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He stared into those green eyes, her green eyes, and he felt his life slipping away. Dying - he was dying, on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. A quiet, plain death - no majestic battleground death for Snape. Not even a confident stand, like Dumbledore chose.
Never.
He almost mouthed her name - except she was already in the afterlife, with the person she loved. The person she chose. And Snape was dying, on the floor of the Shrieking Shack; alone save for Harry bloody Potter, staring at him.
How apt.
The green faded, and the heavy presence of his physical vessel also faded. He felt no pain radiating from his neck, no hard floor beneath him... No, he felt nothing, no attachment. He was ethereal, a mind without a body, a thought, an idea. Severus Snape...
...and he stood. Harry Potter was still staring at him, at his body, sweaty fingers clutching the phial with a lifetime of memories Severus savored. His favorites, his only happy memories. And he gave them to her son, so he would understand. It wasn’t because he wanted to be remembered as a martyr - he didn’t care what anyone living thought of him (everyone that mattered to Snape had died, because of him, or directly by his hand). He didn’t care, except he knew that boy saw him kill Dumbledore.
...and Dumbledore wanted Harry to know the truth.
Severus Snape, puppet through and through, til the end.
Leaving was easy; he simply turned away from Harry, into the blinding white light. It was cliché, but the light was warm, comfortable. It was tugging at his consciousness, coaxing him into a safe embrace. It was... natural.
Tingling peace overwhelmed his senses, and for a period he simply let go. Floated. Safe in the beginning of his afterlife, he would figure out the details later. Much like a cat sleeping in the warm sunlight falling through a glass window, he felt his reality ebb away until there were no worries, no concerns. The comfortable haven he’d found was everything he needed.
Some time passed before awareness came to him again. Had he slept? It certainly felt like sleep, but maybe he was letting go... maybe it was like going to sleep, except the consciousness did not reawaken in a physical body. An insistent tugging was what brought him back to his awareness, and he was uncomfortable for a moment. Something was reaching for him, insistently, and this wasn’t like the white light. This was an irritating, demanding tug on his psyche, not asking, but demanding that he move, that he go back.
Go back? He thought, but the tugging grew stronger - just behind his navel, just under his gut, like a portkey from the afterlife. The thought made him snigger, and that temporary break - it was enough for the tug to get a firm hold and jerk, and Snape found himself flying back, through the white light, afraid he was going to hit bottom; he saw the sky, trees, the outline of Hogwarts in the distance, and the roof of the Shack; through it, and into the room below he managed to catch a brief glimpse of a frazzled bun, and a burning bird.
There was a high-pitched song that strummed through his soul, and he recognized the beautiful, haunting song of the phoenix as his psyche slammed into his physical body.
He gasped, his eyes flew open; sensation overwhelmed him, and his lungs didn’t know what to do with the air he’d brought in. Dead, they said, we’re done, but an outside force hit his chest, and suddenly they were working again, his heart was beating - and he could feel everything in his body, the blood trickling through his veins, he could feel the capillaries and arteries contracting with each pulse of his heart, now beating again.
The pain was a secondary feeling; he felt his body, everything, and then he felt his pain. Years of the Cruciatus and crawling, had his knees and spine flaring with constant pain, usually manageable, except every single wall and defense he’d ever possessed was gone, like his dream of the afterlife. His eyeballs hurt, his heart hurt, his organs hurt. Fluids that had pooled were moving again, and everything was shifting, accommodating the return of his life, and he ached.
He closed his eyes, damning and just not caring who was in the room with him, and he wept. For his loss of death, for being a pawn yet again... to Dumbledore, because that damn bird was the essence of Dumbledore. Was - perhaps now it was taking commands from Minerva.
Through the pain, a familiar, comfortable black static began to creep through his mind, and Snape recognized the relief for what it was: lack of consciousness. Without any resistance he allowed himself to succumb to the darkness.
He woke up in his private rooms, in the dungeons. Poppy could freely travel through his Floo, and obviously she and Minerva had thought of his consideration - he would have words with anyone who dared put him in the Hospital Ward with the other bumbling idiots from the school.
The crackling in his fireplace was a quick warning but the whoosh of green flame that spat out Poppy Pomfrey. Wand in one hand, container of phials in the other, she looked every bit like the formidable nurse he knew.
“You’re awake!” She declared. “You can administer these yourself. Unless...?”
Snape experimentally moved his fingers and toes. They all worked, almost better than before - he had an awareness of his physical body that had not been present before. Perhaps from the lack of a body for a moment - because now he was unusually aware of how awkward limbs were, how confining muscles and tendons and ligaments were when compared to the bodiless being.
“I can take them,” he said, his voice rough, raspy. Unused. He coughed, a dry, brittle sound, and found a glass of water shoved in front of his face. He took the glass and drank, easing the dryness in his throat.
Poppy sat the vial container on the stand next to his bed.
“Minerva will be down later today,” Poppy said brusquely. “I’ll bring your meds, but I think you’re adult enough to take them on your own - and I have children in the ward that need my help.”
Questions - so many questions - Snape wanted to ask, but he didn’t have the strength, and he didn’t have the voice. His throat ached. He took another sip of the cool water.
“How many people know?” He croaked, attempting the most important question.
Poppy knew him well. “About you?” At his slight nod, she frowned. “Not many. Minerva, me... a few other staff, probably Harry Potter. Harry...” a smile quirked the corners of her lips, and it looked as if she was going to say more, but she simply shook her head and smiled at Snape. “Not many,” she repeated and stepped toward the Floo. “Minerva will visit you soon,” and with a toss of the green powder, the flames licked out around Poppy and took her back to the Hospital Ward.
It was later that evening before Severus realized something was horribly wrong. Hours before he felt like doing anything except lying in his bed, waiting for the feeling to settle, but his bladder demanded a visit to the loo. Back in the bed, he picked up his wand and uttered a simple warming spell, hoping to boost the room’s temperature a degree or two. Nothing happened. First try, rusty - he’d give himself that, and he tried again. And again. Until his eyes were red and his lips were a thin, angry snarl. Nothing of the force that had sustained him his adult life - no magic? Unless it was something Poppy was using in her potions, or... a side effect of his experience. That’s what the Muggles called it - when they were brought back - a ’near death’ experience.
He trudged back to the bathroom and ran a very hot bath.
“I was dead,” Severus muttered flatly, staring at the running bath water and wondering if he would have to call a house elf to warm the damn water - because wizards didn’t need hot and cold spouts, there was only cold. Cold for him, and maybe he wouldn’t call a house elf after all. Maybe he’d shock his magic back to life, too.
“Sure you were, dear,” his mirror murmured back.
“This is Hell,” he told Minerva, watching her lips thin. She was probably thinking him ungrateful. “Death was comfortable, pleasant. Why did you bring that damn bird to me?”
“I didn’t.” The two words stopped Snape. “I followed him. I didn’t know where you were, after Harry... killed Voldemort.” She paused. “There was too much commotion. Everything was raw, and I needed to step out of the Hall, and when I walked outside I saw Fawkes.”
Severus scowled. “I suppose.”
“There are other people that want to visit you,” she said. Snape stared at her, and she looked right back - despite her tone, her posture was firm, decided. She always was a force to be reckoned with.
