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After the war, Snape's body was never found. He disappeared and was presumed dead. In all actuality, he was just tired. A relentless, bone-deep tired. They had won the war, but at what cost? The sins he had committed in the name of the greater good were unforgivable, even if the rest of the wizarding world seemed to forget that in the face of his newly discovered heroism. Ironic that his memory deserved a Merlin's award, but had he presented himself alive, he probably wouldn't get as much as a trial before being thrown into Azkaban.
Maybe it was for the better that he stepped away for a minute, let the chaos of the war die down before he reinserted himself. It was a bit funny, if he thought so himself. He always did have a knack for the dramatics. Just when they thought they were safe from the sardonic, bitter shadow of Severus Snape, just when they stopped looking over their shoulders.
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He did mean to rejoin the wizarding world, he really did. But life was just so peaceful now, so serene and gentle. Who could blame him for greedily accepting the one hint of pale and diluted, but true happiness he saw on the horizon. Devil knows he overcompensated in accepting his share of pain in this life. It only hurt a little that no one bothered recovering his body or simply checking to see if he truly was dead. All that would've been required was a letter to Gringotts, a check of his vaults.
No one bothered to check, that is, except the wolf. The blasted, dreadful, disgustingly endearing wolf that he happened to be hopelessly amoured to.
He found him in eight days, six less than he expected. He really did have to brush up on his warding if that's all it took. Remus found him on a small, isolated piece of land. The view was truly breathtaking; he understood why he would choose to settle down there. He took a deep breath of the sweet, crisp air, but when he knocked on the crooked, rustic door and a familiar tall, dark-haired man opened it, all semblance of air whooshed out of his lungs.
"Severus."
He embraced his lover with open arms and welcomed him back to the world of the living, and when he politely declined, he found that he would rather fight the entire war tenfold than let all the bloodshed and violence, all the heartbreak and angst, have been only so he could leave the occupant of his heart once more.
And so they stayed, shielded from prying eyes and gossiping voices, in their little haven, a pocket of the world that they could call their own. They grew crops and potions ingredients, planted flowers and trees, hands clasped and promises heavy as they vowed to stay, to watch their trees grow until they could sit under the shade, together.
And oh, they would. It was under that tree that Remus got on one knee and pledged his life to his partner, if only he would have it. It was under that tree, one year later, that rings passed hands once more, and the two men wed, with only the gentle breeze and rustling fall leaves as witness, but they wouldn't have had it otherwise because that was enough, they were enough.
One day, years later, they would welcome their first child, an orphan of the war who ran from her house that was not a home, and they would sit the child under the tree and read to her, from textbooks and articles, words of classics and revolutionaries. They would sit and pick the fruit that started blossoming, letting the tart sweetness warm them from the inside out. Occasionally, when she bolted awake from a nightmare with a heaving chest and frantic eyes, one of them would sit with her and hold her close, soothe her with comforting words and stories, of brave, herioc werewolves, and selfless, sacrificing princes from kingdoms afar.
Soon others would join, children broken and bruised with nowhere else to go, and they would welcome them into their little family and give them fruits and plants to eat, and as quaint and unlikely as their family was, no one could doubt for a moment that these people weren't what they called home.