I scream.

My parents' dead bodies lie before me. Blood, torn clothes, empty eyes.

I fall to my knees and cry, unable to bear the sight, just as I hear the shuffling of footsteps from behind me. No, from all sides. A circle of people is closing in on me.

I recognize a few – my friends, my teachers, my classmates. A few muggles that I knew growing up. And Snape, he's leading them, two paces ahead.

They all wear angry faces. Hateful faces.

Snape reaches me first, but this isn't the Snape I know. He digs his claws in my shoulder, shaking me.

"Murderer," he says.

"Murderer," the rest of them say in unison.

I swat at his hands, I need to get out of here, but the tears are blurring me eyes and he's too strong.

He's shaking me now, shaking my whole body, I scream, "stop! Stop!" but the crowd won't stop. They've caught up, suffocating me now. I scream.

------------ 

My whole body jerks awake and I panic as I try to regain my sanity, squirming to get the hands off me, the dream has ended but the hands followed me.

As they fall off my body and I lean back in the booth, I look up and see him. Severus. His face isn't hateful anymore, it's concerned more than anything. His hands fall to his side.

I look around. I'm still at the pub, but there's rays of sun coming in now, exposing the dust that's seemingly coating everything in here. I must have fallen asleep. Or passed out drunk, more likely. The pounding in my head holds me accountable for that.

My breathing slows and I release the tension in my body as Severus slips in the seat across from me, hands folded on the table, not meeting my eyes.

I don't want to be the first to speak. What would I even say?

He waves the bartender down and asks for an orange juice, but I cringe at the thought, and he asks for a coffee instead.

When it gets to the table he pushes it towards me, "drink."

I take my time stirring in a teaspoon on sugar, savoring the first sip, feeling it's healing powers. When I put the cup back down, I tell him, "thank you." It's not enough.

He shakes his head, "you didn't have to leave."

A bubble forms in my throat. Of course I did.

Maybe I didn't.

Then why did he walk away from me?

"I didn't feel welcome anymore." I blurt out without thought, but it feels true.

"You're always welcome," he mutters, placing his hand on mine.

I focus on the size difference, "how can I be, after what I tried to do?"

"It was stupid, and I will admit I was upset," he says, calculated. "But you were right about me being a hypocrite. I have killed for less."

I bite the inside of my cheek, reminded of my guilt and betrayal, and he continues, "I think I was so upset because I was holding you to impossible standards. It wasn't fair of me. Of course you'd lash out, anyone would in your position. I should have been more understanding."

I pull me hand away, but not in anger or disgust or anything like that. I can't believe he's apologizing right now. After what I did, after what I said, he's blaming himself?

He looks around now, nervous. I get up from my seat and join him in his. My arms wrap around his neck and I bury my face in him, inhaling his comforting smell, feeling his warmth in every part of my body.

He holds my head against him and continues, "can you forgive me?"

I pull away to look him in the eyes, my hands still on his body, "I should be the one asking that."

He tucks some hair behind my ear and wipes away the tears that have formed in my eyes, "You're forgiven, no matter what. Now and forever."