My Fic: Contempt

Jul. 14th, 2023 08:21 am
danniperson: (Default)
[personal profile] danniperson
Title: Contempt
Author: danpuff
Rated: E
Words: 20,400
Ship: Harry/Severus
Other Ships: Harry/Ginny, various others
Warnings/Tags: Cheating, Angst, Mental Health Issues, Love/Hate, Enemies to Lovers, Unhealthy Relationships, Open/Ambiguous Ending, Hopeful Ending, POV Harry Potter.
Summary: Harry hates Snape, and he always will. (He will, won’t he?)
Series: Love, Your Enemy (Part 1)
Notes: Dedicated to [personal profile] perverse_idyll , forever my biggest writing crush, and Snarry idol. So much of what I love about Snarry can be traced back to PI. She is one who put that need in me so see more of this dynamic and these types of stories; the very raw humanity and emotion that I can't get enough of and needed more of...and so I had to write it! A big part of where I am today was influenced by her. This story is the dearest to my soul, and it's important for me to acknowledge how important PI has been to my Snarry journey all these years. ♥️
Other: Podfic available on AO3 by MrVillain. Playlist available on Spotify.
Posting History:
5/22/22: Posted toAO3 for Snarry-a-Thon.
1/9/23: Posted to FFN
1/10/23: Posted to Squidgeworld
7/14/23: Posted to DW (here!)


One day, he’s going to hex Snape’s giant nose off of his stupid face. He’ll rip the nasty, greasy hair right out of his head.



For now, Harry can do little but grit his teeth and glare defiantly as Snape sneers at him from the front of the class. Belittles him for all to see and hear.



The way Snape behaves, no one will blame Harry when he finally loses it. With luck he'll make it to graduation. Maybe he’ll see Snape on Diagon Alley one day. Snape will be rude and Harry will jinx him silly.



The rage heating his blood uselessly now will fuel his spellwork then. He’ll tie Snape’s tongue into knots — (his tongue) — so that he trips over every foul word. Clean his mouth out with soap — (his mouth) — soap bubbles spilling out, and onlookers will laugh. Snape’s face will burn a ruddy, ugly red.



Snape with his tongue and his mouth might well be a boggart, the way Harry’s stomach swoops and his heart races. It’s fear, is what it is (fear of what? What are you afraid of, Harry?) and the only way to conquer that fear is to —



Harry laughs at the caricature of Snape in his head more so than the man glaring down at him now. Easier to laugh than to scream or cry or any other outburst that could come from the storm within. He doesn’t know why it’s so confusing, why it’s so much.



It’s just Snape. Mean, ugly, awful Snape.



Laughter earns Harry detention. Being mocked doesn’t sit any better with Snape than being called a coward.



Harry does that, too. Calls him “coward.” Because Snape gives him detention with Filch, just as he has all year. He doesn’t want to be alone with Harry. Harry pretends not to know why. 



Just as Harry pretends not to know why he’s so grateful some days. Or why he’s agitated others.



Better to calmly scrub trophies by torchlight, listening to Filch mumble and mutter in a dark corner. Better this than to scrub cauldrons or sort flobberworms and, inevitably, lose his place or lose his temper. Because he won’t be able to stop glaring at Snape, at his crooked teeth and his hooked nose and his…his fingers —



Long, slender fingers with yellowed skin and uneven nails. They wield wand and quill so expertly. Expertly cruel, that is. Cruel of word and cruel of spell.



Fingers that grasped him, pulled him closer, but — no, don’t think of the Shack, think of —



Fingers that would fold around his throat and — liquid heat down his spine and — Fingers that would grasp his jaw firmly; hold him still as Snape leans in and growls dangerously. Words of…Well, the words don’t matter much. Harry shivers just to think of it.



Fear, and —



— and…



— hate. Hate that burns like lava in his gut. Hate that creeps and crawls beneath his skin.



Hate. For everything that Snape is.



What is there not to hate? From his oily scalp to his smelly feet. (Do they smell, he wonders? Trapped in his boots all day, trudging through mess after mess, they must be.) (They might be pale, too. And slender. Harry’s never seen them, but he can imagine them. How soft they might feel.)



(No, they wouldn’t be soft. No part of Snape could ever be soft. They’ll be rough and smelly and crusty, he’s sure. He’s sure.)



Hate, for the way Snape’s lips curl nastily over his teeth. The smooth, sharp edge of his voice when he tears into Harry. The vile glee in dark eyes when he gives detention after detention after detention.



Hate for the way that Snape never quite sees Harry. He sees James the Enemy, or Lily the Friend. Never Harry the…whatever he is.



(Sometimes, though, sometimes Harry hates Snape for seeing him too well. When their eyes meet and it feels as though Snape is diving into his soul and Harry panics, he panics, it’s too much, too much, too much. A gentle caress to a raw, bleeding nerve.)



Most of all, Harry hates Snape for hating him.



No, worst of all, Harry hates Snape for —



Well, Harry can’t bear to think of that, can he?



"I do wish you'd give Snape a break," Hermione scolds. The eighth year common room is still full when Harry returns from detention. Everyone is cramming for their NEWTs, or at least pretending to.



Ron and Neville exchange uneasy frowns. Harry grinds his teeth and glares off into the distance. Few speak ill of Snape these days, hero that he is. He is not beloved, certainly not over this past year. The war's end has not made Snape any less of a taskmaster, or a bastard.



"You were the first one to defend him, after all," Hermione continues. "You know better than anyone what he's done."



"Yeah, I do, don't I?" Harry retorts.



Who knows more of Snape's horrible, nasty behavior than Harry? Neville might come close, but Snape's never loathed Neville the way he loathes Harry. Snape's ire is all his, his, his.



No one loses more points than Harry, or earns more detention. And Snape reserves his most potent venom for when he's eviscerating Harry, for his arrogance and his laziness and his stupidity.



It's worse now than it ever was.



Like Harry got too close, and Snape — Snape is reacting. Shoving Harry aside and running away.



And Harry, well — Harry's never gone down easy, has he? He stands back up and blocks Snape's path, because —



Because —



One shouldn't back down from a bully, should they?



It isn't that he wants Snape's attention.



Except, perhaps…



Harry knows the horribleness and nastiness isn't all there is.



It was he, Harry, who stood before the Wizengamot, fighting tooth and nail to make them see — to make them understand — all Snape had sacrificed. All he had done for them, without gratitude or even acknowledgement. The strength of his character. The unparalleled bravery.



Who had done more for the war, after all?



And when he's in bed, his own words ring in his ears. The nightly rants, and his vehement defense, all bleeding together.



He remembers class. Remembers Snape's voice, cold and sharp as ice: "What do you find so amusing, Potter?"



"It's you, sir," he'd said, voice pumped full of false cheer.




It's you.



He remembers his fervent prayers at Snape's bedside. He remembers day after day. The fresh bandages applied to Snape's neck. How he looked like a corpse lying on that bed, too pale and too still.



He remembers the anger and hate he gathered close to his heart, huddling closer for warmth. Don't you dare, Snape. Don't do this to me.




Come back, come back.




Look at me.



"Come on, mate," Ron snapped one afternoon. Hermione hushed him, flapping her hands, but Ron's face was flushed as he glared into the hospital room. "Why do you care so much, Harry?"



Harry didn't have an answer for him. Ron stormed out in a huff, Hermione on his heels, and the question haunted Harry all throughout the day. Why, why, why. It should have been easy. He'd beaten the sentiment to death before the Wizengamot. He knew the answer in his bones.



And when, days later, Snape opened his eyes, Harry's first thought was you, it's you. 



Relief and joy lodged in his throat and blurred his eyes. All of the grief and fear, not quite receding, but swirling together. Harry grabbed Snape's wrist, held on for dear life, because he didn't know how to not touch him. 



When Harry dreams, he dreams of Snape's hands. Pale and soft and cool to the touch. He dreams of his slender wrist. The steady thud of a pulse. Dark, inscrutable eyes.



He dreams of a silvery doe in a dark forest. A dark knight with a mighty sword. Of a bowl and swirling memories. Of trembling fingers clutching his shirt. A rough voice pleading, "Look at me."



Look at me.



Matters worsen as the year progresses. The closer to NEWTs, the closer to freedom, the less bearable it becomes.



Everyone acts out. Headmistress McGonagall has little time and little patience, certainly not for petty grievances. The enmity between Harry and Snape is theirs and theirs alone. Only Hermione dares intrude.



"The war is over!" she snaps in Defense. "Enough of this!"



Neville loses his cool soon after. Draws his wand on Snape. Harry steps between them without thought, heart hammering in his chest, in his head, in his throat. (Blood, snake, sword.)



Neville glares over Harry's head at Snape, jaw tight, hand trembling.



"Dear me," Snape drawls. "Did I strike a nerve, Longbottom?" Neville shifts his arm, keeps his wand trained on Snape. Harry is too short. He rises to his toes. (Snape's fingers in his shirt, Snape's pulse beneath his fingers. Blood on his hands. Crisp white sheets. Venom and potions.)



Snape brushes past Harry as if he isn't there. As if he doesn't matter.



"Ah, but you don't have any nerve, do you, boy?" Snape says.



"Stop," Harry says.



"Fuck you," Neville whispers.



"Detention," Snape says.



"Stop!" Harry says louder.



"And you," Snape snarls and Harry's heart leaps as Snape turns to him. Strides menacingly forward. Harry straightens his back and tilts his chin up. "This is Defense Against the Dark Arts. Surely you know better than to throw yourself into the line of fire." Snape's eyes drop to Harry's loosely held wand. "You have better means of protection than becoming a human shield. Unless, of course, you miss playing martyr."



Harry's neck and cheeks heat. His fingers tighten around his wand. Snape has a point, of course, and the jolt of panic that touched him seems a feeble excuse for stupidity.



"You weren't doing much to defend yourself. Sir," Harry retorts.



Snape lifts a brow and glances over his shoulder at pink-cheeked Neville. "I saw nothing I needed defending from. Did you?"



"Neville killed the snake," Harry reminds him. "The snake that nearly did you in." Snape frowns. "I think he's more than a match for you."



"Not now, Harry," Neville mutters.



"With a sword, perhaps," Snape agrees. "Longbottom is lucky he didn't need to rely on his wand to get him through battle."



Electricity crackles at Harry's fingertips. Magic, or anger, or —



Snape takes another step closer. Harry leans in.



"You had a wand, and you couldn't even save yourself," Harry says. "Or was that the point? Did you want to die?"



It was meant to be a jab, until Harry realizes that it might be true. Had Snape wanted to die? Had he hoped for it? Did he curse Harry's name when he opened his eyes? (Harry might have found out had he not fled.)



The glimmer in Snape's eyes dies away. There is a pause in which everyone holds their breath. Harry would breathe if he could remember how. "Better death than this scintillating conversation, I assure you." Snape looks over his shoulder. "Class dismissed. Potter, detention."



At five to seven, Harry and Neville part on their way to detention. Neville straightens his shoulders as he marches towards the Entrance Hall. Why he agreed, Harry can only guess. Whether to help Harry or get one over on Snape, or simply to escape Snape's wrath for one evening. The why doesn't matter, so long as Neville mops for Filch and Harry…



Harry will do whatever Snape wants.



The shiver that strokes down his spine is only a draft. It is cold in the dungeons. Cold, but his hatred sustains him. Warms him. Hate, hate.



Snape's office door is ajar. The man himself sits at his desk, marking essays with scribbles and slashes. When he reloads his quill, a drop of red ink clings to the tip and Harry inhales sharply. Snape pauses, but doesn't look up.



"You are not Longbottom," Snape says.



"No, sir."



Harry braces himself, waits for the fallout. Waits for the glower, the sarcasm, a drawn wand. Anything but the scritching of the quill. He watches the muscle in Snape's jaw work. The way his lips thin. But in the end, Snape sets down his quill to flick his wand.



On the blackboard, the words "I will not be a dunderhead" were waiting for Neville. A piece of chalks zooms into action, crossing out the word "dunderhead" and writing out "nuisance" instead.



Harry huffs out a laugh. Relieved and amused and irritated. There's an itch in his sternum, one he can't name and one he can't scratch.



"Lines, Snape?" Harry drops his bag by an empty table and pulls out the chair as loudly as he can. "Gone a bit soft, haven't you?"



Snape's hand stills, but he still won't lift his eyes. Harry grits his teeth. "Soft," Snape repeats quietly. "Indeed. I don't have the proper tools to make the lesson stick, do I?" When he does look up, it isn't Harry's face he looks to, but his hand. Harry curls his fingers into a fist. I must not tell lies.



"Why? Do you want to mark me?"



Stupid thing to say, even if he wants to antagonize Snape. A flush creeps into his cheeks, just in time for Snape's eyes to sharply meet his. Harry swallows and slumps in his seat.



"And you say I have a death wish," Snape says. "What is it you're after?"