“No,” he said immediately. If he was going to be forced to live, he was going to do so as a recluse and get as far away from children and other people as possible. He’d rather everyone think him dead, so he could live out his life with some sort of peace.
“Harry,” Minerva continued, “had to know. He’s already gotten you Order of Merlin, third class.” She raised a glass of tea to her lips, but he could see the movement of her lips, the barest smile she tried to hide. “He’s on a personal vendetta to make sure everyone knows how noble you were.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Why?”
“You apparently left quite an impression on the boy,” she set her cup down. Smiling now and not hiding it. “I had to tell him. He wants to see you. I think he wants to give you your Order of Merlin.”
How was he going to face the person he’d given his most intimate memories? He’d only done it because he was dying.
“Not yet,” was all he said. Minerva didn’t press him.
But she did ask another, very specific question. “What about your magic, Severus? Is it returning at all?”
He’d often wondered how he’d managed to last such a long time as a spy, first for one side, then for the other, when he couldn’t control his damn facial features. He’d once blamed it on Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, but Minerva wasn’t Albus. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
“No.” There was no reason to lie. She would know. He held up one hand because he knew she was going to suggest something that he would not entertain. “Don’t. I’ll make my own choices regarding this matter.” He knew his options.
The first time Harry Potter visited, Severus was unprepared. No one knew the location of his private rooms, save for Minerva and Poppy, and even though he knew they would use the Floo to visit, when the knock sounded at his door he was blatantly presumptuous.
A mess of black hair and familiar green eyes behind spectacles staring at him made him curse himself. Some spy, just open the door - and bang, dead.
Except this boy wasn’t here to murder him. His eyes were wide, face full of questions and hope and youthful exuberance ... Severus doubted he ever radiated the energy and the damn brightness that could be felt around this boy.
“Hullo,” Harry licked his lips. He rubbed his palms against his robes, probably unconsciously, but Severus could almost smell how nervous the boy was. Curious, yes, but terrified of the consequences of his actions, of his knowledge.
Minerva’s words came back to him: “Be nice to him. He was upset, and when I told him that you lived... well, he made it clear that he wanted to speak to you. How can you deny the boy? He killed Voldemort.” Everyone said his name now, and even though Severus no longer felt a painful twinge from his mark when the name was spoken, it made him flinch. He’d never dared call the man - thing - by anything other than the Dark Lord, in his thoughts and out loud, because to put any other name into his head would be to invoke the wrath of the monster. It was a risk best not taken.
He stepped away from the door and allowed the boy to enter his chamber. He watched Harry look around, taking in the neat, simple appearance. Comfortable furniture, sparse personal items. Severus had no use for clutter or knick-knacks. He wanted no memorabilia from his past, no reminders of the times he’d tried to leave behind.
“How are you?” Harry asked, perching on the edge of a soft leather sofa, one hand clutching the arm of the sofa, the other fisted tightly on his knee. The words were awkward, and Severus wanted to sneer, but he didn’t. There was no longer any reason. Age was of little consequence when one defeated the most powerful dark wizard the wizarding world had known for one hundred years.
“Alive,” Severus answered, bluntly. There was no need to explain further, not to this boy.
Harry looked up at him, and Severus couldn’t identify the emotion behind the green eyes - but they were dark, troubled. More than he’d ever seen in her eyes, but then Harry had seen more in his few short years than she in hers, hadn’t he? ...even without the permanent mental connection to the Dark Lord.
“I don’t think I was supposed to survive,” Harry blurted out. His fingers clenched around whatever was in his hand. Severus couldn’t see it, except for a dull shine now and then. “I thought I would die when he died, and that would be the end.” He looked at Snape. “I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what to do.”
Ah. This... Severus was familiar with this, the survivor’s guilt. Never mind that Harry’s closest friends had survived, but there were so many that hadn’t. His parents were in the beginning, and his contemporaries were there at the end, lying still on the battleground.
“Help. Rebuild, restore. Donate your magic.” Severus ticked off the things any young war hero should be doing. Not visiting people who should be dead, but he didn’t say that. “Visit the masses with inspirational messages of hope and wisdom. Twinkle at them.”
“I’m not Dumbledore,” Harry muttered, tone bordering on sulky. Now he was staring at the dungeon floor. “I...” He looked back up. “I thought you might understand,” he said, and his eyes darted away again, staring at the wall, the floor, the fire. Anything except his old professor.
Severus understood. But Severus was older and wiser, and he wouldn’t tell the boy that the guilt wouldn’t wash away. He wouldn’t tell him about the dreams, and their eyes, and he wouldn’t tell him what was worse than knowing they were dead. It was listening to them accuse you of killing them in your dreams.
No, Harry still had some innocence. He might be able to avoid that particular pain for the rest of his life.
“You are not either of them - you are your own person. You may have fulfilled a role that was plotted for you since your birth, but it’s over now, and you can go and live your life, however you want.” Severus’ words were filled with acid, and accusing. “Is that what you want to hear? That you did not cause any of those deaths, directly? Because you didn’t. The Dark Lord was born long before you, Harry Potter.” There was a pause, and Severus continued, “Don’t disgrace their deaths by refusing to live your life.”
...and Harry ran one hand over his face, through his hair.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “My life. What does that mean now?” He looked up, and their eyes met. Black and green, except Severus wasn’t dying this time, he was just stunned. What now? From the boy who had the world at his fingertips since he’d been a baby?
“That’s the question of the day,” Severus murmured, and this time he looked away first. “What now.” He didn’t know himself, so he certainly couldn’t suppose to know what it meant for the boy. Being a war hero couldn’t replace finding a path in life. It wasn’t a reason to live.
The silence wasn’t quite awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable. Severus looked at the fire, trying not to watch Harry. Harry, who was sitting on his sofa, rolling something around in his hand. Something shiny...
“Here,” Harry said abruptly, reaching the hand holding whatever out. “I wanted to return this to you.”
Severus held his hand out, diatribe ready - because he didn’t give a damn about any Order of Merlin, or any other bureaucratic crap - but when Harry dropped the item, and Severus saw it, he was stunned speechless. His fingers closed around the glass phial with the shiny, luminescent memories, and he nodded dumbly.
“Thank you,” he managed, and Harry stood. He’d accomplished his task and he was leaving. Severus stared at the memories, almost awestruck. Harry knew more about him than anyone except Albus Dumbledore, and he gave them back. The best memories of his life. Harry gave them back. Gave them back without a word, and he was leaving.
It was all over. Thankfully he’d survived the encounter with the world’s latest great wizard (without becoming a spy or a pet), Harry turned back toward him. He asked an innocent question, but Severus didn’t understand the reason.
“Would it be okay if... Well. May I come back and visit you again?” Earnest, but polite - he thought that if he said no, the boy would not return. Perhaps one day he’d receive an owl from him...
...but he said “yes,” and he thought he meant it. It would be okay.
Severus put the phial on the shelf, in the locked cabinet in his bedroom, where he kept his other memories. The most horrible, grueling things he’d ever done, the memories he didn’t want to remember - those he’d had Albus extract completely, and they were opaque. Thick, dull, dingy gray (like snow that sits on the side of the road for a month), and Severus didn’t think about them too much. There were many things he didn’t want to remember.
He tried to make his first potion after Harry left. There were simple potions that did not require the incantation of magic, but Severus found his fingers shaking as he shredded and chopped simple, basic ingredients. Potions that were taught to First Years. He would be able to...
