondegreen.

Author's Note: Be forewarned, this is another of my experiments with format and tone. It may work, it may not. It certainly was a challenge.

He was three when he began losing things.

His parents, happy because he was going to have a little brother or maybe even a sister, went off for a romantic holiday in Paris and never came back.

He had, he was informed, lost his parents.

He was handed over to an uncle, an dour and sour man, who was not pleased to take on this responsibility. In turn, he was handed over to a witch-cousin, who lived with the uncle, to be his supervisor. She was less dour and sour than the uncle, but terrified of the wizard. When he was around, she treated him as did the uncle, and when he was not, she was careful not to treat him much differently, as she was convinced that the house elves reported everything to the uncle. But when they went out--as they often did--to gather the herbs and plants that she needed for her potions, there was laughter and gaiety.

That ended the year he was eight, when the uncle, on one of his rare visits to the house, came upon them chasing each other in a meadow, laughing aloud, the boy squealing with delight as his cousin pretended to be after him to cook him for supper.

The uncle watched until they both noticed him, then went back to the house.

He lost his cousin and her affection.

The uncle took over his education in preparation for his going to Hogwarts and he lost whatever freedom he had had.

Hogwarts was different. Warm. Inviting. There was laughter there, but he had lost the ability to laugh.

He watched from the outside, even in a House filled with students who were, on the whole, a compilation of outsiders.

He did try--uneasily--to find a way of fitting in. He knew that he was not popular. Not handsome. Not witty. He didn't make friends easily, if at all. The Headmaster seemed to like him: he always noticed him if they met in the hallways. If not a greeting, at least a nod in his direction. His Potions instructor, who did not like him, respected him and his hunger for knowledge.

His uncle, he suddenly discovered, had a hunger of his own: for advancement. After scrutinizing the members of his House, the uncle ordered him to befriend Lucius Malfoy in any way Malfoy wanted. The Malfoys were an important family, with ties to all the other important families, and the uncle wanted a way into this hallowed circle.

Lucius was not hard to approach. He wanted to be surrounded with people who thought him intelligent--which he was, beautiful--which he was, a natural leader--which his family's position and money supported. He was magnanimously willing to allow into his hallowed circle the silent outsider, hungry for friendship, whose intelligence he could use for his own purposes, whose looks only made Lucius's own stand out all the more.

After a few years, Lucius found another use for him and he lost his virginity.

In the Malfoys' circle, he found a way of fitting in. His intelligence meant that he could bring something useful to it: his skills with potions were equal to none. His silence meant that he could see things, participate in things, and that no one would ever hear about them from him. Not even the uncle who suddenly found that, because of his nephew, he was occasionally invited to special meetings.

The Headmaster seemed to know that there were things happening. He called the boy--no longer a boy--to his office for a meeting, served him tea, offered him cookies, and tried to get him to talk to him.

But it was too late: he had lost the ability to open up.

Still, when he finally fully understood what was happening, what were to be the consequences of those special meetings, of the things he participated in, of the potions he made which were used in ways they were not meant to be, he lost the last of his hunger to fit in.

He went to see Dumbledore, who saw a way of using him. And he lost the dream that someone might actually care for him for reasons other than his usefulness.

When it was over, when the Dark Lord had lost, he was arrested as were so many others.

The uncle loudly protested his innocence, pointing to the nephew as the one who had done more than attend meetings. The panel of witches and wizards believed him about the nephew but not about his innocence: he was sentenced to Azkaban. As was the nephew for the time it took Dumbledore to prove to a special jury that he had worked for them as well.

Far too much time.

In Azkaban, he lost the last of his trust.

Dumbledore came for him, brought him back to Hogwarts and explained that as, long as he stayed at the school, he would be safe. He worked privately with the Potions instructor who had taught him, who no longer respected him because of the choices he had made. Eventually, the position of Potions instructor needed to be filled and Dumbledore decided it should be his.

Then, one year, students he had had for five years returned for their sixth and, suddenly, he lost something he no longer thought he had possessed to one of them: his heart.

He watched, a dour and sour man, and did nothing about it. There was nothing he could do. The youth who had taken his heart hated him.

The Dark Lord rose again. There were many who wanted the now Potions Master sent back to Azkaban especially when it appeared that he had returned to that side. Dumbledore and a select few knew differently. But still, he lost whatever reputation he had built up over time.

The battle raged long. There were victories on both sides as well as losses. He walked a fine, almost non-existent line until, one day, he fell. Into the wrong hands.

He did not lose his life: his captors were too angry at his betrayals for that. They buried him deep in one of their lightless dungeons and kept him there with a variety of spells. He lost his freedom. His ability to protect himself. Any hope of rescue.