Had Snape let Harry speak, he might have said loads of things. How he wants to annoy Snape. How he wants to pay him back every hurt he's caused. How he wants to jinx him silly, humiliate him in front of crowds of shoppers, how he wants to rip him —



— rip the front of his robes, buttons falling to the floor. Breath hot on his neck. Fingertips cool on the small of his back.



Fantasies Harry never thinks of. Fantasies he always stops in their tracks. Shamefaced in the darkness of his dorm, curtains pulled closed around him. Clutching his pillow and refusing, refusing to touch himself. 



Snape's delicate wrist in Harry's clumsy hands. The thud of a pulse beneath his fingers. Heart in his throat, thank Merlin, thank Merlin, thank Merlin.



— Snape yanks himself free from Harry's head, and Harry's stomach churns. No, no, no, no, no.



Harry is already scrambling towards the door when Snape barks, "Dismissed, Potter!"



The use of Legilimency against a student might be a valid enough complaint for McGonagall to take action, were she not so busy with inconsolable and/or temperamental students. And were Harry not too embarrassed to speak up.



Instead, he daydreams about getting Snape in trouble as he avoids Snape's attention in class. If not the headmistress, then the Board of Governors. Surely Snape would face some sort of disciplinary action. Be fired, even.



"He's a hero," Harry had told the Wizengamot. "He doesn't deserve this."



Harry doesn't remember what curses Snape lectured on, and he didn't take notes. He swings wildly between viciousness and guilt over the days that follow.



In the night, he is haunted by his aborted fantasies. And Snape knows — but what does he know? There was nothing incriminating in those scenes. Only buttons and breath and skin and…



…and…



(and want.)



Harry doesn't remember much from Defense. Not history or theory or even incantations. Instead he remembers the sweep of Snape's robes and the click of his boots. He remembers the position of Snape's fingers around his wand. The precise motion of his wrist. The shape of his lips around every spell.



He remembers and he hates.



(And wants and hates and wants and hates and wants.)



NEWTs arrive after what is both an eternity and the blink of an eye. Harry's head feels stuffed full of nothing through Transfiguration and Charms. Potions passes like a dream, with memories of the Prince's cramped writing to carry him through. And it is Snape's voice that whispers to him through Defense, though Harry hadn't known he remembered any of those lessons. Nothing that mattered from them, anyway.



Their results come after dinner a week later, delivered by the headmistress herself. Harry is pleased with his passing grades, though a bit embarrassed by his two Oustandings, as they're in Potions and Defense.



Ron elbows him and they exchange results but are interrupted when Hermione begins to cry. They share alarmed looks then spring into action with Harry taking Hermione into his arms as Ron examines her scores. 



"Nothing but Outstandings!" Ron exclaims and folds up the parchment to whack Hermione's shoulder with. "What are the tears for, then?"



"I can't believe it!" Hermione wails. Ron and Harry laugh. Harry squeezes her tighter as Ron and Ginny rush over to join the hug.



"We'll be graduating together!" Ginny says happily.



"Graduating!" Hermione sobs. Then sniffles. Then giggles.



Soon enough they're all giggling and sniffling and clinging together. None of the other eighth years or visiting seventh years look askance. Everyone celebrates and mourns the end of an era in their own ways.



There is plenty to do in the days leading up to graduation. They send inquiry letters to potential employers. They visit Hogsmeade for drinks. They explore the Hogwarts grounds, and say goodbye to the lake and the forest and the stone walls. They sit at Hagrid's fire and cringe their way through rock cakes, and fly one last time on the Quidditch pitch.



Harry's last moments in his first real home.



Graduation is bittersweet. Everyone wears fine robes with stoles denoting their house. One by one the seventh and eighth years are called forward. There are handshakes and applause. Then music, and dancing, and drinks. There is laughter and crying and chanting and hugging.



Flitwick shakes Harry's hand vigorously and whispers conspiratorially that he hopes to see him on the dueling circuit one day. Trelawney clutches him and proclaims for all to hear about the great fortune awaiting him. McGonagall is a bit teary-eyed when she sternly tells him to behave himself in Auror training. Hagrid nearly cracks his ribs in a hug that he sobs through. Mr. Weasley gets him away long enough for Mrs. Weasley to latch onto him, whispering in his ear how proud she is of him. She rubs her face with a kerchief after, and Harry surreptitiously wipes his own eyes on his sleeve.



And it's distraction enough from Snape who skulks in the shadows, watching him be passed from person to person.



And Harry's glad, he is, that Snape doesn't approach him.



His friends don't question it much when Harry elects to stay behind. "I'll be in London tomorrow, promise," he tells them.



Per tradition, most graduates will stay in Hogsmeade for the night and depart on the train in the morning. Most are eager to leave their schooldays behind and embrace proper adulthood posthaste.



Harry is not as eager to leave Hogwarts as most of them, but he would gladly join their tradition if he could. He doesn't think about why he can't as his friends leave the castle and he heads for the stairs. He walks up to Gryffindor Tower for show, and hides beneath his cloak when he knows he's alone.



Harry doesn't know exactly where Snape's quarters are, but Snape's name on the map leads him down to the dungeons and a door with no handle. Engravings in the stone, of serpents entwined with ivy and dahlias. No lilies, Harry is pleased to note. A speech bubble appears on the map, helpfully suggesting "hellebore" as a password.



Knocking would be polite, but he likes his chances of getting through the door better without it. Harry chews his lips and stares at the engravings, trying to think past the rushing of his blood and the hammering of his heart.



If he knocks, Snape might not answer, and Harry can rest easy knowing he tried and failed. If he knocks, Snape might not answer and…What's Harry to do if he doesn't answer? Go crawling back to his friends, never knowing if…



Never knowing if…



Harry's hand trembles when he knocks on the door, far quieter than he should. His palms are clammy. He knocked, he tried, he can leave — he can't leave, his feet are glued to the floor. He can't leave without…without…



The door creaks open. Snape peers suspiciously into the corridor. Harry stops breathing. Snape is right there, not five inches away. He could reach out and…and…



Dark eyes narrow; pale fingers reach out. Harry's heart leaps towards them as he clutches his map to his chest. He stares, wide-eyed, and digs his feet into the floor against the urge to bolt. His breath stutters out of him as the cloak kisses his body goodbye.



"Potter," Snape snarls venomously and, without thought, Harry darts under his arm into his quarters. "Why you little —" Snape throws the cloak to the ground as he rounds on Harry. Harry backs up without thinking, but quickly changes track. In two long strides, Snape approaches and Harry plants his feet and squares his shoulders. Lifts his hands, and —



And he's touching Snape. Snape walks right into his open palms. The rage in his face flicks to surprise, then fear, and Snape recoils, but Harry digs his fingers into Snape's robes and holds him near.



"How dare you," Snape says. And as Harry's hands drift up, Snape's shoot out to grab his arms. Harry fumbles with Snape's buttons as Snape's fingers dig bruises into his flesh. "What are you doing? Stop this!"



What is he doing? Harry wishes he knew. There is no room for thought here, aching with hunger as he is. So close to what he craves, even if he doesn't know what that is. (But he does know, doesn't he?) His soul twists painfully, devouring itself as the scent in the air (herbs, musk, leather) taunts him.



Harry loosens a button. Snape twists his arms and shoves him away, but Harry is quick and grabs onto Snape's robes again. Two buttons, then three. Snape grabs him once more just as Harry's hand curls around the exposed column of his neck.



Snape freezes as Harry tenderly strokes over the raised flesh. Following the twisted, mangled lines. Harry can't quite swallow around the lump in his throat. He remembers blood, hot and heavy in his hands. Remembers hands in his shirt and a desperate plea.



Frightfully, Harry obeys the remembered request and looks up at Snape's face. Snape's eyes move between his searchingly. His thin lips twist and his desperate hate deepens, but he releases Harry's arms.



And he doesn't stop Harry from unbuttoning the rest. The black robes and the white shirt beneath. Snape snatches the stole from Harry's shoulders and throws it to the floor. He tangles his hands in Harry's robes and grips them firmly. But he doesn't stop him.



The black and the white material hang open around Snape's thin frame. He's not beautiful anywhere, is he? Pasty skin with marks of discoloration. Old, faded scars. Wiry black hair. Concave chest, prominent ribs, soft belly. Harry feasts his eyes on the ghastly sight and trails reverent fingers down. Down over flat brown nipples and a long raised scar. Over a patch of rough, brown skin. Over coarse black curls.



His skin is warmer than Harry expected.



His skin is warm, and he's alive. He's breathing — breathing heavily, raggedly, and he's alive. Harry gasps softly. He's alive, and he's real, and he's here, and he's Snape.



This is Snape.



Harry licks his lips as he presses his palms flat against Snape's skin and watches them glide back up. Snape's eyes are wild when Harry meets them. Furious and terrified. Harry's fingers find his throat again, find his pulse, find it racing out of control.



He's alive, he's real, he's here.



Snape is —



Harry is —



Snape is hideous and awful, and he's here and alive. Harry could strangle him, but he knows…He knows that if Snape's heart stopped beating, his would stop with it.



"Oh god," Harry whispers when he realizes.



What else can he do but kiss Snape? It's clumsy and rough, bashing noses and clanking teeth. Blood in his mouth and bruises on his lips. Harry's fingers dig into Snape's hair and pull him closer.



At first, Snape doesn't kiss back. He's rigid in Harry's arms and Harry kisses him harder, waiting for Snape to throw him to the floor and eviscerate him. Coming here in the first place was suicidal, the least Harry can do is make the most of it.



But then Snape's arms slide around Harry's waist, crush Harry to him, and he kisses him back. It's still terrible; nothing but teeth and tongue. It hurts, and it's awkward, and Harry whimpers in the back of his throat because he never, ever wants it to stop.



Back Harry is pushed, tripping over his robes and Snape's boots, remaining upright only because of Snape's hands. Snape doesn't stop kissing him once as he shoves Harry across the room, right into a bookcase. Several books topple to the floor, and the edges dig uncomfortably into Harry's spine. Snape's fingers dig into Harry's jaw to tilt his head and his tongue plunges deeper, exploring every inch of Harry's mouth.



And Harry — his hands explore every bit of Snape he can reach. Over his bare chest, then beneath his shirt to stroke up his back. His fingers trace along shoulder blades, down the knobs of his spine, along even more scars. Nothing about Snape is soft at all and it's not enough, Harry needs more, he's going to combust if he doesn't have —



Snape's hand drops down between Harry's legs, his palm molding around the shape of Harry's throbbing cock.



Harry's head falls back with a gasp and Snape presses his mouth to Harry's neck, growling out, "Fuck."



Snape is gone in an instant, shrugging out of his robe and falling to his knees. The white shirt hangs open around him, off of one shoulder and half tucked behind his back. He does not smile coyly or bat his lashes like the models in magazines. He wears a frown on his lips and a spark of helpless desire in his eyes.



With a sharp flick of Snape's fingers, all of the buttons on Harry's robes part and Harry lets the fine black material fall from his arms to pool at his feet. Snape impatiently opens Harry's trousers and yanks them down his legs. Harry doesn't know what's happening, doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know anything but the burst of heat flaring through his middle.



Then the heat of Snape's mouth around his cock.



Harry cries out in surprised pleasure. He closes his eyes because he can't stand the sight of it, then opens them once more because he can't not see. One moment he's too scared to touch Snape, and the next his hands are in Snape's hair. He needs to hold on, lest he float away or melt into the ground.



Snape doesn't seem to mind Harry's death grip on his hair. He hums around Harry's cock and grips Harry's arse to haul him closer, to suck him deeper. Until Snape's ugly nose digs into Harry's skin and his hands fondle Harry's cheeks. And Harry never knew his arse was so sensitive until now and that, alongside the heat of Snape's mouth and — god, that's filthy, the sight of his cock sliding wetly between Snape's lips. It's grotesque, Snape is grotesque, and —




It's Snape, it's Snape, it's Snape.



It's more than Harry can handle. He bangs his head back and more books topple off of their shelves. Harry winces as one knocks into his head and skews his glasses. He flings them off of his face irritably.



Snape's nails dig into Harry's hips and he pulls off of Harry's cock. A line of saliva connects them for all of two seconds before it breaks, and Harry's reservations break with it, even as Snape rises to his feet.



"Potter," he spits, wiping his mouth on his shirt. His dark eyes brim with hatred and hunger and they both cut right through to the core of Harry. And though Snape steps back, Harry launches himself at him.



He trips, of course, over his tangled trousers and his trainers. Snape catches him. Harry latches his mouth to Snape's neck, laving at the upraised scar, and he kicks off his shoes and his pants as they scramble across the room. Their hands and mouths never break from one another.



Harry is fevered and it's making him insane because he doesn't care about Snape's hair in his mouth or Snape's nails in his skin or Snape's teeth scraping at his cheek. He doesn't care how gross or painful any of it is because he is bereft the moment they part.