...and he had to find matches to light his flame. When the potion was complete it was a shade off - nothing that anyone except a master would notice, but he did. It was a small error, probably due to his lack of temperature control over the flame (and all of the bits of parchment Severus kept adding to keep the flame burning) but it was a potion.
He warned against tasting from the ladle, but his skin felt the milliseconds ticking as he scrambled and searched for a phial, unable to conjure. The store was in an open cupboard, so he could summon them, but it was an unexpected setback. Once bottled, he downed the potion.
It slid down his throat, smooth and thick, except the taste was off and that was his only warning before his world exploded into pain first, and then darkness.
Later Minerva would tell him that the house elves found him, notified both Poppy and herself, and that they managed to get him to the Hospital Ward in time for Poppy to administer the antidote to the Pepper-Up Potion.
“Did you want to die?” Minerva asked calmly, her eyes bright and curious. No condemnation in her voice or her features, no twinkling in her eyes.
Severus laid his aching back against the crisp linen pillow and closed his eyes. He didn’t know. He ought to have remembered, known off the top of his head about the incompatibility of the ingredients, but he was too hopeful that the potion would work...
“It didn’t work,” he said quietly. “I tried to brew a simple potion. A Pepper-Up Potion.”
“You know,” Minerva began, and he could hear the meddling underlying her tone.
He shook his head.
“You almost died, Severus,” and now her tone was angry, like the quick snap of a whip. “You were granted a second chance, are you going to simply throw it away?” ...and then, she paused, and Severus could almost feel the particles in the air drawing toward Minerva as she absorbed an unseen power, and with four words she nearly broke his resolve. “What would Albus think?”
Aside from Minerva and Poppy, Harry was his only visitor. He was moved from the Hospital Ward back to his rooms immediately, with a promise that if he did brew another potion he wouldn’t try it by himself.
“What happens if the house elves don’t find you in time?” Poppy fussed but allowed him to leave the Ward despite her concerns. Whatever Snape was, they had never known him to be suicidal. He supposed that he really wasn’t, even though he knew more about the ingredients of his potions and their effects with - or without - magic, but he also supposed that somewhere he had hope. Plain and simple. Now it was gone, but he’d had it, perhaps felt it for a moment - a twinge of pleasure as he stirred clockwise, then counterclockwise. A hum of familiarity, a comfortable place...
...and now. He had nothing, save for his mortality.
No fire was burning in his rooms, and he didn’t bother starting one or calling for someone else to start one for him. He sat in his chair, in his cold, empty rooms, wearing a dressing gown. Sat and stared at the hearth, and wondered how long it would take Minerva to notice if he simply disappeared... maybe in the Forbidden Forest, where he could die or kill himself honorably.
Living as a Squib, without magic, was hell. Damn the bird for bringing him back, for nothing. And damn Dumbledore, and those twinkling eyes he could feel from beyond the grave.
In the midst of his angst, there was a knock at his door. He recognized Harry’s knock this time, the confidence behind the rapping knuckles. He sat and contemplated letting him knock until he left, but something inside snapped, and he found himself opening the damn door, holding it wide and staring at the boy. Staring at those curious green eyes staring back at him. What the hell was going on? Was it a sort of group therapy? He almost spoke aloud, but Harry beat him to it.
“Minerva told me what happened,” Harry said instead of bothering with pleasantries. Severus preferred straight to the point. No beating around.
Pointedly, Harry didn’t say anything about how cool the rooms were or the lack of light. He made his way to the sofa, sat down, and waited.
“Yes, I suppose she did,” Snape replied wearily. Empty. The spark of fight was gone from his veins. The world would soon know Severus Snape was a squib, Death Eater turned muggle, back from the grave but without his life force.
“What can you do?”
Snape shrugged. Hell if he had a clue, but he wouldn’t say that to the boy. Too many years of teaching instilled in him to never admit imperfections. Not to those who studied under him.
There was a slight pause. Severus knew he was being rude, but... he didn’t have anything left. Not to give Minerva or Poppy, not to give this boy - not even the slightest damn thing for himself. He was empty.
“I took your advice,” Harry said softly. Severus glanced up, eyebrow raised. “I’ve been helping. Visiting. They... they don’t even know me, but they think they love me.” A weird smile crept across his face. “I’ve been rebuilding and donating my strength. It... feels good to help.”
Especially to that boy, with his damn sense of martyrdom, it was probably perfection.
“Thank you,” Harry continued, “for giving me a purpose. I...” He laughed, a half-bark, a short, staccato noise in the empty, dark rooms, and then he sobered. “I thought about giving up.” He spoke quietly, as if he was afraid of giving the words too much power.
“No,” Snape refused, something inside reacting against Harry’s words. “No, damn you, not with your magic teeming from your fingertips.” His face grew hot, red, and then he was standing, shaking, pointing a finger - he couldn’t control the burst of anger. “You’re the hero, the one who lived, and giving up would be blasphemy. Throwing back everything that everyone did for you...” When he tried to catch his breath, he realized he was shouting, trembling, but the boy was simply watching. Green eyes, wide open. Absorbing.
“I know,” Harry said softly. “Thank you, Professor. You’re a hero to me,” Harry continued. The room was deadly quiet between each word. “Don’t you dare give up, either.” The boy was oddly placated, as if he’d found the answer to life, the universe, and everything, by helping the people. Oddly calm, but not twinkling. Not yet. And then he was up, leaving, leaving Severus to his quiet, dark rooms without magic.
....but he could almost read Severus’ mind, and that was scary enough.
This time, when Harry returned, Severus was ready. His lab was set up, ingredients out and waiting.
“I require your assistance,” Snape asked, and for a moment his rooms were teeming with uneasy silence. He knew this boy, or he thought he did, and he wouldn’t refuse... but...
Harry nodded, and a shy smile brushed across his face, gone just as quickly.
They worked side by side, movements almost mirrored. Once, or twice, Harry brushed against him, and their skin came into direct contact. Tingles of latent magic spread through his arm, through his fingertips, and the differences were obvious when they were finished. Both potions shared the bright magenta and they appeared to be the same consistency.
Severus jotted his notes in a leather-bound journal, but he didn’t understand why the results were different when he was alone. He voiced his thoughts, on the chance that Harry might have an idea.
“Maybe my magic affects you? Or...” He chewed his bottom lip, brow furrowed. “Muggles jumpstart car batteries that have run dead with other batteries that have power. Maybe my magic affects your magic? Like jumpstarting a battery, when our skin touched?”
Snape didn’t know. No one knew - not many people returned from the dead via phoenix. Not many returned from the dead without losing part of their soul. Maybe this was the part he had to sacrifice to live. He didn’t realize he’d spoken until Harry gave him a horrified look.
Harry grabbed his arm, without warning.
The tingles were gone, replaced by a sizzling fire that spread throughout his body. It felt familiar, so comfortable... and for a moment, Severus was tempted to try to speak a spell.
Then Harry dropped his arm, and the feeling was gone. He rubbed his arm where Harry’s fingers had rested. The limb felt numb, devoid of life. He didn’t bother trying to use magic, he could feel its absence. But for a moment, it had surged beneath his skin...
“There must be something,” Harry said, in a wondering tone that indicated he would probably call up Granger on the Floo immediately and sic her on research. Even to the boy who lived, a life without magic wasn’t much of a life.