Instead, he found a cold that went so deep into himself, he knew he would never again be warm.

They played with him, from time to time. Always keeping him blinded so that he could not see where the pain was to come from and who was administering it. After some time, he lost the need to determine which of them had called him out of his tomb.

Curled up on himself when they left him alone, shivering from cold and pain, he finally lost the last parts of himself. His spirit found a place outside of him where it too curled up, head tucked in tight against its legs and, with that, he lost his humanity. And he lost his mind.

He was not at all aware when he was found. When those who pushed open the door of his hole wrapped a warm cloak around his battered nudity, spelled him into unconsciousness and carried him out of there.

To St. Mungo's where, over time, his body healed though his mind did not.

How could it when the two parts of him were separate? One, the body, ate when told, moved when told, cleaned itself when told. The other, the spirit, hovered just out of reach of the body, watching, waiting for it to lose whatever it was it still hadn't lost.

The body was always cold. When allowed out of doors, it staggered over to a bench that sat in the sunshine and, arms around itself, the body tried to absorb some of the heat. The spirit above it watched silently as, one day, a man came to sit next to the body.

The spirit watched Dumbledore reach out a warm hand to touch the frigid one of the man sitting on the bench. "It's time for you to come home," he said. And holding the man's hand, he took him back to Hogwarts yet again.

He was not locked in a room for his own safety nor sent back to classes-- How could he be? He could barely look after himself--but he was allowed to walk freely thorough the halls, among the ghosts and phantoms who remembered him and greeted him kindly, among the portraits who always kept an eye on him and reported to Dumbledore if he was lost in some corridor somewhere. Then, when he grew daring enough, through the grounds where Hagrid kept him in sight. The students and staff treated him with respect, though the first years, barely remembering the war, were less kind. He knew that they often indicated that he was "looney".

One day, he found a small windowless room with a cauldron set up on a work table, with shelves of ingredients and a handwritten potions manual. It took him some time to realize that the hand had once been his. Alerted by the Bloody Baron, Dumbledore watched silently from the doorway as he muttered to himself, trying to replicate one of the simpler potions; then, with a self-satisfied nod, the Headmaster left him alone to get on with his experimentation.

Gradually, he moved on to the more complicated potions, all the while feeling as though he was watching himself do the work. The spirit hovered closer and there were times he wondered what would happen if the spirit once more joined the body. With Dumbledore's permission, he moved his bed and few possessions into the room, feeling more at ease there than in any other place in the school.

There were many more people in the school one day: hundreds more. It took him some time to realize that they were celebrating some event. He watched as he always had, always did, from the outside. He was approached by some of the visitors who tried to be kind. He found it strange that students who had never liked him, adults now, would make the effort.

He looked up and lost his breath.

The one who had taken his heart was there. With the others. He wanted to go over and warm himself at the man's presence but before he actually found the courage to take that first step, he realized the man was not alone. That he was with someone to whom he had given his heart.

He watched, wondering if the room had suddenly grown colder or whether it was just his losing this last dream made it so.

He turned and went back to his room.

He forced himself to look it over with a jaundiced eye and, with a determination he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt, he put the neat room to even neater straights. He carefully placed every jar, vial, bottle and box in its proper place. When all was done to his satisfaction, he took only one small vial out and set it on the work table; then he sat down and took out a parchment and a quill.

He was trying to decide whether to address his note to anyone when there was a knock on his door and, before he could say anything, it opened.

"I was waiting for you to see me," said the man standing in the doorway. "Hoping you would, but you saw him instead." The man approached the table and picked up the vial. "You never saw me. Only him. And he could never see you. He can't see you." The man placed the vial back down on the table. "Why are you doing this?"

He looked down at the parchment in front of him waiting for the ink. "Because I'm tired of being cold. Because I'm tired of losing things."

The man nodded. "I can understand that. But before you make me lose my dream, I want a chance to make you see me."

The man gently took the quill out of his hand. He placed warm hands on his cold shoulders and indicated he was to stand. Then, as though holding a piece of fragile glass, the man held his head as his lips grazed his own.

There was a sensation of burning, as the heat of the other's skin brushed against the cold of his.

The man stilled his lips and, using the tip of his tongue, stroked the outline of his mouth. Again the burning sensation of heat against cold.

The man deepened the assault on his cold mouth, tongue nudging lips apart, the other's warmth invading the frigid cavern of his mouth.

In the heat, his own tongue slowly unfroze enough to timidly touch the other's. The warm breath made its way around his mouth, bringing back sensations long forgotten. He could taste the other's taste. Feel the texture of tongue against tongue.