It's barely ten seconds, the time it takes for Snape to shove Harry down onto the sofa and to undo his trousers enough to pull out his cock, but it feels like too long before Snape sinks down on top of him.



"Oh my god," Harry breathes, lifting his head to look down between them. He reaches down to press his hand to Snape's cock, feeling the heat of it and the heft of it in his palm. The head is purple and slick and Harry carefully strokes it with his thumb. Snape shudders above him.



"Is this why you're here, Potter?" Snape asks. He grabs Harry's hand and presses it more firmly against his cock. The cock throbs in his hand and Harry's own throbs in kind and his head falls back against the cushion with a moan. "For my cock? Or is it one last bout of trouble you're after? Could you not depart in peace?"



Snape's tone grows more steely with every word and his muscles are tense and — he can't go, he can't stop!



"Please, Snape, I need," Harry gasps. "Kiss me, please, I need — "



Snape curses under his breath. Harry props himself up, but Snape captures his lips once more and presses him flat. Snape's hand between them aligns their cocks and — "Ah," Harry gasps into Snape's mouth and Snape swallows it down. He bites and licks and consumes every sound dragged out of Harry's throat with every drag of their cocks. It's heat and pressure and filth and it's good, it's better than anything Harry has felt, better than anything he's dreamed of and it's —




It's Snape, it's Snape, it's Snape.



"Ssss," Harry tries and Snape breaks away from his lips to taste his Adam's apple.



"Say it. My name," Snape commands gruffly.



"Snape," Harry gasps.



"No."



"Sev - ver - ah!" He was too close as it was, and saying his name, his given name…Harry clings to Snape's, to Severus', shoulders and half sobs, half moans as he comes.



He's warm and tingly and he feels as though he won't stop coming. Snape's sucking on his neck and his cock slides easily through the mess Harry made. Harry trembles. Then gasps, when it's too much. Too sensitive, and — god, this is embarrassing, did he just —




Severus.



"Oh," Harry sighs.



Snape lifts onto his hands and knees and the look in his eyes makes Harry shiver again. "Turn over," he says. Harry doesn't hesitate to twist beneath him. He's never been happier or more terrified to obey him. Harry's heart thuds out of control.



His stomach is sticky and wet against the sofa cushion. He lifts up a bit, face flushing, and he hears Snape spit. Snape then settles over him and guides his spit-slick cock between Harry's cheeks. Harry clenches in panic, but Snape doesn't try to get inside of him. He seems content to rut between Harry's cheeks. To pant hotly into Harry's ear, his neck.



Harry's fingers dig into the cushion. His friends are celebrating in Hogsmeade and if they think of him at all they'll think he's here indulging in innocent sentimentality. They won't know, would never dream of, the truth. They'd be disgusted if they could see him now, confused and aroused again — hard cock pressed against the wet cushion, Snape's cock spilling against his arse, his back. Harry's stares wide-eyed at the wall and breathes through his mouth. He feels Snape's cock softening against him. Hears Snape mutter to himself.



Then Snape is gone. He sways a moment but soon regains equilibrium enough to stride across the room and through a door, slamming it shut behind him.



Harry lays there for a while. Stares at the wall. Thinks of his friends and the night he could have had. He could have drank with Ron and Seamus and Dean. He could have chatted with Ginny and maybe even…things had been good with them before, they could be good again if he…if they…



Instead, he's laying in Snape's quarters, cock and belly smeared in his own come while Snape's cools on the small of his back. Harry touches his mouth, his neck, everywhere Snape's mouth had been.



When he sits up, his shirt falls and Harry winces because he feels it catch on the wetness. His heart's beating too fast. He summons his underwear and his hands shake when he pulls them on. This was a mistake. His stomach twists. He looks at the door Snape went through. He's there, he's close, he could…



He could…



Harry gathers his shoes and his stole and his trousers and bundles them into his robes. Once he's hidden beneath his cloak, he flees.



Life goes on, and Harry's interlude with Snape is little more than a hazy fantasy (or nightmare.) And if ever it was more, it was temporary insanity.



Plenty of his classmates go a little wild. They party too much, or elope-and-divorce, or commit petty crimes, or take odd jobs. Everyone's been a little funny since the war. If Harry did have a moment of insanity, well, it wouldn't be so strange, would it?



(And when Harry touches himself, if he gets off all the harder for thinking of Snape's tongue in his mouth or Snape's cock against his, well…it's only a fantasy.)



There are summer parties at the Burrow, and renovations at Grimmauld Place. Friday night drinks with friends and Saturday night dinners with Ginny. He joins the Aurors in the fall with Ron and Neville. Their first few cases are tracking down rogue Death Eaters and Harry is filled with purpose.



(And exhaustion. And horror. And nightmares filled with green light and red blood.)



Too many people died for the war to end. Harry's family died so that he might live, and live he does. He lives to make them proud. For their sacrifice to mean something. For every sacrifice made to matter.



He lives for Quidditch games where he cheers from the stands, or pick-up games with old friends. He lives for Sunday tea with Teddy and Andromeda. He lives for game nights with Ron and Hermione and Ginny.



He lives, and life is good.



(What else can it be other than good? He smiles and he laughs. He has a family and hugs and warm meals. He has an important job, good friends and a beautiful girlfriend. He has a home. And money. And hobbies. And love. What more could he possibly want? How can he be anything but happy?)



(What could be missing? He has everything.)



Around Christmas, Harry buys Ginny a ring. It might be too soon, but he's eager to start their lives properly. But Ron and Hermione break up and he tucks the ring deeper into his sock drawer with a sigh of relief.



Mrs. Weasley knits them matching jumpers. Harry and Ginny pose for pictures in front of the tree. And Harry's one of them, even without the ring. (He is, he is, he is.)



On New Year's Eve, Hermione snogs Cho at Seamus' party. Ron retaliates by sneaking off with Lavender. And though they're obviously vying to be the most successful post-breakup, they at least get along better as friends.



Harry and Ginny giggle at their antics, and kiss at midnight, and chat until sunrise about everything and nothing.



When they're lying in bed together, and Ginny is softly snoring, Harry sneaks his hand into his pants and presses his arm over his mouth so that it muffles the "Severus" he can't stop himself whispering.



"Ginny," Harry says over ice cream.



It's Valentine's Day and they're sitting outside of Fortescue's. Few people want ice cream on a winter's day. They're alone on the patio, though other couples walk hand in hand down the sidewalk. The sun is setting and the sky is dark orange, fading to pinks and purples.



Ginny is as beautiful as ever, copper hair plaited and decorated with blue primroses that complement the blue of her robes. There is a spoonful of candyfloss ice cream in her mouth and her warm brown eyes light up when they meet his.



She's perfect. She's beautiful. She loves Quidditch. She wants dessert before dinner. She's funny and fierce and everything he could possibly want.



He only meant to get her attention, to ask if she wants to pop into Quality Quidditch Supplies before they close, but he catches sight of a dark cloaked figure walking out of the secondhand bookshop.



Harry blinks. But though the man is across the street, there is no mistaking that walk, or the billowing of those robes. Harry's throat feels tight. And when he shivers, he tells himself it's the cold breeze and not the memory of hot breath on his neck.




No, no. No, no, no.



"Harry?"



"Ginny, will you marry me?" he blurts out. He tears his eyes away from Snape and pats the front of his robes, then wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "I — I forgot the ring, but — "



"I don't need a ring," Ginny laughs. "Of course I'll marry you."



By Tuesday Ginny is photographed leaving Harpies practice with her new ring and by Wednesday it's all over The Daily Prophet. On Thursday Ron warns Harry not to break Ginny's heart. Harry sees Snape's frowning face in his mind and he barks out a hysterical laugh. "No chance of that, mate," he promises.



On Friday he and Ginny Floo to the Burrow for dinner and Molly serves treacle tart for dessert to celebrate. Molly smothers them both in hugs and kisses to their cheeks and dabs her eyes between loading their plates.



And Harry holds Ginny's hand under the table, and strokes his thumb over the ring. It is the tie binding him to her and this family and the life he so desperately wants. 



He's safe.



At least, he's safe until he closes his eyes. Until he conjures the vision of Snape's curling lips and his blazing eyes. He's safe until Snape is bleeding out into his hands or coming onto his back. Until Snape is clutching him, breathing, "Look at me." Until Snape is holding Harry's hand to his cock demanding, "Is this why you're here?"



And he wakes, drenched in sweat or wet with spend. And his heart races and breaks both at once. 



He takes Ginny's hand, then, and traces her ring while she sleeps.



Of course, Snape is not content to merely haunt Harry's dreams. By May he's haunting Harry's real life, too.



It's the second anniversary of the war's end and the Ministry hosts another gala in celebration. Harry doesn't want to attend himself; he can't imagine Snape voluntarily attending, yet there he is, seated at a table with the Malfoys and Zabinis.



Ron trips over his feet staring at Zinnia Zabini, but Harry comes to a halt when he catches Snape's eye. The heat of Snape's loathing scorches Harry where he stands. His chest wilts helplessly.



"Ronald! Can't you pretend to behave?" Hermione hisses. She stalks off with her nose in the air, hand-in-hand with Cho. Ron mutters under his breath and ambles after them.



"Harry?" Ginny's hand jerks in his.



Harry loosens his fingers with an apologetic smile. "Fine, sorry. I didn't expect to see Snape here."



"Well, you did wax poetic about his heroism," Ginny reminds him. He flushes; she giggles. "You're lucky none of your eighth year antics made the news."



"Yeah, well, he's still an arse." Harry follows Ginny's pull to their table.



"He is. That's why he's sitting with the 'ex' Death Eaters," Ginny says. "They can look and act miserable together and leave the rest of us alone."



Harry snorts. "Do you really think he'll miss an opportunity to insult us?"



"Probably not. But we can insult him back and not get detention for it," Ginny says cheerfully.



And it is a cheerful thought, isn't it? That Snape might find them to parry words? That he'll be close enough to touch again? Harry's pinky finds Ginny's ring; he looks over his shoulder.



Snape watches.



Snape watches but he never approaches. Harry ignores him and waits. He waits through dinner and dances with Ginny. He waits as they're hounded by reporters and photographers. He waits through the speeches and handshakes with the Minister.



He waits, but Snape never comes.



It's nearly midnight and Harry is a little tired and a little tipsy, and he's very determinedly not thinking when he follows Snape out of the ballroom. Not thinking about Snape, or the irritated buzzing beneath his skin, and certainly not about what he's doing.



(Because he can't let it go, he can't leave here tonight without…He just can't.)



Snape's robes are nice. A rich black velvet with silver detailing. And his hair looks clean, for once. (How soft would it feel, if he dug his fingers into it tonight?)



They bypass the loo, where Harry expected him to go, and his heart is in his throat.



(Are those silver buttons easier to unclasp than his normal ones? What's he wearing beneath? Sure, he wears trousers for work, but does he go traditional for events?)



(Where did he get such finery? A lover? Pfff. Who would want Snape? (Who? Who is it?))



Down the silent corridors, away from the party, and right into a lift. Harry doesn't hesitate to join him, though his neck flushes. Harry knows how obvious he is, but he keeps his face straight and hopes the heat doesn't rise to his cheeks.



"Why are you here?" Snape demands as the doors close.



"Err…I was invited?"



Snape frowns and Harry's lips twitch.



The lift moves down. Harry's fingers curl in against the urge to reach out. He presses his fist to his side and firms his shoulders. Idiot, idiot, idiot.



"Have you nothing better to do than seek out trouble?"



There are four walls around them. The lift isn't very big. It would take two steps, maybe, to reach Snape. To press against him. Harry's mouth tingles with the need to —



"Isn't that why you're here? Sir?" Harry lifts a mocking brow in a poor imitation of Snape.



Why else would Snape be here if not for…? He's not a social man. He can't enjoy dressing up or making nice or, Merlin forbid, washing his hair. He has to be here for…



He has to.



The lift doors open.



Snape's gaze drifts down to Harry's lips and Harry's tongue slips out to wet them. "Arrogant as ever, Potter." 



A murmured spell binds Harry's wrist to the railing as Snape gracefully sweeps out of the lift. "Hey!" Harry calls out, jerking his arm against the tie.



The doors close again and Harry is alone. He bangs his head back against the wall. Idiot, idiot, idiot.



May turns into June. With the weather so warm, he and Ginny often take to the skies. They fly lazy loop-the-loops and have picnics in the grass. Harry picks flowers for Ginny that she braids into her hair, though they fall out when they mount their brooms once more.



Her long hair whips in the wind and gleams in the sun. And when she smiles at him, he thinks of how his mother must have smiled at his father, and how they both must be smiling down on him and Ginny now.



And when inevitably his thoughts stray to Snape, Harry thinks of how disappointed they'd be. Disgusted.