Severus didn’t bother telling him that his research would have put hers to shame, but let the boy have his hope. It was almost infectious.
Weeks passed before the boy visited again. He looked exhausted, with heavy black shadows beneath his eyes and lines creasing his forehead.
The lab was set up (had been, since the boy had left the last time), but Severus didn’t bother asking if he wanted to work. His exhaustion spoke volumes about how much he’d been working.
“Any progress?” Harry asked, and Severus shook his head. None. He hadn’t tried to brew alone, but he didn’t need to tell the boy. “Hermione couldn’t find much either.”
Snape looked up, but Harry was looking away, pointedly. There was more.
“She did find something about sharing magic. Not the same as donating, but giving magic.”
McGonagall knew about this, too, and so did Severus. To him, it was barely an option - a last-ditch effort that he would probably never have the chance to attain. Giving magic was very private because one without magic opened themselves up completely to the mercy of the one with magic. It required a strong bond and trust, and the only documented instances in recorded history were between lovers.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “That’s all I’ve been able to find.” He had scoured the Restricted Section at night when the halls were empty. The days found those halls filled with people who needed help and healing, and the nights found them full of ghosts (particularly one damn Weasley who loved to sing Peeves-esque songs at Severus).
He could feel Harry’s stare digging into him, but he couldn’t meet it. He couldn’t see the question in the boy’s face, because it was a question he shouldn’t know to ask. One he couldn’t risk the boy asking, because - despite the risks - the temptation was too much.
“Have you thought about it?” He could hear the puzzlement beneath the words, and he realized that Harry didn’t know. Not as much as he should, because there was no one Severus Snape was willing to accept magic from that would offer it.
His harsh laughter was his response and Harry scowled. Snape shook his head, feeling his age and bitterness. “If you understand what it means to give magic, then you must also know the answer to this question: who would give me, Severus Snape, their magic?”
Once the words were spoken, Snape realized his mistake. He saw it, a subtle gleam beneath the piercing green of his eyes, and he knew.
“Do you really understand?” He continued before the boy could speak. “It’s a bond like sex, except mentally. I’m opening myself up to you, to be at your complete mercy, and you are doing the same to me. With your magic, I could use it against you. I could rip it away from your soul, and leave you an empty shell, just like me.”
“But you wouldn’t,” Harry said quietly.
No, Severus didn’t respond. He wouldn’t. As much as he might like to kill the boy (because no one, not even Dumbledore, had left him feeling this open and vulnerable, and if the damn boy had his way, he’d have more control of Severus than either of his two previous masters - so much for living out the remainder of his life in debt to no one), he couldn’t. Couldn’t look into those green eyes and hurt what he’d died trying to protect.
“Think about it,” was all Harry said. Severus wanted to snort but didn’t. “I’m willing to give you whatever you need.” The boy paused, and this is where Severus could see the naiveté of his youth, his age gleaming through. “But I won’t force it on you. This has to be your choice.”
“What choice?” He finally snapped, glaring. “Explain to me what choices I seem to have because I don’t see a damn choice. I’ll either live like this, a damn squib, for the remainder of my pathetic life, or I’ll take your magic and live the remainder of my life in debt to you.” He paused, before the boy could respond, and injected the most scathing bitterness into the words as he could. “And we all know that Severus Snape doesn’t mind living under the thumb of a master, or two.”
“It wouldn’t be like that!” Harry snapped back. Fury sparkled in his eyes and his tightened fists. “I don’t want to be your master, I just want to help! You saved me time and time again, even if it was just for my mum, and I’d like to return the favor!”
He couldn’t respond. Didn’t know what to say. He felt bitter and angry and trapped. Wings beating as hard as possible, hitting glass walls over and over. Briefly, he wondered if he killed himself, if the damn bird would bring him back again.
“Think about it,” Harry muttered, tone sulky, and he left.
Severus put his head in his hands and felt every bit as powerless as he was without magic.
When Severus entered the Headmistress’ office Dumbledore’s portrait beamed at him and waved and waved. Minerva told him it was a great idea, if Harry was willing, and Dumbledore nodded earnestly (but chose not to interrupt the conversation). He didn’t bother asking Poppy. She’d not bother answering the question, as silly as it would sound from him. Snapes took what they wanted, what they needed. He had no choice.
He tried the potion again, with the assistance of a house elf. The murky results were similar, if not exactly the same, to the first potion he brewed by himself. The elf’s magic maintained the heat beneath the cauldron, but it did not provide any magic to fuse the potion ingredients. Even unspoken, unconscious magic had an effect on potions, which was why Muggles brewing their own concoctions simply ended up with tea.
It was a frustrating situation, but it could have been worse. Harry Potter could have loathed him just as Severus had set out for the boy to do, the moment he set foot upon Hogwarts ground. He didn’t. That in itself was close to miraculous. Then, when he thought of how the boy kept coming to visit (even immediately after he was sick), and how the boy was actually willing to share his magic...
Yes, Severus decided, it could have been much worse. He wasn’t sentenced to be a squib for the rest of his life unless he chose to condemn himself. He might have been a martyr, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Want to try another potion?” The next time Harry visited he offered, and Severus accepted the gesture. They worked together easily when Severus kept his tongue to himself. Harry was adequate (and he had magic, his mind supplied snidely, but Severus ignored the mental voice). They didn’t talk about sharing magic or what was going on in the outside world. They worked together, Severus ordering (albeit politely) Harry to summon phials or ingredients, and Harry acquiesced. There would be plenty of time for awkward conversation, if they made it through another potion successfully.
This time Severus was sure to carefully keep their limbs separate. He knew strong currents of magic ran through Harry’s veins. He didn’t want to feel it.
The Draught of Peace was more complex, requiring incantation and timing. As the potion was cooling Severus carefully inspected the potion, looking at the color and viscosity.
“Looks right,” he spoke grudgingly. With Harry’s help, he could brew. It almost infuriated him, if not for the simple reminder that all hope was not lost for him to regain the ability to channel magic.
In the sitting room, Harry conjured a fire and tea.
“Have you given my offer any more thought?” Harry asked, sipping his tea. The words, the actions - it was all so reminiscent of so many others Severus had sat with, drinking tea, casually talking about subjects that were horrifying (Lucius, Dumbledore). He was tempted to not answer, no response - it would be the Snape way, too much pride to accept help. But Snapes also knew when to cut their losses, and he didn’t want a life without magic. If possible.
If not, he’d accept his fate and figure out the next step from that point.
“Yes,” he began, slowly, and looked up, meeting Harry’s inquisitive gaze. “I would like to accept your offer, and try.” The words almost caught in his throat, traitorous words that wanted to choke him, but he was a different person. Pride could be a weakness.
Harry couldn’t hide his surprise, if he tried at all. Arched eyebrows, mouth gaping slightly. “Really - how? When?” He stumbled over the first words. “Does it require a ceremony?”
It was Severus’ turn not to hide his scowl. “Did you research this at all?” Harry’s stunned silence was enough of an answer. Obviously not, the daft boy probably thought his offer would be denied regardless, and simply went by on what Granger told him. “Speak to both Minerva and Granger,” he said brusquely, “and make sure they tell you what is involved, the side effects, and the end result. I would recommend you read or research on your own, but somehow I doubt...” he trailed off. No point badgering the boy. It wasn’t complicated, it didn’t require Arithmancy or Advanced Defense, but somehow he’d expected Harry to understand what he was getting into before he offered.