When the warmth moved away, he whimpered his loss.

"I'm not going anywhere," whispered the man as his mouth traced a burning path across his face, down to his neck. Everywhere the mouth went there was warmth. And there was warmth also coming from the other's body. He leaned in to it, craving the heat, afraid that like everything else it would be taken from him.

"Easy. We're in no hurry," said the man. And easily, they moved until he felt the edge of the narrow bed he slept on. They sat, the man's hands still on him, bringing warmth to his body. His spirit, drawn by the warming, approached even closer than it had since it had left the body.

His hands didn't know what to do so they found the other's and wrapped around his, following the movements as they released the clasp on his robe, as they removed his clothes.

His eyes never left the man as, never letting go of him, one hand always holding his clutching one, he rid himself of his garments and joined him on the bed. "If you can't see me, at least allow me to warm you."

"I'm afraid," he murmured.

"Of what? Of me? I won't hurt you. I promise."

He shook his head. "That I'll exchange your warmth for my cold. I don't want that. I don't wish it on anyone."

The man smiled at him. "Your cold can't touch me, my warmth is stronger."

"Then I may touch you?"

The man's grin was like sunshine. "Oh, yes, then you may touch me."

And as the man's hands chased the cold away from his body, as his spirit was drawn closer and closer, his own hands dared touch, explore and he was surprised by the heat they engendered.

Skin rubbing against skin generated even more heat and when the man's cock slipped into his body, his spirit slipped in as well, and together once more, body and spirit shouted their pleasure as the last of the cold was swept away.

He slept then. And woke to the knowledge that he had once more lost something. He made a sound, trying to keep his spirit in him, knowing that it would not remain in the cold.

"Are you all right?"

He turned his head and found the man sitting in his chair, watching him.

Slowly he sat up, wrapping the sheet which still retained some of the man's heat around him.

"I've always been curious," said the man, not at all disturbed by his silence. "Is the darkness, the lack of natural light, necessary for potions making?"

Bringing his legs under him, he looked at the man patiently waiting for his answer. "Only for some."

"Then why have you always chosen dungeons?"

He cocked his head, thinking about this for the first time ever. "I think..." he began slowly. He wanted to answer the man who had warmed him and he wanted the answer to be real, not one tossed off to satisfy a passing curiosity. "I think it is because I felt safer in the dungeons here. Warmer. No one else really wanted them and I would never lose them."

The man nodded. "Did you know that I was the one who found you in that other dungeon? The one who carried you out of there?"

He shook his head.

"I went to visit you in St. Mungo's. But you never saw me."

He shrugged. "I didn't do that on purpose. I never saw anyone there. It's only once Dumbledore brought me back here that I found I could see things again. But I never found the warmth to draw my spirit back in. Until now."

The man stood. His smile seemed sad. "I hope now that it's back, you won't lose it again."

He shrugged. "It needs warmth to stay and already I'm feeling the cold."

The man took a deep breath. "I have a house, a small one. It has lots of windows that let in the light and the warmth, but one of the rooms has a pantry which is windowless. It could be used for those potions that need darkness."

He thought about that for some minutes. And though the man again patiently waited, his eyes were wary.

"Or," he finally found the strength to offer in turn, "the windows could have curtains, heavy curtains, that need only be drawn if necessary."

"Yes," said the man. "That they could."

He stayed where he was on the bed and watched the man. "You have accused me of not seeing you, but now I have to ask, do you see me? The real me. Me as I am now. A man, old before his time, who barely has his wits about him."

The man came closer and went down on a knee in front of him. "I see a man who has had my heart for longer than he knows. A man who has won over incredible odds. A man who, in spite of losing so very much, never truly gave up. If he had, he would have been long dead before we found him and I would not be talking to him, here and now. I see a man who will need time to find himself fully again, but I see a man well worth waiting for."

He thought for a moment. "But I am old. Much older than you. My hair is mostly gray now."

The man smiled at this sign of vanity. "Yes, you are older than I. But the years matter less now than they did when I first loved you. And they will matter even less as I grow older."

His spirit, warmed by the man's smile, settled in him. He stood and with the man's help, he dressed.

He looked around the room and knew that he was not taking anything from it with him. He turned and examined the man waiting for him by the door. After several minutes, he frowned.

"You were right. I never saw you. And for that I am sorry. Maybe if I had..." He shook his head. "But maybe's are what they are."

He stepped up to the man and fixed his eyes firmly on the other's. "No, it's true: I did not see you then." He held out a hand and when the other took it tightly as though never to let go, he found that he was smiling. "But I do see you now. Will that do, Ron Weasley?"

The End

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