June turns into July. After dinner he and Ginny look through their parents' wedding photos. Ginny wants cream colored robes like her mum, and Harry asks if she'd like to carry azaleas. His mum's photo waves with her bouquet when Ginny says yes. And when Ginny smiles warmly at him, his dad smiles at his mum and kisses the top of her head.



James had been devoted to Lily. Loved her deeply.



Harry looks at Ginny, and he tries.



July turns into August. It's the day before Ginny's birthday, and he stops by Diagon Alley after work for a gift. He's aimless. Ginny has all the Quidditch gear and merchandise she could want. What else does she like? The Weird Sisters, he thinks. Or…maybe clothes? Chocolates seem too small a gift for his wife-to-be.



Or…



Across the street, a black robed figure slips into the secondhand bookshop. Harry's heart skips a beat.



Or maybe she'd like a book. He's seen her with romance novels. (Those were hers, weren't they?)



Harry wipes sweaty palms on his scarlet robes. The bell above the door dings when he enters. The clerk calls out a greeting that Harry barely hears.



The shop is dimly lit and it smells musty. There aren't many customers; Harry's eyes dart to each and every one. The old woman carrying a wobbly stack of books. A young man shushing his unruly child. A young couple flirting by a magazine rack.



Harry frowns, but lets himself stop by the romance section. He stares blankly for a time. One romance is as good as the next, isn't it? People fall in love and live happily ever after, the end. Harry scratches the back of his head and chooses one with a red haired heroine on the cover.



There's also one with gay pirates. Harry glances around nervously then takes it from the shelf.



"Potter."



"Shit!" Harry exclaims. The books fall to the floor when he grabs his wand and spins around to face, of course, "Snape."



Embarrassing that Snape snuck up on him so easily, especially now that he's an Auror. Not to mention…Well, Snape's the one that came to him. Harry ducks his head to hide his grin and kneels down to grab the fallen books. Harry had only come here to get a gift for Ginny. Snape's the one who —



— who places his boot atop the pirate book, purring, "What have we here? Would your wife approve?"



Snape's boot.



Harry's not seen his feet, or his legs. Or his back. But he's seen his chest, and his cock. His cock, which is — his crotch is eye-level now and Harry wants…He wants.



Snape has only to twitch for Harry to reach out and grab his leg, to stop him from leaving. He looks up into Snape's wild eyes and says without thought, "She's not my wife yet."



It's the wrong thing to say, he knows. Harry cringes just as Snape sneers down at him. It's wrong, because it implies…It implies things, and Harry knows it does, and he doesn't mean…



Snape rips his leg out of Harry's grasp and Harry scrambles to his feet in time for Snape to advance on him. To back him down the aisle and right into the wall.



The sea of loathing that churns in Snape's eyes and leaks out of his every pore feels undying and unending. Harry thinks Snape has never hated him as much since this all began. Since graduation night, the start of eighth year. The hospital, the war, the book, the pensieve. Every step of the way, every moment of their history that led them to…



To whatever this is.



And Harry hates him, too. It's Snape's fault he's here.



Harry clenches his jaw and forces himself to meet Snape's furious eyes.



"Merlin knows your father toyed with others. Why wouldn't you be just the same?" Snape snarls. "Run along and play house with your mother. You can even play games with her heart, if you like. But you'll not play games with me, do you understand?"



"I'm not — !"



"Do. Not," Snape warns.



For a mad moment, Harry wants to kiss him. He clutches Snape's arms and looks at his mouth.



They're in public. People might see.



Not to mention Ginny. This will be easier once they're married. When he has his own ring to keep him grounded.



Harry shoves Snape away and marches past him. "You came to me," he hisses. It has the benefit of being partially true. He reaches to the floor and fumbles with both books. "I came to buy a gift for my future wife."



His pulse thuds out of control and his fingers don't stop trembling long after he leaves the shop.



How is he meant to never — ?



How is he meant to stay away from — ?



How is he supposed to go on as if — ? 



They gravitate towards each other, pulled together time and again, only to clash violently. They'll always hurt each other. It's fate.



A knife to the gut. Fire in the blood.



(Teeth in his skin. Fingers in his hair.)



Snape is a man obsessed. He'll never be able to let go of what James did to him. He'll never let go of Lily.



(Will he let go of Harry so easily? Hasn't Harry hurt him more, pleased him more, than either of them?)



Harry will never forgive him, either. How can he? Nothing Snape has done, and nothing he can do, will ever atone for those sins.



"Are you insane?" Ginny asks blankly.



Harry feels insane. He knew the question was wrong when he asked it, but it didn't stop him. "Ginny."



"You want to invite Snape to our wedding." She's confused, irritated. "Harry, you hate him."



"He's important," Harry says heatedly. He ducks his head to hide his blush and he rubs the back of his neck. "He's — Look, he's a hero. We wouldn't be here if not for him!"



"I know," Ginny says.



"He nearly died. He's awful, and terrible. Everyone hates him, and he hates everyone. Fine. I get that. But he's also…he's good. He's good! He sacrificed so much for us. For me."



Ginny sinks onto the couch beside him with a sigh and takes his hand.



"He was friends with my mum."



"I know," Ginny agrees unhappily. "I know. We'll invite him. Of course we will." She lightly pinches his side. "But if he makes fun of us I'll hex him."



Harry laughs. "Not if I hex him first."



The invitation could easily be sent by owl. Might be better received by owl than by hand. It is not worth examining why Harry feels the need to bring it himself, or why he goes alone.



He walks off his nerves and gathers his courage around a dilapidated park. Hope and fear, and guilt and wanting squirm like snakes in the pit of his stomach. Harry presses his hands over his belly and tilts his head up towards the cloudy sky.



This is no place for him. Not the gray skies or the gray houses or the dead, gray trees.



Still he marches on, towards Spinner's End, because there is no other place his feet will carry him. It's a relief, really, to give in. To trek wildly, eagerly across the cobbled road. To knock firmly, boldly on the front door.



And when the door opens to Snape's scowling face, Harry eagerly drinks in the sight of him.



"Potter," Snape says disdainfully. And, because it's always best to move before Snape gets properly going, Harry quickly slips past Snape and into the house.



"This is nice," Harry says as he looks around the sitting room. "Or, it suits you, anyway."



Dimly lit. Every inch of wall covered by books. A threadbare sofa. It reminds him of the dungeons. The glimpses of it he had when not absorbed by dark eyes and pale skin. Harry rubs the back of his neck as the door slams shut behind him.



"Forgive me. Did I forget inviting you for tea?"



The tone is sarcastic but Harry smiles. "Tea would be great, thanks."



Snape's fingers curl around his wand, but Harry does not flinch. "Why are you here?"



"Tea, remember?"



"Yes, very charming. What do you want?"



The truth nearly slips out, but Harry's made a life evading this truth. "This," Harry says, and plucks the envelope from his back pocket. It's a bit bent, and there's a small rip in the paper, but he doesn't think Snape will mind much. The envelope is plenty fancy still with its thick cream paper and gold embossment. Snape must know what it is because he eyes it warily and doesn't take it when Harry offers it. "It's an invitation. To my wedding."



Snape stares at the envelope. His lips thin and his nostrils flare. Harry's arm becomes sore, holding it aloft, but he doesn't lower it until Snape snatches the parchment from his hand. He's surprised when Snape opens it rather than ripping it to shreds.



Snape's fingers — long, graceful — caress the bent card as he reads it. "'Ginevra Molly Weasley to wed Harry James Potter on the second of June next year' — why wait, Potter? Witch Weekly's 'Couple of the Year' must be eager to start their happily ever after."



"You read Witch Weekly?" Harry asks. The magazine had pronounced them Couple of the Year shortly after their engagement. Harry can't imagine they'd be as eager to put Snape and himself on the cover. Snape's deep frown rather than Ginny's bright smile.



Snape ignores his question. "The Golden Boy has it all, does he not? The pretty, famous wife. The noble, prestigious career. Mountains of gold, accolades aplenty. The perfect, cookie-cutter life. Only the best for our savior."



The portrait Snape paints of his life makes Harry shift uncomfortably. His life is everything it should be, and yet…"I'm happy," Harry says and it's not a lie, but the words feel wrong in his mouth.



"Yet here you are." Snape crumples the invitation in his hand and steps forward. Harry straightens his spine.



"I want you there."



"How sweet." Snape throws the invitation to the floor and stops just out of reach. "Do all of your past lovers warrant such special treatment? Do they fall at your feet and thank you for the privilege of watching you pledge yourself to another?"



A twitch starts in Snape's left eye; his fingers curl into fists. The line of his body is ramrod straight, a steel cage for the wildness in his eyes, for every ragged breath he takes.



Harry closes the distance between them. "Does it bother you?"



A hand shoots out to clamp around his jaw. "Why. Are you. Here?"



Harry closes his eyes. Presses the ghost of a kiss to Snape's hand. Replies feebly, "Because I hate you."



The hand drops down to gently embrace his neck as warm breath puffs against his mouth. "The feeling is entirely mutual."



Then Snape kisses him. It's just as violent, just as urgent as last year. Snape digs one hand into Harry's hair, the other into his arse, and Harry groans into his mouth. Winds his arms around Snape's neck, hoists a leg over his hip. Clings to him.



It's been too long. Time apart has not dulled Harry's need.



And when Snape's mouth presses to his ear, when he purrs, "I want to be inside of you," all Harry can do is nod eagerly. This is, after all, why he came.



It's not very good.



He doesn't want it to be.



His back slammed into a bookshelf. Books falling to the floor. His shirt ripped off of his head, his spectacles dragged with them. Snape's figure is blurry without them, and Harry laments not being able to see him. His jeans, his trainers, are yanked off next.



Snape kneels on the floor to suck and bite angry marks into Harry's thighs, his stomach. His fingers paint bruises into his ribs, his arse.



It hurts. Harry digs his fingers into the shelves behind him. Into Snape's oily hair. Into his own mouth when Snape licks hotly up his cock. The gentle scrape of teeth beneath the sensitive head shouldn't feel good, but it maybe…Harry bangs his head back into the shelves. It hurts.



Good.



He wants it to hurt.



And when Snape drags him to the sofa, Harry doesn't tell him he's the first. Harry presses his mouth into his arm and breathes raggedly through his nose as Snape pries his legs apart. When he prods into Harry's body with cold, slick fingers.



Harry's teeth sink into his skin when Snape's cock shoves inside, too big, too fast. Snape is still fully clothed behind him, above him, and his robes are rough against Harry's skin. And his belt slaps against him whenever his hips pump forward.



It's inelegant. Awkward. One of Harry's legs slides off of the couch. Snape doesn't pause to let him fix it. He shifts his grip on Harry's hips and hauls him back onto his cock. Harry tries to press his foot against the floor, to get some sort of leverage, but he can't quite manage. His leg dangles off of the couch, and the cushion is scratchy against his other knee. Scratchy against his aching cock.



Snape fucks into him brutally, and his cock nudges all of the wrong places. And Harry's so hard, why is he still so hard?



(Snape's inside of him. Finally. They're connected. He's deep, he's so deep. Harry is filled to the brim with him.)



Snape grunts like a pig when he comes. Heat tingles down Harry's spine. Snape collapses on his back. Wraps slick fingers around his prick, and Harry's so close to the edge, it doesn't take much. One pump, two. Snape panting in his ear. Harry bites his lip to keep Snape's name inside.



He's bare enough as it is.



And for a moment, the world is right. All of the pieces click into place. The tangle of their limbs, the rash on his knees, the sweat and the come. He's sore and sticky and finally, finally satisfied.



Snape's arms are around him. He's warm and he's safe. Harry closes his eyes and he breathes. They're together. This is it. It's you.



"Get out," Snape murmurs and Harry winces when Snape pulls out of him. Harry scrambles to sit up, dizzy and confused. The black blur strides across the room.



"Wait — Snape!"



"Get out!"



A door slams shut. The sound of it echoes in Harry's bones, and he aches.



It takes time fumbling around the living room half blind for him to gather his clothes and dress himself. With his spectacles back in place, he looks around the sitting room. He doesn't know where Snape went, but he knows he's nearby.



Harry wanted it to hurt, but not like this.



He leaves.



It wasn't very good. Harry didn't want it to be.



Sitting on a wooden chair at dinner is more painful than he expected. Harry doesn't take a potion for it. He turns his grimace into a smile for his fiancée as he asks about her day. When Ginny asks how his visit went, he says it was fine and that they had tea. When she asks if Snape's coming, Harry remembers Snape grunting and he says yes.



It wasn't any good. It wasn't.



After dinner, they cuddle on the couch. Harry takes Ginny into his arms and he kisses her. Long, slow kisses. Tracing the shape of her lips with his tongue. Tasting the sugary sweetness of her dessert. He runs his fingers through her soft hair. And he kisses her, and kisses her, and he searches and searches, and he waits to feel magic that never comes. 



It was supposed to help.