“I know the gist, the basics,” Harry replied, unperturbed. “It requires direct third eye contact to allow the exchange of magics. I will be giving you magic. I know it might not work, and that some... who have tried... have become, um.” He faltered.
“Vampiric? Parasitic?” Snape picked up easily, saying the words Harry couldn’t. “They need to feed on magic to survive. Yes. The key difference is that I have no magic to feed on your magic. I am devoid, or it is repressed somehow. I am... accepting a donation, if you will. Your words, I think,” he said. Accepting a donation. He wanted to laugh at the idea of his personal pride.
“You could explain the rest to me.” It wasn’t a question. Severus nodded. “I’ll speak with them.” Harry couldn’t hear the heavy sigh of relief Severus felt inside. The side effects were physiological responses but he didn’t want to explain to Harry that sharing magic could be a strong aphrodisiac.
“Owl me and we’ll make arrangements, set a date and time.” Severus didn’t have a schedule to work around but wouldn’t say so. He felt desperate enough simply accepting the offer, without making it clear that he had nothing else to do except wait for Harry. Possibly for Harry to refuse, once he realized exactly how close they would be to each other, and the physical responses. No, Severus would not tell him about those.
The Owl arrived sooner than expected. A great tawny thing, with amber eyes, swooped through an open window in the bedroom (not that Severus had left it open on purpose, but it was the only window that led easily into his chambers) and brought the letter into his sitting room, where he sat in his cool rooms and read a book quietly by candlelight. A box of matches sat on his end table.
It nipped his finger when he took the letter, but not with force, and it waited while he read the letter. Feathers were preened, but keen eyes scanned his rooms for potential treats. Owls were all the same.
The note was simple. Harry understood the precautions and the effects, and he wasn’t going to change his mind. His schedule was tight but he had time the next week, if that was acceptable.
Yes, Severus wrote, and signed his initials. The owl took the letter, hooted softly, and took off. He tried to pick the book up and continue, but he couldn’t focus his attention. If all was successful, he’d be leaving the castle in a fortnight or two, and onto his next great mortal adventure. He’d given thought to what he would do if he could use his magic again, and the solace of a simple home tucked away from civilization with a large laboratory sounded... comfortable. A peaceful way to live out the remainder of his life, devoted to his mastery. Under a fake name, of course, because Severus Snape couldn’t acquire the herbs and ingredients that were restricted.
That would be an acceptable existence, he thought, and abandoned his book in favor of parchment and an inky quill.
For the first time since he’d returned to the castle, he felt that his survival had a purpose. There was, perhaps, a way to move forward, even for Severus Snape.
Harry was prompt, dressed in loose robes, giving Severus a small smile as he crossed the threshold into the quiet rooms. He didn’t appear nervous and Severus could detect no trepidation among his features. Noble, self-sacrificing Gryffindors, he thought, but without his usual snide voice. It was almost a fond notion that they were happy to serve others, as long as they thought it was for a good cause.
There were two chairs, facing each other, in the middle of the floor. Severus gestured for Harry to take one, then sat in the other seat.
“Tea?” He asked the obligatory question though he hadn’t prepared any. Harry declined, and for a moment it was awkward. Both shifted, looked away, until finally he broke the silence. “Do you have any questions for me before we begin?”
“I think they answered everything,” Harry replied honestly. He was fingering his robes, picking invisible threads on his knees. “I know this might become... awkward. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
...and another one of those annoying Gryffindor traits. “Did it ever occur to you that I might make you uncomfortable?” Severus shot back. The words were hostile but he was curious.
Harry stared at him for a moment, hands still on his knees. “No, why?” Before Severus could form a response, he continued. “This is your only choice, and I made that clear. I’m the one who brought this up, who offered, and I think I’m the one imposing. You’re the one who didn’t want this from me.”
“Not just from you,” Snape snapped back, “not from anyone. It’s not in my nature to be gracious and accept anything, let alone the fundamental fabric of my being.” He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, and finished, “I want magic. I want to... try this.”
“Then let’s try,” Harry said, scooting to the edge of his chair, and then pulling the chair under him to get as close to Severus as possible. Knees touching, Harry leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair.
“Set a timer first,” Severus instructed. “Five minutes. We’ll see how that goes. It’s... possible that this may not work for me. I may not regain magic. Or it could fade. The research is limited.”
Harry nodded, and his wand was in his hand; a second later a tiny contraption appeared. Severus stared at the miniature clock suspiciously, but it was ticking, and indicated there were five minutes to go.
There was no point in waiting, or putting it off, or offering to answer more questions. Get it over with, his mind supplied, and Severus moved forward until he was sitting on the edge of his chair. Mimicking Harry’s posture, he braced himself and leaned forward.
“Hold still.” They were already too close. It was uncomfortable and his skin crawled. He didn’t have any abundance of direct contact with other human beings in his past (unless torture, or worse, counted - but most of that was via wand, across a room). “And close your eyes,” he snapped. Harry obliged - and Severus was thankful, that the boy was young and accepted the authority now. Being forehead to forehead would be bad enough, without those green eyes staring at him, an inch or two away from his own.
The first touch of skin against skin was incredibly awkward, forehead to forehead, nose brushing nose. Severus tried not to breathe as he shifted, trying to find that perfect contact point where magic would flow freely between two human beings. It was difficult to concentrate with Harry’s hot breath against his cheek. He angled his chin away, to keep contact as minimal as possible. He struggled for a moment, shifting his head (not rubbing, he thought to himself firmly), and just as he was beginning to pull away, skin brushed skin and a crackle of magic snapped between them.
“That’s it,” Harry said, wonder filling his voice as if he hadn’t expected it to work. Of course, Severus wanted to say, but he didn’t; he pushed closer, firmly pressing skin against skin.
“Give,” he demanded. He could feel the raw magic bristling under Harry’s skin, but the boy had to shove the magic at him. The contact alone would be enough, after a prolonged period of time, but Harry could begin the process sooner.
The moment the magic began to seep into his body, every other thought left his mind. The magic felt warm and delicious as it began to pulse through his veins. He felt trapped in a tight embrace and he tried to pull away - the sensation of magic flooding into his body was overwhelming - but the attempt was like trying to pull his head out of water after he’d been under too long. It was easier to surrender and forget about a lack of oxygen rather than struggle for the shimmering surface, however far away it was...
...and it had been a long time since anyone had been that physically close, and his body had an automatic reaction. For a moment he was horrified, wondering if Harry could feel his erection through the bond (or otherwise). If so, he hoped he felt the underlying shame and horror. Once he had genuinely cared about a woman, and this was her son. He would not forget her, and he would not forget who the boy was.
“Please,” he heard a soft voice whisper, and he sensed the movement before it came. Harry shifted, moving his chin closer, and they were not only forehead to forehead, but one cheek resting on the other, and... mouth to mouth, but only at the corners, and -
Harry moved closer, shifting, obviously experiencing the languid physical effects of openly sharing magic, Severus needed to move. Had to. Had to live this time.
“No,” he said, voice ragged and broken between breaths. The timer was ringing shrilly when he managed to pull away. The magical bond snapped, withdrawing immediately and completely upon physical separation. The loss of the exchange left him with a slightly uneasy, empty sensation.