He shouldn't still want so much.



August turns to September. After raiding a Knockturn Alley brothel, Harry spots an apothecary bearing Snape's name and he darts inside. Ron lingers impatiently in the doorway while Harry leans over the counter to ask Snape when this happened, why he left teaching.



"None of your business," Snape says irritably, but then, quietly, "There was nothing left for me there."



Harry ducks his head to hide his smile and when he peeks back up, Snape is watching him. The look in his eyes steals Harry's breath and it's good that Ron shouts, "Harry!" to hurry him along.



He might have made a mistake.



"You and your Snape obsession," Ron grumbles when Harry joins him. "Should we go stalk Malfoy now, too?"



Harry laughs uncomfortably and elbows him. "Leave off."



(Harry returns that night before the apothecary closes. His Auror robes are rucked up over his hips and Snape bends him over near the till to fuck him.)



(Harry returns home with a new skin balm for Ginny and she smiles in thanks.)



Life goes on. Harry dedicates himself to work. All of the rogue Death Eaters are caught by November. The Daily Prophet sings his praises, though Harry swears it was a team effort. He stays late to catch up on paperwork, and sometimes Ginny drops by with dinner and eats with him in his office. Ron teases him for being a workaholic, but Ginny encourages it. She's just as dedicated to the Harpies, staying late at practice and coming home sore.



Harry often brings home new ointments and potions to soothe her.



He attends her games, when he can. And when he can't, he sends her flowers. Daisies or tulips or peonies. When she comes home, he rubs her feet and fixes her dinner.



At night, in their bed, he makes love to her. Night after night, laying her out and admiring her beauty. Her fair freckled skin, smooth to the touch. Her Quidditch-toned thighs. Her pretty pink lips. Harry explores her head to toe, and while Ginny sighs in pleasure, Harry is still searching.



Any man would be lucky to share her bed. Harry holds her in his arms, after, and wonders what's wrong with him.



His interludes with Severus are bright, hot fever dreams.



He stops by the apothecary after work some days. He picks up muscle relaxers for Ginny, and his-and-hers lubricants. He picks up migraine potions, hair potions, skin creams. Bruise paste.



Some evenings they steal kisses in the supply closet. Other nights Severus ruts between Harry’s thighs, or against his cock.



It's only physical. A fetish for ugly old men that Harry needs to fuck out of his system before the wedding.



And when it isn't the apothecary, it's Spinner's End.



Severus invites him over for tea, which they share on the sofa. Harry slips off his shoes and presses his feet into Severus' lap. He rubs Severus to hardness with his foot while Severus pretends to ignore him. Severus reads his book, clutched tightly in both hands, and he can't quite help the way his hips flex up into Harry's touch. Harry smiles into his teacup and traces the shape of Severus with his toes.



When Severus is fully hard and his knuckles are white, Harry kneels on the sofa cushion and pulls Severus' cock out of his trousers. Harry loosens his own to take himself in hand as he sucks Severus into his mouth.



Damn him, but he has a gorgeous cock. It's the only bit of him anyone would find pleasant. Long, and thick. A nice hefty weight for Harry's palm, or his tongue. And it overwhelms him so sweetly when it fills his arse or, as in now, his throat.



All the better when Severus' hand slips into Harry's trousers, stroking and groping his arse while he sucks. Harry groans around Severus' cock. He pulls his hand free to give Severus more room to touch him. He cradles Severus' balls in his palm as Severus' fingers find his crease. His tongue presses into Severus' slit, as Severus' fingers rub against his hole.



It's bliss.



When Severus comes, it's with one hand digging bruises into Harry's arse and the other in Harry's hair, holding him down. Harry greedily swallows every bit of Severus' release that he can, and licks his lips afterwards for any spillage.



He rests his head against Severus' softening cock as Severus moves his hand down to stroke Harry off. And when he's done, he wipes his hand on Harry's shirt like the arse that he is, but he strokes Harry's hair with his clean hand, and Harry is content.



It's not real life, his time with Severus. Not really. It's a fantasy, a nightmare. A break from real life. An escape, an indulgence.



It's nothing real.



It can't be.



What's real, is this:



Ginny's hand in his when they're grocery shopping. The taste of butterbeer on his tongue when he's out with friends. The wind in his hair when he's flying with Ginny or Ron or Cho. The ache in his ribs from laughing too hard at game night.



The days fly by. Leaves fall, then snow. The smell of ozone and petrichor in the air as red-purple-white-blue-yellow spellfire sparks through the air. The thrill of arresting Dark artifacts dealers, and the mind-numbing mundanity of paperwork and meetings.



The warmth of love in Molly's hugs and Teddy's laughter. In Hermione's voice when she tells him to get home safely. In Ron's hand clasping his shoulder and squeezing after a long day. In the way Ginny curls towards him when he crawls into bed, long after she's asleep.



This is life, and it's playing out like a movie, and Harry knows his role. It only feels so strange, so ill-fitting, because it's new. He'll grow into it one day, when the nightmares stop and the confusion fades away.



This is what Harry was made for.



Harry was made for this, the way his body stretches open around Severus' cock. The way Severus shifts, not content until he's crammed every last millimeter of himself into Harry's body. The feel of soft balls and coarse pubic hair pressed against his arse. A soft belly resting against his back. A strong arm wrapped around his middle. Two fingers stuffed into his mouth. A mouth latched onto his shoulder, his neck.



Severus' hands are not kind, but they are secure where they hold him. Worshipful where they stroke down his chest, his neck, his thighs.



Severus consumes him with every look, every touch. And Harry consumes him in turn, sucking on his fingers and rocking back onto his cock. He moans shamelessly.



When he comes, it is untouched, only the grinding against his prostate to carry him through. Saliva slick fingers pull free from his mouth to twist his head, so that Severus can kiss him; can swallow every pleasured sob.



And when it's done, Harry falls lax to the mattress and closes his eyes and luxuriates in the feel of Severus taking his pleasure.



Nothing in his life has ever felt like this.



It's so…



He doesn't want it to…



A quiet grunt from Severus when he comes. When he pulls out, he stretches out beside Harry and runs a proprietary hand down his side. Had Harry the energy, he would snuggle up, and instead he wiggles to express his desire to be nearer. Severus obediently draws Harry into his arms. Harry hums happily and nuzzles into his sweaty, hairy chest.



It's…Well, it should be disgusting, except that it's not.



Harry lays a tentative kiss to the dip in Severus' chest, but it's a tenderness too much, for Severus turns stiff. Unyielding. Harry ducks his head down so that he doesn't have to watch as Severus pulls away from him.



"You've dallied long enough." Severus slips out of bed and crosses the room. "It won't do for your betrothed to suspect."



Harry sits up and watches the sharp, pale lines of him move to the wardrobe for a tattered gray dressing gown. He can't see very clearly, but he tries to sear the image into his mind. This vulture of a man who is more enemy than lover.



"Careful, Sev. You almost sound jealous." Harry flaps around for his spectacles on the side table and jams them on. They nearly fall off again when he pulls his shirt over his head. He can't stand to be naked when Severus acts this way. He leans over the edge of the bed to grab his underwear, and he feels Severus' release sliding out, down his thigh.



His face flames. He angrily stuffs his legs into the underwear.



"Jealous," Severus echoes dangerously. "Of what? The Boy Who Continues to Live For Everyone Else?"



"I'm not — What are you — ?" But Harry knows, and he doesn't want to hear it. Severus opens his mouth, so Harry quickly interjects, "Ginny. You're jealous of Ginny."



Severus latches onto the new subject in stride. "Ah, yes, Miss Weasley. It's every young girl's dream to marry for fame and fortune. Fidelity is a fair trade off for those things, is it not?"



Harry winces, but ignores the reference to his — to what they're doing. "She's not like that, Snape. She loves me."



"And this is how you repay her love?" Severus is ruthless, relentless. Harry clenches his jaw and yanks on his jeans. Stuffs his feet into his trainers. "By crawling from bed to bed. Glutting yourself on a slew of lovers to fill the void she cannot?" Harry grabs his wand and marches for the door, but Severus stands in his way and grabs his jaw. Forces Harry to meet his eyes. "A great love story, is it not?" Severus mocks. "The gold digging whore and the cock hungry slut live happily ever after."



Harry grabs Severus' wrist and pries his hand away. "What do you know about happiness? What do you know about love?"



Dark eyes flash. "You presume — "



"You were obsessed with my mother!" Harry accuses. "You're bitter she married my dad, just like you're bitter I'm marrying Ginny."



"I never wanted your mother, you stupid boy. And if I thought her a fool for marrying your father, at least your father would never have betrayed her this way."



The air freezes in Harry's lungs. The sight of Severus' gleeful eyes becomes blurred behind hot tears. "Fuck you," Harry whispers.



Harry storms out of Spinner's End, but not before casting a well-placed Bat-Bogey Hex on Snape. It might not be much, but it at least distracts Severus from Harry scrubbing a sleeve over his wet face.



What's real is this:



The shame that churns like acid in his gut.



The guilt that gnaws along the edges of his mind, and the core of his conscience.



The unbearable longing that drills deeper and deeper into his heart.



And life goes on.



Another Christmas. Another jumper. Another family photo.



Another New Year. Another kiss. Another flute of champagne.



Double dates with Hermione and Cho. Friday night drinks with Ron (and catching him with his hand down Malfoy's pants in the loo.) Gossip with Ginny over dinner, and wedding plans after.



(Is this life? Is this really all there is?)



Another Valentine's Day. Another bouquet of roses. Another box of chocolates.



(A bouquet of white gardenias sent to Spinner's End. An invitation to tea. The flowers fall over when Severus fucks him on the table.)



Another weekend at the Burrow. They bring Teddy with them. Ginny watches Teddy on his toy broom while Harry bakes biscuits with Molly. Molly tells him what good parents they'll be, and she hugs him when he cries.



(Life isn't drifting along, so much as it's spinning out of control.)



Another nightmare. No demon red eyes or bright green spellfire, but inky blackness. And coldness. And a cramping stomach.



Ginny wakes him with gentle touches and gentler kisses. Her gentleness only agitates him. He bites his cheek until it bleeds to keep from lashing out. And he pretends that her touch soothes him, though it doesn't.



Another day on the job. Another raid. Another injury.



Ron has it worse. Neville and Harry bring him to St. Mungo's. Harry would stay, but Ron makes eyes at Malfoy, healer-in-training, so Harry heads back to Knockturn Alley. A crowd is still gathered outside Borgin and Burke's, but no one sees him slip into the apothecary.



Severus locks the door and gathers Harry into his arms, and frowns when Harry hisses in pain.



"You were at St. Mungo's and didn't mention this to anyone?" Severus asks dryly after Harry explains.



Harry shrugs and peeks down at the angry red burn trailing from ribs to hip. "I was more worried about Ron, really."



Severus mutters under his breath, but he leads Harry to a back room and tells him to lay on the sofa. Harry removes his shirt and loosens his trousers. Severus kneels down beside him with a jar of muddy green paste that he applies to the area with brusque motions.



A soft sigh escapes him and his body loosens. He hadn't realized how bad the pain was until it's soothed. He doesn't realize, either, that he's smiling, until he catches Severus' eye.



Severus snorts when Harry's smile broadens. "This is what you want from life? Eradicating evil until it puts you in the grave?"



"Careful, Severus. I'd almost think you care," Harry teases. They're too similar to words he's said before, and his smile fades when he remembers.



Severus wipes the paste from his fingers on a towel and he tugs down Harry's shirt. "You're a convenient place to put my cock," he retorts nastily. "I'd hate to look for another."



He doesn't mean it. Harry knows he doesn't. But it still hurts. Harry scoffs and shoves him away to button up his trousers. Severus will never stop being an arse. It shouldn't surprise him. It doesn't, really. But he's agitated all the same.



Regret oozes out of Severus' every pore as he stills Harry with a hand to his chest. But the apology is everywhere except his lips, so Harry squares his shoulders and leaves him kneeling there.



It's no wonder Harry hates him, really. A few sparkling qualities don't make up for the sharp edges.



It's no wonder Harry wants nothing to do with him.



He'll have to go back for his Auror robe, of course, but after…



After…



(Careful, Harry. You'd almost think you care.)



There won't be an after, Harry tells himself. Ginny is his happy ending, not Snape. And by June he'll have a ring on his finger and that…



(Will that stop him? Can anything stop him?)



It isn't fair to Ginny. She doesn't deserve a faithless husband. Or a faithless fiancé, for that matter.



And faithless with Snape of all people.



(What is the worst part, he wonders? What he's doing, or who he's doing it with?)



How would Ginny react if she knew? The other Weasleys? Hermione and Cho? The press?



His parents, wherever they are, what must they think of him?



James would never have done this to Lily. Severus was right on that score.



He'd never have wanted to.



"Harry, are you alright?"



Hermione's voice pulls Harry back to the present. To Number Twelve's back garden where he hovers on his broom. Merlin knows how long he's been out here, staring up at the stars and seeing none of them, lost as he is in thoughts of Severus.



"Yeah. Of course." The words slip out without thought, without feeling. Harry knows his lines by now. He even smiles, but this only causes Hermione's frown to deepen.



The door closes, blocking out the light and the laughter, and Hermione walks out into the night to meet him. Harry lands his broom and they sit in the grass together. Hermione lays her head on his shoulder and quietly tells him words he doesn't want to hear.



"It's alright if you're not."



(He has to be alright. The war is over. Life is good.)



"No one is, really."



Harry laughs bitterly and shakes his head. It's unfair to weigh his troubles above others, but…She doesn't understand. No one does. They don't dream of cupboards and Killing Curses. They didn't save the world and live to hurt everyone they love.



He's supposed to be the hero.



He's supposed to be good.



There is too much to say and the weight of the words clogs his throat.



"But we love you, Harry. We'll always be here for you."



(He doesn't deserve their love or their loyalty, does he?)



Harry ducks his head and blinks back the tears as Hermione takes his hand and gives it a squeeze.



"And when you're ready to talk, I'll listen. Alright?"



Back inside Number Twelve, Harry pulls Ginny close and kisses her head. Cho coos about what a sweet couple they are and Ginny raves about how lucky she is. Harry wants to scream, but Malfoy mimes barfing and — that's good. The scream comes out as a laugh instead.



And he doesn't think much about the worried looks Ron and Hermione exchange.



There's nothing to worry about.



Nothing to worry about.



Nothing to talk about.



(How is he meant to talk about any of this to anyone?)



(How is he meant to ask for guidance in being charmed by Ginny's freckles? Harry traces the constellations on her back and longs for the rough patches and lines of Snape's.)



(Who is he supposed to turn to? Legions of fans know how to be enchanted by Ginny's smile. But it's only Snape's dark eyes and graceful fingers that have ever stolen his breath.)



"She's gorgeous," Zabini mutters to Malfoy at a charity event. "Wasted on Potter."



Malfoy laughs, and — (she is, she is.)



Ginny's radiant in form-fitting robes of midnight blue. Her mother fusses at her for the low neckline, and Ginny reminds her that she's an adult, and — Harry breaks away to the balcony to breathe, breathe, breathe.



(She deserves better, doesn't she? But all she wants is the hero.)



"Can't believe Snape's going to the wedding, mate," Neville mutters over their fifth (sixth?) round of beers at the Leaky. He's slumped over the table beside Dean. Harry's slumped in the booth across from him, half leaning on Ron.



"They'll release bats instead of doves," sniggers Dean.



The peace of his drink is disturbed by the mention, and Harry's hands fidget beneath the table. He wants to escape the booth until he remembers he's trapped by the wall. Harry knocks his head against it. Hard.



"Hey, hey," Ron scolds in jest. "That bat's Harry's mate now. Best mate Snape. Snape the mate."



He laughs. They all laugh. Harry bangs his head again.



"He's a good man," Harry sighs.



And they laugh and they laugh and they laugh.



(Severus deserves better than this, doesn't he? But all he wants is Harry.)



"You should talk to someone, Harry. A professional, I mean," Hermione suggests over dinner and Harry walks out without finishing his food. Leaves without a word. Ginny chases him down and links her arm through his and distracts him with gossip about her brothers.



(His heart won't stop racing and his head won't stop spinning and he can't, he can't, he can't.)



"Take some time, Potter," Robards barks at him.



Harry jumps at his desk. A jar of ink is caught on his elbow and crashes to the floor. Red ink spills everywhere. (Blood, all over his hands. All over Severus' neck.)



Robards grips Harry's shoulder firmly, but his voice is gentle when he says, "Breathe, son. And go home. I don't want to see you until next Monday."



(What is he supposed to do with all of that time? He can't escape…he can't get away from…as it is. He'll go mad without work.)



(He's going mad at work.)



"Are you sure you don't want me to cancel?" Ginny asks.



Harry's laying in bed beside Ginny's suitcase, propped up on one elbow. Ginny stands in the middle of their bedroom with her wand, directing the flow of clothes and toiletries into the waiting bag.



"My world doesn't revolve around you, Ginny," Harry says. He meant to sound teasing, but it comes out rudely instead.



Ginny plants her hands on her hips. "Don't be an arse, Harry. I'm worried about you."



"Everyone's so worried," Harry huffs and he flops onto his back.



The bed dips beside him and Ginny runs her fingers through his hair and gives it a playful tug. "Everyone loves you. Of course we're worried." Her fingers stroke soothingly through his hair now. Harry sighs and snuggles up against her hip.



"Don't be. Your world doesn't revolve around me, either," he tells her. He reaches blindly for her other hand and squeezes. Runs his thumb over her ring. "You go and have a fun weekend with the girls. Don't let Hermione and Cho buy more books than they can fit in their house. Don't let Luna get lost looking for moon frogs. And definitely don't let Astoria drunk Floo Blaise again."



"So you want me to babysit my friends instead of you?"



"Yes, please."



Ginny snorts and shifts around to worm her way into his arms. The suitcase falls off of the bed, and so does her wand, but Ginny makes no move to retrieve either of them.



"I'll be fine, Gin. I saved the world, didn't I? I can do anything."



Ginny leaves for Madrid bright and early Friday morning. Harry fixes her breakfast and bids her goodbye with a kiss.



It's easier than it's been in ages to play the doting partner. Butterflies swarm in his belly when she departs. And Ginny doesn't have to know that his smile isn't for her.



The moment she's gone, he runs to the bedroom and packs his own bag in under five minutes. With it, he Apparates to the familiar copse of trees just outside of Spinner's End.



It feels like flying, the way he jogs down the street, even with the awkward bumping of the bag against his hip. The stench of the river isn't so bad, either, because it's the first gulp of air he's had in ages. The dreary houses might well be sunlight, for the warmth they bring to his chest. Close, he's so close…



He bangs on the door. His heart bangs in his chest.



The door doesn't swing open immediately, so Harry's nails dig into the wood. One, two, three. One, two, three. He owled days ago. He didn't say that he was coming. He only said that Ginny was leaving. But Severus knows — one, two, three. One, two, three.



He's waiting. Of course he's waiting. Of course he wants Harry here, but of course he means to torment him first. (He does want him here, doesn't he? He is home? It's been weeks without him, and Harry can't stand it if —)



The door flings open (finally) and Severus looks awful as ever. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Deep lines around his mouth, between his brows.



Harry's spirits lift. (They shouldn't. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't belong here.)



Severus steps away, but the door remains open, so Harry steps inside and drops his bag to the floor. Severus stops pacing with a sharp turn to look at the bag. "A tad presumptuous, Potter. Yet I am not surprised."



It's easier to push people away than to let them hurt you. Even if Harry understands, he won't be able to stay if Severus ruins this. So he says, "Severus."



The sound of his name is enough. Severus crosses the room and shoves Harry's back to the door. "I despise you."



"Yeah? Me, too."



How can Harry not despise him? It's been ages since he's been in Severus' arms, and the moment he is, he — it's — damn him, but it's wrong how right it feels. Like all of his broken pieces have been gathered up and stored in a box for safekeeping.



Severus crushes him against the door and takes him there. Harry's jeans and trainers join his bag. Severus slicks him with a spell and sinks inside with little more preparation than that. Harry's socked feet cross behind Severus' back. His fingers dig into Severus' robes. It's awkward and unwieldy, but Severus cages him in and fills him up and —




Thank Merlin.




Finally.



When they finish, Harry lays on the sofa in only his shirt and socks while Severus fixes them tea. Severus calls him a lazy sod, and snaps at him that he's leaking all over the sofa. Harry's too blissed out to be embarrassed and tells him to clean it with a spell.



Severus sniffs. "Am I meant to suffer such cheek all weekend?"



"You can suffer any cheek you like this weekend."



The apothecary is left in the questionable hands of a new shop assistant. Severus grumbles about Flint being a dunderhead, and Harry sniggers in agreement.



Business is doing well, and now that Severus can afford help, he has time to study and experiment more. Severus delights in explaining theories that are over Harry's head. Harry delights in the knowledge that Severus is spending time with him rather than his potions.



In turn, Harry shares his own work troubles. Dissatisfaction with politics and the press. The monotony of paperwork. The unsettlement around cases. Some of it Harry knew, but some of it he doesn't realize until he talks about it.



Severus snorts. "You've fought enough in your life, Potter. That you would elect to continue the 'good fight' speaks only to an inability to live on your own terms, rather than the world's whims."



"Don't," Harry warns irritably.



Harry has fought plenty enough. And he's tired, he is. Fighting criminals is easier than fighting…well…the rest.



He pushes up his spectacles to rub his eyes. Severus watches him. "I'm on leave now, too. Robards kicked me out because I've been so distracted. He caught me daydreaming at my desk and sent me home." Realizing what he's opened himself up to, he hastens to add, "Don't say anything mean. Please?"



"Shall I say nothing then?"



Difficult. Why is he always so difficult?



Harry stretches his legs out and wiggles his toes. This is meant to be an escape. A little holiday from real life. He rolls onto his side to peer at Severus in his armchair. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd call Severus' expression sulky.



Charmed as he is, Harry teases, "It's your fault. I was thinking of you."



Mistake.



Harry drops his eyes to watch his nail as it scratches at the cushion. Severus stares at him. Harry can feel it. He doesn't know what it means. The air between them is tense, heavy. Harry wants to take the words back. Wracks his mind for additions that will smooth out his blunder.




Thinking of how much I hate you. How ugly you are. How mean. How awful. Thinking of the terrible things you said.




Thinking of your eyes. Your lips. Your arms. Blood and memories. The doe. Your heartbeat. The smell of your skin. The sound of your voice.



Severus sinks to his knees beside the sofa as he pulls out of Harry's mind and Harry sputters, outraged, "Severus, you can't — !" Severus' lips briefly interrupt him, but Harry shoves him away. "Don't use Legilimency on me. I'm an Auror, you can't — "



"Spread your legs," Severus says gruffly.



His legs fall open of their own accord, even as Harry says, "I mean it."



"Take off your shirt."



Harry curses under his breath, but obeys here, too. He wears only his socks and feels rather silly until Severus' fingers press inside of him. Still wet and open, his body accepts the intrusion easily, and his cock soon stirs with interest despite his soreness.



No inch of Harry is neglected, inside or out. Fingers probe and curl inside. Nails up his thighs, knuckles along his ribs. Tongue in his mouth, his ear, his navel. Palm cradles balls; then fingers grasp cock. Severus' touch is as ceaseless as his need.



However greedy his hands, his eyes are worse. They follow the flex of Harry's hips, the curl of his toes. They bore into his face, drinking every shift in expression. Harry could fuck Ginny in the middle of a pitch and not feel half as exposed.



"Sev — !"



Harry has a nap once Severus gets him off. He wakes on the sofa, curled beneath a thin blanket. Harry smiles and huddles deeper into the cushions. Severus huffs nearby, but Harry ignores him. He's not felt so warm or content since —



Well. He can't remember.



The strange peace holds throughout the day.



They share sandwiches for lunch, and a shower after. Severus pays special attention to washing Harry's bum, but it's the way he grumbles when toweling Harry's hair dry that does him in. Harry laughs and grabs Severus' hands and pulls him to bed. It's midafternoon, and Harry hopes the neighbors don't hear the creak of the bedsprings or the banging of the headboard when he rides Severus' cock.



(Or the moaning or screaming, for that matter.)



Sandwiches again for dinner. They sit in the living room after, Severus with a book in his armchair and Harry with a puzzle on the floor. Now and then one will look at the other. Looking, and wondering, and hoping.



Looking away quickly when caught.



It's nice. Weird, but nice.



Going to bed with Severus — to actually sleep — is Harry's favorite part. It's a bit awkward because they haven't discussed it, but Severus doesn't dissuade Harry from following him. The bed is lumpy and creaky and small. Severus is too bony to be a comfortable bedmate.



Harry latches onto him all the same.



Severus mutters a curse into Harry's hair, but after a moment he winds his arms tightly around him. 



Sleep finds him swiftly and, when he wakes, Harry doesn't dare open his eyes. Severus has only ever been a dream and Harry can't — he can't, it's too close to perfect and he can't — he can't if —



A loud snore snaps Harry out of it. A shocked giggle escapes him. Harry lifts his head from Severus' shoulder and squints up at his face. He can make out the nose, and the vague impression of his mouth hanging open. Severus sucks in a few rattling breaths, then another ragged snore. Harry snuggles back down and presses a gleeful grin into Severus' chest.



(It might not be a dream, but that doesn't make it real.)



When he wakes, Severus peels off Harry's clothes to kiss every mark he left. They don't have to be healed just yet. The silly smile won't leave Harry's face, and Severus kisses that, too.