Harry didn’t move. He stared at the floor, flushed. His sagging shoulders and pink cheeks screamed his embarrassment, and Severus could have reassured him that it was like that for everyone. Sharing magic through physical contact was very intimate, and hadn’t McGonagall or Granger gone over this with him? Wasn’t he prepared?
Severus said nothing. He reached with his mind, with the magic he could feel crackling under his skin, and called for the first thing that came to mind - a glass phial.
A millisecond, or less, later, the glass hit the wall behind his head and shattered. Harry looked up, and stared - and Severus felt the shock he could see in the boy’s face.
“It was never that strong before,” he said quietly. “Test your magic.”
Harry was able to conjure and hex easily. “I can’t tell a difference,” he remarked. Earnest green eyes looked up at him. “Does that mean it worked?”
“Temporarily, yes.” Severus’ voice didn’t betray the elation he felt inside. It worked, it worked, and he could feel his magic again. He felt whole. He could create his own potions. He was not entirely a squib. “You can move your chair away,” he added, standing to do just that.
“That’s it, then?” Harry asked. There was something underlying in his tone, and Severus frowned, turning back to him.
“Yes,” he spoke slowly. “What, precisely, were you expecting?” Harry didn’t respond. “Thank you,” he added.
“Yes.” Harry hadn't moved, still sitting in his chair in the middle of the room. He didn’t look up. “What now?”
“Now I can resume my life, without Hogwarts. If this worked correctly I will not experience magical regression. Right now it’s very powerful, but the strength may ebb... I will have to document everything,” and suddenly he was bombarded with parchment and quills, floating in the air around him. “It’s very strong.”
“That’s it, then.” Harry seemed to settle something within himself - he set his shoulders back with pride, stood, and used his wand to push the chair against the wall in the room. “Nothing else.”
“No,” Severus said as all of the objects floating around him dropped to the floor. “Nothing else.” He stared, trying to figure out what was happening inside Harry’s head. He repeated his question. “What did you expect?”
Ignoring the question for a second time, Harry asked, “May I still visit you?”
Oh - perhaps he thought he’d be bound to be Severus’ company for the rest of his life? “There will be no need, unless I require further... assistance. I think I can manage on my own,” his voice was cooler than he intended. “You have no obligation to me now.”
Harry met his gaze directly. Something firm was there, but Severus couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. “What if I want to visit you?”
Oh. He couldn’t stop himself from blurting out his automatic response. “Why?”
Harry stared at him. Blinked, and there was a struggle under his surface. “That was very intimate,” Harry said. “And I’m used to visiting you. I think I’d like to be a...” he faltered. “A friend.”
A friend. He was tempted to curl his nose in disdain, but he hadn’t allowed the bitterness to seep through before, and he wouldn’t do it now. He wouldn’t be... ungrateful.
“That would be acceptable,” he said. Especially if he was able to leave soon, and the boy couldn’t find him. He could disappear and not worry about a charade of friendship.
He was rewarded with a bright smile, and for a moment he thought he might feel a twinge of ... disappointment? Loss? For what could have been? But he was Severus Snape - and he shrugged it off. He would continue on his own way and not worry about holding the boy back. That’s all he would do if they continued to visit - it would be a farce, because Severus Snape didn’t know how to be a friend. He didn’t want to know.
At least that’s what he told himself as Harry left.
Severus enjoyed living near the ocean. Initially, he thought the salt in the air could affect his potions, but the house was a mile away from the oceanfront and his lab was in the dungeon (the realtor that sold him the property called it a basement, but he saw to it that the wood-paneled walls were replaced - quickly - with thick stone walls, floor, and ceiling that were better for controlling most outside environmental effects). He could stand outside on his porch and breathe the fresh, salty air. It was a nice change from feeling chained to stone walls and generations upon generations of children.
Mostly it was nice to be alone. He savored the solitude, the silence. The long nights were not interrupted by teenagers or the Dark Lord. Endless hours of reading and research, and creating potions. He sold potions via owl that were hard to obtain, and he took delight in the long hours of complex brewing. He always used an owlery in town to send his potions and receive orders, to keep his location isolated. Wolfsbane was his specialty, and it was much needed for a small market. He didn’t charge as much as he could have, and he didn’t let himself think about Remus Lupin as he brewed.
He didn’t think about Harry Potter, either. Or - he tried not to. He tried not to imagine an occasional visitor, a reason to clean up (not that he needed one) and set out tea.
Perhaps, he thought, once or twice, leaving something behind would have been nice. Polite. The old Severus didn’t know much about being friendly, but he thought now...
...but thinking about other people was dangerous, and he left his memories in a shiny glass phial with someone else’s fingerprints on the container.
Two or three months passed before the first message arrived. The brown owl appeared to be one of the castle owls, from Hogwarts, and when he glanced down and saw a familiar scrawl instead of Minerva’s precise script, he was surprised.
It was a short note. Happy Birthday! the note began. I have a 1 in 365 chance of hitting the date right, and I’m sure it’s wrong. Sorry. Hope you’re enjoying life.
- Harry
That was it. Severus snorted, glancing at the greeting, and then he thought of the date. It wasn’t quite January, but close enough. The sentiment was... nice. More welcome than he expected. No one, except Dumbledore, had sent him birthday greetings in years.
He thought about writing a reply, but when he sat down with parchment he didn’t know what he wanted to say. Silence was easy, and he sent the bird away with a whole mouse for the trouble of finding him.
Two days later Harry Potter stood in his yard, a few feet away from the porch steps. A broom was clutched in one hand, black hair tousled from a couple hours of flying, and the brown owl was circling above the house, hooting. Harry didn’t look as confident as he had when he left Severus’ rooms in Hogwarts, but he didn’t have the same naiveté, either. His face was firm, lines set, and he wasn’t smiling.
“Hullo,” Harry said as Severus stepped out onto the wooden deck that wrapped around the house. The alarms he’d set had gone off but he knew without reaching magically who was there. Only one person had bothered to contact him, and only one person could track his location with that same contact.
Severus nodded his greeting.
“If you want me to leave,” and there was a terse edge to his voice that matched the set lines on his face, “you need to tell me now.”
He didn’t. He said so.
“Why did you disappear?” Knowing I wanted to be your friend, is what he didn’t say. Didn’t have to say.
“I needed to leave,” Severus answered simply.
Harry nodded but he didn’t look away. “Okay. That’s not what they said. I thought... you’d need time. I gave you time.”
“‘They?’” Severus echoed.
Harry nodded again, and he took a deep breath. “I had to talk to someone. You disappeared. They’re my best friends.” Ah - the ever-studious Granger and nearly-worthless Weasley.
“Talk about what?”
“May we go inside?” Harry countered. It was a good point. It was cool, and the wind was kicking up. Weather near the coast could change in an instant, and it was winter.
The house was sparsely furnished, perhaps more dusty than necessary, but overall acceptable. Severus conjured tea at the small table in his kitchenette.
Silence hung in the air, awkwardly, and Harry was the first to break it with a deep indrawn breath. He was staring into his tea, sitting at the table, and Severus took the seat across from him.