Then Severus flips him over. Rubs and squeezes his arse. Pries his cheeks apart to kiss (and lick, and suck) him there, too.



Harry touches every mark as he dresses. Light summer clothes won't hide the bruise on his neck. It earns him looks when he walks to a nearby shop, but no one comments. Harry is both pleased and embarrassed by the attention.



Muggles don't know Harry Potter. They gape at his hickey, not his scar. No one will run to the press. Harry feels lighter than air as he carries his two bags of groceries back to Spinner's End.



The bags are deposited on the kitchen counter, and he digs out only what he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs and sausages and toast. Harry hums a tune as he cooks. A song he can't name, but remembers from the wireless.



"I've no need for charity, you realize."



Harry nearly drops his spatula when he jumps to see Severus behind him, peering distastefully into the shopping bags.



The bright bubble of sunshine in his chest has a hole in it, somewhere. Unease leaks out of it, spreading down into his belly.



"Not charity," Harry says lightly. "But I want more than sandwiches, and I thought I'd share."



There is more Severus can say, but he chews on the words and swallows them bitterly. It's good. He's trying. Harry smiles, but Severus doesn't look at him. He starts the kettle for tea.



Silence.



The tension doesn't dissipate, though they choose to ignore it. Severus vents his frustrations by fucking Harry on the counter. They venture out into the woods afterwards to forage for ingredients, and they stop by a pond to fish. Severus sucks him off behind a tree, and Harry naps in the grass after. Severus wakes him with a handful of water to the face.



They have a late lunch at a local diner. The waitress comments that she didn't know Severus had a boy of his own. Severus scowls out of the window and chews on his words again. Harry laughs awkwardly and says, "No, we're — he's not my — we're just — "



The old woman's eyes grow round. Rounder still when she sees the bruise on Harry's neck that Harry's hand covers too late.



"My mistake," she murmurs and scurries off.



It's worse when they leave. Severus storms off in a huff and the waitress pulls Harry aside. She tells him Mr. Brumley is hiring at his law office, and the pay there isn't half bad. He doesn't have to — Harry blushes furiously.



"She thought I was a prostitute!" Harry rants on the walk back to Spinner's End.



"Of course she did," Severus says waspishly.



"What's that supposed to mean?"



Severus glares hatefully at him. "Why else would a boy like you be in a bed like mine?"



It's a good question. Harry wishes he could answer it.



Nothing Harry says can fix this. But after they unload their haul, Harry pushes Severus into his armchair and crawls into his lap. Severus snarls and glowers, but the tension leaves his body as Harry kisses him. As his fingers glide through oily hair, and he caresses Severus' face and neck. And he doesn't stop kissing until his lips are sore.



Then he nuzzles into Severus' neck, and Severus holds him, and the world is still.



For dinner Harry makes fish pie, with apple loaf for dessert. "A shame you showed no such proficiency in Potions," Severus remarks dryly and Harry grins at the compliment, however backhanded it is. 



Harry cleans up after while Severus spreads out his books and his notes across the dining table. Harry turns on the wireless and sings offkey to the Weird Sisters and Succubus and Celestina Warbeck. Songs of moonlit seductions, secret love, deep magic. Harry dances with the broom as his heart dances a jig of its own.



Severus mocks his singing and his dancing. Tells him to stick to his talents. Harry sticks out his tongue and sings louder. Severus calls him a nuisance.



He feels the magic they sing of sparking in his veins. Goosebumps dance along his skin to the thrumming of his heart.



It's alive in the darkness of Severus' eyes. In the way Severus' fingers embrace his quill. The way the feather strokes across his lips. The sharp motion when he turns a page. The curve of his spine. The way he peers at Harry through the curtain of his hair.



If Harry didn't know any better, he might call him beautiful.



"Severus?" He drops the broom to the floor.



"Harry."



"Take me to bed."



They make love face to face. Severus mouths at the bruise on Harry's neck as Harry grasps his flat arse to urge him deeper. Severus strokes Harry's nose with his own, and looks into his eyes. And that's too close, too deep, too much — tears blur Harry's vision when he comes. Severus whispers his name when he follows.



They lay side by side in the afterglow. Severus lifts Harry's hand. He kisses each fingertip, the palm of his hand, his wrist. Up to his elbow, which he tongues sensually, and that — is more sensitive than Harry thought it would be. Up to his armpit and Harry jerks in surprise at the touch of his tongue. It's ticklish and strange and — good? It's good when Severus strokes his tongue through the sweat and the hair. Good when he nuzzles there and breathes deeply.



It's strangely intimate.



Too much. Too close.



Harry shoves Severus away, scoots himself back, but —



He can't stay away. He rolls towards him instead. He kisses Severus upside down, then crawls down his body. He traces fingers and tongue across nipples and scars. He dips his tongue into Severus' navel and Severus noses along his soft cock, his balls. Harry sucks a mark of his own into Severus' thigh, and gets a hair stuck between his teeth. He plucks it out and continues on.



He tilts his head to slide his tongue beneath Severus' knee. Down to his ankle, which Harry traces with his lips. He sighs when Severus kneads his arse. Down to kiss Severus' foot; long, pale, elegant, smooth. Harry sucks a toe into his mouth as Severus' thumb dips into his body.



Not enough. Never enough.



How is he supposed to walk away from this?



How can he live the rest of his life without — ?



Harry's head rests on Severus' chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His even breathing. And Harry dares to whisper aloud, "What kind of life would we even have together?"



He thought Severus was asleep, but Severus' arms tighten around him and he presses a long kiss to his head. Harry closes his eyes miserably and wills himself to sleep.



When he wakes, he is alone. The rumpled sheets beside him are cool when he reaches out to touch them.



His clothes and his bag are gone from the bedroom. He shuffles downstairs naked to the silent stillness of the sitting room. His bag is packed and waiting on the sofa.



If Severus were here, Harry would pick it up and bash his head with it.



Instead, he digs out a set of clean clothes and dresses, then he curls up in Severus' armchair to wait. He has tea and toast for breakfast. He reads through the Daily Prophet and fills in the crossword. He flips through an alchemy book that is way over his head.



Severus wants him to leave without confrontation. Harry knows this. He should gladly take the offer, except —



Well.



He isn't ready to leave just yet.



This weekend hasn't been perfect, and there's little point in lingering here. Ginny will be home this evening.



Ginny…



Damn it.



Harry rubs his face and curls deeper into the chair.



(How is he supposed to walk away? He can't, he can't.)



"You're still here."



A hidden doorway among the bookshelves opens to admit Severus. Harry scrambles to his feet and trips, and just barely regains balance. He flushes beneath Severus' cool stare.



"Yeah, of course, I — " Harry begins. But what can he say? I couldn't leave. I had to see you.



"You what? Have some further use for me?" Severus asks. "Shall I bend you over the sofa this time, or will the wall suffice?"



Warmth floods his cheeks and his eyes fall away. It's crude and unfair, but — "That's not..."



"No? Ah, I see. It's coin you're after." To Harry's horror, Severus pulls a money bag out of his pocket. "How much is a weekend with the Chosen One worth?" His eyes glimmer maliciously as he digs through the coins. "No more than ten Galleons, surely?"



He's hurt. He's scared. He's pushing Harry away.



(Or is he? He's been a bastard all along. It's easy to show his true colors now that he's had his fun.)



(And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.)



Harry manages a laugh. "Lashing out because you're upset I'm leaving. That's a bit pathetic, isn't it?"



Fury and humiliation blaze to life in the straightening of Severus' shoulders and the flare of his nostrils. The tic in his jaw, the twitch of his half mad eyes. Severus stalks forward and Harry scrambles back.



"Pathetic, am I?"



"A bit, yeah." Harry's legs bump into the armchair and he remembers himself. He digs in his heels and meets Severus head on. The thrill of the fight boils in his blood.



"Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it was pathetic to take what was so wantonly offered." His knuckles brush Harry's cheek in a mockery of affection. "But less pathetic, I think, than the boy who spreads his legs the moment his bride turns her back."



Harry knocks his arm away and tries to walk past him, but Severus grabs his elbow and yanks him close again.



"Let me go." Harry pulls out his wand. The tip digs into Severus' sternum, but he doesn't flinch.



"Pathetic is marrying a redheaded spitfire because of your mummy issues, and bending over for a man twice your age because of your daddy issues."



"Stop."



He doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't, he doesn't (he can't.)



He doesn't realize he's shaking his head until Severus grabs his jaw.



"Pathetic is donning your badge and your title and wasting yourself on a hero's life. You're not even trying," Severus spits, "to find yourself. You'd rather be what they expect. Because it's easy, isn't that right?"



"You're wrong," Harry whispers. "I'm doing it because it's right. They need me."



"Yes, Harry Potter is the paragon of all that is right and good and just." Harry tries to shove him away, but Severus takes his shoulders and shakes him. "Only you're not so golden, are you, Harry? Golden boys don't slink in the shadows, stealing warmth and affection from whoever offers it.



"Does your bride see how tarnished your gold is, my Harry? Will she want you when she sees you're not as pure or as righteous as she thinks? When she realizes that all you are is a hungry little boy, too needy and too loose with his affections?"



"I'm not 'loose' with my affections!" Harry fires back.



Tarnished gold. Damaged goods. What use is a hero who —



— who —



(Who hurts people?)



Harry yanks himself free and backs away, but Severus follows him. Backs him right into a wall of shelves. This damn sitting room is too small, too cramped. There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.



He can't breathe.



He can't stay here.



"But you've always been so loose for me, Harry," Severus purrs.



"It's only you!" Harry shouts. "It's only ever been you."



In the stillness, the silence, Harry remembers his wand, but he doesn't have the heart to — can't think straight enough to —



Severus' fingers clench in the front of Harry's shirt. Harry's fingers clench around his wand. He swallows. He can't look Severus in the eye. He stares at the armchair instead. It looks like a brown blob, even with his spectacles on. Everything's a bit fuzzy, a bit funny.



"You expect me to believe," Severus finally says, "that no one else has had their pleasure with you?" 



Harry doesn't want to believe it himself, even if it's true.



How can he explain? Sex with Ginny is fine. It feels good and he gets off, but it is nowhere near the realm of what he shares with Severus. It feels false to link the two together, to call them both by the same word.



"Believe what you want. You always do."



Both the house and Harry are spotless when Ginny comes home at six that evening. He starts dinner while she sits on the counter and tells him about her trip. He's not really listening, but her familiar voice is a balm to his frayed nerves.



"What about you?" she asks when she's done. "You didn't answer my drunken Floo call."



Bits of curry splash out of the pot when his arm jerks mid-stir. "Uh, well, I stayed busy. Thought it'd be good to get out of the house.



"Oh? Did you visit Snape?"



Calm as can be, Harry cleans his mess before answering. "Hm? Oh yeah. We had tea." A slow breath. "I explored Cokeworth a bit, too, while I was there."



He tells her about the waitress who mistook him and Snape for father and son, and Ginny nearly falls off of the counter for laughing so hard. He tells her about hiking and fishing, though he omits Severus from those stories. He tells her about Cokeworth and how unchanged it is from Snape's memories. He tells her about the rundown park and how he wished he knew where his mum had lived.



The change in topic works like a charm. Ginny asks no more questions of Snape. And though Ginny saying, "She would be so proud of you" is a knife to the gut, it's no less than he deserves for using his mother in such a way.



Life goes…



It goes in a blur. Red robes, red spells, red ink, red hair. Green grass, blue skies, brown eyes.



Brown shopping bags. White robes and black, for the wedding. Jade green and aubergine for the gala.



Harry slips into the apothecary when it's busy, because he has to see Severus, but he doesn't trust being alone with him. Severus says not a word, but he holds Harry's eyes the whole time, and his fingers linger on Harry's palm when he takes his Galleons. Harry offers a weak smile in turn.



Invitations. Flowers. White wine. Ice cream. Broomsticks. Snitches. Crowds. Family.



A bouquet of handpicked forget me nots, tied with twine, left in a basket by the door. Harry remembers the blue blossoms from the woods and he knows they're for him, even without a note. He puts them in a vase on the kitchen windowsill and when Ginny asks, Harry shrugs and says they're pretty.



Life goes and…



It goes on the way Harry always dreamed it would. Does it matter if it's what everyone  wants, if he wants it, too?



(Does he want it? Does he?)



The itch beneath his skin…It's only nerves. Everyone is nervous to get married. Aren't they?



When Ginny turns to him in bed, puts her hands and mouth on him, Harry pulls away and tells her he's tired.



It seems silly to turn her away, when Severus knows he shares her bed.



The second of May arrives too soon. A gala tonight, and only a month until the wedding. Harry sits in the shower until the shaking stops and he remembers how to breathe. He takes his time brushing his teeth and his hair to put off being in company as long as he can.



Tonight Severus will finally receive an Order of Merlin (three years too late, in Harry's opinion), so he will definitely be there. Harry stares at his reflection and touches the unblemished skin of his neck, right over the area Severus most likes to bite. Harry spritzes cologne onto that spot, and his wrists, too. When he closes his eyes, he conjures the sensation of Severus' nose against his skin, and the way he breathes Harry in.



Wrapping his arms around himself is a poor mimicry of Severus' embrace.



(How is life supposed to go on?)



(How is he supposed to leave this room?)



A knock on the door startles Harry out of his reverie. "Harry!" Ginny calls. "Are you alright?"



Harry rubs his mouth and swallows down a hysterical laugh. Is he alright? How is anything supposed to be alright? "Erm — uh, yeah, I'm — I'll be out soon."



Bulbs flash in his and Ginny's faces when they enter the ballroom. Photographers shove one another to capture the best shot. Ginny laces her fingers through Harry's and pulls him along, past the reporters and photographers and the gawking crowd. Harry focuses on the violets plaited into her hair…



…the dark blur across the room, that elegant-confident-purposed gait he would know anywhere. Harry lifts his head for a better look but Ginny pulls him away.



It's wrong. This is all wrong.



Ron pouts at where Malfoy sits across the room, flirting with Zabini. Ginny leans towards Harry to gossip about how pitiful her brother is. It's Ron's fault, anyway, falling for such a prat, but Harry can't find it funny. Malfoy shares a table with Severus, after all, and Severus —



He's wearing the same black velvet as last year. Harry never got to touch him last year. He shouldn't touch him this year. And next year —



"You're nearly as bad as he is," Ginny teases. "Have you and Snape had a row?"



Harry's heart freezes in his chest.



"When don't they?" giggles Cho.



They don't —



They can't know.



"You should have seen our last year at Hogwarts," Neville tells her.



"They've never been worse than they were that year," Ginny agrees.



"At least they've grown up since then," Hermione interjects.



"Well, Harry has," Ginny says. "But Snape never changes."



Neville nods sagely. "He has that apothecary on Knockturn, you know."



"Nasty business, Knockturn," adds Ron.



"Yeah. He gives me this look whenever I'm in there, like he doesn't trust me. He actually chased me away once for getting too close to his poisons!"



Harry thinks it was for Neville's benefit as much as anyone else's to keep him away from poisons. He's still prone to clumsiness when he's nervous, and few people make him more nervous than Severus. Especially when Severus stares.



Severus' staring makes Harry a bit clumsy, too, though that's more arousal than nerves. Harry sits back in his chair and steals another glance at Severus.



"He scared off a perp for us, once," Ron chortles. "Big burly bloke, yeah? Took one look at Snape's ugly mug and — "



"Stop," Harry says.



" — he pissed himself. Or maybe that was grease from Sn — "



"Ronald!" Hermione hisses as Harry snaps, "Stop!"



The whole table quiets and turns to stare at him. Ron slouches in his chair with a grimace. "Sorry, mate." Neville murmurs his own apologies and Cho turns bright pink. Ginny touches Harry's arm, but he shrugs her off and stands up.



Harry stares into each of their faces. Ginny, Hermione and Cho, Ron, Neville, Luna, Dean and Astoria. There is so much Harry wants to tell them. Where would they be now without Severus? How are they any better than Severus, mocking him as they are now? What a hero Severus is. That he's a good man, in spite of his bad parts. How Harry —



He just —



Severus is —



( — everything, he's everything, he's the only thing that matters — )



There's too much to say, most of it unwise, and thankfully the words clog in his throat. He could throttle them all, except Hermione.



("I'll listen," Hermione had said once, and maybe she would.)



He hates them. All of them. If he touches his wand, he might just hex them without meaning to. How could they — how could they?



Harry shakes his head and storms off.



Out. He needs to get out.



Out on the balcony, he sucks in air. Warm, humid, perfumed air. It's air enough to breathe, but not enough to calm down.



They'll never understand, his friends. They'd mock him behind his back, too. If he even hinted that he — that he might —



Harry pulls at the collar of his robes. Air, he needs air.



He needs —



He doesn't know what he needs.



When he returns, it's not to his table, nor is it Severus', however tempting it is. Instead he joins a table with Elphias Doge and Aberforth Dumbledore and listens to them bicker. The crowd around begins to settle and Percy Weasley steps up to the podium to open the ceremony.



Elphias and Aberforth's bickering doesn't stop, but it does quieten. Narcissa Malfoy dips her head towards Severus to murmur something, which he nods sharply to.



(What does he smell like tonight? Not potions, surely. His lemongrass shampoo? Is he wearing cologne?)



(Does his tongue taste of wine, or of rich chocolate? Toothpaste, maybe. Or, better yet, he might taste of nothing but himself.)



Harry scowls down at his hands in his lap.



"Why the long face, lad?" barks Aberforth. "Trouble with the missus?"



Harry startles. Elphias chuckles and pats Harry's arm. "They're not married yet. A month from today, though, that'll be the Wedding of the Century!"



"How can it be? The new one's only just started!"



"It will be, I tell you! I've already sent my RSVP. Say, Harry — "



No. No, no. He can't — Not now.



"Excuse me," Harry blurts out. "Uh…Minister, I need to — " The chair nearly falls over in his haste to stand. Aberforth grumbles and Elphias frets, but Harry doesn't quite hear what they say. It doesn't matter.



Kingsley stands near the stage, eying Zinnia Zabini distrustfully as she bats her lashes at him. The only woman in this room who turns more heads than Zinnia is Fleur, so Kingsley is either a strong man or a smart one.



The least Harry can do is save him from her.



Because he has a feeling. A feeling that's been bubbling up all night long, and he only realizes what it is once he's at Kingsley's side.



Harry really should have thought this through, but —



Thinking has never been his strong suit.



Percy finishes the introduction, then it's Kingsley's turn for speeches, but when it's time to present the overdue medal, Kingsley turns to where Harry stands offstage, vibrating with nerves.



"It's been three years since the war ended, and we have one last honor to give," Kingsley says. "But I am not best suited to this. There is only one man who can do this award justice. Harry Potter, if you please?"



This is insane.



But who else can —



No one else should —



It has to be him. No one else understands.



Harry straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin before he walks onstage. The lights are blinding. There are thousands of eyes trained on him, but only one pair of the many matter. Harry doesn't have to see him to feel the weight of Severus' gaze. And it is that weight Harry focuses on when he shakes Kingsley's hand and takes the purple satin box from him.



"Sonorous," Harry whispers and immediately (loudly) clears his throat. There are a few unkind chuckles from the left, but Harry ignores them. "Erm…Hullo." A woman titters. Harry winces and rubs the back of his neck. "Uh…Talking's not really my strong suit, I'm afraid." This earns him a few kinder laughs. "But…"



The box snaps open in Harry's hands. Inside is a gleaming gold medal on a deep green ribbon. Harry has one just like it at home. He'd been given his within weeks of the war. "Order of Merlin, First Class," he tells them. "Three years late." He lets this sink in as he snaps the box closed. "Severus Snape should have been thanked for his service the moment he woke from his coma. He died — he actually died — " Here Harry stops. Breathe, breathe. He's alive and the heat of him can be felt across the room. He's alive, because Harry's heart is beating, and it wouldn't if — "His heart stopped twice. It took a team of healers two days to stabilize him.



"I don't know many people who can say they died for the world and lived to tell the tale," Harry says and he ruffles the hair over his scar. "He died to help win this war. But first he lived to fight it.



"He lived in danger every day. His life was on the line every time he answered a summons. His life was on the line for every life he saved during that last year. If you've ever been face to face with Voldemort, you know…You know that was no easy task. And he did it anyway. He walked into danger with his head held high every single day.



"And he walked alone. He was in danger, not just from Voldemort, but from us, too. We didn't know he was on our side. One wrong move anywhere, and — " He'd been on a roll, building steam with every word, but here he falters. He ducks his head to gather himself. If he'd lost Severus…



Lost him before he'd ever had him…



"He was alone, and he walked on anyway. He gave every bit of his time and energy that he could. He gave more than anyone could have asked for. And when it was all said and done you wanted to put him on trial and let him rot in Azkaban."



The anger Harry felt three years ago is bright in his blood now. He'd torn into the Wizengamot then. It had been unbearable, unconscionable to think that they wanted Severus to pay for his crimes rather than reward his service.



Harry has been little better than the Wizengamot, and little better than his friends. Worse, even, because Harry's known the truth all along.



"It's easy to hate people you don't understand," Harry tells them. "So understand this: he's a potioneer and a spellcrafter. A booklover, and chessmaster. He's crap at cooking and can only make sandwiches." The crowd laughs. Severus is going to slaughter him. "He's a person like the rest of us. And what he did wasn't easy, but he did it anyway. Severus Snape is a lot of things. He's — "



He's passionate. Devoted. He's cruel and stubborn and prideful. He's —



"He's braver than I am. He's the bravest man I know."



To thundering applause, Severus joins him onstage. And when he does, it is only the two of them. Severus is ablaze in the light of his glory, but his eyes are dark and hungry and they take Harry in greedily. Harry smiles and lets him look his fill. His heart stamps to a familiar beat — Severus, Severus, Severus.



The hand that takes his is cool and strong. Harry blushes when he remembers where they are. Only then does Severus' lips twitch; a smirk rather than a smile.



And when Harry pins the ribbon to the front of Severus' robes, he couldn't be prouder.



Once home, Ginny apologizes as she pulls the violets from her hair. Their friends are sorry, too, she tells him while plucking off her jewelry. But he really should talk to them, rather than running off. Their friends are good people, she reasons while she shimmies out of her robes. They'll listen to reason, and learn from their mistakes.



Content as he is, Harry accepts her apology and agrees to talk to their friends in the morning. They'll all have brunch together, Ginny decides. They'll be glad to see him and eager to commend his speech. It was a fine speech, wasn't it? Had he planned it?



"No," Harry admits sheepishly.



Ginny looks at him with fond exasperation and kisses his cheek when she crawls into bed. "We upset you and you wanted to defend Snape's honor."



"A bit, yeah."



Ginny spells out the lights and snuggles up to him. "You know him better than the rest of us. Your judgment is good, so…We should all give him a chance, shouldn't we?"



"I'd like that."



Harry doesn't sleep. He stares at the moonlight spilling across the floor and he waits. He counts the minutes until Ginny begins to snore, and he counts some more. Then, when she's finally rolled out of his arms, Harry slips out of bed. He backs quietly to the door, watching that she remains undisturbed.



Downstairs, through the darkness. Out into the night. He peers around to be sure he's alone before Apparating.



From his doorstep, to Severus'.



And he looks again, to the neighboring houses. He waits a beat, then another. Spinner's End is still and quiet. Quiet enough for him to hear the clicking of the lock and the snicking of the door as it opens.



By magic, it seems, for Severus is not there when he steps inside, but one of the hidden doorway creaks open. A small ball of light beckons him, and Harry follows as it leads him upstairs.



Severus is sitting in bed, hand outstretched, and the ball of light glides into his waiting palm. There it hovers for a moment, casting a yellow glow over his sallow face. Illuminating the lines between his brow, the downward slope of his mouth. The sharp cheekbones, the hooked nose. The lanky curtain of hair.



The eyes that stare at Harry with such ill-restrained hope and longing that Harry can't stop himself from flying across the room and leaping onto the bed.



The glow fizzles out as Severus gives a quiet, "Umph."



It's a bit reckless, but Harry is good at reckless. If Ginny asks, he'll say that he couldn't sleep. That he went into work early. And if she doesn't believe him…



He'll deal with that, too.



Whatever consequences come, Harry will face them, because he couldn't stay away. He has to spend tonight in Severus' arms. His arms and legs trap Severus against him and he tucks his face into Severus' neck to breathe him in. Lemongrass soap, spicy cologne, traces of sweat. Harry stretches out his tongue and rejoices in the familiar taste of him.



Severus nuzzles into his hair and kisses him there. His arms and legs twine with Harry's, and Harry thinks it would take a powerful cursebreaker to tear them apart. Or to at least stand any chance of doing so.



"You know that I love you, don't you?" Harry asks.



He tries to tilt his face up, but Severus' chin holds him down. Severus shifts a bit, then settles with Harry somehow snuggled closer. And for a time he says nothing. The walls crackle with magic. Crickets chirp outside. Wind rustles the trees. Their hearts beat.



"I do," Severus says at last.



He doesn't say it in turn. Withholding it is a power Severus will hold for a while longer. As long as he dares to, at least. Harry won't press him. He owes him that much.



Besides, he knows Severus loves him, whether he says it or not.



And Severus will put up with Harry's mess for as long as he needs. Harry knows that, too, just as he knows he'll abuse that knowledge for a while longer still.



One day he'll be brave enough to break Ginny's heart. Brave enough to love Severus openly.



For now he holds his secret safe and close.


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