“I need to say a few things. Please,” and this time he looked up, pleading with his features, “give me a moment.” Severus nodded. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Imagining all the things I wanted to say to you before Minerva told me that you had survived. I wanted the chance to apologize and to tell you that I finally understood...” he swallowed, audibly, “and that I didn’t blame you any longer.
“And then, you were back. Although I wanted to say so much to you, you were still Severus Snape and those things were intimate and personal. Things I would have said to the Half-Blood Prince. Not you.” Severus didn’t flinch at the childhood title. Barely. “But I liked visiting with you, and I was glad to have the chance to help you and express my gratitude and the things I couldn’t say.
“I studied, like you said. Hermione drilled the details into me, the things that happened to others in the past. Previous circumstances. I knew the risks, even the physical risks, but I wasn’t prepared to like the exchange as much as I did. It was... intimate. I wasn’t prepared to want it as much as I did afterward.
“I wasn’t prepared,” and here he took another deep breath, and looked back into the teacup, “to want you.”
Severus stared at him, hoping this wasn’t the end of his speech, because how could he possibly respond to that statement? Being twice the boy’s age, and having feelings for Lily - the feelings that hadn’t quite faded, although he’d accepted the reality that they were futile. Still, it gave him a reason, some sort of skewed hope. All was not lost.
And now...
“I know this is a shock.” He laughed, still talking to his cup. “I stayed away on purpose after returning to find your rooms empty. I didn’t owl. I’ve dated and trained for Quidditch. I didn’t stop thinking about you, wondering where you were and what you were doing. If you were alone, or if you had family somewhere. I... When I couldn’t wonder anymore, when I had to know, I sent Duke. I tracked him, and we returned today.”
Now he looked up, and everything was shining on his face, openly. “If nothing else, I want to be your friend.”
Numb, surprised, and a little bit lost, Severus nodded. “If nothing else,” he repeated, and all of the reasons why ’nothing else’ shouldn’t happen were on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t speak any of them. Preference was a non-issue, but age and standing were. He created and sold potions under an alias, a respected potion master without a bad record. What would the world think when the Savior of the Wizarding World took up with an ex-Death Eater, twice his age?
He voiced nothing except his willingness to try. For friendship, and maybe... The boy had broken him, so what did it matter? It wouldn’t get much worse if he left. Severus had already died once, and he imagined he would do it again, when the time came. Might as well enjoy...
Maybe...
But he couldn’t make any promises, so he didn’t.
Harry didn’t want them, anyway. He reached across the table and took Severus’ hand firmly, and said, “I’ll be back.”
Severus followed him outside, still shocked with a confession that he wasn’t sure how to process. He told himself that if Harry returned, he’d worry about it then.
No - not if, he thought, watching the dark-cloaked figure kicking off into the air, owl hooting and trailing behind. When.
At first, Harry visited weekly. They talked about his work and what Severus was doing with potions (though Harry didn’t understand the more complex bits, he asked rather intelligent questions). Weekly shifted into near-daily. As the visits became more frequent, random items began to appear in Severus’ house. Like a spare cloak that hung next to the door. And an extra broom, so they could ride together and enjoy the coast. Once or twice he spent the night on the couch, and a toothbrush and paste accumulated in the bathroom (“Habits from being muggle-raised, doesn’t feel clean unless I brush,” Harry had explained with a mouthful of white foam over the sink).
He was a tangible, real part of Severus’ life. It was inevitable that the relationship would progress, but Severus didn’t know how to explain his wants or fears, and it was easier to remain platonic and removed. He’d never had real relationship experience, but he wouldn’t confess that to Harry. Couldn’t.
Harry moved first. He didn’t need the words, and he always seemed to know Severus’ thoughts without asking. The strange occurrence made him wonder if he was transparent, but since he only had one visitor, he supposed it didn’t matter.
It was a soft kiss, before he sat down at the table for morning tea. Severus was standing, conjuring the teacups, and Harry walked up next to him and pecked him on the cheek.
“Morning.” Severus froze while the brat smiled and sat down at the table.
Severus stared at the teacups that had rather silly pink flowers around the rims and saucers. They’d been plain, before.
The second kiss caught him just as off-guard. Harry was leaving a few days later, off to train for the upcoming Quidditch season. They were on the porch, Harry dressed with his broom in hand, and Severus stood nearby. He always watched Harry leave (not because he was worried about him never returning, but just in case). The free hand reached out and touched his cheek, and Harry stepped closer. There was a moment when Severus knew what was happening, when he could have stepped away or said no, but he didn’t. He imagined his pupils dilated as his breathing quickened, and Harry’s eyes had a flinty, determined look. Their lips brushed once, twice, and instinctively Severus parted his lips. Harry took over, aggressively tilting his head and flicking his tongue against Severus’. Who didn’t respond at first, but then deepened the kiss by moving his lips, moving his tongue. The kiss was imperfectly perfect, and they were both panting when Harry pulled away.
“Okay?” Harry raised an eyebrow, challenging him.
“Very,” he replied, dryly. It was more than okay; it was enough to convince him that yes, it was possible for his body to respond to another man. It was possible for him to want someone. Not just anyone, but Harry.
As he watched him leave something inside was chipping, breaking, so close to falling. Severus felt a twinge of fear. Afraid that if the thing inside fell, it wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.
He was drunk when Harry returned that night, waiting on the porch, nursing a vintage bottle of Firewhiskey. The hot liquid normally upset his stomach, but it was the only liquor he was able to find. Conjuring alcohol didn’t always work, and he didn’t want a hallucinogenic experience on top of the drunkenness.
“What do you want from me?” His words were slurred, but the meaning was clear.
Harry was walking up the steps, but he stopped. He stared for a moment. Not the first time he’d seen Severus lose control, but the first time it was over their newfound situation.
“I want you to try,” he said quietly. Severus almost didn’t catch the words as they fell heavily between them. “What do you want from me?” Harry repeated his words loudly.
Severus was drunk, but he tried to stare at the two Harry’s. The alcohol spoke for him, clearly and honestly, and the word fell between them before his brain could process what he’d actually said.
“You.”
Harry climbed the rest of the steps quickly, and suddenly he was next to Severus, crouching down so they were face to face. Close, dangerously close - Severus was teetering on an edge, and those green eyes were glittering and hard and Harry’s features were drawn tight on his face. He moved closer, closer, until Severus couldn’t stand, couldn’t move away unless he moved through Harry. They were face to face, nose to nose, close enough for Harry to kiss him, but he spoke instead, and Severus felt the words ghost across his lips.
“Then you will have me,” Harry’s voice was sharp, “but not right now. Not after you’ve been drinking enough to lower your inhibitions. You’ll have me when you ask for me sober. Until then, you’ll wait. I’ve been waiting long enough; I can wait a little longer.” He was gone, in a swirl of robes, and the door to the house shut quietly behind him.
Severus drank the sobering potion less than an hour later. He stared at his sallow features in the mirror, eyes red and bloodshot from the alcohol, and his head hurt. He had another potion for the after-effects of binge drinking, but he thought he should suffer the pain for one night.
The morning dawned early for Severus, who rested in his bed the entire night without sleeping. The sky was beginning to lighten, and he found himself wondering when he’d become so worried about everything except what he wanted. Probably because before he’d never wanted a person he could really have, a person he could push away.
A person he wanted, who wanted him in return. Who was sleeping in his house, a few rooms away, waiting for him to make the first move.
Dumbledore would have told him to stop being silly weeks ago, to accept what was being offered freely, but Severus had a tendency to torture himself. Enough was enough.
He stood. If his legs were trembling, he didn’t admit it to himself. Severus walked through the house. It was still dark inside, where the windows didn’t allow the pale, early dawn light to penetrate, but he knew the house and navigated easily through the shadows. He stood outside Harry’s door and took a deep breath - and he pushed the door open.
“It’s early,” Harry mumbled from the bed. The room was pale, lighter than the hallway, and Harry was lying in the bed, looking at the doorway. At Severus.
“Too early?” He hadn’t thought about the time, how Harry returned late from training the night prior; he was the one who didn’t have any obligations and could meander his days how he chose.
“Never too early,” and there was a smile behind Harry’s words. It was too dark to see it, but he could hear it. “Come here.”
Ah. He was making it easy for Severus, because the most difficult part would be asking. Asking for something from someone else, something he didn’t need to live, but something he wanted. Something that could easily be refused.
“You worry too much,” Harry said, sitting up as Severus perched on the edge of his bed. “Come here,” and he tugged on a robe sleeve, scooting over to make room in the small bed. “Kiss me,” he demanded when Severus was lying next to him, and it was easy to follow orders. To press his lips against those warm lips, knowing he wouldn’t be turned away. Not now.
Harry’s mouth was warm and sticky with sleep, but the kiss was delicious. Severus could feel himself falling, twisting, shifting, but this time it was okay. They kissed, and Harry touched him first, sliding one hand beneath Severus’ robe to touch his chest, smooth one hand across his firm abdomen, and then up to his nipples. He explored eagerly, first hands, and then his mouth, trailing wet kisses down from lips to neck to chest, nipping Severus’ collarbone.
Before he could move down any further, Severus pulled him back up. “Wait,” and his voice was ragged, breathless. “I’m not as young as you,” and he held Harry’s wrists as he pushed him back into the bed, so Severus could explore. Ears, neck, chest, and Harry’s ticklish sides. Harry laughed and squirmed beneath him, and finally, breathlessly, asked Severus to kiss him again.
Moving above him, he could feel how much Harry wanted him. Wanted. Him. Not such a foreign concept when he wanted Harry just as much, and pushed his own erection against Harry’s hip in return.
“Need you,” Harry breathed into his mouth, licking. “Please.”
“What do you want?” Severus asked, shifting his hips back and forth, enjoying the slow, smooth friction between their clothed cocks. Severus retained his robe, while Harry simply wore a pair of boxer shorts. Each hard thrust was returned by another. He wasn’t sure they’d need to go any further for him to find completion.
“You,” Harry whimpered, “in me... please?”
Ah, fuck. Severus hadn’t thought about how much he might want, and he wasn’t prepared, and it would probably be over too soon, but...
“Yes,” his voice was thick with want and he kissed Harry again, hard, before moving back down his body. He wasn’t a stranger to the act, though he’d never participated directly. He’d watched. This time he moved over Harry’s body he had a goal in mind, and he didn’t stop until he was hovering above the boxers. He pulled the elastic waistband down, slowly, and Harry whined beneath him.
“Please,” Harry begged again, but his voice was different this time. Needy. Severus pulled the shorts down his thighs, exposing his hard cock. The head glistened with pre-come, and Severus had never imagined the appeal of taking another’s sex into his mouth, but now - imagining how it would feel in return - he did.
The taste wasn’t unpleasant, but different. Musky. Male. He didn’t force Harry’s whole cock, but sucked the head, licking the slit and then all around, taking care to keep his teeth out of the way. His cock throbbed between his legs as he licked, aching with need, and finally he couldn’t stand it. He needed Harry.
Pushing Harry’s legs apart, he pulled his mouth away (and there was a small gasp, and Harry’s hips thrust up automatically, seeking the retreating warmth, and he knew he’d take more time to explore that particular sexual deed later) and pulled his hips up.
“Need lube,” Harry said, voice strained.
“Don’t have it,” Severus returned and showed Harry how he planned to attempt without it. His tongue slid down a thigh, and between his legs again, but seeking beyond his cock this time. There was a moment of hesitation, as he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t, but his hot breath hit Harry’s rear and was rewarded with a moan that made it clear that Harry knew what was going to happen.
He licked. Slowly, first just the stretch of skin between his balls and his arsehole, but then his arsehole itself. Licking around, barely penetrating with his tongue, but making sure to get the area wet; he was rewarded with Harry’s moans and thrusts.
One finger was slicked with saliva before penetrating. It was hot and tight, and it drew his finger in slowly. He pushed and pulled, back and forth slowly, rubbing against the ring of muscle.
“More,” Harry gasped, and another wet finger joined the first. This time there was a slight hiss of pain, but Severus moved slowly, at first. Stretching, thrusting, rubbing; he scissored the two fingers, and then moved harder. Faster. Harry’s weak yes was enough of a go-ahead for the third finger.
Harry tensed up, but once Severus’ fingers were beyond the muscle he relaxed. He stretched and spat, trying to get the tight hole ready; and when Harry was thrusting back onto his hand, it was time.
“This will hurt,” he warned and Harry’s laughter turned into a gasp as his fingers hit the spot that made pleasure shoot up Harry's spine and his cock pulse. Severus withdrew his hand, slowly, and spat into his palm again. He pulled his cloak off, exposing his thin body beneath, and his cock jutting out from a bed of dark hair. Slowly, he rubbed his wet hand over his cock, and stared at the image beneath him. The sun was higher now, the room lighter, and Harry was watching him, eyes hungry and wanting. His younger body was firm and smooth, and his cock was leaking steadily now, dripping onto his stomach.
“Now,” Harry said, eyes hooded, watching Severus stroke his own cock. “I want you in me, now.”
Three fingers weren’t enough, compared to his cock, but they were adequate. On his knees, Severus reached for Harry’s hips, tilting his hips up, knees bent. One hand braced himself against the bed and his other hand guided his cock. His blunt head pressed against Harry’s arsehole and he pushed slowly, easing his head into the tight warmth. The ring of muscle clenched as he tried to push in further, and he gasped, “Push against me,” and Harry did. The pressure gave away and Severus pushed harder, sliding past the tight muscle, until he was buried in Harry. He was so tight and hot, and Severus couldn’t remember what took them so long to reach that point.
He was fully sheathed, and his free hand found Harry’s cock. It was softer than it had been, but a few strokes brought it back completely. Harry watched him, breathing heavily, as he began to move his hips. The thrusts were shallow until Harry pulled back and rocked his hips forward; Severus saw stars, and he lost all control. He tried to keep his hand in time with his thrusts, but it was impossible, and Harry’s hand covered his on his cock, jerking as he thrust in and out.
It was over too soon; Harry came first, with a cry, hot liquid spurting over their hands, and his stomach. It was the trigger for Severus, who gave another deep thrust and came with a grunt, buried deep in Harry.
“About time,” Harry said, voice thick. Severus slid out, slowly, and sprawled on the bed, next to him. “That was great.”
“Mmm,” was all Severus had the energy to reply. The wasted night, with alcohol and his lack of sleep, had caught up to him.
Chuckling, Harry leaned over and pressed a kiss against his lips. “Next time,” he murmured, “it’s my turn.”
Next time.
Severus rather liked the way that sounded.